Turning 40

I will be 40 years old in 6 months.
I still remember my mother's 40th birthday party. Well, the small portion that us girls were allowed to stay for before they sent us off with our aunt. Although, not before a very short man, with a Magnum PI mustache came out in a blue thong. Ah the memories.
What makes 40 such a milestone?
My life has been anything but usual. I remember my milestones by memories. I have life changing events that help to divide up the decades. Divorced at 23, I found strength. September 11, at 25, I became patriotic. Beetle dog at 28 made me the closest thing to a mother I may ever get. My first prescription for anti-depressants also at 28, because I just couldn't snap out of it. Ran a marathon at 30 which gave me confidence to tackle all sorts of things. Bought a house and got married again at 32, after I had experienced my first major depressive episode- and this was the first time I had my own family. At 34, I lived through my first bout of suicidal thoughts and divorced just months later- this had made me cynical. My nephew was born while I was closing in on 35 and this is when I began my soul searching about my own options of being a mother. If it was to be, it would be. 2012- at 36- I moved back to Indiana, I felt like a failure because debilitating depression had struck again. 2013 brought 37 and my niece that has brought my heart down to rest on her and her brother's souls- I became a protector. At 38- I had effectively drank my way through a few years of numbness, straight into the grips of suicide again- I could not have gotten any lower. At 38, on the floor of my walk-in closet, I cursed at God. 3 hours later- He had saved me. Dengue Fever got a hold of me, after I had let go of some of the demons I had been carrying around. I gave a piece of my heart to Beetle as she made her way over the rainbow bridge and on my 39th birthday, I was born again. 39 has been hard. I've lost a few people very close to me and I'm unable to say if they will ever return. I've gained a brother, he's a Syrian refugee, and 2 children (I sponsor them- Rejan from Bali and Christine from Africa).
It isn't about the car I leased, the degree I finished, or the death of a beloved celebrity. In every instance, it was about how I grew or crumbled in the wake of great emotion. Who I am at this moment is no less than all of my experiences leaving their prints on my soul. Experiences that we have shared together, and tomorrow, I will be different still. Age is a number marked only by the flipping of calendar pages, and emotion is the sculptor of our souls. 

To the children of Syria

An open letter to the children of Syria-

                I see you. I see you in my memories of the time we spent together on that Greek island. I see your fear. I see your exhaustion. I see your bravery. In the quiet of the night, as you came off the boat, I saw your resilience. You didn’t cry. You didn’t complain about being hungry, cold, tired, or scared. I saw your worry. I saw the mistrust in your eyes.

                I wanted to come to you. To throw warm blankets around you and put cups of soup in your hands. I wanted to tell you that you were safe now. If only I could tell you that you were safe. Wouldn’t that have been the most beautiful of phrases? You are safe dear one. There are no bombs here. There will be no gunfire waking you up in the middle of the night or startling you on your walk home from school. You will not hear of loss here, like you did at home. You will feel protected, secure and loved.

                If only I could tell you those things. But you know, don’t you?

                The faces are not always smiling are they? They do not always look welcoming and their voices do not always sound friendly, no matter what language they might be speaking. You see the empty escalators as you, your Grandmother, and the rest of your family are made to climb the stairs. Four flights up with all that your family has left of their lives in Syria, you stay strong. You pray that it will be warm inside.

                I see you tell your Mom you just aren’t hungry, when she asks why you didn’t eat much. Your stomach aches from the last meal of barely cooked rice and beans. You can’t imagine having one more spoonful. You don’t tell her you are sick. You don’t worry her with the fact that you started vomiting earlier in the day. You drink water slowly and hope she doesn’t notice. But I see you.

                I see you washing off the black X that was scribbled on your hand. To get in line for more food, you have to scrub off the X. They must not know that you already had some. You know the man handing out the food in the line closest to the fence. He gave you more food when your X wasn’t completely washed off two days ago. You hope today he will be just as kind. The day is cold and so is the water from the tap. Today your stomach growls more furiously than your hands can stand to be in that freezing cold water, so the X is barely even faded. At the front of the line, your stomach knots and you hold your breath wondering what his face will say to you after he sees your faded guilt. You meet his eyes as you peer up at him from your down cast face. Your jaw clenches. He smiles at you and says “Your brothers making you get theirs too?” as he hands you two extra meals. You don’t know what he said because you don’t know what language he is speaking, but you know in his eyes there is a light.  It’s a light that feels like sunshine and hope. It’s a light that makes you feel guilty for cheating to get extra food. Please, please dear one, don’t feel guilty.

                I see you.

                I see you and hold you in my heart. I want to wrap you up in my arms and tell you everything is going to be ok. I want so badly to tell you that everyone is doing everything they can to get you out of harm’s way. I want to tell you that there are people fighting to save you and your family. I want to tell you that you’ll go back home soon.

                But I can’t.

                The truth of the matter, dear one, is that you are a nameless face that most people find easy to turn away from. Your struggle to live has become an inconvenience for most. You are the tug at their heart that they have to bury behind celebrity gossip and the latest sports score; or worse- you are the next generation of terrorist that they are so constantly being warned about from the media. Your life, I fear, will never be normal. The path to freedom and safety is lined with name calling, discrimination, bullying and harassment. If you’re lucky. I pray there isn’t violence on your path. I pray that the eyes that you meet along the way are light and feed your sense of hope and happiness. I say to you now, that if the eyes that you meet have darkness, stay steady and keep moving forward. You will meet them in far too many places. They may even be the only eyes you see for many days. Pray little one. Pray to God, to Allah that He gives you strength and that He opens your heart and the hearts of those that you meet. Pray dear one, for forgiveness, for those who refused to see you, feed you, and warm you. Pray.

                For as you pray for a bit of food, some warm shelter, and a blanket to sleep with, please know that I pray for you. I pray that you will be able to love those that did not love you. I pray that you will give of yourself to those who did not give to you, and I pray from the depths of my soul that your light will not fade, or die in vain.

                I see you and please know that I care.