Thrive In Gratitude: Please share so that others may hear- and by heari...

Thrive In Gratitude: Please share so that others may hear- and by heari...: There are many times, too many to count, in my life that I have heard and told no one, that I have seen and said nothing, and that I have ...

Please share so that others may hear- and by hearing- do.

There are many times, too many to count, in my life that I have heard and told no one, that I have seen and said nothing, and that I have watched and done nothing. In every heart breaking instant there was a choice. Still, on the Island of Leros in the South Aegean Sea, these heart breaking moments certainly continue. The moments are different than the moments we see on an average day on an average street that we frequent in the comfort of our neighborhood, our town, our state, our country. Certainly racism, sexism, ageism exist universally. In a half square block of space, called “Camp”, occupied by various nationalities- Syrian, Afghani, Iranian, Algerian, Moroccan, British, American, Dutch, Swedish, Greek, and more – peace existed in the hope of having enough. Enough time, enough money, enough sleep, enough food, enough shelter, enough hope. The haves and the have nots become somewhat blurred. Volunteers working to find enough warm jackets, water, food, and shelter for these refugees. The refugees hoping to just keep moving forward with enough momentum to see them to their new homeland.  Needing enough warm clothes for the entire family, needing enough people with open minds, hearts, and lives to continue to make the long journey even possible. 

These women and children, families and young men want what we want. More accurately, want what we have; an average day, on an average street, in a safe neighborhood, in a safe town, in a country they can call home. Their home country, that they love and that every one of them hopes to return to someday, is imploding. I heard of a young man who was going about his usual morning routine on his way to work, you know- stop at a sidewalk kiosk and get coffee and smokes… but one particular day he just turned and went into the café instead. Stepping into the café by about 2 steps, his familiar sidewalk kiosk blew up. He tells of remembering himself laying on the floor covered in broken glass, blood, and rubbish. He didn’t know if he had any “holes” in him. After he and a few other survivors helped the wounded get out from around the dead, or more accurately pieces of the dead, he went to work. He sat down in his chair and thanked God for saving him.

The best analogy that I came up with to describe what is going on in Syria is actually inspired by the ‘The Walking Dead’.  If you haven’t watched the show, don’t worry, I will explain it without the need to have.     There comes a point in time where even the good guys have to become bad guys, if they want to survive. This survival mechanism is adapted in various, uncountable ways (which is why the show will continue almost endlessly). There are the main characters of the show and then there are other living folks that they always come upon on their journey (to who knows where for who knows what). One such group had an interesting philosophy- you are either the butcher or the cow. The people, let’s call them group 1, had been previously rounded up and used for whatever whim the other living folks, group 2 had. All whims perpetrated were generally crimes against humanity, up to and including death.  Thus, group 1 took to overtaking group 2, vowing to never be taken to “slaughter” again. So when new people arrived to their compound, such as the main characters of the show, group 1 was sure to be the butchers and not the cows. Kill or be killed. Sound familiar? In Syria, there are various butchers attached to various “meat markets” for lack of a better description. It seems the whole country exists of butchers. Kill or be killed. At least, that is what is portrayed. The cows don’t want any part of any of the meat markets because number one they are vegetarian and number two none of the meat markets run a reputable, honest, humane business that the cows believe in. Most herds of cows tried going unnoticed, laying low in the shade, just doing everyday cow stuff. Living under the radar didn’t work really. Groups of cows ended up getting together to fight against the butchers, in effect becoming butchers themselves. The various meat markets believed that only THEIRS should exist. So, butchers went about killing off other butchers as well as any cows that were in the path.  There are even butchers coming from other areas of the world, because they want to support the meat market of their liking. Many of the cows have been killed, as have many of the butchers. Cows that could be of use to the government meat market will be forced to be butchers. The supply seemed unlimited; until the cows decided to jump over the moon, by becoming refugees seeking asylum anywhere that offers them safety for themselves and their families (not a theme in the Walking Dead of course). Cows are of all ages, economic status, education, gender, and religion. They are students, doctors, firemen, mothers, fathers, and criminals. None are perfect and they do not claim to be. They had only a few things in common: wanting to leave and wanting to live. Butchers force the military aged males to the frontline. Unless they can pay the fee (which changes at the whim of the government or even the fee collector, sorry I mean butchers). Even if the fee is paid, it is paid only to buy a window of time to leave Syria. If that window closes, then the cows become butchers or worse.

In a ridiculously over-simplified and under imaginative way- this is how I understand the climate in Syria, and some other parts of the Middle East, to be at this time.

I am not writing this as an exact fact of every detail. I am writing from what I have seen and heard, from the people who have lived it. None of this worried me when I felt pulled to go to Greece to help. I was as certain as the sky is blue that just going would be my protection. Probably sounds weird but let me explain. Refugees from various Middle Eastern countries are seeking asylum in countries that will open their borders- Germany, England, Sudan, Lebanon, Jordan, etc. The people have so little with them. Only what they can carry in bags and unfortunately what their minds continue to carry for them. Being with these people in need, even if they are terrorists taking the long way around, they gain nothing by harming those along their path. What is the use of terrorizing, on an island, with no escape but the sea? I wasn’t worried. Sometimes my mind works down the simplest path possible.  

I got a call from the organizers on the day I was going to take the ferry to Leros, saying that Doctors without Borders and Greece’s emergency medical group, Praxis, had gotten to Leros and took over all the medical care. Long story short- I wasn’t really going to be needed as a nurse for the entire length of my stay. In reality, only one night of my stay on the island was spent in some resemblance of a medical fashion. I was offered the opportunity to be connected with the organizers on Lesbos but I declined and headed to Leros anyway.

I arrived at 0430 which was a bit disorienting to me. The coordinator, Anna, as well as two other women met me at the boat. This was Saturday morning and after a short nap they showed me around the small area in the city of Lakki that was processing and caring for the refugees. It wasn’t much, maybe a half a block. The Camp was sandwiched between 2 rectangular shaped buildings. The front building held the donations and was called “Storage”- the back building had the 2 boutiques that the refugees would “shop” in to get proper clothes, shoes, and jackets. The front building looked as if it was last used in World War II. The back building looked like the skeleton twin of the front building: windows broken or just plain missing, without doors, mold of green, black and other colors- in the US it would probably meet criteria for being condemned. There was a fenced area that the refugees had to go into to be processed properly by the border police and then they would eventually get out into Camp. All rock covered ground, with rows of “tents” (maybe 10 x 14 hard plastic huts) that would be allocated to the refugees on arrival. All in all the Camp was able to accommodate 300 refugees comfortably, 350 pretty snuggly, and 400 in a pinch. Within 24 hours of my arrival there were over 900 refugees in Camp.  

The arrival on Leros is different than the arrivals frequently seen on the news with the rafts of refugees landing on the island of Lesbos. Either way, refugees went through Turkey to get to one or the other. I imagine the trip through Turkey to be akin to the Underground Railroad that slaves used here in the US. In the dark of night a guy tells you to quickly go stand across the road and get in the bus/truck/car that stops to pick you up. Then you hide out waiting with others that you know are there, many you see and many that go unseen. Until you hear “run, run, run” and your group gets into the raft. A raft meant for 35 bombarded by 60 or more. Taking off into the dark night surrounded by dark water, and being left by the captain of your raft to fend for yourself whenever he gets picked up by another boat. Human trafficking, otherwise known as the “journey of death” by some refugees, at its best. Some refugees are prepared for this experience- knowing to watch the weather and the tide, having the GPS on their phones up and running, and learning how to remain calm over all. Knowing to go with the current and not against the waves- saves those who knew. Refusing to go in overloaded boats and being patient for the right circumstances. The kiss of death for these rafts is the taking on of water. Too many people weighing down the raft with too many waves from rough seas and running into rocks that punctured holes in the rafts- these caused the rafts to sink. Lifejackets cannot save a person from crashing waves repeatedly holding them down, at least they cannot save the life, but maybe the body.

We all know about the 4000+ refugees drowning in those dark waters. I had the honor of talking to a group of men from the British Royal Navy who were aboard the Vos Grace- a large boat that has some other specific duty that does not consist of the search and rescue of these “shipwrecks”, but was put into service for that very purpose. The morgue on the Vos Grace had reached capacity more than once from what I gathered from hearing the various stories. The problem wasn’t in finding the dead, it was in identifying them. One gentleman talked of having to bring in the mothers to identify their deceased infants. Infants that had been in the water for many hours. More than life was missing from some.  I’m not sure Stephen King could even describe such a horrific scene. I asked myself what would be worse- being able to identify my baby- or not being able to. This same gentleman told me that on one particular night as he was trying to sleep, he just couldn’t get the image of a deceased infant in an adult body bag out of his mind. It clawed at him until he went to the morgue, took the infant out of the adult bag and wrapped the child in a blanket and placed them on top “because babies are not supposed to be in body bags.”

If the rafts of refugees made it to the island of Farmakinisii (I have no idea how to spell it- and not sure if that’s the island’s name or the Greek military base’s name) they were greeted with a biscuit, water and any piece of ground they could find suitable to lay their bodies on. No blankets. No shelter. Refugees would burn lifejackets to get warm. The fumes of which made them sick and whose damage, I fear, will be long lasting. Weather permitting the refugees would be ferried over to Leros, once the boat or boats were available. There was a 16 day old, an elderly man that required a wheelchair, women in all stages of pregnancy and every age in between. All in some form of shock or possibly complete and utter denial. Once they were allowed to disembark the boat they got to stand in a line. Not unlike cattle now that I think about it. Eventually they would be escorted to Camp. Blankets were handed out, small snacks, a mat to put between their already beaten bodies and the ground, waiting to be let out of this tragic nightmare that was just another day on their journey.

I felt useless in a way. I couldn’t speak anyone’s language, including the Brits if they really got to going. So I did the next best thing. I started using Google Translate on my phone. I could talk into it and pick which language I wanted it to translate to- it felt a little Star Trek-ish and was time consuming, but it was better than nothing. When they talked back in Arabic or French or whatever- it would translate it to me in English. It was a huge win in my book, but Abdullah was a God send. A Syrian, 25 years old, Abdullah could connect me to those I was trying to communicate with. He did not just translate the words we spoke, he reflected our worries and concerns. They trusted me, because they trusted him, and that trust built a bridge between all of us involved.

I remember meeting Abdullah on that second night of chaos. He appeared to be translating for his family, what Charlotte (who spoke what I considered to be great Arabic- as if I have any authority to say that) was trying to tell them. Charlotte, a 21 year old French-British Cameron Diaz looking girl, was the volunteer heading up the logistics of putting people in huts, tents, etc. or in this case finding anyplace even remotely useful as a place to lay their heads. I always seemed to be interrupting her with the most ridiculous of questions that I just couldn’t get answers for- like, where do we get more blankets? Everyone would patiently and gracefully pardon my interruption while I got an answer and another task to take care of.  It might have been the second interruption or the 22^nd, I can’t remember but I realized Abdullah was translating for everyone. He followed me after being given an errand and said “Let me help you.”  Which of course my first response was “Oh no that’s ok. Have you eaten? Do you have everything you need?” Which may or may not have been answered when a young family stopped me and were in obvious need of an important answer. Google Translate would be like dial up whereas Abdullah was high speed and guess which was more preferred? I thanked him after the questions were answered and he said “It is no problem. I want to help.” It only took me 2 days and a bazillion attempts to get his name right. After the 2^nd night, or was it the 3^rd, I took a day off.

The average day of a volunteer doesn’t exist. The days usually start with a volunteer meeting at 0900 to see who is available to do what and with that number of people, what exactly could get done? The feeding of bottled fed children was its own warhorse. Sterilizing bottles, getting the right amount of the right formula to the right child, 4 times throughout the day. The prep was done by volunteers and the families did the feeding. There was the general operations of the boutique- getting the donated clothing items on tables in some sort of type and size that could be looked through quickly, as well as the replacement of those items, as they got lower and lower over the course of the day. Trying to stay ahead of the needs of the next refugee family coming through the boutique doors, the “runner” would shuttle bags from storage to the boutique on a pretty continuous basis. There were volunteers that helped hand out meals and volunteers that helped with sorting in storage. And on it went. And then, on some more.

There were other jobs to be done as well. The Villa, a building off of the block, was an area reserved for the most vulnerable women and children, and Pik-pa was an area off the block for the most vulnerable families. I never got to any of these places- there seemed to be jobs better suited for the more short- term volunteers and those didn’t really include these other areas.

Around 3:00 pm, another meeting of the volunteers got together with those doing the “late shift”- 5pm to 11 pm. A general idea of a plan would be made and life in the Camp moved on in a constant state of adaptation to the current needs required at the time.

Children began to laugh, run, play and chase. Smiles crossed faces and spaces and devastation segued into breathing a bit easier. The refugees walked the harbor when the sun was up and the winds were warm and calm. The small island town of Lakki got a much needed boost to their economy by those eating and shopping in their establishments, volunteers and refugees alike. Clowns without Borders visited and boosted the spirits of the Camp. The only thing left to do was wait for the ferry and the papers that gave the refugees the right to get on it.

Abdullah traveled with his brother. They had become a small circle of people that would gravitate towards each other during meals, announcements, and the like. Abdullah himself was constantly being asked to help out with translating and by the end of his stay on Leros, he was probably known by everyone. On my day off, I took my laundry to get done and wandered into a bakery where I bought a bottle of water and what looked like an éclair. At the last minute, I got 2 eclairs. When I stepped out of the bakery, I saw Abdullah walking down the sidewalk, earbuds in, relaxed.

I gave my extra éclair to him and we walked around, up and down, the many little streets in Lakki and even further toward the center of the island. We talked a lot about God, blessings, faith, and hope. He described what living in Damascus had been like and what it had turned into. He talked about missing his parents and his nieces and nephews.  He reminded me of myself when I was 25, and perhaps even myself now, since the years in between have been said and done. I guess the best word would be hopeful.

As I woke up to continue this blog post this morning, I’ve read gut-wrenching news about refugees and volunteers being treated like – I can’t even find the words. I can’t seem to hear my thoughts through my tears. I can’t convey to you the madness that is happening. I sit here in absolute fear and anguish seeing that the nightmare is real- volunteers and refugees are now being treated like criminals. By assisting sinking boats, Spanish lifeguards are arrested for human trafficking. How is saving lives a crime? Someone please tell me. They opened the borders and now those borders are becoming walls. Walls that I fear will make the Berlin wall, and all that it stood for, look like playground equipment. Those inside Syria in areas under siege are being starved. Refugees caught in the purgatory of no longer being in Greece but not yet in Germany are facing imprisonment/detainment/ abandonment- the options seem bleak and none are what was being offered to the refugees when the borders were opened.

I say this here and now- terrorism did not cause this- the media gorging on society’s fears of terrorism did. Ask yourself who is controlling the media and in 100 years the next generations will tell you what they gained from it.

Abdullah was last with the Red Cross at the Macedonian border. That was Saturday. There is only silence now where his updates used to come through. Every time I look at my phone I say a prayer that he will be there.

In between the anxious thoughts and useless worry, I feel a force that steadies me. I want to kick, yell and scream at all the injustice I see, real and imagined- the needs of the people are hard to tear my eyes, my heart and my soul away from but yet I surrender to the stillness. There, in quiet sorrow, He comforts me and He hears my prayers in every tear drop.

For my fellow people of faith, I offer up these verses to you:

Book of Daniel: verses from chapters 11 and 12    “The king will do as he pleases. He will exalt and magnify himself above every god and will say unheard of things against the God of gods. He will be successful until the time of wrath is completed, for what has been determined must take place. He will show no regard for the gods of his ancestors or for the one desired by women, nor will he regard any god, but exalt himself above them all.

“At the time of the end the king of the South will engage him in battle, and the king of the North will storm out against him with chariots and cavalry and a great fleet of ships. He will invade many countries and sweep through them like a flood. He will also invade the Beautiful Land. Many countries will fall, but Edom, Moab and the leaders of Ammon will be delivered from his hand. He will extend his power over many countries: Egypt will not escape. He will gain control of the treasures of gold and silver and all the riches of Egypt, with the Libyans and Cushites (people from the upper Nile region) in submission. But reports from the east and the north will alarm him, and he will set out in a great rage to destroy and annihilate many. He will pitch his royal tents between the seas at the beautiful holy mountain. Yet he will come to his end and no one will help him. At the end time Michael, the great prince who protects your people, will arise. There will be a time of distress such as has not happened from the beginning of nations until then. But at that time your people- everyone whose name is found written in the book- will be delivered. Multitudes of people who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame an everlasting contempt. Those who are wise will shine like the brightness of the heavens, and those who lead many to righteousness, like the stars for ever and ever. But you, Daniel, roll up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end. Many will go here and there to increase knowledge.”

We will not know the day- but we should live as if it is today.

Thrive In Gratitude: Landmines and Trolls

Thrive In Gratitude: Landmines and Trolls: This time of year always makes me pause and reflect. Looking back over the year, wondering how it went so fast. Seeing Trey and Teagan growi...

Landmines and Trolls

This time of year always makes me pause and reflect. Looking back over the year, wondering how it went so fast. Seeing Trey and Teagan growing and changing. Seeing Grandpa shrinking and also changing. Realizing that we all have changed, even if everything seems like it is the same. It seems "change" is a word most people just don't like. It must have some bad mojo to it. Most would prefer to hear it when someone says "Here's your change!" and that's it. To find a synonym that actually works to define the process and not so much the outcome, that's what I am looking for. We've all changed. But what happened in the meantime? So many people say "transformed" but I can't get Bumblebee out of my head when I hear it (from the Transformer movies- just to clarify). Maybe it's just me, aspiring  to be moved. Moved to do..Moved to share..Moved to help..Moved to not gain 10 pounds of holiday weight! Moved to dig deep within myself to uncover, no, to excavate, those buried landmines. The ones that would bring me such restlessness and really, at the root of everything, fear. Fear is a sneaky, well camouflaged, and often times mean spirited little troll that hides under the bridges of our souls. An ankle biter for certain, and a relentless know-it-all that I sometimes have a hard time disproving. Not sure why. I could easily drop kick that garbage pail kid and move on with things. That wouldn't be right though. See- whether I want to admit it or not- it's been the troll that has buried those landmines. Buried them for me to carefully and gently remove in order to inhabit a better, and more safe, secure place in my heart. Shame, vulnerability, fear, perfectionism- these were just a few of the buried treasures (or landmines, call them what you will) that I found and blew to pieces. It's not easy to step away from the destruction of parts of yourself. Your coping mechanisms. Your security blankets. Your perceived freedom. What if I told you that the freedom you feel you have is really your prison? All those landmines within you are keeping your life smaller than it is supposed to be. Tip toeing around them, or maybe stomping right thru them, only to bury new ones. The prisons we lock ourselves in sometimes resemble our dreams come true. Having what we think we should want, doing what we feel we must, and being the passenger in the journey of our own lives. Life seems really beautiful. Unless you turn on the news. Unless you see something on Facebook. Unless someone comes along and shares with you something so powerful that your force field of indifference starts to crack. You start feeling the desire to move to do something. To help. To pray. To cry. Thankfully, that troll saves you from being broken by these things. Work, family life, and Facebook all return to normal in a few days, if not hours. You don't even realize that subconsciously you basically shrugged it off and said 'close call'.
You know what the beauty of blowing up those landmines and busting out of prison is?
Shrapnel.
Shrapnel embeds pieces of our struggle into our souls and reminds us of where we've come from and why coming so far has made all our dreams come true. Shrapnel gives us grace. Shrapnel holds our humanity in place. Shrapnel makes us stronger.
Stronger to look at the hard stuff that indifference never let us see.
It makes us stronger to live and love deeper, both ourselves and others, furiously.


May your life and love be furious in the New Year!

Little Miss Can't Be Trusted

If you've read any of these last few blog posts you know that I've been strolling through my mind and digging up things that have been hibernating just below the surface. I have been working with Jessica Tomlinson to help discover how to bring my big meaningful dreams into the world. One of the first things we did in Bali was release the self-limiting, bitchy name calling voices in our minds that try to tell us we don't deserve to even have a big dream, and even if we did it isn't a good enough dream to have in the first place. I never really grasped the intimate, co-dependent relationship I had with my "Little Miss Can't Be Wrong" ego, until these last few weeks. I thought she was the one who protected me for years with her various, mean spirited whispers :
"You are not the pretty girl. You're the funny one." (that's why you're alone, so it makes sense)
"You're not smart enough to have anything but an Associate's Degree." (I wouldn't even get into a BSN or MSN program anyway)
"Moving will be good because no one really considers me a friend in the first place." (I've been here for 3 years and I don't have close enough friends to exchange Christmas gifts with or who would want to help me if I needed something.)
"Maybe you should get a new job so that no one realizes you don't know everything." (One of these days someone will ask me something and I'll be expected to know the answer, but I won't)
"Sure, start writing that book, just like all the other ones you never finished." (Just like everything else you get excited about that goes nowhere, no reason to waste my time)
"No one would want to publish it anyway so you might as well stop writing that book." (They won't publish a new author unless the author has 2 or 3 manuscripts ready and I can't even finish one)

Little Miss Can't Be Wrong was the protector of my deepest fears, validating them and helping me foster these beliefs so that I would be prepared for the "I told you so" moments that inevitably always popped up because I was stupid enough to go against that bitch.

Do you know what "I told you so" means in my mind? It means I can't trust you. It means that I can't be trusted to make important decisions because they always end badly. Do you know what it means to me to hear "I don't trust you" in my mind? It means I can't love you.
And I wonder why I have had such bad depressive episodes.
And why I have believed for so long that I would never deserve a really good man to have and to hold from this day forward.
Why, now, I believe that I have never had children.
Do you know what it means in my mind to have no self-trust? It means I can't trust anyone else either.
It explains why my 2 closest friends live 3 -4 hour plane rides away, and not down the street.

Which is why Little Miss Can't Be Wrong was my best friend and constant companion for so, so long. She was the only 'person' I could trust.
Until I met God.
Charles Feltman says "Trust is choosing to make something that is important to you, vulnerable to the actions of someone else."
Brene Brown's research on trust shows that trust is built in the little, small moments. Of course there are the big moments-the moments when someone you trust answers "Yes, I'll come" when you call her during your darkest moments. Smaller moments like getting an apology when it is deserved. It's being able to apologize when you should and knowing that the other person truly forgives you. It's seeing in action what someone professes. It's broken when someone you shared things in confidence, tells you something that was told in confidence by someone else. It's saving a seat. Calling on your birthday. Knowing what your deepest heartbreaks are and making a point to be available when one might arise. It is built when someone is vulnerably honest. It's built when someone gives you the benefit of a doubt when you might have acted badly toward them.
A lot of these examples come from Brene Brown's Supersoul Sunday talk about Trust. She does not mention God.
Faith and trust- I think of faith as a belief in something unproven. Putting faith in God is such a difficult thing to do, I think, because of the belief that all that we assume we know, we assume is true. But faith quickly becomes trust when you live in God's word because you see His work in your life.
This healing insight is a manifestation of my trust in God. As vulnerability uncovered shame and shame uncovered trust I always had what I needed to understand, around these concepts, delivered straight to me. And that is good to my soul.
In praise of Him,
B.

Shame on me.

It's very dangerous to pray for God to prepare you for the plan He has for your life. For he will certainly oblige. Our deepest wisdom often comes from the dark, sometimes shameful and often times painful places we've allowed ourselves to visit. I think of God as my tour guide through those things, plus through a lot of things I had refused to even see. Hell, I didn't refuse them really, I straight up didn't even know that they existed.
I've prayed a lot of selfish prayers over the course of my 39 years. Most recently, I prayed before submitting a profile on a dating site "Please God, only bring someone into my life that will strengthen and support my life in service to you." Really- a dating site, I kid you not. Sheesh. In theory it isn't really that bad of a prayer, until you realize I was trying to talk God into doing things my way. What I see now is that there was a lot of emotion to that prayer. It wasn't very specific, but it felt a lot like hope. Firstly, I was hoping that I wouldn't come across the usual online dating profile of bathroom mirror selfies, way too tight t-shirts and hair gel (have I missed something? do they sale those as a package deal?). Secondly, I was hoping that the matches that did fit the bill for taking their religion very seriously, weren't from the Westboro Baptist Church. Lastly, I was hoping it wouldn't be a lot of dead end messaging that would inevitably dwindle away into oblivion.
What? Can't a girl set ridiculously high expectations for a free, no frills dating site? (Coffee Meets Bagel, in case you were wondering).
God has an interesting way of answering prayers. I have only gotten one match to this day. It was a gift from God. Of course, it didn't really end up like the gift I had hoped for, which made it even more necessary. Now, don't misunderstand me, Mr. Bagel met so, so many of the expectations I had and it was so refreshing to sit and talk for hours on end about, well, anything. I couldn't believe this intelligent, kind, and if I might add, gorgeous guy, would sit across from me and be legitimately interested in me.  Isn't it just like life (read = my neurotic tendencies when it comes to fear of rejection) to rear it's shameful, hideous head? The anxiety of not knowing what would happen or how things would all turn out showed up in what I thought was an intuitive hunch. Yes, he had already been talking with another woman, that he met before me and they had continued to do so. How DARE he not see that I am the most worthy of them all.
What? Can't a girl demand such ridiculous validation in hopes of  fueling one small spark of self worth? I think back and realize I've done this same thing with EVERY date and job application. I must be seen as the most desirable, qualified, fantastic person, and it must be known by those involved instantaneously. As if I was everything to everyone. Guess how many times in my life I've gotten that kind of validation? Well, ok fine, there might have been that one time, but I had to divorce him when he started destroying my soul. You would think I would've learned that receiving instant validation is just as much of a warning sign as wanting, no, needing the validation in the first place. The Lord is a top notch therapist.
It really was a great week. Yes, it took me one week to completely lose my shit. It's kind of like that project in school where we had to carry the egg around and make sure it didn't break. The overbearing, overprotective kids always broke their eggs. Eventually. Holding on tight for safety resulted in a broken shell. God was kind enough to put this humpty dumpty back together again. See, shame is a pretty difficult thing to deal with and I was ashamed because I was needy and weak and fearful. I was ashamed that I couldn't shake the emotional hangover of it all. I was ashamed for feeling like I was being "that girl" and I was ashamed for even caring in the first place. Then in some soul searching about my aversion to being vulnerable, I became ashamed of that too. Guess what shame does to us- it makes us bullies or it makes us withdraw completely. So, I proceeded to fill my thoughts and his cell phone with every detail of what HE did to mislead me. (It would've been nice to have someone elbow me and say 'Hey, your crazy is showing'. It was a testament to his character that he didn't do it). I mean, what guy doesn't get on his knees and beg forgiveness for something that was never done in the first place. What guy doesn't want to spend more time with the girl who was in essence pointing her finger and saying, you should be ashamed of yourself? Shame loves company. Misery tends to shuffle right up next to shame and it's all over except for the voodoo doll.
I have so much gratitude for this entire encounter. I would never have learnt that I needed to be patient with myself when I am vulnerable. I might never have recognized the behaviour as bullying instead of the passive- aggressive (ok, maybe more aggressive- passive) commentary that I thought I had every right to dish out.
I would never have known what it was like to be proud of someone for setting their boundaries and staying true to their needs. Admiring him for doing something I have never seemed to be able to do. And the strength of being able to say all of this with humility and grace. At least, that's what I'm aiming for.
Yes, meeting Mr.Bagel has certainly strengthened and supported my life in service of the Lord.
In great praise for Him, through which all things are possible.
B.

November 6, 2015-I didn't know my own secret

It was this day- one year ago. I dwelled in the darkest places of my mind, and even there felt empty, alone, unworthy. So, it scares me what I have been feeling over the last few days. Not the heavy suffocating darkness of depression, but of the fear of being alone, unworthy. Of the fear that my mind has convinced me, from years of living, loving, losing and letting go, that if I were to hope for love again I would surely fail and that failure would be an abyss I would never ascend from. Broken heart, broken mind, broken soul led me to being broken open by the grace of God. Accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior was the easy part. Believing in a love that would die on the cross for me, well, it’s something I could not grasp. I surely would never be that lovable. Surely that sacrifice was made for those in the front row, the VIP section, not for me- looking in through a window to a world I only hoped that SOMEDAY, I would be able to walk in. Let my deeds out run my words--- chronic loneliness becomes a comfort. It becomes usual and normal. It has wonderful hiding places for dreams, desires, and hopes- So when I felt called to go to Africa from the serendipitous experiences over the last 11 months, it felt like a relief. To be thought of as so noble, so Christ like to put aside my western home to be in service to my neighbor, who is only like me in that we bleed the same way. I realized today that it was just another hiding place. A safe place to place my heart and soul so that it would have less of a chance of being rejected, hurt, and through my mind’s eye, a fatal wound.

What better place for me to be? No one would be surprised that I remained single. No one would question if I knew what my purpose was because the assumption, of course, would be that I was living out my purpose. I would be able to convince people that I had it all figured out. Wouldn’t living in chaos allow me to never fail in that arena?

I’ve been an imposter in my own mind. Thinking it was my high standards, my relentless pursuit of nothing less than perfect that validated my loneliness. That validated my refusal of being vulnerable.

All along it has just been fear. A fear that, yes, over the years has been fed by insecurities, false hopes, manipulation and being broken by what I thought was love from another person. To risk hoping for love, I would have to accept the possibility of being irreparably broken. I haven’t even had the courage to recognize this in myself until today, so there has been no instance in the last five years that I hadn’t sabotaged, for lack of a better word, every relationship I’ve ever had, except for with children. I haven’t opened myself up even to friendships. Even at work, I have maintained a façade that I’m so independent and carefree, confident and self- assured. Eating sushi alone. Watching live music alone. Being out alone. As if it was my choice and desire. In the small area of my heart where this secret has been stored, there still exists one more defining revelation. I don’t know how to NOT be alone. I don’t know how to have the courage to be the half of a relationship. I haven’t figured out how to overcome that paralyzing emotion of fear in being hurt, rejected by another person.  The only straw that I am grasping at is that God will show me the way. That he will always love me, warts and all.