I look outside the window this morning. Overcast and windy, it appears to be a perfectly blustery October morning. A long sleeve shirt might actually be appropriate attire for this Texas fall day. I check the weather online. High of 80?! Just to be sure, I go to the French doors to step outside onto my balcony. Hmmm... sure enough, it is a warm 65-ish degrees at 8 am. This Texas weather is playing tricks on my mind, I think. It certainly looks cold out, but my thermoreceptors tell me otherwise.
Isn't that how life is sometimes? What is seen doesn't always match what is felt. Many of us experience this in our relationship with the mirror. Lately, I have been feeling quite beautiful. I want to dance around the house and let out a big "EEEEEE!!" I am loved. I am happy. I am content. And that makes me feel so beautiful. But then I look in the mirror. Flaky skin, a zit on my chin, too many gray hairs for my age. This mirror is playing tricks on my mind, I think. I sigh and wish how I felt inside showed on the outside. I'd be a freaking super model. And then there are the days in which I feel ugly with so many things I'd like to fix. Plastic surgery is alluring. Comparisons are made. I look with those same comparing eyes and try to make myself feel better. "You're better looking than so-and-so." "Other women would die to have your abs!" "At least you don't have this flaw! Or that!" And the twisted inner talk continues. A stranger may look at me and think I am quite beautiful, but I don't feel that way.
And I know I'm not alone in this. An estimated 8 million Americans struggle with eating disorders, 7 million of those are females. I can only imagine the number of people who struggle with self-image issues. I'd venture to say close to 100% of humans at some point have felt that they are not particularly beautiful. But it's all a big, fat, ugly lie. God, the Creator of waterfalls, mountains, snowflakes, peacocks, sunsets, clouds, flowers, trees, oceans, and all the beautiful things of this world says YOU are more valuable than the birds of the air and more beautiful than lilies. He created so many marvels and things of great splendor, yet He felt that something was missing so He created man in His image. And even then, something was still missing: woman.
Don't you see it? You are His piéce de résistance, the best part of all creation, the grand finalé. Dear sister, you are His masterpiece. He crafted you with care and saved the best of creation for last. He is the greatest artist of all; no man can match His artistry. Each great artist simply tries to copy His original works. Every sunset ever painted, every woman ever sculpted, every poem ever penned, and every melody ever notated, are simply counterfeits. When we look in the mirror and start picking apart every little thing we'd like to change, it's like looking up at the Sistine Chapel and thinking of all the things we'd like to change about it. When you berate yourself, you are insulting the great virtuoso Himself. You are pissing on the Mona Lisa. You are taking a crap on the Starry Night. You are rolling your eyes at the Statue of David.
If we look in the mirror with the right eyes, we see that there really is nothing to fix. Just like the many wonders of this world, both natural and man-made, we are prized works of art. After all, we are made by the Creator of the starry hosts, in His perfect, loving, and holy image. You see, when we look in the mirror, we are not only looking at a great masterpiece, but God Himself. So please stop insulting him.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A Night in a Haitian Hospital
I watch her umbilical hernia expand and contract with every deep inhale followed by a forceful cough. She lays her sweaty forehead down after every coughing fit, exhausted from the ordeal. Her dewy skin smells sickly sweet, almost like warm, melted ice cream. I sit with her in the tiny yellow office to hook her up to the nebulizer. Sometimes we have to turn on the generator just for her. No amount of medicine or breathing treatments will improve Sara's fever and breathing. The decision is made: we must take her to the hospital. My heart sinks at this thought. I have little faith in the quality of care provided and fear the trip would be pointless. This is not the U.S. This is a third world country with limited resources and shoddy hospitals. I am unaware of just how different it will be.
We drive through the streets of Port au Prince in our beat-up, but trusty white van. It is still light out, but the sun is setting fast. Rays of sunlight flicker in between houses as if angels are messing with heaven's light switches. We pass a street market and women are closing up shop, putting away the goods that didn't get sold. Men are hopping over puddles and trying to catch a tap-tap home before they stop running for the night. Children in rags chase each other in the streets where the sewer runs and where chickens peck at nothing but gravel. I see a pregnant woman, with a full basket on her head, squat and relieve herself in the gutter. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.
There are some things I've grown accustomed to since being here: the absence of personal space; seeing things like people urinate in public; trash on the ground; tiny, concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs all stacked up haphazardly on a hillside. I've learned that 3 o'clock means anywhere between 3:00 and 3:59. I know the proper fair for a tap-tap ride and that refusing to pay higher is acceptable. I'm learning words and customs and that jokingly calling someone crazy is no joke at all. I've grown used to greeting people when you see them and to be warmly greeted in return. My body has mostly adjusted to the warm and humid weather, although my sweat glands have yet to catch up. Hearing children play, laugh, and fill an orphanage with song has become the familiar soundtrack of my life. Doing business with the local ice cream man from the outdoor balcony has become routine. He calls to us and stands back to see us over the gate. Some days we wave him off and other days we pass money down to the gate guard who then does the money-ice cream exchange for us. I've grown to like this ice cream that comes in a cylindrical, plastic sleeve and is very much like a fat, creamy Otter Pop. Not accomplishing a single task on my to-do list has become the rule, not the exception- and not because I was being lazy. I have come to expect difficulties and an insane lack of logic or efficiency.
I love this tiny little island and her beautiful people, but I cannot get used to the frustrating fact that there are so many obstacles that prevent good things from happening. Maybe it is because of my love for these people that the injustices bother me so much and I refuse to simply accept them. This is a place where one must bring his or her own bed sheet to the hospital if he or she wants sheets to lay on. This is a place where one must send a family member out to buy medical supplies and bring them back because the hospital doesn't have them. All these truths about this country and the health care system here are racing through my mind as we approach the gate of the hospital. The hospital we choose is one of the nicest in the area. It felt like an oasis when I visited the first time. There is cleanliness, organization, and efficiency. People quietly wait in lines. Bed sheets are provided. Staff is dressed professionally. As hopeful as it is, I am still wary.
We approach the guard at the front gate and he asks for our appointment papers. We tell him that we don't have an appointment and need to go the emergency room. He shakes his head and says we can't enter without an appointment. "To the emergency room?" I ask incredulously. I shouldn't sound so shocked. Things that don't make sense happen all the time here. I take a deep breath. I remember a doctor I met the day I toured the hospital. He was a young red head and wore scrub bottoms with Crocs and a t-shirt. He was kind, but hurried when we spoke. "I'm a friend of Dr. So-and-So. He said I could come anytime I needed to," I tried. Apparently the t-shirt and disheveled hair was misleading as he seems to be some sort of big wig around these parts and all of the sudden it doesn't matter that we don't have an appointment. "But only one of you can come in with the child." I don't hesitate; the obvious choice is me. I make my way to the emergency room with a toddler-sized sweat mark on my shirt, a sick girl on my hip, and a diaper bag over my shoulder.
The ER is one giant room with gurneys and chairs, no curtains in between. I check in with a rude, but semi English-speaking nurse. We eventually are shown to our bed and chair and wait for a doctor to come. I feel almost guilty for being there. The room is full of women with very, very sick children. Sara manages to sleep while I hold a mask to her face. One woman's infant is too sick to eat and her breasts have become painfully engorged. She sits with an emesis basin on her lap, exposes her breasts, and begins squeezing her milk into the basin. I take out some crackers and begin to eat. With the first crunch, twenty-two black eyes are on me. My white skin is a built in spot-light itself and everything I do and stand for is on display for all to see. I offer some crackers to the lady next to me and she willingly takes some and then passes one over to a friend. I have a sack full of snacks. I wonder how long it has been since these women have had something to eat. I feel guilty for not sharing more, but I am worried about my blood sugar dropping and becoming a patient as well. I turn to face little Sara. She is chubby and stubborn. She is well enough to fight treatments and medicine and fills the bed with her rolly legs. We are quite the pair; with my white skin and her chunkiness, we are so different from the rest.
A woman next to me begins to yell for help. The nurse at the desk barely responds. It is well into the night and her cries jolt us from our half-sleep. I know by the intensity and abruptness of this mother's cries that something isn't right. The nurses don't seem to care. Her intensity escalates and is in a near panic, screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Her baby is about eight years old and not breathing. Finally some nurses come over and almost too calmly grab a bag valve mask and began CPR. It only lasts a few seconds until they stop all together. As they escort the mother out, her wails echo through the empty corridor and ring in my ears. Three feet from me lays the first corpse I've ever seen. I am amazed at how fast rigor mortis set in. The girl's arms and hands begin to contract and flex inward. We all just stay in our seats while a nurse takes twine and binds her at the ankles and wrists and then places her in a body bag. Sara throws up and the nurse points me toward a janitor's closet. The deceased girl is still on the bed as I walk past it to get a mop. They say the passage of time leads to increased age and weight. I have spent just one night in a Haitian hospital and leave much more than just a day heavier and older.
We drive through the streets of Port au Prince in our beat-up, but trusty white van. It is still light out, but the sun is setting fast. Rays of sunlight flicker in between houses as if angels are messing with heaven's light switches. We pass a street market and women are closing up shop, putting away the goods that didn't get sold. Men are hopping over puddles and trying to catch a tap-tap home before they stop running for the night. Children in rags chase each other in the streets where the sewer runs and where chickens peck at nothing but gravel. I see a pregnant woman, with a full basket on her head, squat and relieve herself in the gutter. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that.
There are some things I've grown accustomed to since being here: the absence of personal space; seeing things like people urinate in public; trash on the ground; tiny, concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs all stacked up haphazardly on a hillside. I've learned that 3 o'clock means anywhere between 3:00 and 3:59. I know the proper fair for a tap-tap ride and that refusing to pay higher is acceptable. I'm learning words and customs and that jokingly calling someone crazy is no joke at all. I've grown used to greeting people when you see them and to be warmly greeted in return. My body has mostly adjusted to the warm and humid weather, although my sweat glands have yet to catch up. Hearing children play, laugh, and fill an orphanage with song has become the familiar soundtrack of my life. Doing business with the local ice cream man from the outdoor balcony has become routine. He calls to us and stands back to see us over the gate. Some days we wave him off and other days we pass money down to the gate guard who then does the money-ice cream exchange for us. I've grown to like this ice cream that comes in a cylindrical, plastic sleeve and is very much like a fat, creamy Otter Pop. Not accomplishing a single task on my to-do list has become the rule, not the exception- and not because I was being lazy. I have come to expect difficulties and an insane lack of logic or efficiency.
I love this tiny little island and her beautiful people, but I cannot get used to the frustrating fact that there are so many obstacles that prevent good things from happening. Maybe it is because of my love for these people that the injustices bother me so much and I refuse to simply accept them. This is a place where one must bring his or her own bed sheet to the hospital if he or she wants sheets to lay on. This is a place where one must send a family member out to buy medical supplies and bring them back because the hospital doesn't have them. All these truths about this country and the health care system here are racing through my mind as we approach the gate of the hospital. The hospital we choose is one of the nicest in the area. It felt like an oasis when I visited the first time. There is cleanliness, organization, and efficiency. People quietly wait in lines. Bed sheets are provided. Staff is dressed professionally. As hopeful as it is, I am still wary.
We approach the guard at the front gate and he asks for our appointment papers. We tell him that we don't have an appointment and need to go the emergency room. He shakes his head and says we can't enter without an appointment. "To the emergency room?" I ask incredulously. I shouldn't sound so shocked. Things that don't make sense happen all the time here. I take a deep breath. I remember a doctor I met the day I toured the hospital. He was a young red head and wore scrub bottoms with Crocs and a t-shirt. He was kind, but hurried when we spoke. "I'm a friend of Dr. So-and-So. He said I could come anytime I needed to," I tried. Apparently the t-shirt and disheveled hair was misleading as he seems to be some sort of big wig around these parts and all of the sudden it doesn't matter that we don't have an appointment. "But only one of you can come in with the child." I don't hesitate; the obvious choice is me. I make my way to the emergency room with a toddler-sized sweat mark on my shirt, a sick girl on my hip, and a diaper bag over my shoulder.
The ER is one giant room with gurneys and chairs, no curtains in between. I check in with a rude, but semi English-speaking nurse. We eventually are shown to our bed and chair and wait for a doctor to come. I feel almost guilty for being there. The room is full of women with very, very sick children. Sara manages to sleep while I hold a mask to her face. One woman's infant is too sick to eat and her breasts have become painfully engorged. She sits with an emesis basin on her lap, exposes her breasts, and begins squeezing her milk into the basin. I take out some crackers and begin to eat. With the first crunch, twenty-two black eyes are on me. My white skin is a built in spot-light itself and everything I do and stand for is on display for all to see. I offer some crackers to the lady next to me and she willingly takes some and then passes one over to a friend. I have a sack full of snacks. I wonder how long it has been since these women have had something to eat. I feel guilty for not sharing more, but I am worried about my blood sugar dropping and becoming a patient as well. I turn to face little Sara. She is chubby and stubborn. She is well enough to fight treatments and medicine and fills the bed with her rolly legs. We are quite the pair; with my white skin and her chunkiness, we are so different from the rest.
A woman next to me begins to yell for help. The nurse at the desk barely responds. It is well into the night and her cries jolt us from our half-sleep. I know by the intensity and abruptness of this mother's cries that something isn't right. The nurses don't seem to care. Her intensity escalates and is in a near panic, screaming, "My baby! My baby!" Her baby is about eight years old and not breathing. Finally some nurses come over and almost too calmly grab a bag valve mask and began CPR. It only lasts a few seconds until they stop all together. As they escort the mother out, her wails echo through the empty corridor and ring in my ears. Three feet from me lays the first corpse I've ever seen. I am amazed at how fast rigor mortis set in. The girl's arms and hands begin to contract and flex inward. We all just stay in our seats while a nurse takes twine and binds her at the ankles and wrists and then places her in a body bag. Sara throws up and the nurse points me toward a janitor's closet. The deceased girl is still on the bed as I walk past it to get a mop. They say the passage of time leads to increased age and weight. I have spent just one night in a Haitian hospital and leave much more than just a day heavier and older.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
another short write
I'm double dipping again! Here's my newest short write for school. The assignment was to write about an emotion without specifically stating it.
~~~~
The lone can of beer he left in the fridge is finally gone. I talk to myself aloud as I do the dishes, none of them his. I don't rinse away the remnants of a meal lovingly prepared and shared with family, but only frozen meals consumed in solitude. The salt and pepper shakers mock me for even they have a better half. It is so quiet. I watch funny videos online and my laughter breaks through the silence like rays of sunlight stabbing through fog. It echoes off the walls and comes back to me sounding awkward. I sort through the laundry; there are no boxers, only lace panties never enjoyed. I turn on a baseball game, though not really to watch. Instead, it fills my apartment with sounds of summertime, home, and of birthdays past.
I used to stay on my side of the bed, but now I take up as much space as possible, every inch rescued from the cold. I lay there childlike stretched and sprawled and contorted in weird positions, clutching a teddy bear. It was his as a child and when he gave it to me it smelled like a dusty, untouched attic. I washed it and a few seams appeared looser than they were before. But the dust was gone, the smell of the forgotten removed. I rub his ear between my finger and thumb as I fall asleep and wonder who it soothes more.
I wake with my feet tangled up in the sheets. I imagine they are intertwined with his, though I know my feet are merely experiencing the effects of a restless night. Being tangled up in the sheets now only has one meaning to me: bad dreams. The only relief is that these dreams are worse than reality. I lay in bed for a moment and listen to the neighbor's dog bark. He wanted to get a puppy, but I told him they were too much work. Now I think to myself it would be nice to have another living thing in this space. I stumble to the bathroom and the toilet paper is on the holder exactly how I like it, not how ever he haphazardly decided to put in on. His toothbrush is not in the drawer next to mine. No razor, shaving cream, or dirty bar of soap is on the counter. I study myself in the mirror. Messy hair and dry skin, but my eyes still sparkle. A new day begins.
~~~~
The lone can of beer he left in the fridge is finally gone. I talk to myself aloud as I do the dishes, none of them his. I don't rinse away the remnants of a meal lovingly prepared and shared with family, but only frozen meals consumed in solitude. The salt and pepper shakers mock me for even they have a better half. It is so quiet. I watch funny videos online and my laughter breaks through the silence like rays of sunlight stabbing through fog. It echoes off the walls and comes back to me sounding awkward. I sort through the laundry; there are no boxers, only lace panties never enjoyed. I turn on a baseball game, though not really to watch. Instead, it fills my apartment with sounds of summertime, home, and of birthdays past.
I used to stay on my side of the bed, but now I take up as much space as possible, every inch rescued from the cold. I lay there childlike stretched and sprawled and contorted in weird positions, clutching a teddy bear. It was his as a child and when he gave it to me it smelled like a dusty, untouched attic. I washed it and a few seams appeared looser than they were before. But the dust was gone, the smell of the forgotten removed. I rub his ear between my finger and thumb as I fall asleep and wonder who it soothes more.
I wake with my feet tangled up in the sheets. I imagine they are intertwined with his, though I know my feet are merely experiencing the effects of a restless night. Being tangled up in the sheets now only has one meaning to me: bad dreams. The only relief is that these dreams are worse than reality. I lay in bed for a moment and listen to the neighbor's dog bark. He wanted to get a puppy, but I told him they were too much work. Now I think to myself it would be nice to have another living thing in this space. I stumble to the bathroom and the toilet paper is on the holder exactly how I like it, not how ever he haphazardly decided to put in on. His toothbrush is not in the drawer next to mine. No razor, shaving cream, or dirty bar of soap is on the counter. I study myself in the mirror. Messy hair and dry skin, but my eyes still sparkle. A new day begins.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
confessions and forgiveness
I have a confession.
I just pulled all of these out of my fridge. Most are a month or two old.
I know, I know. Disgusting. A month ago I told my sister not to eat the rice and beans in one of those containers because it was probably bad. And yet it just stayed there. Why would any reasonable person leave spoiled food in the fridge? For months. I'm not really sure my exact reasons, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I like the look of a full fridge, even if it is full of inedible leftovers. But mostly I just didn't want to deal with it. I was sure I'd gag and not be able to handle the smell. And yet the irony is the longer I leave it, the nastier it gets and the more the work compounds.
And isn't that just how unforgiveness works? You let it sit in there to rot away and yet you don't know why. You have no good reason. Maybe hanging on to something you should of let go of months (or years) ago is comforting. It doesn't makes sense, but maybe the truth is that you just like it there. But it does you no good. If you eat of it, it will make you sick. Maybe, like me, you just don't want to deal with it. The work is daunting and unpleasant. Quite frankly, it stinks. But the longer you let it sit there, the more bitter and nasty it gets.
I dumped all of them down the garbage quickly and without apology. I was not sorry to get rid of it. After the first two, I had a new motivation to clean all the junk out. Once I got started and actually did it, cleaning out the fridge wasn't that bad. Maybe you have your reasons for refusing to forgive. Perhaps you never got the apology you think you deserve. Maybe your anger is justified. Maybe you've had it in there for so long, it has become a familiar acquaintance. But whatever the reason, it's rotting inside you and starting to smell. And like dumping out the leftovers, it just might be a lot easier (and rewarding) than you thought!
I just pulled all of these out of my fridge. Most are a month or two old.
I know, I know. Disgusting. A month ago I told my sister not to eat the rice and beans in one of those containers because it was probably bad. And yet it just stayed there. Why would any reasonable person leave spoiled food in the fridge? For months. I'm not really sure my exact reasons, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I like the look of a full fridge, even if it is full of inedible leftovers. But mostly I just didn't want to deal with it. I was sure I'd gag and not be able to handle the smell. And yet the irony is the longer I leave it, the nastier it gets and the more the work compounds.
And isn't that just how unforgiveness works? You let it sit in there to rot away and yet you don't know why. You have no good reason. Maybe hanging on to something you should of let go of months (or years) ago is comforting. It doesn't makes sense, but maybe the truth is that you just like it there. But it does you no good. If you eat of it, it will make you sick. Maybe, like me, you just don't want to deal with it. The work is daunting and unpleasant. Quite frankly, it stinks. But the longer you let it sit there, the more bitter and nasty it gets.
I dumped all of them down the garbage quickly and without apology. I was not sorry to get rid of it. After the first two, I had a new motivation to clean all the junk out. Once I got started and actually did it, cleaning out the fridge wasn't that bad. Maybe you have your reasons for refusing to forgive. Perhaps you never got the apology you think you deserve. Maybe your anger is justified. Maybe you've had it in there for so long, it has become a familiar acquaintance. But whatever the reason, it's rotting inside you and starting to smell. And like dumping out the leftovers, it just might be a lot easier (and rewarding) than you thought!
Monday, September 19, 2011
short stories
I've been doing a lot of writing for class, which means the blog gets neglected. I have decided that I reserve the right on this here blog to kill two birds with one stone and post my class work. For English, we do short essays called "miscellaneous writing assignments" that serve the purpose of simply getting the student to write. This week's prompt is as follows:
Write about a time in which you were frightened, shocked, or traumatized. Give details and use present tense.
It is a warm California day toward the end of my 6th grade year. My scrawny legs are walking myself home from the brand new school that I attend in a brand new subdivision where I live. Not much stands out here in cookie-cutter America where the same five floor plans alternate up and down the street. It is oddly quiet today. I'm not walking with friends nor are there many cars driving up and down the main road. Few children, if any, are playing in the park.
I am thinking to myself when I hear a car come up from behind me. It is driving eerily slow. My head stays straight ahead. Only when I see in my peripheral a car coast next to me at the same speed that I am walking, do I turn to face it. Or rather, to face him. He is driving a mini-van, the mark of a hurried soccer mom. However, this van is in no hurry. The windows are down and my heart is beating. He looks at me with beady black eyes, a shaved head, and a goatee. I quickly turn away, my head straight again, determined to will him away. My legs pick up the pace. Without moving my head, my eyes dart in every direction, planning some sort of an escape. Why is it so quiet? Where are all the people? Where is a man out walking his dog? He reaches over to the passenger door and flings it open. In a forceful but controlled voice, he says, "Get in the car bitch!" My scrawny legs are strong now and they run faster than ever before. The door is open and he is still following me. My backpack smacks the top of my butt with ever stride. My chest is tight. My eyes are focused and I'm able to take in a million things at once. I see a small white pick up truck in the distance coming towards us. I yell to it, though I'm sure it can't hear me. He, however, spots it too. Like the coward he is, he squeals away.
I don't stop running. I don't know if he'll circle and come back for me. I don't know how to make my legs stop even if I wanted to. I don't want to go directly home. No one will be there for a few hours and if he follows me, he'll know where I live. I run to the model home office. By this time, I'm having an asthma attack and can't articulate a thing to the employees except that I need water. I am able to spit out the mucus bubble that has formed in my throat and swallow some water. I can't tell if I've had much of a conversation with these people, but before I can be sure I've articulated what happened, I bolt out of there. Now I really just want to call my dad. I run home, looking over my shoulder the whole way. I quickly unlock the door and re-lock it once I'm inside. I call my parents and the cops are at my house before I can even calm down. How tall was he? How much did he weigh? Make, model, license plate number? Bigger than you, smaller than him. Green. KW4. I'm sorry, that's all I remember. My voice cracks.
Write about a time in which you were frightened, shocked, or traumatized. Give details and use present tense.
It is a warm California day toward the end of my 6th grade year. My scrawny legs are walking myself home from the brand new school that I attend in a brand new subdivision where I live. Not much stands out here in cookie-cutter America where the same five floor plans alternate up and down the street. It is oddly quiet today. I'm not walking with friends nor are there many cars driving up and down the main road. Few children, if any, are playing in the park.
I am thinking to myself when I hear a car come up from behind me. It is driving eerily slow. My head stays straight ahead. Only when I see in my peripheral a car coast next to me at the same speed that I am walking, do I turn to face it. Or rather, to face him. He is driving a mini-van, the mark of a hurried soccer mom. However, this van is in no hurry. The windows are down and my heart is beating. He looks at me with beady black eyes, a shaved head, and a goatee. I quickly turn away, my head straight again, determined to will him away. My legs pick up the pace. Without moving my head, my eyes dart in every direction, planning some sort of an escape. Why is it so quiet? Where are all the people? Where is a man out walking his dog? He reaches over to the passenger door and flings it open. In a forceful but controlled voice, he says, "Get in the car bitch!" My scrawny legs are strong now and they run faster than ever before. The door is open and he is still following me. My backpack smacks the top of my butt with ever stride. My chest is tight. My eyes are focused and I'm able to take in a million things at once. I see a small white pick up truck in the distance coming towards us. I yell to it, though I'm sure it can't hear me. He, however, spots it too. Like the coward he is, he squeals away.
I don't stop running. I don't know if he'll circle and come back for me. I don't know how to make my legs stop even if I wanted to. I don't want to go directly home. No one will be there for a few hours and if he follows me, he'll know where I live. I run to the model home office. By this time, I'm having an asthma attack and can't articulate a thing to the employees except that I need water. I am able to spit out the mucus bubble that has formed in my throat and swallow some water. I can't tell if I've had much of a conversation with these people, but before I can be sure I've articulated what happened, I bolt out of there. Now I really just want to call my dad. I run home, looking over my shoulder the whole way. I quickly unlock the door and re-lock it once I'm inside. I call my parents and the cops are at my house before I can even calm down. How tall was he? How much did he weigh? Make, model, license plate number? Bigger than you, smaller than him. Green. KW4. I'm sorry, that's all I remember. My voice cracks.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
notes from heaven
The day after John left for basic training, I had EMT class. I was alone in my car and all of it just hit me. I lost it and began to cry so hard. I was grieving and fearful. I was grieving the idea of him being gone for two months. He had been gone less than twenty-four hours and I missed him already. I was fearful of the change that might take place in him. I was fearful of where that might leave us. I was so worried that basic training would make him an institutionalized robot and there would be no place left for me in his life. That is, after all, the purpose of basic training: they exhaust soldiers and strip them down to something bare and formless, something able to shape and train for their purposes. The military would not be very effective without cooperation, uniformity, and a cohesive purpose. Without a sense of pride, brotherhood, and conformity, the Army couldn't do it's job as well as it can. Knowing that left me worried that he'd be lifeless, loveless, and content to lead a life without me. He was being bred to be a killing machine and in some ways that scared me. I would stand by him, committed and vulnerable, with no guarantee he'd do the same.
That twenty minutes of crying had left me looking like a train wreck so I beelined it to the bathroom to clean up before class. Out of all the bathrooms on campus and all of the stalls in that particular bathroom, I went into the one that had a little note on the floor. It seemed to be waiting just for me. On an unassuming purple sticky note, these words were inscribed: "Take delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:4" There in that bathroom stall at a community college, I had one of those moments. It was the kind of moment in which everything gets quiet and you hear the Lord speak directly to your heart. In that moment, I realized my fear was not out of faith. In that moment, I realized that my stress, anxiety, and fearfulness was because I wasn't trusting that God would give me the desires of my heart. He said to me, "I know what your heart desires and I've promised to give it you because you take delight in me." What a promise. I also understood that if John did change in a way that left no room for me, that God would STILL grant me the desires of my heart, even if it was in a way I hadn't imagined. I remembered that sometimes God takes away things we think we want for things that really fill our soul. That single little verse left me in position to say, "whatever the outcome, You will still keep your promises."
I write this now, almost exactly a year after that day, and clinging to that promise has been harder than ever. John and I are married now (desire granted) and instead of facing two months apart, we are facing twelve or more. The likeliness that he will change during this separation is greater than ever before. The degree of that change is heightened. And unfortunately, my fear has also increased. He is now acting out all of those things in which he was trained for. It is no longer training exercises, but the real deal. Conformity is not just a practice, but a necessity. Death, in one form or another, is not just an idea, but may become a reality in some capacity. My fear often manifests by becoming controlling, or at least trying. But the reality is, I can't control what happens to and around my husband while he is gone. I cannot control the choices he makes, the influences around him, or the events that take place in his life while we're apart. I have to let it go and believe that, once again, God will come through for us. I have to have faith that His promises are continual.
In one of the lowest points of deployment so far, I felt lonelier than ever. Not just physically, but in heart as well. I was mindlessly flipping through a book and my fingers stopped on a piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was a piece of paper my little sister was given at church while she was here visiting. It said "God is..." and she was prompted to finish the sentence. In her childlike handwriting and in a childlike faith, she wrote, "He is always there!" Just another reminder of one if HIs promises, another breath of fresh air, another prompting of faith, another note from heaven. Even in the most impossible of situations, even when the things I fear are actually valid, He stays unchanging. He is even gracious enough to give me reminders of this when I'm doubting and have lost focus.
That twenty minutes of crying had left me looking like a train wreck so I beelined it to the bathroom to clean up before class. Out of all the bathrooms on campus and all of the stalls in that particular bathroom, I went into the one that had a little note on the floor. It seemed to be waiting just for me. On an unassuming purple sticky note, these words were inscribed: "Take delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:4" There in that bathroom stall at a community college, I had one of those moments. It was the kind of moment in which everything gets quiet and you hear the Lord speak directly to your heart. In that moment, I realized my fear was not out of faith. In that moment, I realized that my stress, anxiety, and fearfulness was because I wasn't trusting that God would give me the desires of my heart. He said to me, "I know what your heart desires and I've promised to give it you because you take delight in me." What a promise. I also understood that if John did change in a way that left no room for me, that God would STILL grant me the desires of my heart, even if it was in a way I hadn't imagined. I remembered that sometimes God takes away things we think we want for things that really fill our soul. That single little verse left me in position to say, "whatever the outcome, You will still keep your promises."
I write this now, almost exactly a year after that day, and clinging to that promise has been harder than ever. John and I are married now (desire granted) and instead of facing two months apart, we are facing twelve or more. The likeliness that he will change during this separation is greater than ever before. The degree of that change is heightened. And unfortunately, my fear has also increased. He is now acting out all of those things in which he was trained for. It is no longer training exercises, but the real deal. Conformity is not just a practice, but a necessity. Death, in one form or another, is not just an idea, but may become a reality in some capacity. My fear often manifests by becoming controlling, or at least trying. But the reality is, I can't control what happens to and around my husband while he is gone. I cannot control the choices he makes, the influences around him, or the events that take place in his life while we're apart. I have to let it go and believe that, once again, God will come through for us. I have to have faith that His promises are continual.
In one of the lowest points of deployment so far, I felt lonelier than ever. Not just physically, but in heart as well. I was mindlessly flipping through a book and my fingers stopped on a piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was a piece of paper my little sister was given at church while she was here visiting. It said "God is..." and she was prompted to finish the sentence. In her childlike handwriting and in a childlike faith, she wrote, "He is always there!" Just another reminder of one if HIs promises, another breath of fresh air, another prompting of faith, another note from heaven. Even in the most impossible of situations, even when the things I fear are actually valid, He stays unchanging. He is even gracious enough to give me reminders of this when I'm doubting and have lost focus.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)