Ten Things I Would Tell My 10-year-old Self

As I said during my last blog post, I’ve been lacking inspiration and motivation for writing lately. Today, however, I have this urge to write, yet I had no subject. Thanks to www.creativewritingprompts.com, I found an appealing topic. Number 21 suggested writing a letter to the 10-year-old child you had been. For the sake of time, and so I don’t overcook the lasagna baking in the oven, I have decided to make a top ten list instead.

First a little background about my 10-year-old self. It was the year of Dorothy Hamill haircuts, Space Invaders, soaring oil prices, Jim Jones’ cool-aid and Grease. Like most 10-year olds, I was becoming more aware of the world and the culture around me. So yes, I had the Dorothy Hamill haircut, which rendered my hair more like that of Diana Ross’ afro of the 70s. Truly I looked like I had been whacked by the ugly stick. But that didn’t stop me from acting like Olivia-Newton John from time to time. I had the Grease soundtrack and spent many a day dancing and singing to “You’re the One that I Want” in the privacy of my pink-shag carpeted bedroom.

I idolized Jaclyn Smith in Charlie’s Angels, while my brothers clearly worshipped Farrah Fawcett by the looks of the poster hanging in their rooms. I longed to fall in love like the characters on the Love Boat, and I laughed at the clumsy antics of John Ritter on Three’s Company. For Halloween, my mom made me the most fabulous Laura Ingalls costume so I could pretend I was Half-pint running through the prairie. Too bad the Dorothy Hamill haircut didn’t grow out in time for braids like I had worn the year before.

I was growing up, caught between being a little girl and an adolescent. I thought I knew so much about life when, in fact, my life had barely started. It’s a good thing we dont’ know what’s coming down the pike when we are 10-year-olds. And if someone had handed me this top ten list, I probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway. But for what it’s worth, I thought it might be fun to write that little girl I once was.

Here’s the list, in no particular order:

1. Play. Play. Play. And play some more. The serious stuff of life will come soon enough.

2. Don’t shut down your imagination. Continue to dream and pretend. As you explore your imagination, the world unfolds to endless opportunities and experiences.

3. Focus on your internal beauty over your external beauty. When you focus on what’s inside you will feel beautiful and confident, which makes you actually LOOK more beautiful on the outside.

4. Treat your friends how you want to be treated.

5. What other people say about you does not define you. If someone calls you a shoe, that does not mean you are a shoe anymore than someone calling you stupid means you are stupid.

6. Your can’t choose your family, but you can learn to accept them for who they are.

7. Your worth is not tied to how much money your father makes, how pretty you are or what skills you have. Your worth is in the simple idea that you are God’s child and He loves you more than you will ever comprehend.

8. You WILL not die by going through junior high school.

9. Your parents are not perfect. Nor are they stupid. They are human beings trying to do their best in providing and loving you.

10. Life has more challenges than you can imagine. Life also has more joy than you can imagine. Learn to ask God for help with the challenges and to thank him for the many gifts you will receive. Communicating with Him will help you understand you are never alone.

Inspiration Needed

January has seen very few days of blue sky and sunshine in Indianapolis.  Along with the endless gray days and cold temps comes Seasonal Affective Disorder.

S.A.D. has knocked me up side the head, to use an old ghetto phrase. I have slept like a bear in hibernation this month. I have ceased to exercise, regardless of my newly purchased running shoes pouting at me from the corner of my closet. I have eaten like a stray dog lost in an alley. Well, I haven’t gone so far as digging through the trash, but I have consumed more than my fair share of Whatever-I-Can-Find-Within-Paws-Reach. And I lack the motivation to do most things.

Not only am I blowing off the things I should be doing, I’m blowing off the things I love doing  – taking walks, hanging out with friends, volunteering at the kids’ school, painting and writing.

The other day, I spent three hours at one of my favorite coffee joints, Henry’s on East. I tried to write. As many of you know, I’m in the midst of writing a book. I have about one third of it finished, okay maybe one fourth, and my writing mentors keep asking me to finish it. So I tried adding more to it.  But I have been S.A.D., and the words would not come to me. The brilliant words, that is. Nor the witty words,  the enlightening words, or the descriptive words. Not even semi-entertaining words. Only boring, juvenile,  straight-forward words. I was in desperate need of inspiration.

Inspiration came today. Yes, the blue sky helped. But my inspiration did not come from the sunshine or the beautiful, historical buildings I passed on my way to the public library. My children didn’t inspire me, nor did the delicious tea I consumed earlier today.

Inspiration came in the form of a Goodwill bag. An empty, bright green Goodwill bag.

As I write this, my nine-year-old son and I are sitting on the top floor of the architectural wonder that is the Marion County Public Library. We gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows toward Monument Circle. We can see a couple playing with their dogs on the lawn in front of the War Memorial. All the flags are waving as if they are just as happy as I am to see the blue sky once again. The sun has spared a few patches of snow in grass, and the joggers seem to have an extra bounce in their strides.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something floating up toward the window. The Goodwill bag. It has been caught in a draft that sends it sailing right up to our window. It looks as if it will be plastered to the window for a moment, but a light wind blows it to the east and it starts to descend. It catches on the top of the slanted atrium rooftop below us and rides down the edge of the roof as if its on a slide at the park. When it reaches the bottom of the roof’s edge, a light gust lifts it one more time before it disappears inside some sort of cylinder on top of another part of the library’s roof.

Funny how all this activity is happening around us, yet it was this bag that held our attention. We wanted to see where it would land, or where the wind might take it next. And that’s when it hit me. I am like this bag. I have been at the mercy of the gales (as well as the soft breezes) these past few weeks. One day I can float up high on the gleeful moments of life, but then a force pushes me back down. Sometimes I don’t even realize I am swirling downward because I am caught up in the ride. I don’t even see that I am heading south. But then I get to the precarious precipice and I hang on for dear life. I freeze. Unable to move. Unable to serve my purpose. Unable to even recognize myself. But then by God’s great mercy, another breeze comes and gently lifts me just enough to lossen my grip from the edge of disaster. And somehow I fly again until God sees fit for me to softly land in the exact place I am meant to be. In the place where I can do what I am supposed to do, and where I can do what I love to do.

So here I am. Writing. Doing what I love to do because I have landed. At least for now. This next week is going to be a hard one. I’m not trying to be a glass-half-empty girl. I just know. And I want to brace myself for the next galestorm that hits. But I can only control the actions that I take. I cannot control the external circumstances, much like that bag cannot control where the wind will send it. So, I live today knowing a few simple things which will help me get through the next wave of cold, gray or emotionally draining days:

1. Pray and trust that God will do for me what I cannot do for myself

2. Reach out to friends and family

3. Rest (but not hibernate)

4. Exercise (more than just a walk to the fridge or the car)

5. Eat healthy.

None of these are magic tricks, and I know that this is not some recipe for a magical cure toward happiness. But I do know, because I have tried and tested these steps, that they provide a way to sound living. And if February is anything like January, sound living is more than I can ask for.

I Will Now Run Through That Wall

It’s day one of 2010 and I’m supposed to be making New Year’s resolutions. I haven’t made them, but I have been thinking about them. That is not unusual – to be considering such things -  except that I don’t make resolutions. Truth is, I don’t make resolutions because then I don’t have to live up to them. Nor do I have to live with the embarrassment that comes from failing to follow through on them.

Yet, something is stirring in my heart. I have an ache that won’t go away.  The past year was not easy. I lived most of it in Limboland.  I don’t know about you, but I found Limbo a very difficult place to live. In Limboland there were treacherous hills to climb and plenty of valleys in which to descend. And in between all of that climbing and descending, there were the flatlands which often left me cold and numb.

You can see why it would be exhausting to live in such a place. I long to move forward, but in order to move out of Limbo, I have to take some major risks. I have to be open to the pain that accompanies change and I have to be active rather than passive. While I am not proud of it, it is much easier to crawl under my covers when the hills cast their scary shadows on me, rather than do the hard work of climbing their slippery slopes. The same is true when I found myself in a dark, isolated valley, fearful of what might be lurking in the unknown corners.

But the more I stay in this land, the more I notice myself dying a slow death. The passion that has always characterized my heart has started to dry up and I cannot stay the same.

Tonight I went to an event where my friend, Jeff Sparks, the president of the Heartland Film Festival, was showing several short films from this year’s festival. I stood at the outskirts of the packed room, trying to decide if I wanted to commit to the screenings. I got there at the beginning of a film called, “Paul and His Wall,” which caught my attention. As I moved in to the room a bit more, Jeff walked up and said something about staying for the one about the bicycle, which would be showing next. I respect Jeff’s opinion, so I stayed.

If God ever wanted to get my attention, there is no doubt he did that tonight as I stood there, feeling incredibly sad and alone, even in the midst of a dark, crowded room.

Paul and His Wall

This is what www.dcshorts.com/weblog says about the film:

“Paul and his Wall is a wondrous, if strange kind of fairy tale about a hyper agoraphobic man and his next door neighbor he falls in love with through a hole in his wall. Charming and childishly fun, the excellent visuals and sound quality weave a tale of simple but compelling love.”

Yes, it is all of those things, but it is also incredibly personal as we have all felt trapped and fearful of the outside world in some way, shape or form. We may not be agoraphobic, but we all have fear, and we all put up walls. When Paul’s neighbor, an attractive woman, accidentally bashes a hole in the wall between their rented apartment rooms, he begins a process of really living. He lives a pathetic life, but as he interacts with his neighbor, his depressing room starts to fill with light and life. When the woman plans on moving, Paul’s world feels like it will shatter. He covers the hole in the wall and tries to go back to living his old life. But he can’t. He’s tasted a bit of the life he is meant to live, and it scares him. When the woman asks him to uncover the hole in the wall, Paul does so only to yell at her.

“I’m done being your experiment,” he says. “Just leave.”

“Where did you think this was going, Paul,” she answers. “I’ll admit I felt something for you, but what? Are we supposed to fall in love and get married through this wall? Paul, you never gave us a real chance.”

At that, Paul backs up and runs full force through the wall – every part of him – wham! right into his love’s apartment. And it is there that Paul’s wall is wide open. As they leave the apartment building a storm rages outside, but it does not matter. Paul and his lover stand hand-in-hand with the rain pouring over them as they run into their future.

Oh my goodness, I had to choke back the sobs I felt coming from inside me as I watched them run through the rain toward a real life.

Jitensha (Bicycle)

I won’t even try to explain this film as the website’s synopsis says it most beautifully:

“Jitensha” (or “Bicycle”) is a story about Mamoru Amagaya, a young man struggling to find meaning in life. A co-worker confronts Mamoru on his apparent apathy toward life, and this results in Mamoru leaving his job out of humiliation.

Now alone and without work, just as it seems that things could not possibly get worse, parts of Mamoru’s bicycle begin to disappear, one by one. In frustration, Mamoru leaves a note for the thief, begging him to just take the whole thing. The note left in response is signed “God”, leaving Mamoru only more confused.

At last, when the only remaining piece of the bicycle is a lonely bell, Mamoru receives an envelope, containing addresses at which each piece of the bicycle might be retrieved.

Puzzled yet intrigued, Mamoru embarks on a journey to resurrect and reassemble his beloved possession. As he seeks out each piece of the missing whole, Mamoru begins to discover that he himself is in a healing process. As he puts his bike together piece by piece, he realizes that he himself is in the process of being reassembled in the same way, by one far greater than himself.”

This is how 2009 felt to me, like I was being reassembled for some other purpose than the one I was living. When Mamoru leaves the note to the thief begging him to take the whole thing, my heart skipped a beat. I often want the thief to take everything at once. Just take it all. Let’s just get this over with. Stop tormenting me with the slow losses. But God’s plan is different. Almost always. Instead he goes about things piece by piece in order to get my attention. And when I hunt for that which is lost, sometimes I do not even find what I’m looking for. Unlike Mamoru, I find a completely different piece of myself to fit into a new place.

I love that God left the bell for Mamoru, too. Of all the parts he could have left, it was the bell. To me the sound of the bell symbolized a warning, like, “Watch out, here I come.” It seemed to be a sign of Mamoru’s new voice, a voice he was yet to discover. A voice that would tell the world he was there. No more Mr. Invisible. It was a foreshadow that although everything else was gone, he could still be noticed and tell the world that he was on his way. On his way to somewhere new, some place meaningful.

One of the best lines was when he was looking for his bike seat. It was the last piece he needed to reassemble the bicycle. He knows it is at the beach somewhere so he digs hole after hole searching for it. Along comes a man with a metal detector and as it beeps, Mamoru runs to that place and uncovers the seat. He tells the man it belongs to him and the man says, “Sometimes we need others to help us find what we are looking for.”

While I know people can never truly put me together, I  believe that puts certain people in my life to help me uncover the whereabouts of my heart when it feels so lost or lifeless. I am eternally grateful to these friends. They are the ones who help bring me back to life. Who make me laugh again. Who help me notice beauty. Who spark a wave of creativity. Who breathe passion in me once more.

So as I stare into the face of 2010 and all of its promise, I consider my resolutions. The theme will not be much different from that of these two films. Like Paul and Mamoru, I no longer wish to waste my days sleep-walking through life, nor building a wall to keep safe. There are circumstances that will always cause me to visit Limboland, but there is no need to live there forever. To do so would be wasting this gift called life. It’s time to leave my great enemy Fear back in 2009 and grab the hand of my friend Courage as I walk into a new decade. May you find what you want and need as you run through your walls and reassemble that which has been stolen.

Happy 2010, my friends!

Virginia Is Mad At Me

You may remember meeting Virginia in a recent blog post: “I Just Showed Up.” Virginia is a homeless woman, who wanders the streets near our home. I usually see her while at the soccer fields during the fall and spring.

Today I was driving home from my friend’s house and I saw Virginia walking along the sidewalk. I rolled down my window to say hello as I slowly drove by.

“Heeeey,” she shouted. “Stop. Stop. I need to talk to you.”

I knew a talk with Virginia meant one thing: money. She would need money for her baby’s formula or food or maybe bus fare. At least these are the reasons she has given me in the past. Today it was her medicine.

I pulled over in a nearby alley and got out of my car. Virginia approached me with her forlorn look. She speaks with a whiny, sing-songy sort of tone. Her front teeth are missing, and the others look as if they’re not far from falling out. Our conversation went something like this:

“Hi Virginia. I have doughnuts in my car again,” I tell her. She doesn’t seem interested in them at all.

“I need ten dollars for my medicine,” she says. “Give me ten dollars.”

“I don’t hand out money, Virginia.”

“But I have to get my medicine and it’s eight dollars and 43 cents,” she says, as if she may burst into tears at any moment.

“Where are you sleeping?” I ask her.

“Outside.”

“Do you need a blanket?”

“I need ten dollars,” she persists.

I reach in my pocket and tell her I’ll give her a dollar today. I put it in her hand where I see she has collected another dollar from someone else.

She asks for more. I tell her no, but I wrap up the last two doughnuts I have in the car and hand them to her. I see she is no longer wearing her signature trench coat. She now dons a heavy blue and white fleece with a deer design all around it. Other than that, everything about her is the same.

She turns to walk away. No laughing at my freckles or “I love yous” and although I don’t pray aloud for her, I am praying for her in my mind. As I walk around my car to get inside, I turn to watch her walking down the sidewalk.

As I say goodbye, she throws the doughnuts into the street, like a todder knocking her sippy cup to the floor to show her anger. I’m a little shocked, but can’t say that I’m offended. After all, I didn’t fill her need.

And I never will. As I drive away, my heart feels heavy for Virginia. I wonder why I was so happy to see her again. Was it to play the hero? No, because as much as I love giving to her, I will never be able to provide what she really needs. Only God can do that for this destitute woman. Was it that I was grateful to see she was still alive? Maybe there was some satisfaction knowing she was still making it on the streets. Surviving the storms. Or was it because when I see Virginia, I am really seeing myself?

Bingo. Virginia is not much different than I am. Like the book titled, “Same Kind of Different as Me.” She is demanding. She is needy. She is lost. Just like me.

This is why I love living in the city… not to be a do-gooder. Nor is it to feel higher in social and economic status. It is because in the faces of people like Virginia, I am far more apt to see myself than I am on the streets of our old suburban neighborhood. I see myself at risk, vulnerable, and desperately in need of a God who will love me and save me no matter how ugly my life may get. So tonight, I am thankful for the glimpses of myself that Virginia provides and I pray that wherever she is tonight, she is warm and safe and that somehow, in some way, she will know that her God loves her – no matter what.

Dear God, Make Me a Bird…

I used to recite a line from “Forrest Gump” when things would get stressful around here. It’s the line young Jenny (or “Jenn-ay” if you’re Forrest) says as she is hiding in the field, away from her abusive father. She squats down and says, “Dear God, make me a bird so I could fly far. Far far away from here.”

I would say it aloud as my children fought or my father-in-law droned on for hours about new medical procedures. Usually, I said it with sarcasm, but sometimes I would say it secretly  in my head. Those were the times I didn’t want anyone to hear me. The times I really wanted to fly away. The times I wanted to escape. The times I felt like life was more than I could handle.

I write in past tense because it’s been a while since I’ve recited this line. Yet, truth is, sometimes I still want to fly away. Things aren’t bad. The things that were weighing heavily on me in the last few months have started to ease their tense grip on my heart and mind. But I can’t help myself from longing for more sometimes. For peace. And rest. And beauty. For places I love.

One of those places is Telluride, Colorado. I have a shirt with the John Muir quote: “The mountains are calling, and I must go.” I feel that way about Telluride – like it’s always calling for me. Calling for me to come ski its mountains, taking in its vistas, journaling about its vibrant colors and lovely people.  If I were a bird, I would fly to those mountains. When I’m in the mountains, my heart is the most alive. I feel passion for living and breathing and taking in extraordinary beauty.

Today as I was about to say Jenny’s famous line, it was like someone shocked me back into reality.  I was driving my four boys around town on errands they wanted to take, and I was reminded that in the midst of traffic jams in that stinky Suburban with the loud music blaring, fast food bags overturned and boys talking about how they can’t wait to shoot each other on their new video games, I had enough beauty to light up an entire city. The beauty that shines from the gifts that are my boys is far greater than any mountain, no matter how loudly it is calling me.

As Christmas is only a few days away, I had the amazing privilege of spending the day with my precious children when there are others who are not able to spend it with their loved ones due to divorce, death, estrangement, sickness, etc. So I said a quick prayer for forgiveness at my greedy heart as I long for more, when I have all I need in this life of mine. People who love me, a family that I count as a blessing beyond measure and all the comforts I would ever need.

So I ask myself: if I sprouted wings tonight, would I fly far, far from here?

You bet I would. But first, I would make sure my wings were strong enough to carry the extra bodies of my boys off to the mountains where we would thank God that we have each other -  and for the “icing” on the cake: being in these mountains that call to me every day.

Where I’m From

This is a poem in response to a writing exercise I found recently.

To see the original, go to  www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html

Here’s my very off-the-cuff first attempt. I started with a Christmas thought since I was sitting  by our tree, and then went from there. It’s totally random, but I suppose that is the best way to describe a person anyway, huh?

I’m from my father’s shoulders/ from the skinny, little body stretched toward the tree top to add the golden angel / from Christmas trains around the base of the tree / and ornaments made from popsicle sticks and pom poms.

I’m from Grandpa Freese’s ticklebug and Gramma Morton’s homemade noodles/ from a down-syndrome aunt and drunk uncles dancing around bonfires / I’m from Chicago and Wisconsin and French Canadian natives /   from Indiana, the suburbs and the city.

I’m from Jim with his Eli Lilly loyalty / and Doris with her stay-at-home nurturing. /  I’m from ice skating, gymnastics, diving and tennis lessons / from Young Life summer camps and  family vacations to California, Williamsburg and Bermuda.

I’m from Barbie and Baby Chrissy and dolls from my dad’s international travels/ from the musical Annie, The Sound of Music, Barry Manilow and Olivia Newton John. / I’m from brothers and front yard football games and little league baseball, / from their classic rock, drums, electric guitars, strobe lights and inscence.

I’m from Cottilion and white gloves and cha-cha-cha / from show choirs with puffy, pink dresses and Gershwin’s “Embraceable You,” /  I’m from insecurity, buck teeth, freckles and frizzy hair / and from braces, straightening irons and wavering confidence.

I’m from a new identity in Jesus, who showed up at camp / and I’m from ego and the war between the two /  from St. Pius, East 91st Street, Tabernacle, Grace and Common Ground / from liturgy and evangelism, from discipleship and community.

I’m from babysitting and Kelly Girl, / from public relations and marketing  from waitressing and men with guns pointed at my back / from prayers in beer coolers and rescuing policemen.

I’m from books I cannot put down / from C.S. Lewis, Barbara Kingsolver, Anne Lamott and Henri Nouwen /  from words and language and the pull of a good story.

I’m from music and the magical spell it casts with powerful lyrics and arrangements, / from art and the awakening gained from the colors, the brush strokes and the texture, / I am from theater and films, from entrancement in watching lives and plots unfold on stage or a screen.

I am from romance and giddy feelings and intense emotion / from courtship and marriage / from sickness and health / and from shattered dreams and birthing new ones.

I’m from mothering four boys, laughing out loud and gray hairs / from milestones and setbacks / from unspeakable joy and from the mundane.

I’m from the mosaics of friendships across the years / from passion for people and from love that makes a heart nearly explode /  from experiences of loyalty / and from the heartbreak of betrayal.

I’m from the mountains, from Telluride, the Tetons, Mount Princeton and the San Juans / from the sun casting diamonds across the snowy trails in winter / and from wildflowers bursting across the valleys in summer.

I’m from summertime on Grandview Lake / from skiing and wakeboarding and screaming kids on a tube. / I’m from Fourth of July fireworks in the dark of the night / and the peace of a lone kayak in mid-afternoon.

I’m from Florida in Springtime / from browning, bare skin and painted toenails peeking out from flip flops / from the foam of the waves and  the piles of salty seashells.

I am from the love of a great God /  from the sacrifice of his Son and the wisdom of the Spirit / I’m from forgetting whose I am / and most importantly, I’m from a place where I remember it again.

See the Branches

By the time the season of glad tidings rolls around, I am often depleted of comfort and joy. I don’t hate the holidays. I don’t even dislike them. It’s just that the holidays happen to fall during a time when the skies have cast every possible shade of gray, and the sun has taken to retiring earlier in the day. By the time December rolls around, I am longing for the brilliance of a bright blue sky, and I feel the need for a hit of color, preferably one that does not fall into the earth tone category.

I’m fairly certain I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, since I am pretty good at diagnosing myself. Some friends are laughing right now and murmuring something about hypochondria. Let them laugh. It’s true. Look at my blog posts. If you were to chart the number of serious or somewhat depressing blogs, they would fall in the months of November, December, January and February – months that are shorter and darker than the others. Look at the posts that I have written in the summertime and they are as carefree as a barefoot girl on a boat can be.

When my kids were smaller, I could jet to Florida for a little renewal, but once they were in school full-time that wasn’t an easy option. I had to figure out a way to accept that life in the Midwest would always mean enduring the pallid days of winter.

Last year as the final leaves fell from the trees, I felt that tinge of sadness start to sweep over me, knowing that soon everything would look lifeless and bland. I was walking down one of my favorite stretches of Delaware Street, a stretch framed by trees which, most likely, have stood for a hundred years. I stopped long enough to notice the branches on one particular Oak. I studied their form, the way they bend seemingly without reason, the pathways they create and the many hues of black, brown and gray limbs that branch out from a single trunk.

Suddenly I was struck with gratitude that I could see the nakedness of this tree. That I had a different view. That the leaves that had so beautifully adorned this tree just days before had been shed to reveal splendor in its rawest form. It made me think of all the other spaces around me that were now stripped of their blatant beauty. The large blooms covering the lilac bushes were long gone, as were the impressive flower gardens no longer camouflaged the brown earth. Instead of seeing death, I saw life. Life at rest, perhaps, but life at its purest. Life with no pretensions. Life submitted. Life exposed.

I wondered how often I ignore the beauty of this season of life in myself and in the people around me. How often I turn away from the lackluster to gaze upon the dazzling. It’s no surprise that this lesson came to me at a time when our family moved into the city with its toothless, ragged transient men and women roaming the streets rather than the trendy, attractive teenagers I used to watch driving their Jeeps to the high school football games.

Reframing my view has allowed me to see that which I had ignored, or even disliked, as things of beauty and worth. With this view, I now choose not only to turn my attention to that which simply pleases the eye, but to that which is raw, exposed and vulnerable – whether its a bare tree or a stranger passing on the sidewalk.

There are days I still want to crawl under the covers and wait for the blue sky to show itself, but thankfully, these have become fewer.  And hopefully, they will become fewer still as I allow God to transform my way of thinking and seeing. When I allow him to shift my paradigm, I find the most contentment and discover that to everything there is a season and to every season there is a purpose.

Hearing Voices

About three this morning I heard something that sounded like people fighting outside. I looked out the front window and witnessed a man standing on the sidewalk, screaming to someone down the street. He would walk a few steps and then turn around to face his accuser. His voice spooked me. It had a sort of demon-like tone to it. Like he was playing a part in some horror film. As I waited and watched, it occurred to me that there was no accuser. At least not one that I could see.

My stomach turned as I watched the man, so obviously tormented by something that only he could hear. After about ten minutes, he moved far enough down the street where I could no longer see or hear him. I couldn’t shake the sound of his voice or the thought of the kind of mental hell he lives with each day.

I saw him again this morning, sitting at the corner two blocks down the street. As my car turned the corner, I looked over and saw him yelling in my direction. I have no idea what he said but he appeared as he had last night – racked by the voices that the rest of us cannot hear.

I’ve carried him with me today. Felt a sadness for this cross he has to bear. Wondered what he may have been like as a child. Tried to forget the demonesque voice and remember that in some ways we are alike… this man and me.

For I have voices in my head, too. Fortunately these voices are not auditory hallucinations like the ones of the man I saw last night. But they are real in another sense. They come from people I have known throughout my life, people who have loved me, as well as people who have hated me. Lately, the voices I hear are words spoken from friends who are trying to offer counsel for my current life situation. While these voices are not meant to be harmful, they can get confusing. They often become so jumbled in my head that I end up paralyzed. The friends who carry these messages, who dump them into my head, have good intentions. I know they love me and want to stop the hurt I feel. Even so, I must sift through the content to find the truth for my life. For instance, the other day I sat at the dining room table of my friends who have walked with me through many of the hardships of this past year. The couple has been nothing but encouraging to me. I have literally spent hours at their house. In our recent conversation, the husband shared part of his childhood story with me. While I know he wants me to do what is best for my life, he acknowledged that what he was presenting was much easier said than done. That’s the problem with the voices I often carry. They may sound good in theory, yet each message has implications.

If I’m not careful, I can play the tapes of these voices over and over in my head until I shut out my own voice completely. Worse, I shut out the voice of God. If I am spiritually healthy, I can scrutinize the voices within the context of a connection with a loving God and  find my way out of the maze of messages with my true self intact. If I am spiritually sick I tend to obsess about the messages, especially the ones which pierce my heart, and inevitably I find myself swimming through a pool of insecurity and depression.

When someone tells me, for example, that they do not want to talk to me, no matter the reason, I assign a message to this that says something is wrong with me. I am not worthy to be known or to be pursued. There might be a perfectly good reason for someone wanting to push me away, but when I am feeling vulnerable or weak, I can act as crazy as the man on the sidewalk outside my house last night. I do not like feeling this way. I don’t like losing myself in these voices that tell me I’m not good enough or, the contrary, that I’m too much to handle.

Today I’ve had to examine the voices I have heard the past few days. Instead of standing on the sidewalk shouting, I chose to take my journal to the local park and separate the good messages from the bad. I didn’t draw any conclusions, and I still feel hurt over some of them. I’m confused over others. But most importantly I have started the process of dealing with them. I have tools to work through them, tools like prayer, writing and solitude.

My heart continues to ache over the man who walks Alabama Street and other nearby thoroughfares late at night. His psychosis seems hopeless, but I hold out hope that somehow he can find a way to cope with the voices that plague him.

I Just Showed Up

I left my house to the sound of bongos. My son, Asher, sat on the couch beating to the rhythm of his own making. Not a care in the world, it seemed. Just freedom to express himself, and joy spread across his face.

An hour later, I heard bongos again. But these were not from the hands of my 8-year-old son. These came from the speakers at the front of a church sanctuary, which provided the audio portion of a video I was watching about the child sex trade. I couldn’t help thinking about the contrast in scenes. The picture of my happy son, safe in his house, playing for the pure joy of it – because he can. And the beating of these drums set to the photos of children who are bought and sold into brothels and sweatshops, traumatized and ashamed.

It was a Saturday night and I was alone as I entered the church to attend “Purchased,” a concert and informative night to raise awareness for Love146, an organization dedicated to protecting, defending, restoring and empowering children rescued from the sex trade. http://www.love146.org

As I listened and watched, I found myself rummaging through my purse for scrap pieces of paper. I wanted to capture my thoughts and feelings as the information came at me, so I madly scrawled over old receipts and grocery lists.

One of the thoughts I recorded was this: “How do you ever accept a safe touch after sex slavery?” My mind turned toward my last blog entry about the desire for touch. How could I assume that everyone wants touch, when children all over the world are touched only for the pleasure of the people who own them or “buy” them for their perversity? I pictured the faces of children who are rescued and brought to safe houses. I wonder, how, how exactly does a little girl of 8 ever trust again? Will she ever be able to stop flinching at the moment someone first touches her arm? What will it take for her to know that she is not to blame? That she belongs to no man or woman? That she is free? That she is loved for who she is, not what she does with her body?

There were moments when I held my hand to my mouth for fear I might vomit. No one, especially a child, should ever have to live through the horrors of beating and rapes day in and day out for weeks, months or years. But all over this world, and even in our own towns, there are boys and girls who live this way. They. Live. This. Way.

The information was hard enough to absorb. Now that I had it, though, what was I to do with it? I had no idea. I still don’t know. But, for some reason I was compelled to go to the event. And not to cop out, but I have to rely on God to show me what’s next.

I may not be able to change the world or eradicate such things, but I do know that God can work miracles. I do know that the only way these children ever smile again, let alone play and develop relationships and laugh is because of Jesus, the ultimate healer and the ultimate lover. As I trust that he will do his job, I continue to discover my role starting here, in this humble, little blog to raise awareness.

That’s What Joy Did

I met Joy on Friday night at the Harrison Center for the Arts.  I was promoting a program I started called The WriteHers Club, during First Friday, a downtown art tour. I had left the WriteHers table to visit with some friends in one of the galleries and put my two boys in charge. They must have worked their charm because several people signed up for mentoring and took part in a writing exercise I had developed based on artist Kyle Ragsdale’s show that night, titled, “Historical Fiction.” Several minutes after leaving the table, one of my sons found me and said someone was waiting at the table to talk to me.

That’s when I met Joy. Like the folks at Love146, Joy could not ignore the atrocities taking place in her country: namely,  female genital mutilation. As a result of her advocacy, she has developed an art exhibit to raise awareness for this issue among other women’s issues around the globe. Joy, as her name indicates, lit up as she explained her work as a consultant to governments and non-govermental organizations who are dedicated to empowering victims to get the help they need and deserve.  http://www.wicsaorg.com

I’m pretty sure my mouth was close to the floor as I listened to the stories Joy told. Who am I that I should connect with a woman who has spoken to the British parliament? Who am I that she should want to mentor in my little writing program here in the inner-city of the United States? Why did she seek me out to share her stories and her passion? And then I remembered, it’s not because of who I am. This has no more to do with me than it would if I was Michelle Obama. This is about what God orchestrates, and in this instance it’s two women connecting over what is right and what is good and the love God wants to pour out of us.

Which is exactly what I tried to do on Saturday afternoon.

Meet Virginia

It seems the woman with the long trench coat and missing teeth always approaches me at the Saturday soccer games. People tell me not to look her way. But I can’t help it.  I see her coming and I know what she’s going to say: “Excuse me, do you have any money so I can buy some formula?”

I want to ask her what kind of formula she’s talking about because I am pretty sure she doesn’t have a baby. Instead I tell her no, I don’t have money, which is always the truth because I rarely bring my purse to the games.

This Saturday was no different. Except for the part when I left the game. I had already gone through the “no, I don’t have any money for your formula” routine so when I saw the missing teeth lady approaching my car as I waited to turn, I thought I would simply tell her no AGAIN. But as she tapped on my window, she didn’t ask for money. She wanted a ride. She didn’t want to go far. Two blocks, to be exact. Loaded with children in the back of my Suburban I surprised myself by saying, “Sure, get in.”

As she sat in the passenger seat, she started rifling through the bag I had tossed in between the seats. “What’s this?” she asked. “Oh, you don’t want that. It’s an old apple core and some trash,” I responded.

“But I’m soooooo hungry,” she said.

“Okay, but I have some doughnuts in the back that I will give you when we stop.”

“Can I have this water?”

“No, you don’t need to drink that water. It’s been opened,” I answered. “I have bottles in the back that I’ll give you, too.” Then I pushed  a little more. “Do you want some help? I can take you someplace where you can get some help.”

“No, the missions are closed today,” she said. I knew she was lying, not only because not every mission in Indianapolis would be closed on Saturday, but also because she had told me earlier that she dropped her babies off at the mission so she could get formula. So I’m thinking the mission didn’t take her babies and then close for the day.

Concluding that she didn’t really want to receive help, and knowing it was not my job to rescue her, I pulled onto the street where she had asked to go. I took the keys with me as I got out of the car to retrieve the doughnuts and water bottles I had promised. The neighborhood looked bleak and I didn’t want to chance someone car jacking my Suburban full of children. AS I peeked around the back of the car to where the woman stood, and I asked her where she slept at night.

“In the car,” she answered. So I grabbed a large beach blanket out of the back to offer her, hoping it might provide some extra warmth at night.

As I handed it all to her, I asked her if I could pray with her. She said, yes, and then lifted the Bible she had been carrying with her. I asked her name and she told me it was Virginia. I began to pray for Virginia, but soon realized I had no idea what to pray for. What can you pray for a homeless woman who smells like a brewery, is probably schizophrenic, has most likely lived on the streets for far too long, and doesn’t want help? I just started talking and I simply asked God to somehow let Virginia know that she was precious to him, that she was loved, soooo loved and … as I was just getting into a groove, I heard Virginia mumble. Then she started to laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you have freckles,” she asked as she dragged out each word in a sort of song.

“I do,” I answered, knowing prayer time was over.

“I luuuuve you,” Virginia said as she put her head on my shoulder.

“I love you, too,” I said. And I meant it because it was not me who was offering this woman anything. It was that love thing that God does through people, in the really weird ways he chooses to do it.

As I climbed back in my car, Virginia stopped a few feet down the street and shouted, “What’s your name?” I told her it was Lynn, and she spelled it, “L-Y-N-N?” I replied with a yes and then she said in her sing-songy way,  “I love you, Lynn.”

I look for Virginia when I pass that street. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Just like I have no idea how I’m supposed to use the information I have about the child sex trade and the work that Joy does for the women who deal with female genital mutilation. It’s frustrating to me to make these connections and then feel like they are moments slipping through my fingers. I want to hold on to them. To do something with them. To take all the passion I have for the hurting and lost and really DO something.

And then I remember that I did do something. I let God use me. If only for a moment, I let him use me as I cried for the children in brothels. As I learned about Joy’s desire to empower women. As I gave Virginia fresh water and a measly little prayer. I did something. It wasn’t big and no one will shout it from the rooftops, nor will it ever make front page news. But I did something. I listened and I loved. And I showed up. I simply showed up. God did the rest. He always does.

They Didn’t Even Know How to Hug

One of my friends started an organization called World Next Door (www.WorldNextDoor.org) as a way to awaken ordinary people to global issues such as poverty, social injustice and AIDS. He and his team travel across the globe and recently stayed in Haiti. While there, he posted this as his Facebook status:

Slept at the orphanage last night. Those kids are PRECIOUS! But they broke my heart too. They didn’t even know how to hug!

I stared at that last sentence. How? How could a child not know how to hug? What kind of life must you live to lack the knowledge of something that seems so intuitive? Someone comes toward you with open arms and you wrap your arms around them in return.

Unless no one has ever come toward you with open arms.

I have struggled to envision when and how my friend first understood that these children did not know what it meant to give or receive a hug. Did he teach them how to wrap their arms around his body? Did their bodies melt into his at this new sensation? Did it feel foreign or did they welcome the warmth that comes from such contact?

Studies show, and have shown for literally centuries, that the lack of touch is fatal. Babies die if they are not touched. I could cite source after source of the benefits to touch and even more to the bonding that all humans need to become healthy and secure. But my intent is not to spout off statistics or facts pertaining to human contact. I simply need to wrestle with the notion that there are people – children, no less – that do not experience what we all so desperately need. And what many of us so desperately want.

I’m one of those people who needs and wants to be touched. I am what some deem touchy-feelly. When I go through long seasons without significant touch, I literally feel like I may wither up and die. It’s as if part of my soul dries up because that part of me, the part that longs to touch and be touched, has no place to go, to be watered and nurtured. But how ridiculous I must sound in light of orphans who don’t have a frame of reference for the act of hugging in their young lives.

Since we moved into the city, I have noticed a shopping cart that sits in a parking lot a few blocks from our home. It may move from one day to another, but I see it somewhere within the same block each time I pass. If you’ve seen The Soloist, maybe you can picture the overflowing contents of this “borrowed” grocery cart, and how important it is to the homeless man who has gathered these seemingly random items. Today, my friend and I walked by two such carts and I stopped to take a picture. We laughed at the “Do Not Enter” sign that stuck out the top of the cart and wondered why the person needed a hubcap or the oil tiki torch we saw in the pile.

When we stopped in Walgreens, I asked the clerk if she knew the story behind the cart. She told us about the little man who pushes it here and there, and sometimes comes into Walgreens to chat. I found myself wondering when he had last been hugged.

Tonight as I held my son, I thought of the little man finding a place to park his cart for the night before laying down next to a dumpster or under a tree to get some sleep. I wondered if he was sleeping today as we passed and instead wanders the streets at night, searching for more treasures to fill his cart. I find myself wanting to find him. Wanting to look into his face. To reach out my hand to touch his. I’m not trying to save him or rescue him but if touch is so vital to our well-being, how tragic that this man has most likely gone without healthy touch perhaps for days, months, years. Sure that’s an assumption, but one I believe may not be far-fetched.

I recently had a massage. When I walked out of the spa, I felt like I had died and gone to heaven. It was sheer pleasure to have every muscle in my body worked out under skilled and therapeutic hands. I consider that massage a total luxury. I said I “needed” it – for my mental, physical and emotional health. Really? I’ll admit, it was a great way to take care of myself in a stressful time in my life. But I cringe when I think of the money I spent on a 90 minute massage – to be pampered and indulged, when there are children who are never even held in the arms of a gentle caretaker.

I’m challenged by my friend’s experience in Haiti. I wish I could hop on a plane tonight and get to those orphans. I would not sleep until every last one had been held. But I’m not going to Haiti tonight. I’m staying right here. And here is a good place to be. Because here has a lot of broken and needy people. They may look different from those orphans but their desire is one I believe to be planted at the center of all our souls. The desire to be seen, wanted, and loved. What better way to do that than through my hand or my arms reaching out to another human being?

So thank you, Barry, for doing what you set out to do. To awaken people like me to the brokenness and need for God’s love and grace in all corners of the world. You have inspired me to go tenaciously about this city with my eyes, ears, mind and most importantly, my heart open to give the most basic need that I can give: touch.