Honest

Maybe if we were all a little more honest with each other…

Not fake, "I'm going to be mean and rude and shallow and tell you whatever comes out of my mouth" honesty, no, real honesty, real "this is hard to say" vulnerable honesty.

Not self seeking honesty, not protective, defensive honesty, but truth. Maybe if we were honest with our hearts at little bit more…

We'd know each other and ourselves better.
We'd be more free.

You think?

Changes?!

passions changing --> hearts of men

want to live in a BIG city

missing home

public speaking??? I want to give speeches, poetry, anything??

I'm tired of being conventional.

International Women's Day!

Today is International Women’s Day. My Facebook newsfeed is full of stories from pages I have liked—pages of non-governmental organizations serving refugee women, survivors of human trafficking, and other vulnerable women.

I have long been honored to be a woman. The first time I felt it was a privilege was the summer of 2012, in a refugee reception center in eastern Hungary. It was there that I recognized my place in the international community of women, there that I recognized that I have a place there, that I belong.

You see, sometimes I do not feel worthy of the honor of calling myself part of the world’s community of women. Even today, as I woke up and remembered the date, I also remembered my frequent complaints about my relatively easy and certainly good life.

Every morning at about five, I wake up in a warm bed, in a house that lavishes me with space and comfortable chairs to sit in. Every morning I choose what to eat for breakfast, put on a warm coat and durable shoes, and walk one mile to my job, where I work hard and it is stressful, but no where near as stressful or as hard as working in a factory or doing manual construction, or farming, or raising children, or living in a war zone, not having clean water, good health care, good relationships, etc. etc. Sometimes, I simply do not feel worthy of this honor God has given me.

By honor, I do not mean my easy life, I mean being a woman. How I live my good life leaves me not feeling worthy of the way God has made me because my hardships probably sound like a vacation to many of the community I have been ushered into. In the midst of this, I remember the women I met in Hungary.

While I will probably always feel a twinge of unworthiness to be part of this community, the women in the refugee camp did not seem to begrudge us our place there. The beautiful, wise, strong women I met in Hungary knew who they were, that they were strong and beautiful, that they had been through horrific hardships, and yet they did not look down on us for our easy lives. They lived. We lived. We met each other and talked of the usual things (marriage, parties), we ate together, drank tea, and danced. We talked about the hardships and we talked about clothes. We shared one commonality. We spent hours together, simply. They will forever be part of my story and I will forever be part of theirs.

I came away from that place knowing that I am part of the world’s community of women. We are extravagantly different. We have hard lives and easy lives and that is how it is. And I, though I often feel unworthy, am honored to be part of it. And, I'm amazed at how God has made us. Nothing I did let me be part of this community, it was all God, and WOAH. Just, WOAH.

Happy International Women’s day, you magnificent creations!

Woohoo!

This morning in the shower I realized, I'm living the dream!

I have a good job, I'm done with school, and I live in a cute little house with five amazing, gentle, Jesus loving ladies! AND, I'm in a LOVE relationship with the Creator of the UNIVERSE--- WHAAAAT!?!!

Another Sabbath

This is what encouragement looks like, sometimes.

My brother picks me up for church. It is a wonderful surprise, a gift to spend time with him, to be next to him in this place that I love.

Pastor G talks about redemption. The service is refreshing and light hearted. And yet, he also talks about the secret believers, the cost, the sacrifice. I meet some new people.

My sister comes for lunch. We share pasta and salad. The pasta, my roommate made, the salad, my sister brought. It is a simple meal and simple is my favorite.

I sit in the sun at 5 o’clock. Spring is coming.

I lay my head in my sister’s lap and she rubs my back, and I rub hers. We exist, not having to entertain each other, just sitting on the couch, talking to roommates and with our brother as he types away on his homework.

I’m making chicken curry for supper.

I’m doing laundry at the Laundromat across the street.

I’m writing a poem called “Platonic.”

Have I mentioned the sun is shining?

I have poetry in my blood but I can’t see to get it out. I’m not troubled by this though. It will come.

Sundays. My soul rests.

Joyous

Sabbath.

This is what encouragement looks like, sometimes. It does not hide, but sometimes one must seek it out.

This is my day off. Six days to work, one day to rest. That is how God designed it, so it must be enough.

Nine AM, my sisterfriend makes blueberry muffins in the kitchen while I get ready for church. We wait for them, and when they are ready, their golden brown surfaces bounce back under our fingers. We split them open and watch the steam rise. I dip one in my black tea, sweet. It is snowing.

Light, fluffy flakes hit my face as I tromp down the street to church, which is convicting and encouraging, delightful. And when pastor G finishes praying and I turn around, there is sunlight streaming through the big windows and a bright blue sky to walk home under.

Then lunch. Lebanese food. My beloved place is coming to this small Ohio town! Drinks come in tall bottles in the coolers and we eat with plastic forks and knives. Every meal comes with flat bread and hummus. It’s a happening place, people from all walks of life sitting at these wooden tables. I like the simplicity of the place. The ceiling is bright blue.

My sisterfriend and I buy a hideous shirt that we are both really like. It’s 2.50 USD, why not?

My soul is filled with laughter and I let it spill about nothing, because who needs a reason to laugh? Who needs a reason for joy? Anyway, Jesus is my reason and that is always good.

Now, it is cloudy again and my beautiful roommate G is cozied up on the couch and my sisterfriend sits in the rocking chair with a red, snowflake blanket pulled around her shoulders and over her head. And I sit in my favorite green chair in the corner and we rest in the last light of the day. It has been a good day, a joyous day.

Loved.

Love Poem in a Laundromat. In Sections.

1.    A small boy watches greedily a father-son pool game. He sits, head in his hands wanting to join in.

I want to join in too.

I, too, want a piece of this camaraderie.

2.    Laundromats, public restrooms, airports, bus stops.

Transient places. The most beautiful.

3.    The small boy has now covered his face, making a peep hole with his hands, hiding.

4.    I hide, too. In politeness, in hard work.
I hide in braided hair and a fast paced stride.

5.    Not always.
Sometimes I’m honest as moth wings,
dancing in the stairwells, the Laundromats, across the streets.
A yawn, a reminder.

6.    A reminder that, like the man on his laptop, we all put our head in our hands, pay rent once a month, want to join in.

7.    What would it look like,
to fully give in to love?

8.    I think this clean, speckled gray tile floor would be dirtied,
maybe we could all play pool,
or maybe I would fold her laundry, or offer that small boy my markers so he could draw a picture.

9.    What would that look like?

10.  To give in to love?
 To live there, in the love?