unfinished

I hold hope in my hands
like a spear,
like the world is a jungle
and the only tool I have to stave off hunger
is this hope.

Reality, he is the bright morning star,
finds me at dawn, huddled close
to my small fire.
He takes my hand

and whispers,
my love, you may not hold this hope so close.
put down your weapon;
come feast with me.

You may hope for an Italian nonna
to teach you how to cook traditional pasta recipes,
you may hope for an Eritrean sisterfriend and
for an abundance of Afghan brothers.
You may hope for a close team,
for another teammate next year.
You may hope for stunning sunrises and laughter.
These are the things you may hope for.

Put down your spear my love,
it will not serve you here.
All you need is a fork.

Hope this way,
come feast with me
in the bright morning.

Exhortation 9.16.15

You are not an ant.
You are allowed to make eye contact.
You are allowed to connect.
You are allowed to live
in such a way that will make the world wonder.
You are allowed to look
past the facade and see
the beauty and pain beyond.
You do not have to hide
your inside beauty from the world,
even though the majority
will never understand
or receive you.
Don't let that stop you.
Whimsy is beautiful.
I've made you beautiful.

I sat down at the river for a loooong time today, and I felt this. And I wrote it down.

Also, Acts 1:8

I've come to this place of realization that if I did quit, because no one knows how frustrating/stressful/hard this is, I wouldn't be angry with myself. And I wouldn't take crap from other people about it. And I wouldn't try to justify my actions to everyone else.

Happiness is Saturday morning phone calls with Sarah.
It is walking down the street with a balloon.
It is spontaneous birthday plans.
It is ominous grey clouds and wind, enjoying cooler temperatures.
Happiness is pop music on the radio as I drive around town.
Fuzzy socks and rain boots.
A dog friend.
Time to veg on the big chair with a blanket and some BBC.
Enjoying a fresh haircut.
Anticipating future plans.
Being.

World, do you know that I am happy?

Really, truly, deep-in-my-soul, marrow-of-my-bones happy? And have been for a long time, happy?

World, do you understand that sometimes I become sad, or angry, or confused, or despairing, but it always dissipates and the deep, giggly, full happiness bubbles back up?

Do you know that?

How to Deal with the Sad. Again.

• Run.
• Paint your nails a fun color.
• Go BE with people. Laugh. Play a game. Eat a meal. 
• Enjoy the rain.
• Sit in a beautiful place and read some psalms, out loud. Pray them. Change the pronouns.
• Wash your hair.
• Make art.
• Listen to classical music- make classical music.
• Wear polka dot socks.
• Dance.

A Letter to Alyan

Dear Alyan,

Dear, sweet Alyan. When I saw the photograph of you on the beach yesterday morning, I wanted to run down to the field near the river near my house and have a massive, justified, tantrum. Please forgive us; we’ve failed you.

Once, when I was still a child myself, I sat under the stars and vowed to always stand for the children, to never sit quietly in a society where children were abused. Alyan, the whole world is this society now. Your government could not protect you; you had become a child of the world. We should have taken care of you. We didn’t.

I know a sweet boy about your age. He’s just learned to walk on his own, and often he’ll shriek with the joy of simply being alive. His smile lights up the whole day. He may be little, but I truly count him as my friend. Alyan, I would have loved to be your friend, friend to your brother, Galip, your mama, Rihan, and your papa, Abdullah.

Alyan, I know you are safe in the arms of my Jesus now. I know you are free of this horrendous place, never again to be alone or afraid. But I miss you, little friend. I miss your sweet heart. The world is not the same without your laughter. Even though your whole life was lived within a warzone, until your mama and your papa decided to try and take you to a kinder place, your laughter still sweetened Kobane, your sweet soul brought hope.

There are many people who say we do not have enough to take care of others like you. This is not true. God always has enough.

There are some who say we must take care of our own before we can take care of you. You are our own. We all belong to each other. That’s what I believe. I know it sounds idealistic, but the reality is, Jesus came to save us all.

There are some who say it is dangerous, to love. This is true; love is dangerous. The first time Love came, we killed Him, too. It doesn’t matter. Fear of danger never takes precedence over love.

There are some who pretend this is all political. Sweet Alyan, you are not political. Your short, tender story has nothing to do with politics.

I know that love is an action, more than a feeling, and I know too that there is very little I can do for you. I let my spirit cry out to the One who filled the seas and painted your eyes that soft brown. I cry for you, Alyan. For all the other babies like you, everywhere, who live in fear and whose societies have failed them. I cry for your mama, who never saw her children safe, and your papa, who wants to read his holy book over your grave until he, too, relinquishes his life. You have been cheated, friend, and no amount of “there is always a reason” will satisfy my soul this time. The world has wronged you.

You lived three years in a warzone. My past three years have been peace and comfort. I cannot fathom what you have seen in your short life. May your father forgive us. May he sleep, and dream of Love tonight.

Friend, I will not forget you. You did not die in vain. You did not live in vain, either. Your life had purpose. Your story has worth.

May you forget us quickly, but may we never, ever forget you.

Love,

Phoebe

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/09/dear-alyan-dear-world-with-a-refugee-crisis-dear-all-of-us-who-have-needed-to-be-welcomed-in/