I try to be honest with what's going on in my life in hopes of helping others... if I can share my experiences and struggles, maybe someone out there will see they're not alone. That being said, I also need to say that not everything is so difficult. Yes, life is seriously hard, especially right now. But there are so many good things as well. Tonight I reconnected with old college friends via Skype. They live in El Salvador, and I haven't seen them in over 6 years.
It's such a comforting thing to be able to pour out your heart to someone without fear of judgement, rebuke, or rejection. Sometimes it takes more bravery to let people in instead of running away and keeping your guard up. I'm an expert runner... I have many years experience keeping people at a distance and keeping a mask on. But it's tiring, and these days it gets old quickly.
I still know better than to give the truly honest answer to people that ask how I am and don't really care to know, but I'm less afraid than I used to be about being genuine.
So in the midst of some of the hardest times I've ever been through, I find it seriously comforting to admit I cannot do it on my own and to ask for help, knowing I won't be turned away.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The Power of Contentment
Ever since I moved out on my own, states away from my family, I've only had jobs as a barista, server, or kitchen assistant. You know, the ones for which I spend four years in college studying Spanish. Sometimes it's been really hard to make ends meet and get bills paid on time. My church has been amazing and has helped me through most of those times, and so through these past few years I have learned about grace and receiving with thankfulness despite my strong desire to be self-sufficient and pay back the money. However, according to my pastor, grace is grace and mercy is mercy and they cannot be paid back. They are gifts freely given, undeserved, yet unconditional. Each act of mercy from my church is truly humbling and reminds me over and over how Christ called us to care for one another.
Currently I'm a server at a small Mexican restaurant, the best in town. I now understand what it feels like to live off tips. Living off others' generosity is a really difficult thing sometimes. When the restaurant is slow, I don't take home much tip money and I become anxious. How will I pay my bills? How will I pay rent? How will I put gas in my car or buy Luna's food? And the knots in my stomach and back grow larger as worry creates more worry and the endless cycle begins.
I realized the other night that it's really just a matter of perspective. I can either look at it as slow business, bad tips or job security in a lousy economy. People have to eat, and people like Mexican. So as long as I do my job well, I will have work and some sort of paycheck, no matter how small.
My prayer has changed from "Lord let them leave me at least 20% or more" to "please help me to be content with where you have placed me and what you provide for me." It's not an easy request. It's so much easier to worry and be anxious, but we were commanded not to be. "Do not be anxious and worry for nothing."
I have noticed a small shift in perspective. Although I still hope for big, fat tips, I hope more for the peace of mind that He will provide. It's a daily battle because the bills and deadlines are still there. But so is He.
Currently I'm a server at a small Mexican restaurant, the best in town. I now understand what it feels like to live off tips. Living off others' generosity is a really difficult thing sometimes. When the restaurant is slow, I don't take home much tip money and I become anxious. How will I pay my bills? How will I pay rent? How will I put gas in my car or buy Luna's food? And the knots in my stomach and back grow larger as worry creates more worry and the endless cycle begins.
I realized the other night that it's really just a matter of perspective. I can either look at it as slow business, bad tips or job security in a lousy economy. People have to eat, and people like Mexican. So as long as I do my job well, I will have work and some sort of paycheck, no matter how small.
My prayer has changed from "Lord let them leave me at least 20% or more" to "please help me to be content with where you have placed me and what you provide for me." It's not an easy request. It's so much easier to worry and be anxious, but we were commanded not to be. "Do not be anxious and worry for nothing."
I have noticed a small shift in perspective. Although I still hope for big, fat tips, I hope more for the peace of mind that He will provide. It's a daily battle because the bills and deadlines are still there. But so is He.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Gangbanger and the White Girl
I sat down across from him and took in his weary eyes. His face seemed different than before, as if it weren't trying so hard to hide what lay just beneath the surface. He seemed more childlike, not so hardened from years in the streets, years without a father, years with a mother that didn't really see what was right in front of her face. Today, he actually looked like the 17 year old that he is.
I will never in a million years forget that kid... the one that opened my eyes to life as a second generation gang member. The one who would be just as afraid to walk a day in my shoes as I would be to walk a day in his. We had absolutely nothing in common, maybe except fear of the other. Yet somehow managed to find common ground on which we could stand and bridge the gap between us: our skin color, age, gender, culture, education, background, future.
He's the one that really began tearing down my misconceptions and wrong perceptions of those we so often label as thugs, thieves, liars, miscreants, good-for-nothings, gangbangers, losers, murderers, waste of space. We look at them and want to run.. RUN... in the opposite direction. If I'd met him in the streets instead of in jail, I probably would have. But since I was supposed to "help" him, here we were... with him believing it was a waste of time and me praying to God that I could say anything, demonstrate anything, communicate anything that might pierce that hardened heart and wall of armor... when in reality it was mine that needed to be pierced....because underneath I saw a child that grew up before it was his time. He simply saw what was his childhood in the hood. I saw a child that witnessed life taken away before his had even begun. He saw the cycle of life. People live, people die. I saw someone that learned to hate the police for taking his father before he ever had a chance to learn that the police are "supposed to protect us". He saw the reality that police are just as human and flawed as the rest of us; they just get to hide behind a badge and call it law. I saw a future with prison. He saw a future of just being alive. What I saw as a threat to society, he saw as survival. The drug dealing was a way to provide for his family. A kid trying to raise a kid. ...but clearly my perceptions were better because they didn't land me in prison. ...or was it just a different kind of prison?
Over the next 9 months, I found my mind untangling itself from its tightly wound, knotted ideas of right and wrong, justice and injustice, living and surviving... and I found myself unable to say I'd live any differently had I walked 17 years in his shoes.
That's the thing about labels. They write people off before we ever give them a chance to show us who they are. They cheapen the image of God in us. They lie about who we were, who we are, and who we will be... and worse, they sabatoge hope.
Had I listened to the lies and believed the labels, I never would have given ear to the old, wise soul inside a teenage gangbanger's body. I never would have questioned him, weighing his words between truth and lies in order to learn the real truth of who he was. Not the gangbanger, but the person. Had I not allowed him to test me, my sincerity, my intentions, my belief in a better future for him... allowing him to weigh me between authenticity and hypocricy, he would not have understood that not all white people are hypocrites and believe themselves to be"saviors of the poor". Had I listened to the labels, both our walls of misunderstanding and misconception would not have begun to crumble.
Yeah, we found our common ground and understanding... We're both just two broken people doing our best to make life the best it possibly can be. We just have different methods.
I just hope and pray to God I become half the social worker that he is gangbanger.
I will never in a million years forget that kid... the one that opened my eyes to life as a second generation gang member. The one who would be just as afraid to walk a day in my shoes as I would be to walk a day in his. We had absolutely nothing in common, maybe except fear of the other. Yet somehow managed to find common ground on which we could stand and bridge the gap between us: our skin color, age, gender, culture, education, background, future.
He's the one that really began tearing down my misconceptions and wrong perceptions of those we so often label as thugs, thieves, liars, miscreants, good-for-nothings, gangbangers, losers, murderers, waste of space. We look at them and want to run.. RUN... in the opposite direction. If I'd met him in the streets instead of in jail, I probably would have. But since I was supposed to "help" him, here we were... with him believing it was a waste of time and me praying to God that I could say anything, demonstrate anything, communicate anything that might pierce that hardened heart and wall of armor... when in reality it was mine that needed to be pierced....because underneath I saw a child that grew up before it was his time. He simply saw what was his childhood in the hood. I saw a child that witnessed life taken away before his had even begun. He saw the cycle of life. People live, people die. I saw someone that learned to hate the police for taking his father before he ever had a chance to learn that the police are "supposed to protect us". He saw the reality that police are just as human and flawed as the rest of us; they just get to hide behind a badge and call it law. I saw a future with prison. He saw a future of just being alive. What I saw as a threat to society, he saw as survival. The drug dealing was a way to provide for his family. A kid trying to raise a kid. ...but clearly my perceptions were better because they didn't land me in prison. ...or was it just a different kind of prison?
Over the next 9 months, I found my mind untangling itself from its tightly wound, knotted ideas of right and wrong, justice and injustice, living and surviving... and I found myself unable to say I'd live any differently had I walked 17 years in his shoes.
That's the thing about labels. They write people off before we ever give them a chance to show us who they are. They cheapen the image of God in us. They lie about who we were, who we are, and who we will be... and worse, they sabatoge hope.
Had I listened to the lies and believed the labels, I never would have given ear to the old, wise soul inside a teenage gangbanger's body. I never would have questioned him, weighing his words between truth and lies in order to learn the real truth of who he was. Not the gangbanger, but the person. Had I not allowed him to test me, my sincerity, my intentions, my belief in a better future for him... allowing him to weigh me between authenticity and hypocricy, he would not have understood that not all white people are hypocrites and believe themselves to be"saviors of the poor". Had I listened to the labels, both our walls of misunderstanding and misconception would not have begun to crumble.
Yeah, we found our common ground and understanding... We're both just two broken people doing our best to make life the best it possibly can be. We just have different methods.
I just hope and pray to God I become half the social worker that he is gangbanger.
Monday, August 13, 2012
The Deconstruction of My Hardened Heart
I'm tired of pretending everything's okay when it's not.
Life is not easy. Frankly, it's f'ing hard and anyone who says differently is in denial. I'm tired of pretending I've got it all together when I don't. The truth is that the older I get, the less I understand and the more broken I feel.
Tonight a friend of mine asked me about my experience with depression... how long I've dealt with it, how have I coped, how have I gotten better? She's seeking for hope, and she needs to know it can get better. Only someone who has dealt with depression understands the despair that comes with it, the battle for sanity that takes place in your mind every moment of every day... the fear that things will never change.
I haven't felt that kind of despair for a little while, but I remember like it was yesterday. During my "dark days" I would go to the bathroom at work multiple times a day to let out the tears and brokenness that plagued my mind and heart. The weight was unbearable, and it was all I could do to make it from one hour to the next. Sometimes when life weighs so heavily on you, it's all you can do to take it minute by minute, second by second, because thinking ahead even to the afternoon or evening is too overwhelming.
I want to be honest about my experiences with depression because I feel like it's still so taboo, especially in the Christian circles. I never told anyone at my church that i grew up in about my depression or that I went on meds because I knew they would judge me and tell me I wasn't walking with God the way I needed to be. Everything was a spiritual problem and it was up to me to fix it. I no longer understood the meaning of joy or hope, and somehow I knew it was more than something I could fix. It wasn't a spiritual problem. It was something that's been passed down through my family, and I just so happen to be the one to deal with it more than the rest. I say all this because I believe so many people out there deal with depression and anxiety and believe it's something wrong with them or a spiritual problem. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But it's something that needs to be brought out in the open and talked about, because once the thoughts are put into words and those words are said outloud, they lose their power.
The last couple of years have held some crazy painful experiences, and I honestly have no idea if I've dealt with them or not. I do know, however, they've left me hardened and braced for the next huge secret to come out, the skeleton in the closet that was buried under years of bad advice, bad decisions, and promises to never tell. My heart feels so hard. I doubt a million times a minute, and I have little faith that these trials serve a purpose. However, another friend of mine believes they do, and it's good to be reminded of that, especially if I have difficulty believing it myself. Sometimes all we need is someone else to believe in us. I don't want to be hardened forever, but honestly, I'm afraid of what God will do to soften my heart again... What will he take away this time? What will he ask me to give up? What new trial will bring me to my knees before him? I honestly don't know if I can take anything else.
Life is not easy. Frankly, it's f'ing hard and anyone who says differently is in denial. I'm tired of pretending I've got it all together when I don't. The truth is that the older I get, the less I understand and the more broken I feel.
Tonight a friend of mine asked me about my experience with depression... how long I've dealt with it, how have I coped, how have I gotten better? She's seeking for hope, and she needs to know it can get better. Only someone who has dealt with depression understands the despair that comes with it, the battle for sanity that takes place in your mind every moment of every day... the fear that things will never change.
I haven't felt that kind of despair for a little while, but I remember like it was yesterday. During my "dark days" I would go to the bathroom at work multiple times a day to let out the tears and brokenness that plagued my mind and heart. The weight was unbearable, and it was all I could do to make it from one hour to the next. Sometimes when life weighs so heavily on you, it's all you can do to take it minute by minute, second by second, because thinking ahead even to the afternoon or evening is too overwhelming.
I want to be honest about my experiences with depression because I feel like it's still so taboo, especially in the Christian circles. I never told anyone at my church that i grew up in about my depression or that I went on meds because I knew they would judge me and tell me I wasn't walking with God the way I needed to be. Everything was a spiritual problem and it was up to me to fix it. I no longer understood the meaning of joy or hope, and somehow I knew it was more than something I could fix. It wasn't a spiritual problem. It was something that's been passed down through my family, and I just so happen to be the one to deal with it more than the rest. I say all this because I believe so many people out there deal with depression and anxiety and believe it's something wrong with them or a spiritual problem. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But it's something that needs to be brought out in the open and talked about, because once the thoughts are put into words and those words are said outloud, they lose their power.
The last couple of years have held some crazy painful experiences, and I honestly have no idea if I've dealt with them or not. I do know, however, they've left me hardened and braced for the next huge secret to come out, the skeleton in the closet that was buried under years of bad advice, bad decisions, and promises to never tell. My heart feels so hard. I doubt a million times a minute, and I have little faith that these trials serve a purpose. However, another friend of mine believes they do, and it's good to be reminded of that, especially if I have difficulty believing it myself. Sometimes all we need is someone else to believe in us. I don't want to be hardened forever, but honestly, I'm afraid of what God will do to soften my heart again... What will he take away this time? What will he ask me to give up? What new trial will bring me to my knees before him? I honestly don't know if I can take anything else.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
Give Me Your Glue
I think it really began four years ago in Kenya when I realized I was wrong for trying to trade a street kid bread for his glue. I thought I was doing the right thing by taking it away, after all, what does an uneducated street kid know? However, as he walked away with bread in his hand and his glue in mine, I realized my own ignorance. The bread would be gone in less than 5 minutes, and it wouldn't be enough to satisfy him. He would have more glue in probably less than 30 minutes. So really, what was the point of taking it away?
The point, I think, was to make myself feel okay about giving him bread. Heaven forbid he ever expect handouts from someone, especially a white tourist. Heaven forbid I ever give him food just because he's hungry. I knew pretty quickly that I was wrong. Jesus' love for me never came with conditions, so why should I set conditions on this homeless child?
There's something about coming face to face with the "beast inside myself", as Donald Miller so aptly describes, that makes me beyond ashamed of myself. For the first time in my life I was exposed to white priveledge, which was uncomfortable enough, but also the reality that I really did believe I knew better. Seriously? What the hell do I know about survival? I've never lived on the streets a day in my life, so how could I pretend to know better? In the end, I kept the bottle of glue to remind me of the look in the boy's eyes as he hid the glue in his shirt and told me it was "his health". His health, meaning it satisfies him. It keeps him warm at night. It curbs the hunger pains. It keeps reality at bay so he doesn't feel the pang of survival.
My perspective changed each time I came into contact with the street boys in Kapsabet. One boy Collins especially had a hand in the change. I was collecting bottle caps for a school project, and I told him if he helped me collect some I would buy him something to eat. He quickly picked up a few bottle caps off the ground, so I took him to our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He ordered some chapati and orange Fanta. As I paid for the food, my team member asked if we should ask for his glue. I told her she could try if she wanted. She knelt down in front of him and asked for his glue, her hand held out. He shook his head and hid the glue in his shirt. "Give me your glue. No glue, no bread." Again he shook his head. People were beginning to watch. Again, "no glue, no bread!" Collins looked at me with panic in his eyes, and I knew he was ready to bolt. And the words just came out.. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Keep your glue," I said, knowing full well I had just embarrassed my teammate upfront of everyone. His face relaxed and he continued eating. People continued to stare. My teammate stormed out. I felt bad for making her look bad, but I knew at that moment in time, Collins needed to experience unconditional love more than she needed to save face.
"Come to Me all who are weary, and I will give you rest." Or in this case, bread and orange Fanta. I felt like God had just shown me what he does for me every day. He never says "Gloria, come to me and I'll give you rest... but only if you leave your pride at the door. Only if you leave your judgement at the door... Only if you give me your glue."
The point, I think, was to make myself feel okay about giving him bread. Heaven forbid he ever expect handouts from someone, especially a white tourist. Heaven forbid I ever give him food just because he's hungry. I knew pretty quickly that I was wrong. Jesus' love for me never came with conditions, so why should I set conditions on this homeless child?
There's something about coming face to face with the "beast inside myself", as Donald Miller so aptly describes, that makes me beyond ashamed of myself. For the first time in my life I was exposed to white priveledge, which was uncomfortable enough, but also the reality that I really did believe I knew better. Seriously? What the hell do I know about survival? I've never lived on the streets a day in my life, so how could I pretend to know better? In the end, I kept the bottle of glue to remind me of the look in the boy's eyes as he hid the glue in his shirt and told me it was "his health". His health, meaning it satisfies him. It keeps him warm at night. It curbs the hunger pains. It keeps reality at bay so he doesn't feel the pang of survival.
My perspective changed each time I came into contact with the street boys in Kapsabet. One boy Collins especially had a hand in the change. I was collecting bottle caps for a school project, and I told him if he helped me collect some I would buy him something to eat. He quickly picked up a few bottle caps off the ground, so I took him to our favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He ordered some chapati and orange Fanta. As I paid for the food, my team member asked if we should ask for his glue. I told her she could try if she wanted. She knelt down in front of him and asked for his glue, her hand held out. He shook his head and hid the glue in his shirt. "Give me your glue. No glue, no bread." Again he shook his head. People were beginning to watch. Again, "no glue, no bread!" Collins looked at me with panic in his eyes, and I knew he was ready to bolt. And the words just came out.. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. Keep your glue," I said, knowing full well I had just embarrassed my teammate upfront of everyone. His face relaxed and he continued eating. People continued to stare. My teammate stormed out. I felt bad for making her look bad, but I knew at that moment in time, Collins needed to experience unconditional love more than she needed to save face.
"Come to Me all who are weary, and I will give you rest." Or in this case, bread and orange Fanta. I felt like God had just shown me what he does for me every day. He never says "Gloria, come to me and I'll give you rest... but only if you leave your pride at the door. Only if you leave your judgement at the door... Only if you give me your glue."
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