The Best Is Yet to Come

And thus begins the deconstruction of my hardened heart,

                    
              as others' pain becomes more important than my own;
             
                                                        as I stop worrying about being right or wrong and just be;

                       as I realize I am as fallible as the next;

as actions become more important than words;

                                         as I learn forgiveness is a process, not immediate;

                 as I learn to love people for who they are and not who I want them to be;

                              as I learn to be content with what I have when I have it;


And while each hardened piece is chipped and melted away, the pang of regret, change, and reality sometimes steals my breath and leaves me trembling. Exposed. Jaded. Disbelieving.


And then a look,

                              a word,

                  an embrace,

        reminds me why I am here

and why I must continue this journey.


Because someone

                 somewhere

                         at some point

will be in these same shoes,

                   And at that time I will be able to say, I've been there too.

                                             Don't give up, the best is yet to come.

                      


                                                     

The Eruption by Jen Abbas at age 18

divorce

is like a trembling earthquake

the world shakes

rumbling with rage

and all the anger

guilt

and all the frustrations

that have been festering for so long

below the surface

suddenly spew upward

in an inferno of hate

or apathy...

at times

the earth calms

and you think

the turmoil is over

settled

stable

but

then the cycle begins again

repeating

repeating

repeating

you are weary

you want to rest

and that is when you realize

the shaking has stopped

but

there is an eerie feeling

lurking in the air

you are hestitant to believe

anything

anymore

you are so tired

after struggling for so long

and so you rest

on the last solid patch of land

only to watch it split in two

two

separate

distinct

parts

that will never

come together

again

each new patch

supports part of you

and as you watch

they pull away.



Less Like Scars

Over the past couple of months, I've slowly been getting to know my neighbors and the ministry they are a part of. They're just a bunch of young people living side by side with their neighbors and loving them in their imperfectness. Tonight I went to the girls' Bible study and met a bunch of the women leaders and neighborhood girls. My old self would have been petrified at the thought of purposefully walking into a room of strangers, but I found myself peacefully excited.

After the Bible study, a bunch of us went to Chick-fil-A for dinner. We sat for over an hour just talking about life, the kids, work, etc. And for the first time in a really, really long time, I felt like I had something in common with them; not just my degree or my religious or political beliefs, but a deep commonality that I haven't experienced in a very long time, if ever. I've met kindred spirits here and there, and I wouldn't necessarily say these girls are kindred spirits. But they're of one heart and one mind when it comes to our Savior and to these kids and our neighborhood... and I share it with them.

There's a song I sang at the one year anniversary of my best friend's death 10 years ago. I found myself listening to it again a few days ago, and I identify with the words now more than I did then. Although I feel like more of life is broken now than it was 10 years ago, I am beginning to find beauty in how He is putting it back together.

Take a minute to watch the video, listen to the lyrics:

"Less Like Scars"

by Sara Groves

 



It's been a hard year, but I'm climbing out of the rubble
These lessons are hard, healing changes are subtle
But every day it's

Less like tearing, more like building
Less like captive, more like willing
Less like breakdown, more like surrender
Less like haunting, more like remember

And I feel you here and you're picking up the pieces

Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But you are able
And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars and more like character

Less like a prison, more like my room
It's less like a casket, more like a womb
Less like dying, more like transcending
Less like fear, less like an ending

And I feel you here, and you're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad situation
But you are able
And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars

Just a little while ago
I couldn't feel the power or the hope
I couldn't cope, I couldn't feel a thing
Just a little while back
I was desperate, broken, laid out, hoping
You would come

And I need you
And I want you here
And I feel you

And I know you're here
And you're picking up the pieces
Forever faithful
It seemed out of my hands, a bad, bad situation
But you are able

And in your hands the pain and hurt
Look less like scars

And more like character

Insomnia

The sound of the gentle rain calms my fragmented thoughts and soothes my throbbing head. I can't remember the last time I slept through the night or past 6am. I'm starting to accept sleeplessness for what it is.

They say if you can't sleep, you shouldn't lay awake in bed any longer than 20 minutes. Your body gets used to doing other things in bed and begins to associate it with wakefulness. As frustrating as it is waking up hours before I need to, I find this morning to be peaceful.

The sound of the rain mixes with the hum of the train, the soft patter of my neighbors waking up, the sounds of the neighborhood coming to life.

I never take time to just be. Even when I'm not working on a paper or reading an article, music is in the background. There is always some noise to distract from lingering thoughts which dare to intrude unwelcomed by my heart and mind. Maybe its time to confront them head on. Maybe its time to let them come, embrace them for what they are and then let them go.

Maybe then sleep will come and stay.

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."