delete the pain?

I read something yesterday that surprised me out of my daily humdrum and spoke volumes to me about the human condition. While researching Scientology, I discovered a therapy-like process Scientologists participate in called auditing. Its goal is to "restore beingness and ability", thereby providing a "precise path by which any individual may walk an exact route to higher states of spiritual awareness." Fair enough. Many of us want spiritual awareness, regardless of which religion or faith we associate with. But here's the thing that really jolted me:

"Auditing, then, deletes those things that were added to the reactive mind through life's painful experiences and addresses and improves one's ability to confront and handle the factors in his life."

Did I read that correctly? It deletes those things that were added to the reactive mind through life's painful experiences. Just like that, and all the pain I've been through and all the ways in which I've been hurt are simply erased. And isn't that what everyone wants? To be rid of the pain and discomfort we experience in our imperfect and messy lives? To feel nothing but happiness, contentment, peace and fulfillment? Sure we do. It's only natural.

But what really bothers me about this statement is the fact that we really do believe that in order to live a rich and satisfying life, we must delete the pain. After all, so many of us have experienced it ruthlessly, unjustly, and its after-shock is still writhing around in our lives, wreaking havoc and leaving broken relationships in its wake. We never feel stable or secure, we're anxious, distrusting, sad and lonely. Old wounds (and new ones) have ways of seeping into the cracks of our heart like nothing else can. So I don't condemn this sentiment or judge anyone who has felt it -- in fact, there are specific times in my life I remember crying out to God and begging Him to just take this pain away, take it away please...I'm no different than anyone else.

Yet what exactly are we doing when we're asking this question? We're desperate for our hurt to go away because we don't like imperfection. We don't like to feel uncomfortable or sad or angry or alone. And again, that is normal, especially when we've been deliberately and deeply wounded or mistreated. But when we deny ourselves of the experiences that we've had, the pieces that make up the puzzle that is our life, we only miss out on the richness that could be. In essence, we deny who we are. It would be so much easier, we think, to have someone press some cosmic "delete" button, our feelings the pain has caused evaporating as though it never happened. But the reality is it has happened. We have been hurt and wounded, we have felt sadness and brokenness, and the secret is, we'll be OK. We don't need anyone to erase our pain because, believe it or not, pain is a part of our story. It's sometimes the very thing that carries us into who we're meant to be and the part we're meant to play in this world.

So embrace the pain, but don't glorify it, because pain is never the end of the story. With God, there is always the light of redemption at the end of the tunnel, a newness to be discovered, a healing to be restored. We are made for and capable of so much more than the simplistic and disengaged task of merely pressing the delete key, and subduing ourselves in the process. We're created to experience life and life abundantly, and what could be more abundant and victorious than that final trudge out of the desert into the Eden that's teeming with life?

good enough

I saw a video on youtube a few weeks ago and I can't get it out of my head. Take a look:

Brilliant, isn't it? And heartbreaking. A little uncomfortable too, maybe. I've been wanting to write about my reaction to this video for weeks, and yet each time I tried to corral my thoughts and feelings about it, I came up short. The concept of beauty pressure in our culture is so pervading and yet somewhat blurry, because a person can sit on either side of the ever-swinging pendulum. Some women (and I know men deal with these issues, too, but since I'm female, I'll speak to that crowd) are obsessed with their appearance: weight, calorie-intake, exercise, and diets. Yet others seem untouched by society's pressure to measure up to its standard and seem genuinely happy with how they look. I think at various points in my life, I have related to both sides -- in particularly content times, I've felt confident about my body. In uncertain times, I've felt more insecure and disapproving of the way I look. I'd almost bet on the fact we've all been there at one time or another.

But the issue that really struck a chord for me while watching this video was this: the root of all the insecurity, all the obsession over the way we look to others, the self-inflicted pain and feelings of inadequacy we experience in relation to our bodies, is fueled by a standard. And where did we learn about this standard? In the media. Magazines, billboards, music, TV, film, you name it, they've claimed it. Obviously the media isn't responsible for our response, but it certainly perpetuates that standard (that ridiculous, unrealistic standard) and bombards our lives daily.

For me, the most tragic part of all this is the fact that it gets to you when you're young and still so unaware about the standard. (The little girl in the video is a case in point.) I remember watching an episode of Oprah a couple of years ago where she interviewed a 7-year old girl who claimed she was "too fat" and "needed" to go on a diet. Seriously? How did this first-grader even know that she had the option of being too thin or too fat? Where did she learn it? Perhaps from Mom, whether intentional or not, but that idea originally stems from the culture she is surrounded and informed by. I have two little sisters, one eight years old and the other fifteen, and my heart breaks for them when I think about the messages they're hearing when they watch TV and listen to music. I pray that they realize and know the Source of their beauty and that it doesn't depend on an image or size or weight.

I think God is vying for my attention here. Perhaps for all of us who struggle to make peace with our bodies. I know it sounds overused and cliche, but sometimes the things that are most often said are the things that most need to be heard: we are beautiful, no matter what. Our genes are our genes, and we have the freedom and ability to treat our bodies with the care, love, and healthy attention it so deserves. We don't have to buy into what the beauty industry tells us -- the one that tries to make us feel any less a woman if we don't fit the mold. The mold, by the way, that was completely fabricated by people trying to sell clothes, beauty products, and an image. Let's remember this first for ourselves, as strong and healthy women, and then for our daughters, biological or not. We owe it to them to model acceptance, health, and a genuine love for who we are and how we were created. Choose whose voice you want to listen to, and let it be the One who loves and accepts you just as you are. I honestly think the world would be a different place if we believed and lived in this truth.

"Your kingdom come, Your will be done..."

tired.

I said something tonight to my husband that made him respond with this:

"Wow, I don't think I've ever heard anyone say that before."

Let me elaborate. Today has been a fairly emotional day for me and when I get emotional, I often get introspective, and for me, introspection often begets epiphanies, and epiphanies beget statements that surprise. So tonight, out of (seemingly) nowhere, I said:

"The thing is, I'm just really tired of myself."

Has anyone ever felt this way? Perhaps I should elaborate a little more. Lately, there has been a lot going on in my life. I resigned from my job two short weeks ago, tomorrow being my last day, and despite the circumstances that led me to this place, I'm still sad. And painfully dreading saying goodbye to the 20 children I've laboured over for the past 10 months. I've been spending the past few months thinking about, wrestling with, processing, and finally coming to terms with a big move across the country so I can go to grad school and finally get the Masters degree I've been dreaming about for years. I've watched my husband struggle through a job he isn't passionate about, and tried to keep him afloat while still trying to keep my head up out of the water. I've been inside my head a lot in the past year and a half, maybe even more -- and while I do believe that there has been purpose in that, I guess I'm just tired. Tired of being so self-focused. Tired of feeling like my life, my calling, my issues, are at the epicenter of the plight of humankind.

As an aspiring counsellor, I'll be the first to admit that there's an important place for self-reflection. The psychology geeks (me! me!) call it self-actualization -- the process of realizing your full potential by working out who you are, who you're meant to be, and what you're meant to do in the world. And I'm a firm believer in this. Everyone needs to know who they are, what they're made of, and what they're made for. This is the stuff rich and fulfilled lives are made of. Without that focused time, I certainly wouldn't be the person I am now, and Lord knows where I'd be. The only problem I can see in this, though, is the potential to get stuck. And this is part I want to stress, because this is where I feel I am. I remember a time when I would wake up in the morning and ask God to let His love flow out of me and onto others I encountered. I spent my time, not just focusing on my education or work or hobbies, but on conversations that meant something to eternity, deliberately stepping outside my comfort zone to grow in faith, writing cards with encouraging and loving words and giving them to my friends. All small and everyday things, really. But things that last.


So here I am, today, reflecting on that time, not wanting to relive the past but maybe just be reminded of it and how satisfied I was when I lived like that. And of course, to give myself a little grace, knowing that the last 2 years have been chock-full of changes and transitions and that maybe it actually is OK to be normal. But do I want to stay here? No way. I want to move on, move beyond myself, move toward the Light that continues to glow and burn in the face of my self-importance and lack of perspective. I want to know a purpose that's bigger than me. I want to sow into others the way God has sown into me. Even though life's circumstances seem to change as fast as a candle flickers, I want to find contentment and joy in it because my Foundation is immoveable and that, I won't grow tired of.

you're blessed

I'm taking a little break in my series to put forth some some words I was deeply encouraged by this morning.

They're from the book of Matthew, written in Eugene Peterson's fantastic style called The Message. This is his version of the Beautitudes and it's Jesus speaking:

"You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and His rule.
You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
You're blessed when you're content with just who you are -- no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full', you find yourselves cared for.
You're blessed when you get your inside world -- your mind and heart -- put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom."

These are words I needed to hear, to let penetrate the deep and abandoned little crevices of my mind and my heart. I've been exhausted and worn down, both physically and emotionally, and when I imagine Jesus sitting here next to me, gently telling me about who I am and who I am to be, I am refreshed. He wants to bless me, despite my fairweather-friend tendencies? He wants to teach me a way to live my life that is so counter-cultural, so unimaginably impossible if left to my own devices, and then empower me to actually do it? I'm in.

alex

One of my favourite places to serve in Chicago was Casa Central. This organization was a social service program for the Hispanic people of Chicago. From parenting seminars to ESL classes for new immigrants to daycare, this agency filled a hugely significant need in the community. One of the most special programs was the 'summer school' they offered to elementary school-aged children.

I had the absolute pleasure of serving one week at Casa Central. We played games, led crafts, danced and sang, ate, and adventured with the kids there. And these kids were completely lovely -- fun, passionate, spirited, and boisterous. They were inner-city kids with attitude, and I loved it.

There was a particular group of little girls I noticed right away. Four little spitfires, all of whom, I eventually learned, had unique and beautiful personalities. I instantly wanted to be their friend.
I remember it taking me a while to get "in" with them, though. Picture it: the somewhat reserved, fair-skinned blonde girl in a sea of lively olive-skinned, raven-haired Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Mexicans... I asked if I could join them in their game of Chinese jumprope, and when I didn't quite perform up to par, oh, I heard about it! The ring leader of this little group, Alex, wasn't shy about letting me know how awful I was at her game. To be honest, I sort of felt like I was transported back to grade four and had just been mocked by the pretty, popular girl. Strange, but true. So I decided to man up, show them that I was, in fact, cool, and kick some Chinese jumprope ass!

And I did! I impressed them so much that they welcomed me into their posse. Alex was still a little apprehensive about me, but for whatever reason, I decided in that moment that she was my favourite. (Or did God decide that for me?)


The days passed and we had great fun together. I had managed to get to know these little girls; I asked them questions about their families and homes and the things they liked to do for fun, cuddled with them, giggled with them, and fell in love. They were exceptional. But my heart truly yearned for Alex -- the nine-year old girl with a fortress built around her heart. I just couldn't seem to connect with her like I did with the other girls, and yet strangely, she was the one I most wanted to love. Then, out of nowhere, during a post-lunch quiet time, God intervened.

The kids were all lying on their little mats scattered across the classroom floor, and I could see that some of the CSM youth were beside them, rubbing their backs and quietly whispering. I inched closer to Alex, who at this point still hadn't so much as smiled at me, and asked her if I could rub her back. I was surprised when she said yes. So there I sat, cross-legged and silent, while Alex lay on her side, her back facing me, and I rubbed her back. I started to ask her questions about her family and what her house was like. She was suddenly very honest and soft. She told me about them, about her parents and her brother, about the rat problem in her house and how she was afraid to open the oven because the last time she did, she found a family of dead rats inside. Alex said she never wanted to grow up and become an adult. I asked her why. She told me, in the most innocent yet worldly way, that adults worry all the time. They worry about paying the bills, worry about not having enough money, and worry that the police will show up at the house again. If someone were to take a photograph of Alex's perception of life, this was it. Anxiety. Poverty. Violence. Unrest.

I nearly cried when I heard such big ideas come from such a little girl. She was only nine, and it broke my heart that she already knew so much of the hardships of life. I immediately realized how blessed and gracious my childhood had been, especially in contrast to Alex's, and felt it unfair and confusing that she had to live like this. No child should ever dread growing up for these reasons. No child should have to live in the overflow of her parents' stress and anxiety. And when it really comes down to it, no child should ever have to be the victim of injustice.

These are the thoughts that stir in me when I think about Alex. I am so grateful for that small window of clarity and openness with her, because not only did I get to catch a small glimpse of her world, but I saw a piece of her heart. And consequently, the heart of so many children in the inner-city. We love until we break down walls, we love until injustice falls.

quintrell

I met Quintrell when I spent some time at a women and children's homeless shelter in Blood Alley, Chicago. The name definitely did the place justice -- it was a small, dark (in more ways than one) avenue off a larger, busy street in Uptown. Until recently, there weren't even street lights in the Alley, hence its namesake. Gang-related crime was a staple in this small neighbourhood, and these children, raised by single mothers, were frequent witnesses to fights, shootings, and other violence.

My group and I were at the shelter to help serve the evening meal. We chopped vegetables, set tables, washed floors, and wrangled the kids in for dinner. As my group was cleaning up after the food was served, I noticed a boy -- maybe around seven or eight years old -- who seemed to possess a rare calm and peaceful demeanor that stood out to me in the midst of the noise and chaos. I approached him and asked him his name.

"Quintrell," he said, quietly.

"That's a great name," I told him, smiling inside at the discovery of yet another interesting and unique "Chicago" name.

He smiled at me and seemed to be OK with my being there, which was notable in itself. You see, the kids who lived at this shelter were living right in the middle of a high-stress environment. Their mothers were single, unable to provide for their children, pushed out onto the street and eventually welcomed into the shelter. They were squeezed, seventy or eighty at a time, into a large room crowded with bunk beds and mattresses plopped on the floor, where Mom slept with sometimes three or four of her kids in one bed with the others sharing the top bunk. They were herded downstairs to the main hall for meals, where they lined up to receive a spoonful of something on their plate. And when it was playtime, the kids were led to a small rooftop playground where they could let out at least some of their energy.

My intention certainly isn't to diminish the value of this place -- God bless JPUSA for being a presence in Blood Alley -- but could you imagine growing up there?

So Quintrell, a kid I expected to be aggressive, loud, distrusting, violent even, like many of the other children I encountered at the shelter, was the polar opposite. His eyes were dim, but kind. He was subdued in contrast to the other kids, but not completely beaten down. He trusted me enough to let me sit with him. He seemed to carry a sense of "knowing", almost as if to say, "This place is hell, but I've got a light." He intrigued me because he was so different, like a wild flower growing in the desert. So we chatted a bit longer. I asked him what he liked to do for fun, how many brothers and sisters he had (eight!), and what he wanted to be when he grew up. He asked if I wanted to see his room, and when I said yes, his face lit up. He led me across the Alley, to the shelter's extension on the other side of the street, and there, up a few flights of stairs, down some long and dark corridors, I saw the place Quintrell called home. Yet another large room, littered with clothes, beds, moms, babies. It was nothing extraordinary for the eyes -- but he was proud.

We wandered back to the staircase and sat down, talking a bit longer, until I heard a loud and mighty shriek come from who-knows-where. "QUIN-TRELL!! Get ova' here, boy!"

"That's my Momma," Quintrell said, unaffected. I was still reeling from the sheer magnitude of that Momma's vocal projection when he stood up, looked at me for the last time with those kind, knowing eyes, and said, "I better go."

I told Quintrell I had fun hanging out with him and that I would be praying for him. And then he was gone.

I sat on those stairs for a while longer, thinking about the interaction. In a time when injustice and a sense of hopelessness tended to get the best of me, I had been blessed by a little boy who seemed to rise above it all. I found myself mourning Quintrell's future before it even had a chance to happen, imagining him dropping out of out school, joining a gang, maybe even being killed. I know this sounds horribly cynical, but these were the statistics and sadly, the reality so many African-American kids in Chicago faced and continue to face today. Yet I recalled the light in his eyes, the peace he somehow, against-all-odds, carried with him, and I said a prayer for Quintrell, that God would keep him and preserve him and carry him into freedom.

Quintrell, wherever you are, I hope you're there.

a new series...

Many of you may not know this, but back in 2003 I worked for an organization called Center for Student Missions (CSM). Our purpose was to facilitate three- to seven-day missions trips for junior high, high school, and college students in the inner-city. My job as "City Host" was to welcome, orientate, guide, and debrief my group's experience in the city -- essentially, we were the bridge between the groups and the ministries with whom we served. We worked in soup kitchens, homeless shelters, after-school and summer daycamp programs, food banks, churches, and other parachurch ministries. We led prayer tours the night of the group's arrival to introduce them to some of the issues the city faces. We took our groups to a different ethnic restaurant every night so they could experience the rich and diverse culture of the inner-city. We even dedicated an entire night to walking through the city with nothing but a dollar to experience the reality of a runaway or homeless person trying to make it on the streets. And we led debriefing sessions at the end of each day, often witnessing the shock, the admissions of ignorance and guilt, the pain, and the disgust our groups felt as they saw and processed the harsh reality of poverty in their own backyard.
During the first five months of my time with CSM, I lived with a former Hell's Angel and his wife in a little brick house on Queen Street East in Toronto. I worked mostly at the homeless shelter down the street, a food bank, and at our office a block away. Just before our busy summer season hit, the directors of the organization visited from California and asked if my co-worker and I would be interested in hosting at the Chicago base for a couple of months. I gladly said yes, and my experience there was completely unique from the previous months spent in Toronto. There, in the Windy City, I worked almost strictly with children -- homeless, fatherless, displaced, and broken kids. Chicago had a completely different flavour than Toronto, and to be honest, I loved it most. I loved the challenge (although painfully hard at times), meeting new people, being uncomfortable, learning new things, and serving serving serving.

The truth is, I fell in love with the inner-city that year. I learned SO much, especially being the 20-year old prairie girl that I was. My eyes were opened to a world I never knew existed; to poverty, injustice, and serving (and even more, seeing) Jesus in the dirty, messy ways I had never before experienced. My heart started to break in ways that were new to me, and I think that was the year I truly realized that the world was a lot bigger than me and that following Jesus was going to cost me something.

For the past six years, I've intended to write about my experiences with CSM. I've found little tidbits in random notebooks and journals here and there, but overall, I've been very unfaithful to that desire. Two nights ago, as I lay in bed telling David a story from that time in my life, my eyes filled with tears and I remembered how much I loved that adventure. I remembered the kids I met in the projects and how much they affected me. I remembered the passion I had to right the wrongs in the world. I remembered that in so many ways, I've forgotten the needs of the broken and poor and have gotten a little too comfortable in my safe little suburb.

For the next little while, I'm going to be sharing some stories of the people I met during my time in Toronto and Chicago. I'm calling it "In the Shadows" because I think that's where these people are often found and why they are overlooked. Or perhaps where we keep them.

But they are so beautiful, if only we'd take the time to see them and know them.

*check out www.csm.org to get a taste of what this organization is all about. despite the debate on short-term missions, they do incredible work and i whole-heartedly support their vision. if you've got any questions, feel free to ask me.