blindness

Tonight, I watched a movie called Volviendo and I listened to a woman share about her life before, during, and after being trafficked. She now works to help other survivors reclaim their humanity, their self-worth, and especially their health. I had this question burnt into me as I watched and listened: how do you stare into the darkness for so long and still see?

Me? I am torn. I do not want to look away and neglect the darkness. But I am small. If I stare at it too long, I am sure it will creep inside of me, take up residence, flood me, spill out, and not even notice me struggling to breathe. The darkness is...dark. And I? I do not possess any light of my own. Most days, I forget about the light I have been given and I trade it. I let go of the joy of the Lord for busyness. I let go of my self-dignity for productivity and survival and getting to wherever someone else told me I should be going.

I am fragile. And the world is heavy and sharp and full of broken things that want to make me like them. It is hard to even figure out where to stand much less how to stick both of my hands into those dark places and keep trying to pull them that would come out. The dark is full and everywhere and deep.

I know God is big. I know He uses small things, weak things. But I am certain that I will break if tried.

But I cannot look away. I want to some days. I want to move to suburbia and construct a beautiful life that is so safe and so far away from all of these things. I want to reduce injustice to stories and brokenness to the part just before the fairy tale gets good. But I cannot. I love true things, even when they are ugly. Ugly truth is still more trustworthy than the most beautiful of lies. And healing, healing makes the broken places worthwhile. I have never met someone who has been down that very, very long road who has been disappointed with the result.

But I am so unqualified to help the people around me to find healing. I have tried in good ways and bad. And both of failed much more often than they have succeeded to any degree. Of this I am certain, I am no good at healing. I am afraid that I am very bad at loving people, especially the closer they are to me. I have some very good intentions sometimes, but I am a clumsy healer in the least poetic sense. But this is not really about me. This is about that overwhelming darkness and how much respect I have for people who have the strength to stare into it without going blind.

I met a woman a few days ago. She asked for a cigarette and money to feed her children. My boyfriend gave her $5 and I asked her name. Charlotte. Whatever her life had brought her, it wasn't what she dreamed of when she was 6 years old. Whether she told us the truth or not is not really important. I see her and so many other people walking about under a weight that has left them feeling less than human. And I want to teach them their worth. I want to heal them. But I cannot. The darkness is there. And I do not yet know how to penetrate it. I can only peek into it for now and hope to learn something which may yet equip me to be one who stares into it making the most of every opportunity and never goes blind. I want to see what is there as it truly is, but I do not yet know how.

Home, revisited.

From a letter I received upon returning to Portland,

"Is home just an idea? Is it just a feeling? Is it an actual thing that can be tangibly felt? Or is it tangible at all? I once thought that I was satisfied just believing that home would only come when heaven did but that's not satisfying at all. Another time I convinced myself that home is where there are friends and food. But that leaves the impression that home can never be stable."

 They were perfect words to go to sleep to because they gave names and faces to many of my emotions having just left one home to return to another.

In reading Radical Hospitality, I am beginning to wonder if home is not much more easily defined as space. Space to breathe and be. Specifically addressed in the book are the areas of people, of ourselves, even of God that remain mysteries. Homan writes,

"There is a gentle hospitality with the self that most of us fail to practice. You know that moment you look in the mirror and see a stranger staring out those eyes? We don't accept the stranger within. We dread the regions of ourselves we don't understand. By learning to value the otherliness of the actual stranger, we honor the mystery within us, too. ...Not only is there a stranger in your skin, there are several in your home too. The essence of hospitality is receiving the stranger while letting them remain a stranger."

He continues on talking about the importance of making room for who people actually are instead of who we want them to be, elaborating on God in the stranger and our inability to ever understand God... how He is always a bit of a stranger. Already, however, I have copied enough words to keep me occupied the rest of my life. I could spend the rest of my life just trying to "receive the stranger while letting them remain a stranger"; and I am sure that it will take months if not years of trying before I begin getting it right often enough to see any progress in myself. While this is profoundly overwhelming, I digress in my pursuit of words to address home.

I do not think home in the truest sense is possible without great endeavors toward hospitality. Home is that space where you can be greeted for the similarities you have and the sense you do make, but your mysteries and tangles are welcome to come inside and rest too. A space where it is safe to grow because no one and nothing are trying to force it.

I will not fully understand myself at the end of my life and life is so much easier to handle if I am not expected to. If I am free to take in hand one mystery at a time and let them rest in a safe place, I may yet learn and grow. I can hardly do that if I must hide the irrational and non sequitur from view, much less the bent and broken.

Trust is a pie
that you fill with the best of yourself
until it cannot hold anymore.

Then you bake it
so that all of the flavors
Bleed and blend;
And you have no hope of ever recovering
one single ingredient from another.

It is a pie

you leave in the window of summer,
filling your mind with either
Anxiety or excitement
because you know what is coming.

(And you do know exactly what is coming.)

It is hard to determine precisely
where the greatest point
of vulnerability lies.

From mixing bowl to oven,
from oven to open window,
or from window to knife blade.
A quality pie is never quite safe,
almost, and not really, but never truly or completely safe.

Sweet or savory.
Rich like the silt of the rivers
Or eggs whipped light
like clouds run away from home.
Trust is a pie

One made for you and I
to share with one condition.
We will never be quite truly, completely safe.

the world as it should be

There is a world that is and one that should be, and they are not the same.

And I think that one sentence explains so many of the problems that make and mar our lives. The more I walk through this particular year, the more I realize life really, really, really is not about me. I've been told this all my life and believed it in varying levels, but this last year I am gaining yet another perspective there against the back drop of a world that should not be.

Life is so much not about me, that it is not even about me trying to pay my rent, buy groceries, feed my car, get to class on time, pray, be healthy, be a responsible citizen. Those are just things I do and they aren't really life. That and, when I let him, God more than takes care of those. They aren't worth the stress they cause. Ever. And every time I find myself giving my time to worrying about them, I am missing the point.

But it's hard. I do not always know what the real point is, even when I can define what it is not. I know that I am not alone in that. Is it about alleviating pain for others? Is it about giving? What does that have to do with the world as it should be? Where did we even get that idea? What matters?

It is near impossible to answer any of those questions without a fixed and firm foundation. Today, I am reduced to saying that the answer really is Love. If I fail to love the people God puts near me, I fail supremely. And I think that trumps personal risks and nagging worries. I am so tired of being afraid. I am so tired of doing nothing. I am so tired of living like I can keep myself safe if I try.

I cannot.

People you trust have untrustworthy moments, and it is not your fault for trusting them. Sickness and unhealth may take you regardless of any caution. There will always be reasons to stay locked up. Safe. Secure. Invulnerable. But as a member of the human race, you have to admit that you live in perpetual weakness wrapped in the illusion of strength and control that you are allowed to keep because of the goodness of God as he never gives us more than we can handle.

One day at a time. Practiced vulnerability. Indiscriminate but wise love. I think this is where I'm headed. I think I'm getting closer to what it means to be human.