1000 words

joyeux noël 2017

Sunday, December 24, 2017


Merry Christmas and lots of love from our family to yours! 
May you have a wonderful season and a blessed new year!

And Mary said: “My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me - holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation." Luke 1:46-50

I Was Sexually Assaulted, and I’m Not Ashamed. Here’s My Story.

Tuesday, October 17, 2017


Please be warned that the following post contains not only mature content, but a subject of a traumatic nature. People who have experienced similar trauma and are at a different stage in their healing process may not be ready for such a discussion. My intention is not to be provocative or utilise the shock factor. This is my story and this is how I tell it. I hope in being open about it, others who are ready can feel empowered to do the same.

This is a long story and discussion so you might wonder why I didn’t break it into several posts. Well, this isn’t for the purposes of creating any sort of suspense in a series format. If it’s too long for you, you don’t have to read it. But it is an important topic, and clearly personal to me, so I won’t summarise it to make it more easily digestible. I’m a writer, so maybe I articulate my story well. Maybe I’m far enough down my road of healing to relay this calmly in a coherent fashion. But this isn’t for your entertainment; it’s for catharsis, connection, and awareness.

So here goes:

I was sexually assaulted.

Not something I ever thought up until the point it happened I would ever be able to say. And here’s why. I’m conservative (not politically, but in the literal sense of the word). When this happened in my late 20’s I was able to say I had only had sex with one person and kissed two. And I refuse to count the kisses he forced on me into my overall tally. Putting your lips on someone else’s isn’t kissing them any more than forcing the biological connection of genitalia is having sex. High-fiving someone who isn’t high-fiving you back is actually slapping them. Kissing and high-fiving, like sex, are two-person activities. So we didn’t kiss. I wasn’t someone who hooked-up casually or put myself in situations where that might be the norm. I didn’t go to crazy parties, I had never been drunk. (Still have never been drunk.)

To say my life was boringly routine would not be true, but I had a fairly tight schedule as a young mother and student. I was cautious with where I parked, where I walked alone, how late I was out. I was almost always somewhere crowded or safe. I just didn’t see a situation where someone would have the opportunity to do this to me in my busy life. The night it happened, I wasn’t flirting with him, because I do not even know how to flirt! I think I didn’t talk to him or make eye contact the whole evening. I was wholly uninterested in him personally. I was hanging out with a bunch of supposedly like-minded people at a fairly tame ‘party’ wearing jeans and a humorous t-shirt. I put ‘party’ in quotes because it was a handful of people sitting around drinking classy alcohol discussing politics. There was not a single aspect of my night or my lifestyle that suggested I would face the possibility of rape that night.

But just to be clear, I do not think that any of the factors I’ve just listed as not being a part of my life justify rape or assault. I don’t think if you’ve had casual hookups that you are asking for rape. I don’t think if you flirt or, unlike me, consider yourself a sexy person and dress as such that you are asking for rape. I don’t think if you need to walk alone at night to get to your car that you’re asking for rape. I don’t think anyone is ever asking for actual rape. I don’t think public nudity should be a normalised thing, but I think that if a woman is walking down the street completely naked, the reaction to that should be, “Hey, why is that woman walking down the street completely naked?” And perhaps, “Is she okay and should we get her some clothes?” It should not be, “I’m a man, I have the right to physically act out my fantasising on her and she can’t say no cuz she clearly wanted it, and clearly wanted it from me specifically.” And yet the blame gets put on women for doing much less than walking down the street nude.

To swing that case scenario to the opposite extreme, say that I’m married and sharing a bed with the man I essentially promised was the only man I’d ever want to have sex with again. Say that I had had sex with him the very night before, so I am clearly attracted to him and clearly have consented to that activity before and recently. Say that I’ve just crawled into bed next to him wearing something he finds attractive. Say that I’ve crawled into bed next to him wearing nothing at all because that’s how I sleep and this is my house so I can do what I want. If I don’t want to have sex with him, I do not have to and he does not, I repeat - DOES NOT, have the right to take sex from me, even though he is the one man in all the world who has the most right to believe I might actually want it from him. Sex is only given, it cannot be taken and still be called “sex.”

I’ve heard consent explained through a cup of tea and I think that’s an easy way to put it. If someone doesn’t want a cup of tea, you should not force it down their throat. Not if they look like someone who drinks tea; not if they’ve been hinting at drinking tea with you; not if they’ve had tea before; not if they’ve had tea with YOU before. If someone said they wanted to have tea and changed their mind, you should not force it down their throat. And if someone started drinking tea with you and decided they actually did not want the tea, you should not force them to finish it. If that makes sense on something as simple as accepting a cup of tea, which I’ve done before out of sheer politeness when I hate tea, how does that not make sense with sexual activity, something that demands a much more intimate contract and affects the tea-receiver infinitely more? Why is consent even a subject up for debate at this point in history?

Sex needs to be actively wanted and actively agreed to. It is an activity, therefore it is not something that should passively happen to you as though you didn’t do enough to stop it. Sex is a calculated effort. It involves choices and movement towards those choices. I do not wake up to find myself accidentally sky-diving. I am never sitting with a friend who suddenly decides we need to both be crocheting, and I then find myself with a half-made scarf on my lap under toiling hands wondering how the night turned out like this. An activity involves a conscious action and choice. Not having sex is not an action. There is no movement in that. So, one should not have to actively protest the action in order to maintain their position of not doing it. You shouldn’t need to vocally choose to not have sex lest it happen to you anyway. It should be consented to and if it is not, one should not find themselves in a situation where they are needing to fight and plead to stop something they didn’t want started in the first place. I never need to fend off sky-diving or protect myself from any other activity that, in and of itself, is not a crime. Someone shouldn’t find themselves needing to refuse sex so vehemently. And if they do, then what is happening to them is not sex. Sex doesn’t happen to you. Rape does. And when we do not differentiate the chasmic difference between these two words semantically, we blur the lines for the protection of real people in practicality.

There are different kinds of rapists. There are the violent attackers who jump perfect strangers in the park. They set out with the intention to commit this atrocity and they would probably, deep down or openly, admit that they are rapists. They would agree that what they do fits that definition and they simply don’t care. They maybe even enjoy the evil of it. But then there is the subtle kind of rapist; the kind who would look confused and offended if you suggested that’s what they are. Both are dangerous, but I feel the latter is harder to hold accountable and many times gets excused by the law and society. My attacker fell into that category.

He was the kind who had been drinking and had seen me with a drink in my hand that night. He was the kind that saw other people pairing off and just presumed I was down to do the same. He was the kind who, despite my protestations, thought I was being coy or shy or attempting to prove I was a good girl who didn’t normally do the casual sex scene. He was the kind who, despite hearing the phrase, “No, I do not want to have sex with you,” come clearly and forcefully from my lips, decided if he could just get me to give in, just keep trying, I’d enjoy it. That he’d convince me through proceeding. He was the kind that actually didn’t believe I might not be attracted to him or be the sort of person who took sex seriously enough to not want it at all that night. He was the kind who assumed, when my body and psyche did something I wasn’t expecting - freeze up entirely - that I had loosened up and he could keep going even though I had been fighting him a minute earlier and was showing no sign of enjoyment now. He was the kind of person who would never have called himself a rapist but was about one second away from rendering me someone who could call myself a rape victim. How would that make sense? How could I be raped by someone who wasn’t a rapist? The answer, plainly and simply: I couldn’t.

Another reason why I never expected to be in this scenario is because I am a fighter. I’m downright scrappy. In fact, maybe ‘scrappy’ is too condescending a word. It implies I’m small but I put in a good effort. So maybe ‘capable’ is better suited. I’m almost 5’7 and I’m a solid girl. Even in my pre-hypothyroidism days when I was slender, I was still a sturdy, curvaceous woman. I had thrown a punch and even taken one. I have done construction work as a humanitarian aid worker and have noticed I can often handle more physically than a lot of men. If someone had pointed out this guy to me earlier in the night and asked if I could take him in a fight, I would’ve confidently replied yes. The thing is, I was in a vulnerable position. I was tired and taken by surprise. And in the few seconds it took to catch me off guard and then for me to realise he did not care about my consent, he had me in a place where I was at a surprising disadvantage. I tried to fight him off at first but when I was faced with the reality that I might lose this fight, that I was about to become a rape victim, my supposedly strong body and mind betrayed me. I froze. Panic overtook me and I gave in as my mind tried to take me to a place where I wouldn’t have to fully experience the trauma I was about to endure. It tried to save me; take me out of the moment. But the result was that I stopped fighting.

Me. The fighter.

I fight for everything in my life. And I rarely panic. I’m the person you want with you in a crisis. But as I lay there pinned down, I started to think about my son and how I wished I’d just stayed at home with him that night instead of coming to this gathering - even though I rarely did have much adult interaction times to myself and it had been a totally excusable outing. Perhaps even a necessary networking event for my career. I thought, when this was over, would I get directly in the car afterwards and drive to the police station, or would I give myself a few moments? Nope, better to not give myself time to think. I always promised myself if I ever did get raped, though I thought it was highly unlikely, I’d flip the autopilot switch and not think again until I was at a police station. My body froze as my mind took me to problem solving the aftermath so I did not have to be in the present. It was like I was watching a movie play out while distracted with other thoughts. I was no longer a part of it, I was already beyond it. I was crying but I wasn’t sobbing. Tears just silently fell from my eyes and dampened my hair. I remember thinking how uncomfortable my wet hair felt, as tears trickled down my face, ears, and neck onto the bed. And then I thought about something else because that threatened to bring me into too much awareness of my physical senses. But just so you understand, dismissing that thought wasn’t a conscious choice I made. It was like my mind became a person of its own and, much like the man on top of me, was making choices for me. It's not that I didn't fight well or hard enough, though I shouldn't have had to fight at all and I do not blame anyone for freezing immediately. It's that our brains are programmed to protect us in traumatic situations. It was doing what it's designed to do, but I didn't know that. No one had ever explained that to me; people had only ever criticised (mostly) women for either inviting rape or not being able to avoid it. So I was judging myself through that same harmfully ignorant lens and it led to so much confusion and, later, incredible disappointment in myself.

My attacker hadn’t even fully succeeded yet and I was already mourning the loss of what he was about to take. I was contemplating how this would affect my family; my innocent, little family of two. How was I ever going to explain this to my son, obviously when he was older? How was I going to explain this to my parents or my future husband? And then, I was already blaming myself. I was already excusing him. I was blaming myself for coming to the party. For deciding to spend the night since it was hosted by a friend. For knowing I was spending the night and therefore bringing pyjamas, which were much easier to take off in one fell swoop than my jeans would’ve been. I actually blamed myself for wearing easily taken off clothing, as though it were my fault my cutesy pj pants facilitated him to undress me against my will. If I’d been wearing something more difficult, I’d have had more time to react, more chance to manoeuvre. That was totally my bad, not his, right? I was blaming myself for the one drink I had nursed for several hours in case it had made my reaction time to this attack slower. Blaming myself for briefly talking to this man immediately prior in case I had somehow led him on. I told myself that he did not think he was trying to rape me. He’d seemed nice enough earlier in the night, so he must really think he was doing something normal here. Was this normal for the world I didn’t live in, was that it? I’m a Christian who had decided to not have sex again until I was married. But he didn’t know that. Was there a misunderstanding??

A misunderstanding.

Seriously.

I just rolled my eyes writing that.

I am the first person to stand up and defend the vulnerable and here I was, not defending myself, but defending my would-be rapist and accepting my lot before it had even happened. If I can get to that point, then, frankly, anyone can. I had already said no, I shouldn’t have had to say it again. But also, I shouldn’t have had to say it at all.

As I lay under him helpless to the violations that were already being done to me, tunnel vision threatened me with an imminent lapse in consciousness. See, in those few opportune seconds of shock and confusion, he’d managed to get on top of me and drive his shoulder into my sternum. He wasn’t a big guy, but the weight of his body on my lungs was making it hard to breathe. Tension pulsed from my burdened chest into my face and I knew I only had mere seconds left before I would find myself waking up on the other side. And I thought to myself, I cannot believe this is happening to me. I cannot believe I’m about to get raped. A voice in my head, that I will go ahead and attribute to God, said, “It isn’t over yet. Stop acting like it’s already done and fight! Fight, for goodness’ sake, fight!”

I snapped out of the frozen shock in a way I feel would only be possible if some third party were there with me. I know that doesn't always happen and I can't explain how I was able to break out of it when I know others haven't. Again, I have nothing but compassion for those whose experience wasn't like mine and urge you to have the same. But I could hardly catch my breath, and every time I tried to inflate my lungs, I felt like he was breaking my rib cage in on my body. My mind raced searching for a way out but he was so oblivious to how oxygen-deprived I was in the darkened room, I now feared he was going to accidentally kill me. This was worse than I’d even thought. I wasn’t going to wake up having been raped; I wasn’t going to wake up at all. I felt that panic you feel as a child when you challenge yourself to swim to the bottom of the deep end of the pool. But then, you frantically attempt to resurface as you start to run out of air. My body felt like it was going to implode. Finally, he leaned back to adjust himself and air flooded into me as he prepared to do the unthinkable. My brain seemed to pulse inside my skull as I regained the ability to breathe normally. I really needed a few minutes to gather myself. But with the change of position, I had the slightest opportunity to wedge my legs between us so I could push him away. I felt the contact of our bodies I had been dreading and realised I had less than a second to react here. So with the strength of an adrenaline-fuelled mother who had been fearing she wouldn’t get home, I pushed with all my might and he flew off the bed and hit the wall collapsing to the floor.

I’ll never forget the look on his face. Confusion. Offence. Hurt. He had been suffocating me as he'd forced unwanted things on me, and was a split second away from sealing the deal, but he was shocked that I had so rudely and violently rejected him. And you know what’s crazy? For the slightest second, I felt badly about shoving him so hard. I felt badly that I hadn’t been able to more properly gauge my strength in that fleeting moment of possibility to escape his crime. What a stupid girl… What a normal, common, but stupid girl. No, woman. Women have been conditioned to take blame so much, we even give it to ourselves when it’s undeserved. I like to think those immediate thoughts maybe make me a decent person. Maybe a good person. That even in fighting for my virtue and life I still wasn’t prepared to overly hurt my opponent. So I cling to the knowledge that I have yet to be pushed to the point of feeling completely justified in hurting someone, which sets me apart from my would-be rapist. And that’s a good thing. But still, it is incredibly dumb to have felt badly at all. And yet, I bet it happens all the time.

I gasped for air and wheezed out, “No, no, no, I DO NOT want to have sex with you!” And he got up irate as if to say, Geez, you should’ve said so. Now, you might be thinking what I thought later that night: If he were a ‘real’ rapist, he would’ve gotten back on top of me and finished what he’d started. So he was just a confused guy thinking he was about to get lucky. We had a misunderstanding. But here’s the thing about that - that’s total, 100% crap. For one, there were other people in the apartment and now that I could breathe, they were in screaming distance, which was a pretty solid deterrent. And two, some guy who thinks he’s going to get lucky wouldn’t engage in sexual activity with someone who was questioning what they were doing and then refusing to consent. He wouldn’t have forced interactions on me I wasn’t responding to. He wouldn’t have thought it was normal that I stopped talking and actually began to stop breathing! He was doing the activity; he was making the choices. If I wasn’t making them with him, then he was wrong. He was assaulting me. And it took kicking him off the bed to ensure that he didn’t rape me. I shouldn’t have to throw a man into a wall to make sure I don’t have unwanted intercourse. I shouldn’t have to physically defend my own vagina with the strength of someone fighting for their life. And no man should feel he has the right to try to take my body if he can only get around the obstacle of me resisting.

So let's be clear: He was a real rapist. We've already established I can't be raped by someone who isn't a rapist. But I can be not-raped by someone who is a rapist. I am not-raped by rapists all the time, it doesn't change who they are. Whether or not I am a rape victim depends on the location of his body parts in relation to mine. Whether or not he is a rapist is not determined by whether or not I have the strength to escape before he has a chance to put said body parts into mine. A man being a rapist is dependent on his intentions and capacity to enact them, not on our inability to thwart them. Rape lies in the heart of the attacker, not in the clothes, location, words, or even behaviour of the victim.

Sex is not rainfall that happens periodically throughout the day preventing you from peacefully sitting outside without interruption. You have to move during a storm to not get wet; seek shelter because precipitation actually belongs in nature. Random sex doesn’t belong in my vagina. I shouldn’t have to move to not get raped. I should be able to not have sex without interruption as long as I choose. It should not be something I have to evade or move away from lest it rain down on me in an unsuspecting moment. And yet this is how people justify it constantly. As though sex is just rain and you should know better. It very well might be that common and persistent in this supposedly civilised society, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. And as humans, we are well aware of that difference and are not only capable of, but responsible for the differentiation.

So, did I flip the autopilot switch and drive straight to the police station? No. Because he didn’t technically “rape” me, I talked myself out of it. In fact, that whole freezing for my own protection thing that my mind did lasted for days. I totally twisted the story in my head for a while and convinced myself a guy had hit on me and I’d had to forcefully reject him, even though he went way further than hitting on me. It took days to let myself think that night through. Outside of my wet hair in the moment, I didn’t even cry about it again for some time. It took weeks to actually acknowledge what had happened to me. It took months to tell even one person. And it has taken nearly a decade to get to a place where I can be this open about it. And I admit that even now in writing this, there’s a little voice inside telling me not to reveal all this because I’m somehow wrong. I’ve made some mistake, my memory is betraying me somehow, and I shouldn’t make a big deal about it. And that’s with me. Ms. Fighter. Ms. Kick-butt, feminist, force-to-be-reckoned-with. I still doubt if I'm the justified party. My mind still wrestles with wanting to defend this horrible attacker and blame myself when I am otherwise entirely clear on where the guilt should rest in these kinds of circumstances. I can only imagine how some women in similar or worse situations must feel. And then they’re berated with questions as to why they didn’t pick themselves up from a violent and physical attack and go to the police where they could demand a perfect stranger perform an invasive and degradingly painful exam on their traumatised body.

Do you wanna know why women don’t report this enough? Because there are three possible outcomes to reporting rape and assault:

  1. You are not believed. People think it didn’t happen at all and you’re just making it up for attention. All of the blame falls entirely on the victim.
  2. People believe sexual activity happened, but they think there are varying degrees of culpability. They want you to explain what your relationship is with your attacker, what you were wearing, how much you were drinking, and what you said or did to encourage someone to decide they were going to have intercourse with you no matter what. They want to know just how clear you made it that you didn't want sex, how many times you repeated it, and what words you used. They suddenly become expert detectives looking for the holes in your story and believing they have the right to question every part of it as though you're on trial with each person you tell. And you're definitely guilty until proven innocent. They want you to play out every detail for their scrutiny so they can sit back and go, “Hmm… I’m just not sure. I mean, I am just. not. sure… I have not been presented with enough of this traumatising tale to be 100% convinced, and it is really your responsibility to convince me. So I’d better err on the side of caution and assume you somehow asked for this and you’re at least partially, if not fully to blame. We wouldn’t want to ruin the alleged attacker’s life by being too sure without enough evidence. We'll label you dramatic, attention-seeking, a slut, or a liar before we will ever deign to call him a rapist.” And in this instance, despite conceding to the fact that there was intercourse and it may or may not have been fully consensual, the blame still mostly falls on the victim.
  3. People believe you. They believe sexual activity occurred and they even believe you didn’t want it and that your attacker was well-aware of this. But now, you’re still damaged goods even though it wasn’t your fault. You’re someone who was raped, that is your label now. And you will wear it as a badge for the rest of your life. And it isn’t a badge that elicits sympathy. It is one that elicits pity, which is very different and potentially precludes the other. This label says you’re pathetic, broken, and burdened. It says you are dysfunctional, impure, and not readily entitled to the kind of relationships you could have pursued before. (To be abundantly clear, I do not believe these things in the slightest, these are the stances I feel society at large has taken.) So even though you are believed on all accounts, the victim still bears, maybe not all of the blame, but all of the shame. 

Even in the best case scenario, it is something that sheds a negative light on you personally and that is difficult to escape. I know some people lie to play the victim in certain situations. But for the average person, there is actually hardly any reason to tell the truth when they have been assaulted, and several reasons not to. So where is the incentive to lie?

I believe sexual crimes are the only ones where the victims bear the shame for the choice made by the perpetrator. If I’d been burgled, I would’ve told everyone immediately. I would’ve posted it on facebook, for goodness’ sake. And some people might’ve said, “Well, did you leave your door unlocked or a window open? Do you choose to live in a bad neighbourhood? Do you make your routine too known to those around you? Why don’t you have an alarm system?” Some people will always find a way to make it your fault somehow. But mostly, people would be sorry and they would move on. They wouldn’t label me someone who had been burgled before and expect me to carry that around the rest of my life and actually be worried about telling people.

It’s like someone walked up to me and punched me in the face with no warning or reason and I’m worried to tell people in case they see me as someone who has a black eye. And once the bruise is healed, I’d still have to tell people, “Hey, I used to have a bruise right here.” And I’d have to tell any potential husband, “Hey, babe, you know these eyes that you think are so pretty? Well, I used to have a bruise on one of them. It’s gone now, but some jerk punched me a while ago and, sometimes, having gone through that experience still affects me. I hope you don’t think about him punching me every time you look at my eye. I hope you can still find me desirable and want to be with me. I’m so sorry I can’t be someone who wasn’t punched for you. I hope this isn’t too much drama for you to deal with.”

Your value is not depreciated by what is done to you. It need not even be depreciated by what you do to you. But it certainly isn’t affected by something you didn’t choose; by something someone else did.

Another frustrating consequence of sexual crime is that having gone through it does not promote you to an authority on the subject. I am a missionary kid and I have worked in ministry myself, so people take my opinion seriously on ministerial affairs. I am a mother, so people come to me for advice on parenting. I have had health issues, so without even being a doctor, people respect my personal experience within the medical field. I suffered from eating disorders as a teenager. And even though that is something I partially inflicted on myself, though it’s much more nuanced than that, when I speak about the psychological aspects of those conditions, my input is heeded. But people who have lived through sexual assault? They are seen as biased and too traumatised to be rational. You’re the victim, please don’t contribute here.

I only told a handful of people over the years what happened to me. And having been through it made me more aware and connected to the fight against rape culture. It made me realise just how easily one can fall prey to an assault and how easily perpetrators can get away with it. I noticed the subtle ways in which society was condoning the wrong attitudes and excusing bad behaviour; the slippery slope connotations of conduct that was freely overlooked and eagerly justified. I realised how quickly we blur the lines of what is acceptable and how ready we are to fail in protecting people. I can name six friends off the top of my head who have been assaulted and those are just the ones who have confided in me. Rape is common. Com-mon. And I’m talking about the Western World. I’ve always had an activist personality. I grew up in humanitarian aid. I love animals, I want to save the environment. I was in elementary school when I picked up the mantle of my own causes and decided to protest against things I disagreed with; make my voice heard. And I majored in political science solely so I could better approach the defence of essential rights. It’s not unusual to find me passionately expounding on an issue of importance. And yet, during one such conversation on rape and sexual assault, one of the people I’d trusted with the information told me I was just being hypersensitive because it had happened to me.

My authority was immediately undermined. And my experience casually dismissed. So I started to believe that if I let people know, I would be seen as weak and my ability to actually influence this cause or make a difference somehow would be undercut. Isn’t it crazy that one could be taken more seriously in a certain field if they did not have experience in it? If they had an impartial, objective viewpoint backed by education, not involvement? And yet I saw it again and again with other people who made their stories known. Just another reason in the mounting justifications and excuses I had to keep my mouth shut.

I told one boyfriend, worried he might see me differently, but needing to share this with him to continue growing the trust of our relationship. He actually didn't react at all. I'm not sure which is worse: thinking it's so terrible it alters your perception of me, or being so dismissive it undermines the entire experience. I wasn't expecting this and didn't know what to do. It made me feel like he wasn't adequately protective of me. I wanted him to be at least a little angry for me. I wanted him to demand the name of the man, at least for a few minutes, so he could defend my honour. I wanted him to hold me and tell me he was so sorry something terrible had happened to me and that he would be there for me. But that didn't happen, which made me feel so lonely. A couple years later, I was with another man whom I hadn't confided in yet. We hadn't been together long when a boys-will-be-boys discussion arose in relation to me talking about how I discipline my son. I said I don't allow uncontrollable behaviour in him simply because he has testosterone coursing through his body and am raising him to be accountable for what he does as a young man of God and full member of the human race. He took issue with my lack of understanding of the male condition and it caused a fight. What's funny is, this boyfriend had called men pigs and animals before, but now seemed to be indignant that I'd see that exact same issue in the world and expect my son to be better. I realised many men are fully aware of the danger they pose to society, they just want to be excused for it. They will readily admit they don't want daughters because they 'know how boys think!' But then, when you challenge that mentality, you are the one being unreasonably critical of men. Despite all the experience and proof I have to the contrary, I will always have enough faith in men to treat them as people, not animals I must shepherd. But it seems some men will always want to play whichever side of that coin best suits them in the moment and you cannot have it both ways. You cannot ask us to excuse primitive behaviour as some unavoidable instinct we must control for you, then demand we respect you as strong individuals with leadership skills. Lead your own mind and body to a place of evolved discipline and governance and then we'll talk. Needless to say, I never told this boyfriend my story and I don't believe he deserved it, nor did I deserve any negative reaction he might have had. But once again, I kept quiet and felt alone.

Then recently, I was watching a TV show. It’s a silly teen indulgence of a show, but I had the house to myself and was Netflix-binging. And in one episode, a rape scene just happens out of the blue. From one second to the next, the main character is suddenly being raped. There was not only no trigger warning at the beginning of the show (neither on Netflix, nor when it was originally aired - I checked), but the scene also gave you about one second of warning to see where it was going. And it doesn’t just imply the rape, you watch it in its entirety. You see her face and you watch the men - because there are a few of them, by the way - hold her down. The scene only ends when the assault does. So basically, I went from calmly watching a show aimed at teenagers to watching my nightmare play out for me seeing this character be held in a similar position to the way I was held. A bubble grew abruptly in my chest and filled my throat erupting into sobs. I sat and wept watching this careless attempt to garner ratings and generate chatter. I read reviews about this episode later and watched people defend it as artistic or even a valid contribution to the rape conversation. And then I read that the producers of the show intended the rape of this character as a form of punishment for her husband. So it wasn’t even considered her story, but his. How ignorant. How reckless. I have worked with human trafficking ministry and seen the women who have been traumatised repeatedly by this heinously abusive crime. I imagined what it would do to one of them to catch this episode one day as they attempted to distract themselves from the nightmares within through a supposedly harmless form of entertainment. I was furious as hot tears burned from my eyes.

But I was also sad. Sad from a place so deep within me, I couldn’t visualise its base. I have spent a lot of time processing my assault. Once I faced the truth of it, I forced myself to work through it. And I believe I’m in a fairly healthy place with it. I also don’t think I need to wear the badge of “victim” forever, and I do not need to feel ashamed. But it is something that happened to me. And I think I’ve been so focused on being strong and healthy and resilient, and on viewing it with a level of indifference as though it is not something I need to bear, since it isn’t my fault, that I haven’t always faced how genuinely sad it is. I have been worried to give validation to the sadness for fear it would undermine the strength and the legitimacy of my healing and my right to be taken seriously on the subject. And I think that we really fail women, and victims in general, by not allowing that holistic understanding; by not embracing the balance of equally valid and vital emotions.

I sat and cried alone in an empty house watching a TV show. And as I did, I felt fragile and childlike. I mourned and allowed the pain; allowed the weakness. I actually felt sorry for myself without immediately telling myself to buck up. And not in a self-pitying way, in a way where I was able to give myself compassion; the compassion I would automatically give someone else. And this tragic little tear-stained moment was weirdly beautiful. I am healthy and I am strong. But someone hurt me and sometimes that, well, hurts me. That doesn’t change who I am. It doesn’t erode my healing. It doesn’t make me damaged nor irrational if I can still cry about it sometimes. I actually think it would be irrational to not feel the gravity of it from time to time. And I should be able to outwardly express that in tandem with receiving appreciation of my fortitude. It’s a part of my strength, not a setback in it. The ability to still feel, still be susceptible and receptive, not be desensitised to how wrong this was or how much it hurt, is all a part of the delicate balance I have achieved in remaining the person I was before it. My sensitivity is proof of life; proof that I have not been calloused by this; proof that he did not win. He took nothing from me and left nothing behind that wasn’t there already. So can we please applaud those who are strong enough to still be vulnerable? Strong enough to still be gentle? Can we stop making people choose between their complete honesty and our complete acceptance?

I finally started telling people again about this recently. I hadn’t told anyone in years and when I did then, it was reaching out in my pain for someone to understand or help. In recent months, it has been for different reasons. One is because I finally felt like expelling it was a catalyst in my dormant healing process. I had sort of figured that because I had mostly dealt with it already, I could move on. No one else needed to know, it wasn’t their business. But it suddenly seemed really wrong to keep it inside and I just needed it to not be some dirty, little secret of mine. I am not dirty and I did nothing wrong. It shouldn’t be a secret. But also, I realised that in remaining silent, I was perpetuating the stigma. In the last couple months alone, God has brought people across my path who needed to tell me their story. And I was able to share mine freely in return. And I realised, actually, this kind of is other people’s business. If I have the strength to have a voice here, then I actually have a responsibility to use it. Many people don’t have that strength on their path yet, and that's okay. Many women in many cultures are not even allowed to have a voice or any of the platforms that are readily available to me. And many people avoid sharing and benefiting from the therapeutic solidarity because they are afraid of how they will be seen.

But me, I’m a fighter. Not just for myself but for others who have shared a similar experience. For those who can't talk about it, for those who need solidarity, for those who need sympathy instead of judgement. I'm a fighter for those who weren't protected, for those who will need protecting in the future. I'm a fighter for change, for shifting the way we build the narrative around sexual assault that cultivates the climate in which we receive victims and treat perpetrators. So if my voice is capable of making a difference, I will use it because I’m a kick-butt, feminist, force-to-be-reckoned-with. And if you want to see me as anything less because some jerk basically walked up to me and punched me in the face, then, frankly: Screw You. Sorry if that response isn't sophisticated, but two words are all you deserve - and at least I'm being fairly classy in my choice of which two words. Say what you will, think what you want. I know who I am and I know what happened that night. And I will never remain silent on atrocities like these. I will keep speaking up when I see the perpetuation and subtle encouragement of rape culture. And I will do so because I know first-hand where that leads so I am worthy of being trusted on this subject. I won’t bear the shame for someone else’s wrongs, nor tolerate those around me being forced to either. And I won’t be an example to others of suffering in silence because of shame. Rape is not sex. Consent is necessary. No means no. And I am a beautiful and blameless survivor, overcomer, and defender. And so are many of you... Please join me in protecting and promoting the good and calling out the evil. Because rape may be common, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. And as humans, we are not only capable of, but responsible for doing better.

Please reach out if you need help. You are not alone.

Yes, I'm a feminist... And you should be, too.

Sunday, January 22, 2017





I saw this picture recently and it stood out to me, especially as a reformed anorexic who spent most of my youth trying to find love for myself in a world that sought to point out all that was wrong with me. I saved it in my phone and started writing this blog post months ago with intention to post it at some point in the future. But then I sat and watched the disgusted reaction to a peaceful Women's March in DC the past two days. This is after having spent the better part of two years watching people overlook, justify, and defend the actual crimes against women while vilifying people who speak up against them. That is on top of a lifetime of this nonsense. And I'm done.

I dated someone once who asked me if I was a "feminist," and the tone in his voice showed me I was supposed to say "no" or at least qualify any "yes." I did neither and, for me, it was the start of a wedge driven between us. In fact, my reaction to that question now is, "Um, yea, of course I am. Aren't you?" And the tone in my voice shows that you're supposed to say, "yes."

"Feminism" shouldn't even be a commonly used word in 2017, let alone one that is met with eye rolls and blatant, shameless criticism. Especially from my Christian community. I hold you to higher accountability and I am very disappointed. Jesus treated women equally. Some of Jesus' best friends were women. As a single man, he spoke to them directly and openly, which was not done in those days. He talked to them as though not only was their comprehension equal to men's, but their understanding was just as important. He wanted their salvation, too. Even his disciples, after all they'd seen, were surprised to find Jesus talking to the Samaritan woman at the well. But he knew she needed him. Jews weren't meant to engage with Samaritans. And men were meant to only address husbands, not their wives or single women. Even worse, this woman had a bad reputation. She'd apparently slept around. She's by herself at the well for a reason. Drawing water in the middle of town was a social event and she's alone. People don't want to be associated with her. Jesus could have had rumours started about him for simply talking to her. I know Christian men today who won't drive alone with a woman in a moving car lest it look inappropriate. And here Jesus is, 2,000 years ago, talking alone with a woman in a public place who is known for her promiscuity? Bold move, Jesus. Do you get this? It could've undermined his whole ministry. But he cared about her more than the potential backlash of gossip mongers. And for the record, Jesus was nothing but bold, controversial moves. He called society and culture out on their ways and was unapologetically revolutionary in his methods. He was not traditional and he sure as heck wasn't conservative.

When he rose from the dead, the first person he spoke to was Mary Magdalene. And she was responsible for telling the men the good news. If you don't know how significant that was, you have not studied theology or biblical culture. She is named in the gospels more than most of the apostles. (Many believe she should actually be considered a disciple and that we just decided upon only 12 when there were in fact more. That's a whole other story.) And now, Mary Magdalene was the first evangelical. What about Lydia leading ministry because she could? What about Esther saving her people from persecution? What about Deborah, the only female judge, who led an army of men? The bible teaches equality, and if you'd like to debate that with me, I invite you to.

Being pro- women's rights, protection, and equality should be standard. There shouldn't be a word that forces you to stand up for something that should be a given. Instead there should be a socially accepted label* for those who don't advocate for women's equality, for those who maintain outdated notions on where women lie on the spectrum of humanity. And instead of having to clarify that you're a feminist, as though that is the abnormal stance, you should have to clarify that you're the other and watch people meet that declaration with the same disgust and judgement we are met with when we stand aghast that in the Western World, there isn't even equal pay for women. That in other parts of the world, women aren't even able to stand apart from men to have any security. That physical abuse is denoted as "cultural." And that trafficking, rape, and prostitution even exist these days.

We espouse hollow platitudes like, "Love yourself for who you are," but look around. Is there anything in our societal routine that actually promotes that ideal? Or do we constantly reinforce this idea of impossible perfection and are women incessantly programmed to believe their worth is intrinsically tied to appearance and other superficial characteristics? Everything in modern, Western culture still points towards women being objects, so how can we expect the world to treat us equally? Call me old, but I'm a child of the 90's and I am tired, 30 years later, of waiting for the messages of empowerment we were fed back then to come to fruition. If you are reading this and don't understand what the issue is, think I'm overreacting, or are fine with the way things are, then, I'm sorry, but you're part of the problem. And this is a real problem that affects half the world's population, so I cannot excuse your ignorance.  If you've never been victimised because of your gender, then you're one of the lucky ones. I guarantee you know many people who have, whether or not they tell you, or whether or not they even realise it shouldn't be happening. We live in a time of trafficking, normalised porn, increased rape culture, and - as if our physical safety isn't enough to worry about - an online world that subjects women to written affronts that we're expected to overlook as a natural part of life. That we're expected to overlook as a natural part of men's behaviour. "Locker room talk." This is NOT natural. It's not standard and it isn't justifiable. To disregard it is to ignore the violation of decency, respect, and basic rights. It's to tell me my safety and treatment isn't as important because I'm a woman and that I should accept my chromosomal lot in life. Is that what you tell your daughters? Is that what you tell your wives and sisters and mothers? Because this does indeed happen to your moms. Are you okay with that?

It's time to start treating women differently. It's time to teach boys to respect and to reject perversion; to have more pride in themselves than to sink to cultural justification of hormones being the ruling factor of their existence. It's time to not give girls attention for the wrong reasons reinforcing that their worth only lies in the most insecure aspects of their being, not the aspects where true growth can occur. It's time to treat women as though they are just as capable and valuable as their male counterparts and to reward them as such. It's time to not make them feel like they have to deny their femininity, or keep their mouths shut, or speak in a different tone of voice lest they be labelled as bossy, to be taken seriously for their hard work in the workplace. It's time for men to use their responsibility as the leaders of our societies to promote this and to protect us. And it's time for this to not need to be said anymore. Let's make the word "feminism" extinct and in our lifetime. Cause, frankly, I'm so over this and you should be, too.

*I'm aware the terms sexist and misogynist exist. I guess I was separating those labels from those who aren't outright sexist but aren't actively feminist. But, you're right, maybe there's no middle ground. And maybe those who don't advocate for women's equality need to be faced with the fact that they are, like it or not, reinforcing misogyny. I did say, "socially accepted label," so maybe we need to normalise saying to people who like to claim they're not a feminist, "Oh, so you're a sexist, then? Got it." Actually, yea... let's do that. 

only one good thing worth trying to be and it's love

well

Tuesday, January 17, 2017



Change our story,
Alter history,
But I will know,
I will know,
And it will rest with me.

Move on from the past,
Like love was never meant to last,
But I will know,
I will know, my dear...

So when they ask me, I can tell:
I loved you well.

1000 words

noël

Saturday, December 24, 2016




Wishing you a Happy Christmas and a Blessed New Year!

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." - Luke 2:14

music is my boyfriend

anywhere i go, there you are

Thursday, June 16, 2016




the wind, it blows, 
and seasons throw
me into age and grace,
light fills the room
in various hues,
and i miss you every day.

the mail, it piles,
my wardrobe styles
both change and stay the same,
the church bell tolls,
the news unfolds,
i miss you every day.

the lines are long,
i love this song,
and then it's overplayed,
movies release,
and roadworks cease,
i miss you every day.

the coffee brews,
alarms are snoozed,
everyone is on their way,
fireworks ablaze,
Happy Holidays, 
and i miss you every day.

memories resonate, 
midnight questions fate
as i solitary lay
in the bed you made
against my gainsay
and i miss you every day.

vibrance will dim,
present will win
over past and faded flames,
eventually,
you'll be over me,


motopony

penny farthing in my ears and in my eyes

Wednesday, February 03, 2016


Hearts are fragile, but they're brave,
All the more because they break,
To risk a love
-well, it would take
A strength so delicate.

Be delicate with me.
Be loved with me.
Be in between the lines
Of recklessness and fear
Where we can trust what's here,
I trust what's here.


It isn't easy to believe
Beginnings ever do not cease,
To let this in,
Allow release,
Is a chance we both must take.

Believe with me.
Be loved with me.
Come live between the lines 
Of past innocence and tears
Where we can disappear
In safe surrender here.

Don't overthink it, love,
There's too much to conceive,
God is in the details
So we don't have to be,
Some things don't need questioned,
Blessing is a mystery,
Is this how it feels
...to know?

Be delicate with me.
Be loved indeed.
Be in between the lines
Where hopes meet peace.
Be strong with me.
Take my hand and see
We're in between the lines
Of recklessness and fear
And we can trust what's here,
      
          I trust what's here. 

alliteration

goodnight sunday

Sunday, January 24, 2016




*press play*




As my simple yet sumptuous Sunday succumbs slowly to the sunset, I sit perched and spying sidelong as my son scampers, soaked, across the sands summoning the waves tenaciously.

I sit in stillness saturating my lungs in salty sea air as satin waters break, shattering relentlessly and riotously against the steadfast stones remorselessly. This senselessly stirs my sentimental heart... I note my satisfaction and appreciate having known joy and peace, even in the face of life's sadnesses and strains, feeling a silent sense of subtle strength.

I observe the satiety of this moment, begging it not to be evanescent, and remember to say with sharpened sincerity, "Thank you, God. Thank you, Saviour." #alliteration #goodnightsunday


1000 words

IF I'M BEING HONEST: The Struggle is Real... and Okay and Necessary

Tuesday, November 17, 2015





My car wouldn't start today...

Today is the one-year anniversary of the move my son and I made to a brand new home last year. I'm happy to say that since we got here, my son has grown in confidence, friendships, and his education. My quirky, little social butterfly never fails to make fast friends. And while he has missed our previous home, he has come into his own here in a way I am infinitely grateful for.

It hasn't been so easy for me. I call myself a 'reformed introvert.' My natural instinct is to pull into myself. But I'm a missionary kid and we were constantly thrown out of our comfort zones, if we even truly had any. I hate those Facebook articles, "10 Things You Need to Know About Dating an Introvert." Introversion isn't a handicap and people don't need to cater to you. What is with this generation's obsession with being labeled and coddled? Be a grown up! Be a functioning member of society, for goodness' sake... I know how to be a grown up societal member. And I know how to overcome my instincts that aren't healthy for me. I've learned to override anxiety and be adaptable. I'm no wilderness warrior, but if you dropped me in the middle of any concrete jungle where I knew no one and didn't speak the language, I'd survive. You'd maybe even find me at some corner cafe laughing with a local as we tried to communicate with hand gestures. God has pushed me to live beyond myself and use those introspective instincts I have to be empathetic; to look up instead of inward and see myself and my struggles in someone else's eyes. It's relieving to find the familiar in foreign faces. If you always focus on how different you are, you'll fail to see the common threads between us all. There's a solidarity and a spiritual unity in all God created. Don't be coddled into missing out on that.

Where I live now is hardly a jungle. Despite the huge dichotomy of wealth and poverty that abounds, it's fair to say this is a land of privilege and convenience. I speak the language and I've got my google maps to help me out when I get lost. I've been to harder places. Sunshine and 24 hour drive-thrus? Please, this is cake.... But if I'm being honest, I've had one of the most difficult and most crushingly lonely years of my entire life.

This time last year, I was getting off a plane with a 10-year-old in tow and a bleeding ulcer in my stomach. It was a fight to get here. It has been a fight to stay here. But I felt pretty directed that God was leading us here so we came in faithfulness. There are a lot of ideas promulgated in church communities that are not only false but damaging. Such as, if you're in the will of the Lord, you get all you need. God provides and He reserves his special blessings for those being the best, little Christians. He protects you from hardship and enemy attacks. The flip-side of that is that if you're struggling, you must be doing something wrong. God provides, so if He hasn't, you've messed something up. Now, sometimes struggle is God's correction trying to push you into something else. But where in the Bible does it say we get an easy ride on the right path? Let's ask the disciples. No wait, we can't, they all died terrible deaths after lives of persecution. Pretty sure it says, "...In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33b) So we're actually guaranteed trouble? Cuz that's life? Hmm... Also, no one earns blessings any better than anyone else. God's grace is free but undeserved by all, even the 'best' Christians. But there's still a stigma with struggle. Is it your fault? Were you irresponsible? Did you pray enough? Did you not really hear from God? What did you do wrong? I think life is never guaranteed to be easy, but I also think that often what's right is most difficult. Sometimes when everything is going wrong, you're actually doing something right that you have to battle your way through in order to develop the strength and have the experiences and times with God you need to have. And if you quit when things get hard, you forfeit reaping the best results in life. Someone once told me, if you're in the midst of an uphill battle, God is bringing you to higher ground. If that's true, then moving here was all kinds of right. Cuz it has been nothing but uphill.

I'm a mother so I'm allowed to bend but not break. I'm not allowed to fall apart. I won't put burdens on my son he's not equipped to handle. I won't let him feel insecurity in me. He needs to know I am his safe place and he can count on me. So never before have I felt the lack of a partner more than this year, someone who could shoulder the burdens with me. Never before has there been such a man-shaped hole in our home as I raise the product of two people becoming one on my own. And that's hard for me to admit. I'm an independent 'woman of the 90s,' dang it! (That phrase meant something good when I was a kid. I don't know anymore what women of 2015 stand for or if I'm always on board with it, so, yea, I'm still a woman of the 90s.) Girl power and all that jazz... Cuz there's also a stigma with admitting you'd like a man. C'mon, girl, have some pride! You don't need a man to complete you! No, I don't. But is there anything wrong with craving the intimacy of a godly relationship? The Lord placed a desire within us for unity and marriage is the closest earthly glimpse we get of the commitment and oneness God wants to have with us. Am I pathetic for wanting that, imperfections and all? Do I need to surrender my girl card or can we just stop making everyone feel like they need to be fully complete on their own in order to be deemed strong and successful? Can we stop promoting unrealistic standards of resilience and fulfillment that make us all feel like quiet failures? No one is actually complete on their own; we weren't made to be. We were made to have community. We were made to contribute into others' lives and the collective world. We were made to be there for each other. Struggle is not only okay, it is guaranteed, it is human. It is sometimes necessary for us to reach out, to reach back, and to realise life is better shared. Fuller shared. More complete ...when shared.

This year has brought me to my knees. As that old Jaci Velasquez song says, "I've learned in laughter or in pain, how to survive: I get on my knees." I think I recently prayed more in one week than I have in some past years. Maybe that confession doesn't make me look good, but we're in the spirit of honesty here, people, check the title. Lol... So, struggle brought me to the feet of the Lord. Struggle has brought me to a place of complete submission in utter need. It has broken me down, chipped away at me in a refining way that sometimes just felt like loss. Felt too far, God. Too far... But I do believe it has brought me to where I need to be, including a place where this independent woman is not afraid to admit I'm not always okay or that I need help. (Like tonight when I was stranded pushing a sofa up 14 steps by myself. My neighbour guys jumped in and did it for me. And I gratefully let them, God bless them! Please don't try to push a sofa up a flight of stairs by yourself- you can't do it.) There is strength in that kind of honesty and there should be no stigma or failure in being lonely, being weak, being in need. There should be unity, solidarity, and empathy.

Today my car wouldn't start. My son needed to get to school and we were stuck in our complex's garage. I could've stressed, but something this year has taught me repeatedly is to BE STILL. This smartphone-fueled society grapples with this notion of simply being still; emptying yourself of all the clutter and leaving room for the right things, the quiet things, to fill you. Be still and know that I am God. The Bible says again and again to not be anxious or fearful. I believe it is actually the most repeated command, but seems to be the least followed as though that much repetition in scripture doesn't mean something. I called our building manager but he's out of town at his father's funeral. So his day was worse than mine. Perspective. Then it dawned on me... Oh yea, I purchased a year's worth of roadside assistance almost a year ago. I haven't needed to use it and kind of forgot. My brain has been a little full recently, forgive me. So I called and waited patiently for the man to arrive. (Turns out, sometimes we do need a man, as long as he's armed with a battery charger. Sorry, ladies...) My son hardly minded missing school so we just took a breath and relaxed realising there was nothing more to be done. When the guy arrived he was a friendly and chatty single father and as he charged my battery, we traded single parenthood war stories. Then, in the most innocent way possible, he gave me his number, told me to let him know how my car was doing later and asked me to promise him that I would stay in touch with him and be honest to let him know if I ever needed help. I started to cry and he hugged me and I thought, my car not starting today was necessary. I bought the dang thing a year ago, it shouldn't be having issues. I should've had a struggle-free morning of driving my son to school on time in an easy, 10-minute commute. Instead, my day was interrupted and delayed. I had to problem solve at 7 a.m. and I'm not a morning person. And I didn't have anyone to call to help me. My closest friend here was already at work half an hour away and if I hadn't bought that assistance which has, until today, been completely unnecessary, I would've been alone and stuck. But I realised that in having my car not work today, I ended up being a little less alone than I would've been had everything gone smoothly. It was right that something went wrong. I was in the right place. And being here... This move... We have been in the right place this year.

This uphill battle has brought me to higher ground. I have a new perspective. It's not easy and it probably won't ever truly be- that's life. I won't say that everything has been tied into some inspirational bow and I feel settled and empowered by all this or anything. I won't even say this experience has made me stronger. In fact, I think in some ways, it has made me weaker but that's okay. I have been allowed to be weak, I have been allowed to be sad or disappointed and decide that my peace and my hope are rooted in something bigger than those feelings, something beyond me- my unity with Christ. My prayer for this next year is that I get more invested in a community here and that I continue to learn to take struggles as they come, not being ashamed of them or ashamed of myself for having them.

Struggle is real, it's okay, and sometimes, it's even necessary. If you're struggling, please let me know. Prayers, like everything else, are better shared.




xo

1000 words

best gift

Tuesday, October 06, 2015




My son had his 11th birthday this past week. Eleven. That's more than a decade. That means my journey of motherhood started almost 12 years ago. In some ways, it feels like no time has passed at all and at the same time, I have been a mother my whole adult life. (Well, there was about a year where I was a legal 'adult' in there, but who really feels like a grown up just because they turned 18 and graduated high school?) So in many ways, this life is all I've ever really known outside of my own childhood. But I can't imagine it any other way and wouldn't want to.

I have reinforced some things with my son so that when he gets old enough to question the circumstances surrounding his conception, the answers will hopefully already be in his heart. They are:

1. He is my favourite thing. And I say 'thing' and he goes, "Mom, I'm not a thing." And I say, "But you're my favourite of all the things! Everything in the world- animal, vegetable, mineral, whatever. You're the best of all." A lot of other things demand my time and attention and I have to prioritise some days. But despite all that, he's my favourite and I want him to know that, ultimately, he is my priority when it counts.

2. He is my special boy. I know some parents and non-parents think you shouldn't tell your kids they're special. (Hey, non-parents, no offence- by which I mean, do feel free to be offended since that's what you do to us- but you don't get to formulate die-hard opinions on parenting. You just don't. I'm storing up laughter for the day when you have kids, I truly am.) Oh, shut up with that malarkey... This world will tear these little individuals down enough. Insecurities and self-doubt will creep in and sow enough seeds of uncertainty in their souls. And when that happens, they need a foundation to rest on - one that promoted their self-worth and value. And yes, self-worth and value are the same as believing you're special. It doesn't mean you're better than others; it means you have something unique to offer, because of your individuality and experiences, to the collective contribution of society. And you should strive to find that and cultivate it. You first have to believe it's there in order to do that. It's your job to build your kids up so that by the time the world gets a chance to tear them down, it can only go so far because you have given them a confidence basement, so to speak, that they can't sink below. They don't need to believe you're a part of the crowd that feels the need to take them down a notch. They don't need that to start as soon as possible in their lives from within their own home. So take your hipstery, one-step philosophical nonsense elsewhere. I've been a parent since before we based all of our opinions on facebook/huffpost/buzzfeed 'articles' thinking such self-indulgent, basic, and unfounded diatribes were scripturally profound, and I know better. Maybe someone should tell these codswallop-spouting gurus of our time that they aren't as special as they think they are. But my son is special and if you have a problem with that, I dare you to challenge this Irish mamma and see how that works out for you...

3. I love him most. He is loved by many people and will be loved by many more in his lifetime. But outside of God, no one loves him more than me. No one is more grateful for him than me. I'm not trying to ruin him for the future women in his life. I want him to know that not an ounce of my being would change what I did 12 years ago, because I love him more than life itself, more than myself. So if given the choice between him and me, I would so instinctively choose him that it has never actually been a choice. Never. And as he grows up and moves on to the loves of his life in his own family, there will be a love behind him that wanted him in this world more than anyone and who wants his happiness, joy, and fulfillment- which will include many things beyond me for him. But as for me, he will always be the love of my life with God. And my heart will have room for a husband and another child (i.e. other 'loves of my life'), if that's the way my life goes, without ever diminishing the immensity of my love for him. Mom hearts just grow, Grinch-style...

4. He is the "best gift I ever got." My son was a surprise, that's for sure. I didn't plan for him and one day, he will calculate our ages with better understanding and realise that. Gifts are sometimes unexpected, but they add to your life, they don't take away. Some of the best things are the blessings you didn't count on that take your life in a direction you could have never foreseen. And he IS the greatest blessing. And this direction is one I didn't know I wanted, but have loved far above the ignorant alternative. I always joke that I should get presents on his birthday cuz I did all the work that day! And he protests that that wouldn't be fair, etc, and I'm obviously kidding. But I already got the best gift that day and every day since. And I tell him, "God must love me a lot to give me a gift like you." And I hope those words always resound within him so he knows the life that we've had was not only a blessing from God with His hand prints all over it, but was added to, improved upon- just infinitely better than any other plan or expectation that came before him. 

God must love me a lot...


Happy Birthday, mon coeur.


honey mustard

blue jeans and honey mustard

Monday, May 25, 2015


You were such a pretty little lie
That crept right into my life,
With your shy'n'sly smile,
And those hazel, wide eyes,
Had me feelin' just like
Nothing could ever go wrong,
Our love felt like a country song,
A happy, little country song.



Let's get in your car
And drive down memory lane,
It won't be the same-
This I know.
But just give me honey kisses
And fireflies
One last time
Before I let you go,

With your pretty little lies
That crept right into my life,
With your shy'n'sly smile,
And those hazel, wide eyes
You had me feelin' just like
Together we were too strong,
Our love felt like a country song,
A happy, little country song,
A happy, little country song,

It didn't last long,
But it was our song...
(And it was honey mustard.)


God

Congratulations, Nick

Wednesday, April 08, 2015


Today a dear friend passed away after a valiant battle in the war that is ALS. I was introduced to this man as Dr. Miller, my high school principal. But he became just "Nick" throughout the years as he was a worship leader at my church, the father of a close friend, and generally an edifying person in my life. 

My senior year of high school was a disaster for me. A complication with my long-standing heart condition rendered me bed-ridden for the first 10 weeks of my final semester. My attendance was sporadic the remaining two months of school as I recovered. If it weren't for my amazing teachers and principal, I would not have graduated. No amount of hard work on my part could have accomplished all I needed to do had they not banded together for me. I consider that success a team effort and a testament to my school. As I carefully climbed the platform steps on graduation day (I'd only been able to walk steadily at this point for just over a month), I approached Dr. Miller beaming with pride, excitement, and relief. He clasped my hand and said, "Congratulations! I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it."

About a year and a half after that precious moment, I found out I was pregnant. Though I will never refer to my son as an accident, the circumstances were definitely unplanned and were a shock to many, including myself. Firstly, I was a bright and intelligent young woman and didn't exactly think it was a wise career move to get pregnant in my freshman year of architecture school. Secondly, my doctors had warned me my heart might not survive pregnancy and delivery. But most importantly, I am and always have been a Christ-follower and this situation was a moral lapse for me. I never turned my back on God or anything, but we all deal with different struggles and weaknesses and the relationship I had been in for half my life was mine. No one was more disappointed in my trespasses than me, though some people surely competed.

I had been an active church member and youth mentor. So I wrote home to several friends and teens that were still in my youth group to break the news myself. I asked for understanding and forgiveness and was surprised to receive it from some people I didn't anticipate. I was also surprised when the one person I especially expected grace from declared how "devastated" they were, and how I had shaken their own beliefs by this immense disappointment in someone they so looked up to. Whew... I can see this with better perspective now, but at the time, it was a knife to the heart.

I returned to my home country from studying overseas to have the baby there. I was just in time to attend graduation at my old high school two full years after my own moment of pride. I questioned going but had friends graduating whom I wanted to support. So I approached the gymnasium in the parking lot, adjusting my maternity dress over my uncomfortable 6-month belly and contemplating my swollen ankles and serious case of pregnancy face (yes, that is a real thing!). I didn't feel very confident, but just as I was about to walk in anyway, an old teacher saw me. She greeted me cheerily and seeing my tattle-tale belly, asked when I'd gotten married with a quizzical expression, no doubt related to my young age. I sheepishly said I was not married to which she replied curtly, "Oh," followed pass-remarkably by, "How disappointing, I expected better from you," before she swiftly left me in the dust without another word. I removed the knife from my heart once more and proceeded to the ceremony with my head held high in feigned pride, where I was met with further looks, questions, and whispers.

I finally mustered up the courage to attend my home church soon after. I had grown up in this church and it was filled with 'aunts' and 'uncles' who knew me better than my own blood relations. Ideally, Christians are meant to understand the need for grace and forgiveness better than most, having humbly received it themselves. And I'm proud to say that many in my community showed me unconditional love and support that went above and beyond. But I had had enough rejection and judgement to make me wary of entering that building, unsure of what reaction awaited me. As my belly led the way, I waddled in, alone and preparing myself for faces of shock and confusion. But instead, the first faces I ran smack-dab into that morning were those of Nick and his wife, Alison. They approached me with their arms around each other with huge, effortless smiles. Beaming with joy, they welcomed me into their embrace and proceeded to say the one thing I had yet to hear throughout this entire experience, "Congratulations!" Then they said they were so excited for me, that they were sure my little one would be a real blessing, and that they knew I'd make a good mother, clasping my hands with a squeeze for encouragement. What's more, there wasn't a hint of pity, insincerity, or disappointment on their faces. Wow...

See, I was well aware of the connotations of my situation. I was aware that my future had been altered; that difficulty lay ahead. I was aware that this was unexpected for my character and that my life would forever face consequences. But I was also aware that not all of those consequences would be bad. One major thing, in fact, would be splendid: my son. I was already aware that I loved him and I was acutely aware that the mourning period for a life that never would be needed to be over to accommodate the life that lay ahead, both for him and for me. People expected me to keep reliving my story and my shame. They wanted my repeated explanations, justifications, and apologies every time it was fresh for them. But I had lived every minute of it and was prepared to be proud of myself again. I couldn't linger in the loss and grief. I was prepared to welcome my son knowing that my shame was not his, my mistakes were not his, and he was and always would be my first-born child. He deserved to be celebrated.

What Nick and Alison did was see past the tragedy and the circumstances to the core truth- that this was a blessing. This was a life. This was a celebration. They congratulated me first on the proudest feat of my life: motherhood. And that simple word spoken over me made me feel less alone and gave me the strength to go take my seat that day with pride that was not feigned, but flowed from deep within and would continue to do so.

The last time I saw Nick was a few years later when I was the mother of a beautiful toddler. It was to say goodbye when he and his wife moved from my home country onto another adventure. I hugged him and said I would miss them. And he looked down on me with that towering, paternal height and in his classic, nonchalant way said, "You're going to be fine. You're a smart girl, you've handled yourself well. I know you're going to do great, do you know that?" I think I answered with some joke to relieve the moment because, for me, there was nothing nonchalant about that kind of affirmation. And I couldn't quite express to him how much it meant to me.

Now, here we are in tragic circumstances where loss and grief abounds. And this is indeed a tragedy that I will not undermine as I sit here with tears and sadness as my company. But I will do what he did for me and see past the circumstances to the core truth and say:

Congratulations, Nick! You have run the race and received the prize for a life well-led, and a legacy left behind. You now get to be with the Lord, whom you served well, and live in freedom and health. I celebrate your life and the effect it had on me and mine. Thank you for the love and grace and example. And know that, until we meet again, we will live out our days on earth with a little added strength because you were here. 

...And I bet you're gracing the heavenly hosts with your mad guitar skills. We love you. We miss you. And we will remember you. Thank you.