Beyond My Own Heart

Our conversation, among friends new and old, turned to Africa last night. This is not completely uncommon, as a few of us have spent even the briefest of time there. But it always catches my heart when we do. Even for the countries and the peoples I have not visited, itreaches out, and last night it longed to do so as the story of a young Sudanese woman's life was told...

Sold at the age of fourteen for a sum of $5,000 to a Sudanese man more than twice here age living here in America, the young woman was uprooted from her life in southern Sudan, though it may have been tumultuous at best, and exported to Las Vegas like some good to be traded and not a human being with will and desire of her own. Then, forced to marry this man, she became pregnant with her first child and endured the physical and emotional abuse of a person who cared little for her well-being and only that he "made good" on his purchase. So, when she escaped from him at the hands of a compassionate clinic worker (who mended her bruised and broken body), he went straight to her family in Sudan asking for his "refund". They had spent their money, and he had them imprisoned. Simple as that.

The young woman, after taking some comfort in a shelter for battered women in Las Vegas, met and was taken in by a family from a church nearby to the clinic. Soon, she took a job and worked off that $5,000 debt so that her family would be let out of jail and set free. But freedom is still something this young woman has not known.

Unfortunately, while still in Las Vegas, she walked into yet another damaging relationship, this time by her own will, that resulted in another child and far too many bruises that one should endure. She escaped again, fleeing to Gallatin, Tennessee where some cousins of hers live. Once here, she found a job only to be laid off in a period of months and lived out of her car with a young boy at her hip. After finding an ESL class hosted at a local church, she was noticed and taken in by yet another loving family who to this day seeks to help mend the pieces of her broken life. Her first child still remains in the care of her ex-husband, or owner, I should say. Because of some unjust ruling, she is required to make child support payments to this man and works long hours at a local resort, famous for hiring people of varying nationalities, to do so. And she lives here, resenting the decisions that everyone else has made along with her own that have put her at the mercy of the kindness of strangers

And that's her story. One of so many which tell of peoples struggles, both within their homelands and within their hearts to find a better life and to live free. Some prevail, and others find themselves stumbling over roadblocks from their past and a denial of the worth that is theirs from their very inception.

My heart betrayed itself at wanting instinctively to reach out to this woman and women like her, and yet to stay safe within its own walls of recovery, of safety, and of solitude. I can certainly identify, but I often convince myself I have enough of my own struggles (though none worth holding up against this young Sudanese woman's). Marrying my new world of pleasure to the pains of this woman's story seems impossible. But it is, I think and hope. Because all of her story is not without meaning, and should she find the platform, the abilities of this young woman to share, to encourage, and to lead are unending. But the task is to first find the healing and the freedom that has been denied to her for so long. And that is not unlike the task left for many of us.

What is that first step, then? Is it to wake up and to find gratitude for another day? Is it to reconcile the past by simply being present, knowing that nothing is undone but that there is so much left in us to do and to become? Is it to hope and have faith in the surety of the promises wound all through the fabrics of scripture?

I am most compelled to pray in times like these. Times where everything seems contradictory from one day to the next when I am alert to things going on beyond my own heart and my own simple mind. I will pray that my contentment is not founded on pleasure alone in the things of this world but on goodness of God, even through the the most difficult and challenging of times, for myself and for others. Because I know, no matter how far the swelling of my heart may reach, God can always reach further.

Pleasure and Pastries

One of my best friends made a permanent move back to Nashville this weekend, and that brings me pleasure. And pleasure, when it is unfolded like a long-awaited letter and held up to the welcoming sunshine to read, just feels so good. So good like a cool summer breeze, shared silence and conversation, slow traffic on a usually busy street, and deeply satisfying fresh-baked pastries. All welcome gifts dropped at this doorstep of my life.

This has been a season of big joys in small packages.

Because of all of these joys, I have felt freer. I have felt more like myself. I have felt like someone learning to see the world all over again and to enjoy it like an infant discovering the strength of their legs as they learn to walk, or a child cherishing the taste of a chocolate ice cream cone in the late afternoon. While not with complete reckless abandon (for I am refined adult, after all), I have found myself desperate for that deep feeling of utter contentment at the center of my gut and doing almost anything to get it. And none of that surface level happiness we all seem to parade around these days, will do. Where does it get us when we're really only hoping to prove to ourselves and to those around us that we're really okay?

Why can't we actually just be okay? Okay with the way our bodies look in the mirror, or the way our career plans haven't turned out exactly like we though. Okay with not having as much as our neighbor, and just having as much as we do because it is always enough. Contentment is knowing you are already okay. And you are. You just are.

Too often, I have spent my time looking to what is next - always changing, always transitioning, always breaking through. But what about being right where you are and being so ridiculously happy about it you could cry? Because I could. And not for sadness but for meaning, for purpose, and for feeling God's presence in the midst of it all.

And I hope that when my days get busier with long-expected work, that I will reflect often upon pleasure and pastries. Because in each I have found the corners of my heart turning upwards in a deep, grateful smile and my eyes, ears, and mouth longing to share in that experience with others. I am praying now that I will realize then that pleasure isn't just for the quiet, less-chaotic moments like these. It is for the grieving, working, dreaming, planning, and living moments. It is simply for all of them.