Thursday, November 29, 2012

Oh, the places we go...

   I am in the process of writing a book.

   Wow. Written out like that, it sounds frightening and intimidating. It also seems a tad self-righteous. I mean, who am I to think that I could write a book? I have no degree in English, Journalism, or Creative Writing . . . in fact, I am not even majoring in any of those areas. Who am I to think that I could write a book about sex trafficking, such a complicated and touchy subject? My Social Work degree is not even halfway complete. 

   These thoughts plague me day after day as I struggle to complete this book by the contest deadline. Even now, I'm not certain that it will be done and polished and perfected and ready for the critiquing eyes of others besides myself.

   But even if I hide these pages away from the world, allowing no one but myself to see them, they will still be there. And the characters I have created will still live in my head. And the places that I have described will still exist in my heart. Because places are meaningful.


*     *     *     *     *

   I stumbled across a friend's blog today; her latest post is about places and how we leave a part of us in each place that we visit. I know exactly what she means. 

   She and I have always been similar in our thoughts and ways we enjoy spending our time. ***I am about to embarrass both myself and her immensely (sorry, Noms!).*** I can remember countless days that we played in the woods behind my house, pretending to be Indians and Laura and Mary Ingalls and runaway slaves working our way along the Underground Railroad (only us . . . I don't really know where that one came from). We would rather run around barefoot outside than sit in front of the television (then again, neither of us had cable . . . maybe that's why we were - and are - the way we were . . . ). We may not have been the most talkative pair when it came to "real life", but our imaginations made up for that. We became the characters that we imagined and lived the stories we created. Creativity was always our outlet.

   Now, we both still remember those days; I long for those times where my imagination was vivid and alive and I hope that I can tap into at least half of that creativity that I know is hiding within me somewhere for this book that I am penning.

*     *     *     *     *

      She writes of places she's been, places she's cried, places she's dreamed, places she's prayed . . . and I can identify. As she describes the rusted fire escape on her college campus, I see the tree-stand in the woods behind my grandparent's house. As she talks about the spot in the ivy that is still indented even though she's been absent all summer long, I think of my own spot in a tree by the creek behind my house, a place I haven't visited in years. As she writes of the road engulfed in a tunnel of trees, I imagine the path snaking through the trees that I have walked so many times before. As she shares about the dark field that visited when she needed to clear her head, her Super Secret Stargazing Spot, I think of my horse pasture that I frequented when I needed to be alone, yet longed for silent company, which Annabelle and Emily (my ponies) provided. 



   And then I think of places that technically do not exist . . . not outside of my mind, that is. The room a seventeen-year-old heroin addict lives in to avoid her abusive mother. The small house built upon the red Ugandan dirt of a young missionary, scared to death, but more scared of what will happen if she does not follow where God leads her. The drive-in theater parking lot where teenage boys go to smoke weed because they want to escape the chaos that is their lives. The natatorium where Olympic dreams are built and worked for, and often crushed. The warehouse full of drugged underage girls being raped five, ten, fifteen times a night by men old enough to be their fathers. 

   These places are those that I have created in my head and heart. Some for stories I've thought up, some for poems I've penned, and some from the book that I am currently pouring my heart and soul into. These places truly and vibrantly exist for me; you cannot tell me that they are not "real". 

   I have left pieces of myself in each one of them. I have cried in that young woman's room . . . I have dreamed in that missionary's home . . . I have cursed the nightmare that I am living in that theater parking lot . . . I have worked harder than I ever thought possible in that natatorium . . . I have begged for mercy in that warehouse . . . 

   Because I am a writer and I am a dreamer and my imagination flies freely when I let it. 


*     *     *     *     *

   She's right. We do leave part of ourselves in the places that we visit and cry in and dream at. 

   And, in my opinion, that includes all places. The ones that you physically visit and the ones that you go to mentally and even the ones that you emotionally create in your heart.

   Places are places. And places are meaningful.

Friday, November 23, 2012

And I give thanks for:

1. Life; that I was given a chance to live and that I still am being blessed with life to this moment. 

2. Love; that I am blessed with friends and family that love me more than I will ever know.

3. Being born in America. Lately, I've heard plenty about how we as a nation are destroying America and all it has ever stood for . . . but I am so thankful that I was given this life in this country, free and happy.

4. Opportunities; that I have been given the chance to finish high school and attend college (complain as I may about it . . . ), that I was able to get a job when I turned 16 years old, still have that job today, and even work a second job during the summer. And, may I add, I job that I love!

5. Compassion. This may seem like an odd thing to be thankful for, but I truly am. I've heard people talk about having to work to become compassionate towards people. God has blessed me with a sense of compassion that is almost second-nature (though it is difficult at times - I am no saint)

6. Freedom. Isn't that what this blog is all about? Freedom from captors, from circumstance, from addiction . . . I am thankful for my freedom.


   Though I know that this is a few days late, the past few days I have been thinking a lot about my life and how much it differs from others. 

   My life is a blessing in and of itself, and I think that's worthy of my recognition. I want to (and need to) understand how blessed I am and the best way I could think of to do that was to list what I am thankful for, especially those things that weigh heavy on my mind: life, love, opportunity, circumstance, and freedom. 

   These are the things that separate me from those that I long to help. If any one of these things had been compromised during my life, I could have been any of those people that I live to love.  

   I could have been aborted as an unborn baby had I not been given the chance to live. I could have been an orphan or ward of the state had I not been blessed with the love and circumstances I've been given. I could have been a prostitute surviving on drugs, believing there's no other way for me to support myself, had I not been blessed with freedom and opportunity. 

   I could have been in so many different situations, yet God blessed me abundantly. And for that, I am thankful beyond words.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Forgotten People of the World

"When we got here, we felt..." and, among a dozen other adjectives she listed, I heard one louder and more clearly than all the others: forgotten.

   The word resounded in my heart and mind as tears flooded my eyes and I willed them not to overflow.

   Forgotten.

   What a powerful word. What a powerful feeling.

   And, as I sat in that community room in that building decorated with colorful, hopeful banners surrounded by fences lining the premises with razor-sharp barbed wire looped around the top of them, I understood.

   Not that I really understood the extent at which she meant it...I know I probably never will. Not that I really understood her circumstances...I know I probably never will. Not that I really understood her...I know that I never will. 

   But in that moment, I felt like I connected with her. I felt like I understood a small part of what she was trying to get us "outsiders" to understand. 

   And besides, I've always been one to notice the forgotten people of the world

*     *     *     *     *

   Today, I had the priviledge of visiting the Marysville Women's Reformatory during the closing ceremony of Kairos. Some of the residents got to go through a retreat of sorts the past three days and the closing ceremony is where they have an open mic and they stand up and talk about their experiences. 

   It's amazing to hear their stories. I've always been fascinated by stories in general, but especially people's life stories. I think it's utterly astonishing to learn what some people endure and even thrive during and after. I think people's stories shed more light on why they are who and how they are. I think it's essential to know a person's story as you get to know them. And these women...wow. They are some of the bravest, strongest, most beautiful, most intelligent, most loving people I've ever met. 

   And you know why no one knows about them?

   Because they are the forgotten people of the world. 

 

   I've always said that I care about the people no one else does. I care about the ones that others look down on. I care about the people that others question my (I'll admit it) sometimes seemingly obsession with. 

   Simply put...I have odd passions surrounding subjects that others my age don't even know about, let alone care about.
  
   How many of us think daily about those confined within the fences of Marysville Women's Reformatory and so many others like it all over this nation? And, let's face it, even when we do think about them, how often are our thoughts surrounding it caring ones filled with love rather than fear and hatred? 

   How many of us think daily about those children in Uganda, Africa (or anywhere else in the world, for that matter) who have no family, no food, no love, no hope? And even when we do, do we care enough to do something about it? Or even just stop and pray for them?

   How many of us think daily about those chained to their circumstances and paralyzed by fear in brothels and pay-by-the-hour motels all over the world? And, again, even if we do...are those thoughts ones of love and compassion or judgment and scorn?

   How many of us think daily about those in bondage to their addictions, fighting each and every day for a way to get money in order to score their next supply? And even when we do think about them, do we think of them as people who need help but are too deep in their addictions to realize it? Or do we dismiss them as the scum of this earth?

   Today, I realized something. All of my passions can be summed up as one.  

   My passion is for those who are the forgotten people of the world.