She sits in the trailer she's been given for the day and waits. She waits for the next man to walk through the door. Some of them are already drunk, barely aware of their actions. Others are sober and completely aware of what they're doing. But it doesn't really matter either way . . . not to her.
She hears the door open and keeps her eyes on her folded hands in her lap. She wrings her hands in agitation as he walks toward her. He smooths her hair as if she were his child. What he doesn't know is that she's actually two years younger than his own daughter - barely 15.
She rises from her seat and it takes all that she has within her to smile weakly up at him. She falls onto the bed that has seen countless others just today. She closes her eyes to keep the pain away and tries not to think too much.
Her heart sinks even further into the pit of her stomach and she wonders if she'll ever get used to being in this business.
Her breath catches in her throat and she fights the tears that well into her once-innocent eyes.
Her head spins uncontrollably and she's afraid that she'll throw up if she can't bring something - anything - under her control.
She sits up as he fastens his belt and slams the door behind him, loudly, as if signifying his finishing with her. A single tear escapes and snakes down her face as she wonders how long it will be before he's back again . . . maybe not with her, but with another girl who spends each moment pleading with God to rescue her.
The room continues to spin and she vomits into a plastic bag. Closing her eyes, she presses her palm to her forehead. Why can't she control anything? Just one thing would be enough.
Here, use this to numb it.
Numb what?
Everything.
The conversation rings in her head and she reaches into the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cheap vodka. An older, more experienced girl had shoved it into her trembling hands yesterday after he had told her she was working today.
Today . . . of all days, had to be her first.
She unscrews the bottle and sniffs the alcohol inside. She doesn't drink. She's a good girl. But not anymore. Now she's a girl men come to to get things they can't get anywhere else.
The self-hatred rises like a flame within her and the vodka burns a path down her throat, but she doesn't care. After a few more drinks, she won't be able to feel anything anyway.
On her third swallow, she begins to sweat so the burst of cold air feels nice when the door opens. For the few seconds it is open, she can hear the loud cheering and announcers' voices. Then the door is shut and the outside world is gone just as Beyonce takes the stage for halftime.
But what does it matter? Besides, it's not like she really likes football anyway.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
But what about the consumers?
There are parts of my passion for those enslaved in the commercial sex industry that often confuses others (and, at times, even myself). I say that it is my dream to help set free those who are held captive; to help them escape their captors. And that is my dream.
But what about the prostitutes? The question inevitably comes from those who are not educated about sex trafficking, and also from those who are. As the question swirls in my mind, I find that I do not have an answer.
I understand if they're physically held with chains and locks but if they aren't, they could just walk away. This one forces me to bite my lip and hold back the bitter words I want to spew out.
They have a choice. They could stop if they wanted. These statements anger me because I've never considered that those in slavery have a choice. Then I wonder how much truth they hold, and I have to listen to some music and forget the debate for a while to keep my head from exploding.
I think it's easy for those of us whom have never been in contact with the commercial sex industry to sit back and judge the women who provide the services, calling them horrible names and looking down upon them as if they're less than we are. It's understandable; when we think of the word "prostitution", we think of a scantily-clad woman standing in four-inch stilettos on a street corner as she lures men into buying the one thing she has to offer. We think of a half-naked woman dancing on a bar, hoping a man will approach her and ask to go into the back room. We think of a woman high on whatever her drug of choice; a "good for nothing" woman with no work ethic and no future.
We think of the women.
But one question no one seems to ask is, What about the consumers? What about the people who buy the prostitutes' services? Why don't we think about the men that use and abuse these women and shudder with disgust at the thought of them, rather than the other way around? These men treat these women with no respect, with no thought to how these acts must make her feel, and with no care at all to how this one sexual act with him will affect her for the rest of her life. And, yes, the individual men and experiences may begin to fade together and she will do what she must night after night, but those faces, those groping hands, those hardened hearts will continue to haunt her in her dreams.
But what about the prostitutes? I still see a broken and hurting person who needs help to shake off the devil on her back, whatever that may be. I still see a soul who needs the love and grace of God. And I will help her regardless.
I understand if they're physically held with chains and locks but if they aren't, they could just walk away. Physical chains and locks aren't the only means of keeping someone in bondage; there is also the need for drugs to avoid excruciating detoxification, lack of anywhere else to go and/or anything else to do for money to support families, and paralyzing fear. In the words of a former prostitute: "The psychological games he played [with us] were just amazing." Not everything is so black and white.
They have a choice. They could stop if they wanted. Imagine being a single mother with no education and five children who need you to provide for them, but it's impossible to work because two of those children are not yet in school and you cannot afford childcare. Even in imagining that, I know many of you will claim that you would still never sell yourself. Please don't speak out on something that you don't fully understand from experience. It's so easy for us to judge from on high those in a pit of despair. Be careful.
So, my question to you, to American society, to the world; What about the consumers who keep the commercial sex industry booming? Remember, no industry can survive without people willing to pay to purchase the product for sale.
But what about the prostitutes? The question inevitably comes from those who are not educated about sex trafficking, and also from those who are. As the question swirls in my mind, I find that I do not have an answer.
I understand if they're physically held with chains and locks but if they aren't, they could just walk away. This one forces me to bite my lip and hold back the bitter words I want to spew out.
They have a choice. They could stop if they wanted. These statements anger me because I've never considered that those in slavery have a choice. Then I wonder how much truth they hold, and I have to listen to some music and forget the debate for a while to keep my head from exploding.
* * * * *
I think it's easy for those of us whom have never been in contact with the commercial sex industry to sit back and judge the women who provide the services, calling them horrible names and looking down upon them as if they're less than we are. It's understandable; when we think of the word "prostitution", we think of a scantily-clad woman standing in four-inch stilettos on a street corner as she lures men into buying the one thing she has to offer. We think of a half-naked woman dancing on a bar, hoping a man will approach her and ask to go into the back room. We think of a woman high on whatever her drug of choice; a "good for nothing" woman with no work ethic and no future.
We think of the women.
But one question no one seems to ask is, What about the consumers? What about the people who buy the prostitutes' services? Why don't we think about the men that use and abuse these women and shudder with disgust at the thought of them, rather than the other way around? These men treat these women with no respect, with no thought to how these acts must make her feel, and with no care at all to how this one sexual act with him will affect her for the rest of her life. And, yes, the individual men and experiences may begin to fade together and she will do what she must night after night, but those faces, those groping hands, those hardened hearts will continue to haunt her in her dreams.
* * * * *
But what about the prostitutes? I still see a broken and hurting person who needs help to shake off the devil on her back, whatever that may be. I still see a soul who needs the love and grace of God. And I will help her regardless.
I understand if they're physically held with chains and locks but if they aren't, they could just walk away. Physical chains and locks aren't the only means of keeping someone in bondage; there is also the need for drugs to avoid excruciating detoxification, lack of anywhere else to go and/or anything else to do for money to support families, and paralyzing fear. In the words of a former prostitute: "The psychological games he played [with us] were just amazing." Not everything is so black and white.
They have a choice. They could stop if they wanted. Imagine being a single mother with no education and five children who need you to provide for them, but it's impossible to work because two of those children are not yet in school and you cannot afford childcare. Even in imagining that, I know many of you will claim that you would still never sell yourself. Please don't speak out on something that you don't fully understand from experience. It's so easy for us to judge from on high those in a pit of despair. Be careful.
So, my question to you, to American society, to the world; What about the consumers who keep the commercial sex industry booming? Remember, no industry can survive without people willing to pay to purchase the product for sale.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Today Was Not a "Usual" Day
Today, I had the amazing privilege of attending CATCH court. CATCH stands for Changing Actions to Change Habits. Sponsored by DOMA, an organization whose motto is, "Empowering women. Embracing children.", CATCH court works to end the ever increasing number of women who enter the cycle of being trafficked on the streets or online, being arrested and incarcerated for solicitation of commercial sex, then being released back onto the streets only to return to the one thing they know: their pimp.
DOMA's website explains what CATCH court and Judge Herbert is trying to do:
"Judge Paul Herbert of Franklin County Municipal Court responded to this cry [the cycle of trafficking, arrest and incarceration, and back to trafficking] after years of meeting women in court who were caught up in Human Trafficking. CATCH is an innovative, voluntary, two-year program to help ladies trapped in the sex trade. It utilizes a restorative-justice approach to helping ladies through support, encouragement, and accountability. It truly meets the needs of ladies in recovery, and fosters a healthy environment for wholeness and restoration.
"Franklin County Municipal Court created a specialty docket court–Changing Actions to Change Habits, (“CATCH”), to address multi-systemic needs of women charged with prostitution. 125 women were screened, 96 assessed, 60 accepted and 40 committed to treatment for a 30 day minimum. They are over 18, charged with misdemeanor crimes of solicitation, and/or prostitution, and request entrance into the 2 year program. All serve convictions for non-violent crimes; all have suffered violent crimes done unto them: 77% have traumatic brain injuries; all were raped an average of 6 times; 90% were orphaned or abandoned by their moms; 90% have PTSD. They have 13 arrests (on average) in a 2 yr period; 100% are chemically dependent; 73% were juvenile runaways, the average age is 34, grade level-10th.)"
Usually, when I attend an event that is about an issue near to my heart, I come home raving about it. Usually, my fingers are itching to write about my experience and I end up composing most of my post in my head during the car ride home. Usually, the words just seem to flow from my lips and my fingertips, as if I couldn't stop the sentences from forming even if I tried. Usually . . .
But today is not one of those "usual" days. I am having trouble writing a post about the experience that I had today. It's not because the issue at hand is not one dear to me, in fact, the complete opposite. It's not because I didn't enjoy the time that I spent at this event; I absolutely did. It's not because my heart is not breaking for those that I visited today because it most definitely is. It's not because God didn't work in miraculous ways, for I saw so much of Him in the ladies I met.
I have been trying for hours to figure out what exactly it is that I want to say about the wonderful women I saw today . . . and I have come up empty.
The women I met today are the most encouraging, courageous, humble, loving, accepting people that I have ever seen. They laughed with one another over jokes. They cried with one another when one lady shared that her grandmother had recently passed away and that the funeral is tomorrow. They rejoiced with one another at the mention of a woman being 95 days sober. They encouraged one another, freely giving their phone numbers so they can call one of them when they just need someone. They each felt what others in their tight-knit community felt . . . and that is a beautiful thing.
Maybe I can't write about it because words don't even begin to describe what I felt in that room. Maybe it's because I don't feel that a simple blog post does justice to the women I heard speak today. Maybe it's because I don't understand all of what I learned. Maybe it's even because I don't want to acknowledge everything that I heard. Or maybe it's because I'm afraid that if I write about it, I'll "get it out of my system" and forget what I heard and saw and felt.
But I think, most of all, I can't write about it because I don't want to romanticize their stories. I want them to be raw and real and true, and I don't quite know how to do that. And, even if I did know how, I don't want to tell these stories for those ladies; they deserve to own their amazing stories of hope and redemption, and share them themselves.
These women are not numbers or statistics or probabilities. Rather, these women are human beings. They have hurt beyond my understanding. They have tragedy within their torn families. They have guilt and shame, just like anyone else. They have brokenness and vulnerability that they try to hide from each other, and even themselves, because this harsh world has taught them that they have no right to feel and that they need to bottle it up inside. They have anger, and every right to harbor that, yet they learn to forgive and let go.
These women amaze me to no end. Where the world sees useless prostitutes who will amount to nothing, I see beautiful children of God. Where the world sees a drug addict and dismisses her as good as dead, I see a woman full of promise and potential. Where the world sees the least of these and turns away, I see the least of these and meet them where they are and help them how I can.
"These women are so beautiful," she whispered to me. Nothing could be more true.
DOMA's website explains what CATCH court and Judge Herbert is trying to do:
"Judge Paul Herbert of Franklin County Municipal Court responded to this cry [the cycle of trafficking, arrest and incarceration, and back to trafficking] after years of meeting women in court who were caught up in Human Trafficking. CATCH is an innovative, voluntary, two-year program to help ladies trapped in the sex trade. It utilizes a restorative-justice approach to helping ladies through support, encouragement, and accountability. It truly meets the needs of ladies in recovery, and fosters a healthy environment for wholeness and restoration.
"Franklin County Municipal Court created a specialty docket court–Changing Actions to Change Habits, (“CATCH”), to address multi-systemic needs of women charged with prostitution. 125 women were screened, 96 assessed, 60 accepted and 40 committed to treatment for a 30 day minimum. They are over 18, charged with misdemeanor crimes of solicitation, and/or prostitution, and request entrance into the 2 year program. All serve convictions for non-violent crimes; all have suffered violent crimes done unto them: 77% have traumatic brain injuries; all were raped an average of 6 times; 90% were orphaned or abandoned by their moms; 90% have PTSD. They have 13 arrests (on average) in a 2 yr period; 100% are chemically dependent; 73% were juvenile runaways, the average age is 34, grade level-10th.)"
Usually, when I attend an event that is about an issue near to my heart, I come home raving about it. Usually, my fingers are itching to write about my experience and I end up composing most of my post in my head during the car ride home. Usually, the words just seem to flow from my lips and my fingertips, as if I couldn't stop the sentences from forming even if I tried. Usually . . .
But today is not one of those "usual" days. I am having trouble writing a post about the experience that I had today. It's not because the issue at hand is not one dear to me, in fact, the complete opposite. It's not because I didn't enjoy the time that I spent at this event; I absolutely did. It's not because my heart is not breaking for those that I visited today because it most definitely is. It's not because God didn't work in miraculous ways, for I saw so much of Him in the ladies I met.
I have been trying for hours to figure out what exactly it is that I want to say about the wonderful women I saw today . . . and I have come up empty.
The women I met today are the most encouraging, courageous, humble, loving, accepting people that I have ever seen. They laughed with one another over jokes. They cried with one another when one lady shared that her grandmother had recently passed away and that the funeral is tomorrow. They rejoiced with one another at the mention of a woman being 95 days sober. They encouraged one another, freely giving their phone numbers so they can call one of them when they just need someone. They each felt what others in their tight-knit community felt . . . and that is a beautiful thing.
Maybe I can't write about it because words don't even begin to describe what I felt in that room. Maybe it's because I don't feel that a simple blog post does justice to the women I heard speak today. Maybe it's because I don't understand all of what I learned. Maybe it's even because I don't want to acknowledge everything that I heard. Or maybe it's because I'm afraid that if I write about it, I'll "get it out of my system" and forget what I heard and saw and felt.
But I think, most of all, I can't write about it because I don't want to romanticize their stories. I want them to be raw and real and true, and I don't quite know how to do that. And, even if I did know how, I don't want to tell these stories for those ladies; they deserve to own their amazing stories of hope and redemption, and share them themselves.
These women are not numbers or statistics or probabilities. Rather, these women are human beings. They have hurt beyond my understanding. They have tragedy within their torn families. They have guilt and shame, just like anyone else. They have brokenness and vulnerability that they try to hide from each other, and even themselves, because this harsh world has taught them that they have no right to feel and that they need to bottle it up inside. They have anger, and every right to harbor that, yet they learn to forgive and let go.
These women amaze me to no end. Where the world sees useless prostitutes who will amount to nothing, I see beautiful children of God. Where the world sees a drug addict and dismisses her as good as dead, I see a woman full of promise and potential. Where the world sees the least of these and turns away, I see the least of these and meet them where they are and help them how I can.
"These women are so beautiful," she whispered to me. Nothing could be more true.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Christmas in a Brothel
It's Christmas Eve and I lay in bed, curled up under a pile of blankets and my head resting on a fluffy pillow. I close my eyes and begin to drift into a shallow sleep, the place where, on previous Christmas Eves years ago, my head would be filled with dreams of twinkling Christmas lights and beautifully wrapped gifts.
But not tonight. Tonight, gruesome images startle me and I jerk awake quickly. I calm my breathing and my heart rate slows, but my mind continues to race with unstoppable force. The images flash in my mind's eye and sorrow fills my heart.
An eight-year-old girl is crumpled in a corner, broken and bloodied, but her heart is too hardened against the world to care. A young teenager struts across a Las Vegas street to meet a customer and slides into the cab, uncertain of where it's taking her, of where she'll end up at the end of the night, of whom she is leaving with. A 20something young woman lays on a table, the tears silently falling from her eyes as a doctor removes the child growing inside her womb, her fourth abortion, because her pimp considers these precious children a hindrance to his business.
And then my own tears fall and I squeeze my eyes shut, guarding myself against the harsh thoughts that assault me.
I pray and I cry and I fall asleep soundly within the comfort and safety of my home.
I know that each and every day is an unimaginable nightmare in the lives of these about whom I dream. I don't overlook every other day of the year for these for whom my heart breaks. But Christmas is a special time of the year; a time when magic seems to fill the air alongside the bell chimes and Christmas carols, when love and kindness abound more than ever before, when the human race as a whole is reminded of the reason for life and we are more gracious and forgiving and loving than usual. Christmas has always seemed a bit mystical to me and I cannot imagine not feeling that way when the snow begins to fall.
But for them, oh, how much different it must be . . .
Christmas. In a brothel in Cambodia. In a pay-by-the-hour motel in L.A. In an abandoned apartment in Ohio. Christmas. As an object of pleasure. As a non-person. As a slave.
Tonight, my prayers rise to the cloudy sky for these whom I describe. Tonight, my heart lies with theirs.
But not tonight. Tonight, gruesome images startle me and I jerk awake quickly. I calm my breathing and my heart rate slows, but my mind continues to race with unstoppable force. The images flash in my mind's eye and sorrow fills my heart.
An eight-year-old girl is crumpled in a corner, broken and bloodied, but her heart is too hardened against the world to care. A young teenager struts across a Las Vegas street to meet a customer and slides into the cab, uncertain of where it's taking her, of where she'll end up at the end of the night, of whom she is leaving with. A 20something young woman lays on a table, the tears silently falling from her eyes as a doctor removes the child growing inside her womb, her fourth abortion, because her pimp considers these precious children a hindrance to his business.
And then my own tears fall and I squeeze my eyes shut, guarding myself against the harsh thoughts that assault me.
I pray and I cry and I fall asleep soundly within the comfort and safety of my home.
* * * * *
Throughout the Christmas Day festivities with my family, the images reappear at times and I cringe, but they disappear as quickly as they come and I do my best to ignore them. I talk with my relatives, laugh with my cousins, and eat my grandparents' amazing food, almost successfully evading thoughts of children being sold and women my age servicing dozens of men a night.
Tonight, I sit on my aunt's couch, surrounded by my cousins and their children and dogs and four different types of desserts. And I think again of those images that swirled in my head on Christmas Eve and my heart is heavy because I suddenly realize that Christmas has come and gone.
What about them?
My heart lurches and I wonder what Christmas is like for a girl being sold every night. Is it just another night? Does she know it's Christmas? Does she know what Christmas means? Is she filled with sadness that she cannot be with her family on this day? Or maybe anger that her captor keeps her well within his tight grip?
And then I feel sick as heat washes over my body, and I wonder who comes to a brothel with money burning in his pocket on Christmas Day? I imagine the state of mind he must be in to do so. I imagine his family and wonder if they know. I ache for the wife he may have, for the children that may be anxiously awaiting his return. I wonder what drove him to that pay-by-the-hour motel that he so often frequents and, yes, even for him, my heart aches.
I know that each and every day is an unimaginable nightmare in the lives of these about whom I dream. I don't overlook every other day of the year for these for whom my heart breaks. But Christmas is a special time of the year; a time when magic seems to fill the air alongside the bell chimes and Christmas carols, when love and kindness abound more than ever before, when the human race as a whole is reminded of the reason for life and we are more gracious and forgiving and loving than usual. Christmas has always seemed a bit mystical to me and I cannot imagine not feeling that way when the snow begins to fall.
But for them, oh, how much different it must be . . .
Christmas. In a brothel in Cambodia. In a pay-by-the-hour motel in L.A. In an abandoned apartment in Ohio. Christmas. As an object of pleasure. As a non-person. As a slave.
Tonight, my prayers rise to the cloudy sky for these whom I describe. Tonight, my heart lies with theirs.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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