I Wanna Wear Rags Too

I was a rich first world child growing up in a poverty stricken third world country when I first met Them. They were just ordinary people, same as me, but something set them apart from any people I had met before. They wore rags. And they wore them regally. They lived in hovels, some of them, but they didn't complain that they wanted palaces. They sometimes didn't have enough food, but they kept on with their normal every day lives, as if buoyed by the knowledge that this famine wouldn't last forever. They made poor look luxe. They wore their torn faded clothes with  grace. They swept the dirt floors of their houses, and the hard packed ground around them, carefully. Every day. And on the days when there wasn't sufficient food, they shared what they had with people who were hungrier than they. 

These people were my friends and I wanted to be like them. I started wearing rags too. I loved my faded torn clothes (my mother didn't like them as well as I did!) and wore them as much as possible. I started to use a safety pin to mend broken seams, i tied fraying edges of a hole together to make it a little less of a hole, I began treasure each hole, fray, fade, tear and bleach spot and flaunt them proudly. It was suddenly cool wear broken shoes to town (My mother still disagreed!); it made me feel like I was one with my rag wearing friends. What I didn't really understand then, was that these clothes helped me identify, helped bridge the gap between my first world self and my third world friends. I didn't think of it that way as a 12 year old. I just wanted to fit in. Wearing rags was cool.  

Now, as an adult, living in my homeland, I still use a few of those live-with-less ways I learned in Africa. I sometimes safety pin a hole I don't have time to fix (my mother still disapproves!), I like to wear my boots until they have holes the snow melts into, things like that. But mostly I don't wanna wear rags.  Mostly I like to replace my clothes before they're entirely worn, I like to dress relatively nicely when In public, I have a dozen or more pairs of shoes for every season. Mostly I like this way of life but sometimes  on the rare occasion I wish for the less complex lifestyle of my childhood -torn dresses, limited wardrobe options and few trends to stay ahead of. 

Maybe it's nostalgia. Maybe it's the minimalist in me. 

(The thought seemed like a good one. Never could write it out like I was thinking it tho. It's still sort of stuck in my busy Christmas brain. But this is what you get. Til next time, TSW)

The Small is the Big

Some days feelings are clouds and emotions that start out small are suddenly massive and choking my day with their fog. Anger some days, impatience others. Utter fatigue for some days. Defeat some days, some days of sadness. Apprehension steals days too and usually is followed by a day or two of fear. 

But then some days are just happy. 

And on those days, small things make happy. Small things like morning hugs and fast bacon and eggs. Small things like a lovely singing time (lovely mostly because I could just listen), like a speedy and easy math class, like COoperation. Small things like wise advice, like a child asking for help, like understanding. Small things like a husband who washes the floor, like a midnight walk, like a day in the city. Small things like an ounce of sudden hope in the darkness. 

And when small things make happy, small things are my big. 

When in Need of Tears

When in need of tears,  remember the  children you aren't allowed to hold anymore. Replay conversations with them in your mind. Find all the scenes and happenings you lived with them and relive those happiness moments. Look at lots of old pictures and videos of those darlings. Listen to the hundreds of messages and recordings those children sent, talking, singing, being crazy. The tears will come.

Monsters

Not my words today, but words from my little (not-so-little) sister, who is a sage one. Thanks for sharing this, Sister.

It's the middle of the night. The deep breathing of sleeping humans is scattered thruout the house. Until a child's waking cry breaks the silence. It grows louder until she succeeds to rouse the sister <me> next to her. 'What's the matter?' I ask. 'Why are u crying?'
'Monsters,' she whimpers. Just 'Monsters.'
'It's OK, baby,' I whisper back. 'It was just a dream. Monsters aren't real.'
How wrong I was.

 Everybody has at least one monster that makes its home under their bed. Some people call these monsters Satan. Some people call them Sin. Some people give them names like Pride and Selfishness and Mean-ness and Disobedience and Jealousy. I just call them monsters. These are not ordinary child-version monsters. These monters are not visible to the eye. Not tangible. But they are just as scary.
 This monster of mine can change its appreance. It can be huge or tiny. It can be red or it can be black. And it can do a myriad of different things. Sometimes this monster convinces me to do things I shouldn't do. It sees me talking and convinces me to get mad when I think someone else is wrong and I'm right. It sees me crying and convinces me that I have a harder life than other people. It sees me doing someone else's job and convinces me that I'm better than that someone else. It sees me at the mall and convinces me to wear clothes that are not approved of by my parents. It convinces me to think unkind thoughts about people and to treat them unkindly too. It sees me hurt and convinces me that maybe if I would have said and done something else than maybe my life would have turned out different. Better.
 But sometimes I fight this monster. Not by myself. If I try by myself it torments me worse. Instead I ask for the help of one certain Soldier. Together we can wound him and chase him away. But I always have to be careful because this monster never will die. It will keep on attacking me and convincing me to do wrong. The only way to keep him away is to follow my Soldier and do what he tells me.
 My own monster isn't the only one that can hurt me. Other people's monsters that live under their beds hurt me too. Sometimes they hurt me by convincing their person to say something mean. Or they convince their person to make up lies to take my little sisters away. But I can't blame these people. I also have a monster. And because our monters can change size and shape, no monster is worse or better than any other. I hate monsters.

Memories. Two little girls. Hugs. Temper tantrums. Kisses. Scratches. Mischievous glints in two pairs of sparkling eyes. Time outs. Wise words spoken solemnly (repeated after Daddy). A few hurtful words rashly shouted. Yes monsters are real. But love is also real. And stronger.

We Need Fire Back

God, we need Fire back. You still have her but we don't. You still get to hear her 6 year old laughter and listen to her imaginative stories. Why can't we ? You get to comfort her when she's sad. We'd love another opportunity to put our arms around her and tell her loving comforting words when she cries. How come she has to live away from us ? Do you hug her when she's sad ? Give her a hug from me today.  Do you kiss her owies better when  she's hurt ? Kiss her for me today. Do you sit beside her when she's lonely for her family, wrapping Your arms around her and promising her she can see them again ? Please do that for me today. We know Your love for Fire is even bigger than ours. Love her for us today, God. And please bring her back soon. 

Reach Farther

I like my corner, my solitary confinement, my easy, my selfish. I like shutting  myself away from life, grieving alone, pitying me, keeping myself focused on only me. I like it when I don't have to share my comfort (my husband) and when I don't have to share my security (my husband) and when I don't have to share my lifeline (my husband).

Maybe though it's when I'm grieving that it's my time to reach farther than my corner. Maybe  allowing my husband to help his family instead of being too clingy and possessive of his comfort is a healthy thing. Maybe sharing my sorrow with a friend instead of keeping it safely inside me is therapeutic. Maybe leaving my house and helping someone else with their children is what heals me. Maybe keeping myself to myself will only make the pain burn deeper. Maybe the time when the last thing I want to do is give me away is the time when it's the most important for me to do. Maybe I need to reach farther than myself. 

A Time to Dance. Or Not ?

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;” ‭‭Ecclesiastes‬ ‭3:4‬

And just when I know it's the season to dance, a massive missil of sorrow rockets into my
life. Tears flow, my body shakes with grief and my new and wonderful husband has to deal
with a mourning wife instead of a laughing dancing wife .
One thing I have found, however,  that no matter how excruciating the pain of giving up 2
children I love so much, it does not and cannot destroy the joy that has come to me in other
ways, that sadness in one area of my life cannot delete contentment and the sheer happiness
of my new life. And one more thing,  something my husband reminded me of one night when
my heart was mourning, That the One who has held me through every other joy and tragedy
of my life, my Jesus, is the One who still holds me, and will hold me tomorrow, helping me
through the extreme happiness and the extreme sorrows this moment of my life presents.
If  any of you are facing either joy or pain, excitement about the future or a cloud of
discouragement about the future or any combination of these contrasting feelings, remember
Who has promised to keep you. Remember that the One who is in charge of tomorrow is the
One who is holding you, and that sometimes the time to mourn and the time to dance happen simultaneously.