The Hardest Part

I had a call with my grandmother this week. She told me she has been diagnosed with cancer and is beginning chemotherapy soon. I have been struggling to understand the severity of the situation. A world away I can only know what other people tell me. I try to read between the lines of their messages, hoping they hold the answer for me. Wishing they would tell me how much I am allowed to worry and how much it is okay to cry..

You see my grandma is radiant. She is the kindest, most loving and optimistic soul that ever lived. I have never once heard her speak a negative or cynical word. Even in immense pain, her words will never show it. The only thing that exposes her is the twinkling sadness in her eyes. But I can't see that from here, I can't know for certain how she is feeling in the depths of her heart. 

Just last week I was speaking to a friend here in Cambodia about my grandmother. I spent some time talking about how lovely she is, and mentioned that I have always imagined I would move to Canada with her when she gets old and sick. "That won't be for a long time though..." I said with certainty. 

Now the time is here and yet I know it's not time for me to be there. In my head I know she is in capable hands, I know she has an amazing community where she is that will care for her as she fights this. 

My whole heart is with her while she goes through these treatments. But my body is here in Cambodia. And that is the hardest part, being torn as my heart is literally a world away. 

The Time that Fear Steals

I am back home, but continuing to pray about and reflect on my time in India. As I do this, one little girl is constantly on my heart. The image of her rare, yet stunning smile is imprinted on my mind. The joy she brought me is infused with regret for the time I missed with her. 

My first day working in this orphanage of handicapped children I heard her before I saw her. She screamed and wailed from her crib. When I went to console her, she attacked me. As the helpers carried her off of me kicking and screaming, they told me to leave her alone when she cries. Unable to ignore her sadness, I later asked one of the nuns if there was something we could do. As the nun tried to help, she also was attacked. The helpers sternly told me to leave her be. 

So I did. For almost two weeks I tried my best to ignore her screams and focus on the other children. 

But eventually it became too much, I couldn't stand by while she wept anymore. So I slowly approached her. I methodically spent a few minutes only standing near her crib, praying under my breath. Then I spent a few minutes with my hand on the bed, then a few minutes with my hand gently on her back. Suddenly she jumped up and grabbed me, pulling me into her crib. Before I knew it she was sobbing into my lap with her arms wrapped around my waist. We sat there until her tears finally stopped flowing. 

Then she looked up at me with her bright eyes, hugged me and then dug her face into my lap once again. 

We were nearly inseparable for the next week and a half. The nuns told me it was difficult to get her out of the crib, so her and I began to go for walks around the room. When she was well enough to handle it, we would play. When she was too overwhelmed to play, she would again lay in my lap and cry until she was ready. 

That last week with her was amazing. Each moment felt like a second and an eternity. As our time came to a close, I mourned all of the time we had lost. I thought about how much more we could have done if I would have come to her sooner. 

My fear kept me from connecting. My fear stole the moments that could have been. 

While this was an extreme example, I realize I do this all of the time. I keep relationships at arms length because I am afraid of being a disappointment, I silence my dreams because I am afraid they will not come to fruition, I stay too long because I am afraid of who I will be when I leave. How often do I let fear win? How often do I wait far too long to follow a calling because it seems out of reach? 

Fear has stolen too much from me. So now I will protect these moments. With a padlock of bravery and openness, I will keep fear out of these decisions of the heart. 

Dear Mercedes,

I have dreamt of working with Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity in Kolkata since I was an 8 year old girl. Seeing this dream fulfilled makes me think of who I was then, before trauma and confusion entered my life. Also recognizing who I am now, and why that trauma was so valuable in the end. In honor of this, I wanted to write a letter to 8 year old Mercedes. 

Dear Mercedes, 

You are such a beautiful soul. It was only a year ago when you had the dream that became your calling. I know you spend the days thinking about different ways you can help others. Don't ever let that go. Your love for others is what will carry you through the most difficult parts of life. 

Keep learning with an open mind. The world is vast and you have so much to see, never let the opportunities for growth pass you by. You will find that the directions you least expected to be fruitful are the ones that will define you. 

Let yourself feel the full spectrum of emotions, even the ones that don't come naturally to you. I know anger, fear, and jealousy are uncomfortable for you. But you need those emotions to stay alive. When you close yourself off to your own feelings, you become numb. I can assure you numbness is the greatest pain. 

Never believe them when they say you are broken or defective. Your life is not a mistake or an afterthought, it's an expression of Love. The cracks you acquire are where the Light comes out, treat them with tenderness and respect. Resist the urge to cover them up and pretend they never happened. 

Always help others with a smile. At the moment you realize you're no longer smiling, step back and take the time to help yourself. You are a force to be reckoned with when you are healthy and whole, but your sickness has the potential to destroy yourself and others if you leave it unchecked. 

Thank you for being who you are- you have taught me how to love myself. 

Sincerely,

Mercy (age 23) 

P.S. You will have the curly hair you dreamt of one day.