This sunrise.

Yesterday I went for an early morning walk because I knew I needed to see this sunrise. I was stuck in my head and needed something beautiful to reconnect me to my heart. As I watched the colors of the sky transform I began to cry. I felt so inadequate in the vastness of it all. I knew that never again would the sky look quite like it did in that moment. My heart broke for all the things I am afraid to lose and everything I have already lost.

But I just couldn't look away.

I realized that my desire for beauty is greater than my fear of loss. I cannot stop life from holding pain and risk and heartbreak. I can, however, choose to chase healing and hope and love. There is something about the fullness of this moment. Life will never again be what it is right now and that is both life giving and heart breaking. Somewhere in the paradox of it all is a beauty I can't describe.

So I made a decision, I am not going to look away. No matter how scared I am, even though this moment will never exist again, I will keep looking because I don't want to miss the beautiful things life has given me.

Going through hell.

I've been thinking lately about the people who inspire me. The ones who teach me the difference between living and being alive. They are young, old, and in between. They laugh when shit hits the fan, and sometimes they cry just because. They have soft hearts and strong will.

But what sets them apart more than anything else is that they have suffered greatly. They are addicts, refugees, single parents, abandoned children, caretakers, mentally ill, the abused and the abusers. They all know what it's like to fall apart and build themselves back up. Through all the pain they chose and the pain they were given, they found beauty and hope. It's as if they see the magic and love in the world that the rest of us forget in our complacency.

It seems to me that the people who most bring heaven to this world are the ones who have already been through hell. 

The Getaway Bag

I had a pretty unique childhood. I was a homeschooled missionary kid whose biggest concerns were mosquito bites and evangelism. Until I was 11 and my life turned upside down. Suddenly I was a depressed kid from a broken home. The police came to my house on a weekly basis. I lived with my abuser and couldn’t do a thing about it. I began going to public school and was desperately trying to hide my situation.

So I developed coping mechanisms. I turned anger in toward myself and helped others as a way outside of myself. I began unhealthy relationships with food and self-harm.
And I also had my getaway bag.

The getaway bag was my only tangible coping mechanism. It was ready at all times with emergency cash, a change of clothes, a bible, and toiletry essentials. I only actually used the bag to getaway a couple times, but I would often use it to calm myself.
I would sit in my closet holding the bag, reminding myself that I had a way out. Life wasn’t hopeless quite yet. It reminded me that there was still time to start again.

I carried this habit with me when I moved to Cambodia. Of course I was safe there, but what if one day I wasn’t? I told myself that the political situation could change at any point. I believed I had to be ready to flee at all times. Not because anyone in Cambodia told me this, but because it was the way I lived for so long. I brought my coping mechanisms across the world with me.

Now I’m back in America, attempting to heal these old wounds. I intentionally haven’t packed a getaway bag this time. I’ve noticed myself missing it though. When I get overwhelmed with anxiety, I start thinking about packing the bag just to feel a bit more safe.

But the reality is that I’m not unsafe anymore. I’m not 11 years old. I’m not being abused.
I am growing and I am healing.
I am letting go of unhealthy coping mechanisms.
I am getting ready for the wild, beautiful journey ahead of me.
When the time comes to go I’ll be ready and I’ll be traveling light this time. Because this journey is far too great to let extra baggage weigh me down. 

Becoming as I'm Waiting

Above all, trust in the slow work of God. We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. Only God could say what this new spirit gradually forming within us will be. Let us give God the benefit of believing that God’s hand is leading us, and let’s accept the anxiety of feeling ourselves in suspense and incomplete. -Teilhard de Chardin

 This prayer came up during my time at the Living School Symposium. Let me tell you, I feel it deeply. I feel in suspense and incomplete.

I had another experience during the gathering. A group went on a walking prayer/meditation. The leader encouraged us to consider hugging a tree along the way. I saw a little tree that didn't quite fit with the rest, not quite fully grown but also not brand new. Not along the path but not a centerpiece either. I went and hugged her, and laughed at myself for being a literal tree-hugger.

Until my laughter gave way to tears. I realized that as I was holding this tree it was growing beneath my finger tips. The surface seemed still and stationary, but inside of it cells were multiplying and growing and producing new leaves. Me standing there did nothing to give to or take from the tree. It would continue to do what it was made to do- to reach toward Heaven. Because it has no choice but to grow. It may grow crooked, quickly or slowly. But it will grow. It IS growing at all times.

Like dough left in a dark corner to rise. In my times of silence and prayer I am actively doing nothing, I am letting the dough rest. And as it rests in the darkness, it grows to what it needs to be.

I am desperate to heal the dark parts of my soul. I am waiting to heal. Yet I am also beginning to realize that as I wait for the healing, it is already happening to me. Because nothing can stop me from being what I was created to be.

Like the tree grows as I wait for it to grow. 

Like the dough rises as I wait for it to rise. 

I am healing as I wait to be healed, 

I am becoming as I am waiting. 

Empty

Years ago I went through a crisis of faith. In desperation I came to my dad crying. I felt as though I had built my entire life in a house called Christianity. Now the very foundation of all I had built was crumbling. I was homeless.

In wisdom and love he responded, "You have to tear down the house you were given, and on the foundation you will build a new home that is all your own."

I held onto that during the crisis, the hope of building something new.

But recently I realized that Christianity was only one of the rooms in this house of mine. I stayed there because it was the only place I felt safe. Meanwhile I locked all the other doors. In dark corners I hid pieces of me, hoping they would fade away one day. Now I must open all of these rooms, bring it all out to the surface. Take a good, hard look at trauma untouched and lies held tightly. Shine a light on the dark fears of future roles and relationships.

I was told this was a year of cleaning sacred spaces, but I have to confess some of these rooms feel profane. Everything I thought I was, everything I wanted to be, none of it fits anymore. My faith, my childhood, my dreams, my relationships, my skills... None of it is what I thought it was.

I am empty. None of who I used to be remains.

Yet the beauty of all of this is that I finally see the foundation. I see that beneath all of the ways I define myself, there is who I actually am- a conduit of the Divine... a Spirit... a child of God... a piece of Love. As scary as it is to be empty, it is worth it to be held. 

Good work

I was chatting with one of my dearest Khmer friends today. Tears began to surface as I realized I have less than 24 hours in this amazing country.

K- "You have done good work here, Mercy. You have done good things for this country."

Me- "I don't know about that, it seems like all I did was make amazing friends that I now have to say goodbye to."

K- "Exactly. The greatest commandment in the Bible is to love God and your neighbor, that is what you have done here. You have loved us."

I could hardly contain myself in response. Because the truth is they have loved me. My community here has loved me so fully and deeply that there was no longer any room for self hatred. They healed me by loving me completely, in my brokenness and my passion. If they can love me, maybe I can love me too.

I came here expecting to do good work. To fight trafficking, to bring healing, to make a difference. I felt called to change the world, and I still do. I still want to do good work.

But now I see that the only way to change the world is to love her fully. Income generation programs are great, education is important, rescue is critical. But none of it will leave lasting change without love.

So what will I do when I get back to America? I will show those around me how to love like the Cambodians do. I will show them that our greatest work is not how we make money or who we help, it is how we love. My work is love. 

Sing

Sing little bird, sing even though it is not yet morning.

Does this late sunset and light fog have you confused? If it weren't for this clock I would think it was the morning too, the way the light is hitting the sky. The sweet wind makes me want to sing along with you in a morning song of joy and new beginnings.

Still, deep down I know it is not morning. The sun will set soon, not to return until the darkness has run its course. The clock endlessly ticks, reminding me of how much time is left.

So sing your song, and I will sing along. For your morning song is my mourning song. I will weep as you rejoice and somehow it will still sound all the same.