I was born in the capital city of Togo, a small country nested in the southern part of Western Africa, in the mid-80’s.
One of my earliest memories growing up in Lomé, is of a woman and her young son sitting in our living room and talking to my mom about their experience in Rwanda and how they came to seek refuge in Togo. It was the year 1994. I was young and wouldn’t understand the genocide and atrocities that occurred in the small, central African nation until years later. My little mind and body, however, could feel a lot more than they could understand at the time. I sensed the pain within them and wondered what could have made them both forget how to smile. Somehow, it felt familiar. As I listened to them, I remembered a time four years prior, in 1990, when my mom and I escaped our own country because of political instability, nationwide insecurity and random killings that were shaking Togo. I was 5 years old. When I think about perseverance and resilience now, these stories intertwine. I remember the woman and her son from Rwanda, and I remember that moment I rushed out to the car with my mom in the middle of the night to seek refuge in a neighboring country. I daresay perhaps the perseverance and resilience I see in myself today were planted as seeds in those frightening moments. Though I saw indescribable pain and fear written all over the face of my mom and the woman and her son, I also saw hope and faith that tomorrow could and must be better. A strength and willingness to keep moving forward somehow and fight for the right to live and thrive. When I saw my mom’s face that night as she whispered for me be as quiet as possible, I saw a woman still believing in a bright future for her children. Seeking refuge, even if risky, was worth it. Fast forward to today, and I’ve been living in the United States for the last eleven years. People often tell me that it must be hard to have grown up away from my parents, or be far from family. What they don’t realize is that it isn’t as hard when you know you are being sent away so at least someone will stay alive in case everyone else doesn’t make it. Even then, my personal experience isn’t remotely as hard as that of the woman and her son from Rwanda or the ones of millions of refugees around the world today—my mom and I were able to return to my country that same year after things calmed down. This is where I usually insert statistics and estimated numbers of refugees and displaced people around the world according to the UN or another research organization. But you know something? Numbers just don’t portray the human faces and the uniqueness of each situation and country affected by crisis. They don’t actually tell a story. People, on the other hand, do. My own story speaks. And because of it, I have hope for a better today and tomorrow. In the meantime, I am thankful for people all around the world who are doing one small but concrete thing every day to help alleviate the suffering of refugees.
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Ed rapped the door in annoyance, then shoved the key into the lock.
“Management! Who’s here?” He’d had enough of these kids dropping out of East Coast prep schools to live the starving artists’ life just for kicks. His arthritis got bad this time of night, especially after a full shift as the night janitor, and he wanted more than anything to lock up and go home. Dim light came from a lamp in the back corner. It lit up a single table and two chairs against the back wall. A peculiar man appeared out of the gloom, wiping his hands with an artist’s rag. Homeless, Ed thought. “You must be Ed! The night janitor, right? Name’s Elliot Manuel, good to meet you.” Ed eyed the vacant unit’s latest nuisance. He was wearing a relatively clean-looking shirt and some paint-spattered jeans. A squatter then, or a burglar, he thought. The nerve—and so casual about being caught! “Can’t stay here. It’s not zoned for residential, only commercial.” Elliot didn’t seem surprised. Instead he reached back somewhere into the gloom, pulling out a bottle of Johnnie Walker and two glasses. Setting them on the table, he laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He looked up at Ed. “But I do need to polish this off before I head out- no good carrying glass when you travel. You’re welcome to stay.” “Can’t have you in here. Now I don’t mean to get pushy but I will if I have—“ Elliot was already sitting, a full glass across from him, pouring a second. His smile was so oddly magnetic that Ed felt as if he’d rudely knocked on a stranger’s door and they’d been kind enough to invite him in. He studied the bottle. Blue label. The good stuff. Muttering something about keeping an eye on any occupied units, he shuffled over and took his seat. Elliot seemed pleased, stretching back in his chair and settling in. “So. Ed.” Elliot formed his name deliberately. “Something tells me this isn’t the first time you’ve found someone unexpected in this unit.” “Yeah, damn kids most of the time. Drop out of Columbia so they can smoke dope and live on the streets.” Elliot laughed. “And you think I’m one of them.” Ed paused. “I think you’re in the last room I need to lock up before I get out of here.” Elliott sipped slowly, considering. “Why are you so desperate to get home?” “Just part of my routine. Don’t like when my routine gets messed up.” “A man of habit, eh?” Elliot said. Silence. Elliot tried again. “So how long have you worked here?” Ed was beginning to resent his new acquaintance's nosiness. “That’s none of your business. I should be asking what you do for work!” Elliot took another sip. “I’m a collector. I collect things. A creator, you could even say.” So he is a thief. Ed applauded his own foresight. “I’m not a thief. I just take the broken bits people cast off and make them beautiful again.” “So you’re a dumpster diver.” “You said it, not me. And who are you to judge what I do? You clearly don’t love being a night janitor!” “What of it?!” Ed couldn’t decide which emotion was stronger - his gratitude for the whiskey or his annoyance with Elliot’s questions. “It’s a damn job and gets the bills paid and it keeps me from sitting at home every night thinking about Ginny—” Ed paused, shocked at what had almost slipped out. “Look,” he said. “ Here’s how life works. You wake up, you go to work. You take orders from somebody who takes them from somebody else who both expect you to smile when they pick your pockets on pay day. That’s life. You take it all with a grain of salt.” He looked at Elliot and gave a hollow laugh. “Or a glass of whiskey if you have it.” Elliot considered Ed’s appraisal. “Life?” He looked out the window, silent for a moment. “Are you sure?” “Ed, did you know that this morning the buds opened up on the tree out there?” He nodded up at the window. “Or how downstairs in the basement unit the couple’s baby is finally sleeping through the night?” “Or did you look up as you walked to work this morning? Did you notice how the sun rose and all morning the edges of the building were lit gold?” And when you walked past the children’s hospital, did you know that a boy named Josh is finally going home to live with his aunt after a car accident?” Elliot looked over at Ed. Ed stared down at his cup for a while. He knew the answer before he asked. “Why the aunt?” Grief passed across Elliot’s face for a moment. He spoke with tenderness. “They were in the car with him. They didn’t make it.” Ed slammed his cup against the tabletop and stood. He’d had enough. “His parents are dead. Dead! How dare you! He survives? They’re dead. He walks? They’re dead. He runs? They’re still dead and he has to go on living and breathing and watching the world piss on everything he’s ever loved!” His blood felt electric, dizzying his mind, full of rage and sadness and pain. Elliot waited until he sat back down, then spoke quietly. “You loved her.” Ed set his glass down slowly. “Of course I damn well did.” He looked down at the floor, then spoke. “I wanted to be a carpenter. I built things when the kids were little. Nothing special, but there was this one rocking horse that I really knocked out of the park. Painted it red any everything. I could have been good, you know? If I’d given it a shot. Ginny always told me I should. But I was too busy. God I was always so busy! Spreadsheets. Corporate BS. And then one day I come home and Ginny doesn’t. And the PD comes by and asks me when the last time I talked to her was, and I realize I didn’t say a word to her that morning. Not one. Where was she going? Hell if I knew!” Elliot waited across the table. Ed was shaking. “And the next morning. They call and say they found her... Dead. Purse missing. Beaten to death with a hammer and some two-by-fours.” Ed stood up again, knocking his chair over. “What the hell was she doing with those? You want to know about my life? You want to know why she had those? You so interested in my personal story?” He tasted warm, salty tears at the corners of his mouth. “She was bringing them home for me! She saw what I’d built. She believed I could do something great. And you know why she died? Because it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter if you’re a saint or a murderer or a night janitor, I’ve been around long enough to know that eventually world will find a way to take whatever small, beautiful thing you have and watch it burn.” Ed realized he was sobbing. He watched himself sit back down. He watched himself pick up the glass and take a sip. He was certain he could not feel his toes. Elliot let him sit. He said nothing. He only waited quietly. After a long while, he spoke. “Can I show you something?” Ed nodded, exhausted. Elliot got up from the table and walked away into the gloomy corner of the room. Ed heard him fumbling with a lamp, and suddenly the back wall was filled with light. He nearly dropped his whiskey to the floor. The entire wall was covered with the most dazzling, intricate map he had ever seen. It was the earth. The whole earth. Africa, South America, Asia, all of it. He stared, in silence. Incredible. He thought. And what appeared to be a seamless blend of colors at first was actually, well, junk. Colorful junk. He stepped closer. Bottlecaps, bent nails and old wrappers made up most of the continental United States. The Pacific Ocean read Aquafina in a few places, Dasani in a few others. Southeast Asia shimmered with broken necklace chains, single earrings, and scraps of foil. Antarctica was jagged with broken glass, and Saharan Africa was covered in bits of old sandpaper. “Where did you find all of this?” Ed asked. “It’s everywhere. In subway cars, hotel rooms… You know, the edges of places most people are too busy to see. They’ve got their heads down thinking about the next place they’re supposed to be. But I just… am. I never get too ahead of myself.” “But it’s all… garbage.” Ed still couldn’t understand how stunning a work could be made of what he rightly considered trash. “You know Ed? I don’t want brand new things when I create something like this.” Elliot looked over at him. “I’d rather make old things new.” Elliot looked back at the map, gazing intently at one spot and then stepping back so Ed could see. Ed followed his gaze. There was a Christmas ornament hanging where New York City sat on the edge of the Hudson Bay. It was a tiny, wooden rocking horse. Ed took in the map and all the discarded fragments of people’s lives. Tokens of moments they would never remember. And there, in the middle, a rocking horse just like the one he’d made so many years ago. For a long while, they stood in silence. Then from across the room he heard, “Some people hold onto this kind of stuff, instead of letting me build something with it.” Ed jumped, not sure how long he’d been taking it all in. The room was empty. The whiskey still sat on the table, and the two empty glasses. It was as though the words lingered for a moment in the dusty corners of the loft. Something inside of him felt released, like when he unclicked the pressure valve on the basement boiler every night at the end of his shift. The usual tightness in his chest faded a bit, and something he might have called rest settled in its place. Ed took one final gaze at the map, and the tiny rocking horse. He didn’t know when the next tenant would move into the unit. He wasn’t even sure the map would be there the following morning. Slowly he crossed the room and closed the door. After fumbling for the right key for a minute or two, he locked it and headed for home. * * * * * A week later, Ed returned to the vacant first floor unit. It was still without a tenant, and he had work to do. After hauling everything he’d purchased into a far corner of the room, he opened a window to let in some light. Then he took out his hammer and nails, and began to hum.
I feel like all of the important questions in life, whether for God or just myself, remain largely unanswered.
I suppose that could be at least partially attributed to the fact that I'm not good at consistently pursuing God. I've felt largely ignored or forgotten or on my own throughout much of my life, which makes it worse when I feel like God is also ignoring me (even if it's just because I can't see Him working in my life at a given point in time). There are moments in my life where it’s absolutely clear that, yep, God is still real, and He's been working this whole time. In these moments, it’s clear to me that He's been answering my prayer at the deepest level- the most important, most impactful, most heart-changing level- and I just couldn't see it before. I'm so thankful for those moments! In those moments, I feel reconciled to God... and then those moments pass. I begin to feel abandoned or ignored once again. I begin to doubt those very experiences God has given me. Were they just my emotions playing tricks on me? Does God really love me? If God is real and if He loves me, why do I feel so ignored? Then, typically as I'm crying out to God for what seems like will be the millionth time regarding some brokenness or another, I suddenly experience another reconnection with God. Another moment where I'm so sure of his goodness (another moment that I'll doubt later on). I think the way God answers our prayers and questions can be illustrated as a painting: The more time God spends on the painting, the more beautiful it can be once it's ready to be revealed. As the answer is being "painted," I can't see the end result yet; I can't see the answer because it's still being formed. Sometimes all I can see is someone who is supposed to be a father to me sitting there, quietly working on His own thing while I'm standing here broken and in need of love. Indeed, God loves us, so He won't give us a painting that isn't even close to being done. He won't give us what isn't good just because we want it now. I also don’t think he will waste His breath telling us over and over again that He's still painting it. He's already told us that (in His word, the Bible). If we don't believe the promise He's made us anyway, then there's no point in repeating it over and over and over again while He's trying to work. When the painting is done- when I experience those moments with God- sometimes it is immediately apparent: this is God's answer. He's been working on it this whole time, and it's beautiful even on levels I know I could never understand. Sometimes though, I see the painting and have no idea what it is I'm looking at yet, even though it's ready for me. "I've asked you a question, but instead of answering me, all I see are a bunch of messy brush strokes on this canvas you've handed to me... what am I supposed to do with this? Why do I even bother talking to you anymore?" You see, I look right past the answer because I'm not looking for God's painting. I'm looking for the answer I think I want. God could be handing me a masterpiece, growing me in ways I won't yet realize, but I'm still waiting for Him to hand me the comic book I asked for. I'm still waiting for answers to questions such as "Who am I?" that look fun, exciting, colorful... answers that are quick to read, easy to understand, fun for a while, but ultimately rather pointless. The answers I'm looking for aren't the truly beautiful answers that God is still painting, so here I sit, wondering, "God, why are my questions still unanswered?" Anonymous Contributor As a culture, I’ve noticed we’re not exactly fond of pain. Pleasure? We’re all over it. Food, travel, music - we’d much rather focus on the things that bring our souls up, not down. Let’s face it: no one Instagrams their pain. No one’s out there taking pictures of their tear-stained pillowcase like: just cried myself to sleep! #epic. I don’t even think our preference for pleasure is a bad thing. In Isaiah, God refers to Jesus as “My chosen one in whom My soul delights” (Isaiah 42:1). God is, in his deepest nature, filled with delight. Especially about us. He’s the most joyful, indulgent guy around. We love pleasure because he does. So what about pain? If God loves us so deeply and delights in us, what do you do when your choices (or someone else’s) land you in a world of hurt? Earlier this year I got to ask God just that. My own poor decision-making skills, coupled with some unexpected changes in my family, meant I spent a good number of months in some pretty real pain. Get me out of this! I remember moaning. God cannot possibly be okay with this kind of pain in my life, can he?! This is NOT what I signed up for, Jesus. Clearly this has to stop. It didn’t. God did not swoop in and fix everything. But as it turns out, those months of pain might end up being some of the most important months of my life. Why? Well, here’s what I learned:
The journey hasn’t been a fun one. It hasn’t been glamorous. But it’s a powerful thing to look at pain and--instead of being afraid--know that you’ll come through it healthier than ever. I’m starting to notice I’m more free, less fearful and filled with more joy than I’ve ever been. Now that’s epic. “For whom the LORD loves He reproves, Even as a father corrects the son in whom he delights.” (Prov 3:12) I don't like boats. At all. And I’ve only been fishing twice in my life. (Cue angry Minnesotans booing in the background) Sorry guys. I know I should be a good Midwestern girl and love all things boating and fishing, but honestly? All I remember was being stuck in a boat all day, bored, watching my unfortunately pale skin burn to a crisp. No thanks. Given these things fall just above snake wrestling on my list of favorite activities, I had to laugh the other day when God used fishing to illustrate an essential process we all learn walking with him: faith. Turns out Jesus didn't pick fishermen for his disciples on accident. Why? Read on...
So if it worked for them, it might just help us, right? Exactly. And (if you’ll humor me with a few shameless fish metaphors) here’s how: # 1. Bait your hook. Fact #1: I’m awful at fishing. Fact #2: I still know that fishing with an empty hook is like trying to make toast with some bread, a magnifying glass and the sun. Fact #1: Many of us want to live a life of faith. Fact #2: Faith, if it’s not expressed through tangible actions, is pretty useless (check James 2:17) Anyone picking up the parallel here? This is the step most of us want to skip. Can’t we all just quit our jobs and roam freely about the world, sharing the love of Jesus with everyone we meet? Well, yes! And absolutely some people are called to this-- please don’t hear me knocking missions or saying wild risks are never God’s calling for our lives! But take a look at the Bible. Before he became Paul, Saul was already a leader known for his ‘zealousness’ when it came to matters of religion. His single-minded passion and position of leadership weren’t brand new traits when he started his ministry to the Gentiles, but skills already developed in his life. If we look further back in the Old Testament, we also see that each of the artisans selected to help with Solomon’s temple were selected because of their prior training and expertise in metal-working, sewing and other crafts. In other words, they had a skill God could work with. It boils down to this: if we want to step out in faith, we can’t skip the process of developing our gifts. It’s not the exciting part. It’s not the part that gets applause. Awkward moments are pretty much a guarantee. But it’s necessary. If you’re artistic, it might be time to buy some paint and canvas. If you like to write, (ok, I'm saying this to myself), it’s a great idea to finish that article or chapter! # 2. Cast your line. So we finally made it through learning how to put that stupid worm on that stupid hook. Nice! Here’s where we take that lovely (skewered?) worm from Step 1 and actually give it to God. Finally, the risk comes in. You start a business, publish a book or get up on stage for the first time. Stepping out in faith is absolutely exhilarating and risky and exciting! But it isn’t totally random. From what I've seen, God often asks people step out in areas they've already committed time, energy or finances. It's pretty comforting to know God values our resources just as much as we do. Disclaimer on this one though: the first time I tried to bait a hook, the worm went sailing through the air as soon as I cast. I hate to say it, but this will probably happen to you too. Not the worm part maybe, but definitely the failure part. This is the critical moment. It’s the moment where every person who saved a nation or sold a famous painting or sang for millions had one thing in common: # 3. Repeat. They grabbed their hook (or paintbrush or microphone), and tried again. I hate to say it, but there will be moments when you leave your line in the water and absolutely nothing happens. When you publish an article or start a group or plan an event and nobody shows up. Those moments are real, and--shocker-- they’re never the moments people write books about. So what then? You reel your line back in and cast again. Does your lack of fish (or low return on your investment or failed company or low blog readership (ha!)) indicate you’re doing something wrong? No. It means you’re learning to fish. Sometimes faith looks like instant success. At least someone, one time, told me that… I think he went on to create Twitter or something. But for the rest of us? Nine times out of ten, faith looks like this: Reeling in an empty line, asking your Father to help you bait the hook one more time, and casting that sucker as far out as you can. And yes! One day catching that elusive walleye. But in the meantime? (Unlike me in that stupid boat so many years ago) It looks like learning to enjoy the ride.
IN a wasteland; flowers It was a lake once. I knew by the way the earth peeled and cracked like so many shattered clay jars in every direction. Years ago the rain vanished, and now dust settled ashen in my nose and mouth when the wind blew. I wandered mile after mile, and for years the barrenness of the landscape and the hollowness behind my ribs were all I knew. There was an emptiness in me deeper than my body's hunger. Perhaps if I wandered long enough something might fill the deep ache. Every long while, a shape would appear on the far horizon. As it flickered in the heat, I would imagine it was a house or a town. Another person. Each time I was certain that this is what I’d been searching for, this would be a place to call home. In desperation I would run until my breath tore ragged within me. And each time I eventually saw the form for what it was: just a cactus whose spines drew blood or a heap of bones that crumbled and blew away in the wind. The sun set, the daylight faded, and again I found myself alone. One such night, I had a dream. I sat in the shade of a magnificent tree. The branches above rose and fell, and my skin thrilled with a warm, breezy sort of aliveness. As I looked off down the ridge, I saw more water than I had ever known—a creek. When I turned back, a man sat across from me in sandals and traveling clothes. Despite his worn appearance, the kindness in his eyes made it difficult to look away. The same current of aliveness I had noticed at first felt wider and deeper and clearer the more I looked at him. A sensation rose up deep inside me that, somehow, he was the very source of it. For a long while, we sat. I didn’t know what to say, only that I very much wanted to be near him there in the dew and the forest and the cool of the morning. He studied me with intention and I noticed a tenderness in his search. After hours—or only minutes—he reached out, as if to touch my face. His hand slowed for a moment, suspended, as he looked me in the eyes. With a start, I awoke. Once again I found myself shivering on the ground as the air whistled around me. Alone. A carefully built wall of apathy within shook, and then crumbled. For the first time in all my wandering years, I felt that I was alone. The fresh pain of it tore my breath from me. I pounded my fists into the ground, choking as dust rose around me. I screamed again and again into the darkness. Alone. My hands bled and the hollow cries echoed until the wind swept them further into the desert. I kept pounding. Alone. When I could hardly raise my arms I sank to the ground, exhausted. I tried to recall the cool morning and the man in his sandals and traveling clothes, but the memory only served to make the night darker. How could I resign myself to life in this wasteland? How could I accept the darkness and the drought? All the wandering years, all the emptiness and thirst I’d assumed were life? I closed my eyes-- they were no more than dust. I sank into a half sleep, exhausted. Hours later, a suggestion of light revealed the far horizon. I blinked awake. And there in the dimmest light of the sun, I saw a man. He was far, far away but again some deep and unexplored part of myself felt strangely awake. I told myself he was a mirage—a shred of my dream lost in the wind, intruding on a reality I knew was only sand for miles. But even as my mind resisted, my body stood up. Against the howling wind, I began to walk. Miles later, I knew it was him. It had to be. He wore the same sandals and traveling clothes and from him came that same sense of aliveness I remembered from the dream. Saying nothing, he produced a jar of water from his traveling bag and held it out. In my curiosity I’d nearly forgotten my usual thirst. I sipped slowly at first but, as he nodded permission, I emptied it in desperate gulps. I returned the jar and looked down at my feet. Then he spoke. “Where are you from?” His simple question caught me off guard. Being from somewhere. A home. I realized there were only faint echoes where my early memories should have been. I saw the dry lakebed and the black, starless nights. And before that, nothing. A lake. There had been a lake once. Were there other people? People, there must hav—and again, blackness. I groped for something, anything. He tried again. “Well, what’s your name?” More blackness. I didn’t know. I looked away and whispered the only word I could think of. “Dust.” His face softened. He gently pulled on my wrist and held my bruised hand out between us. I risked a look at him, but he was gazing down, brushing dust from where it clung to my dirty, bleeding fingers. His hands were gentle, as if he held a fragile desert flower. As if he'd never seen such beauty. “My name is Jesus.” He said simply. “And yours isn’t dust.” Then he took my shoulders and turned me so we faced the barren landscape I’d walked all morning. “You look nothing like it.” He stepped back for a moment and I stood alone, taking in the desert I had wandered. Great clouds of sand swept across its cracked surface. There was not a living being in sight. But as I stood, a wind I’d never known swelled from behind me. It was cool and expectant, heavy with dew and the scent of moss. It played among the rags I wore, in my hair, and washed the dirt from my skin in gentle waves. For the first time I could remember, I felt clean. When I finally turned around, the dry and infinite horizon was gone. In its place was a rich forest that rose and fell, as if stirred by a deep and gentle heartbeat. It hummed with life, and I could see a path leading into the cool shade. The man called Jesus stood before me, waiting. “Who am I?” I whispered, looking up at him. He smiled, then held out his hand. I looked back at the heat and the endless horizon behind me one final time, then took it. He led me the last few steps toward the cool shade, then paused for a moment and looked down at me. “You ready?” I nodded. He smiled and held out the jar I had drained earlier. It was full. |
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