Greece

I'm only quiet when I'm processing, and a two month absence from blogging accurately indicates that I have been processing something rather massive.

I'm working toward moving to Greece after I graduate.  So much of this possibility is unclear--when I would go, how long I would stay, if it is even possible.  The short story is that the Petrous, a dear family I visited twice on mission trips to Athens, invited me to join Dina in working with women leaving sexual slavery.  Everyone I have talked with about this opportunity has been overwhelmingly supportive, whether in affirming the reality that this is my chance to invest a long chunk of time in travel before settling into a professional life, or in reminding me that I never actually wanted to be in private practice anyway; my dreams have always skewed toward the international and missional. 

Everything is still very much in the information stages, but that hasn't kept me from leaping ahead and preemptively deciding that I will definitely go.  It took me about a week, back in July, to work up to a fever pitch of excitement.  Here at last was what I had been waiting for.  I remembered sitting on a Seattle beach with Roy, telling him how so many of the greatest events of my life have occurred because of random connections so perfectly timed that it felt like God.  This could be it again.

The first month of thinking and planning was almost entirely done in delirious excitement.  This second month, well, I'm becoming more realistic.  Working with women coming out of sex trafficking?  While I love the idea of putting my feminism into practice and tangibly helping women who have suffered the worst forms of oppression, I am completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of the job.

One friend told me that my singleness is a gift, not only in my freedom to travel as I will, but in my emotional freedom.  I can work in an emotionally draining job, go home, and take care of myself.  Were I married or had kids, I would go home to more people who needed me to be emotionally available to them.  This is a very nice thought, one which I clung to as evidence of this opportunity's perfection.  But...a job that is that draining?

My supervisor has been having me read articles about secondary traumatization, an effect of counselors working with a large caseload of trauma victims for a long period of time in which you inherit their triggers, memories, and nightmares.  I'm already terrified of rapists, clutching car keys between my knuckles in dark grocery parking lots and checking my backseat for potential kidnappers.  This fear is driven from email chains twelve years ago--how much more scared will I be when sitting before me is evidence of the worst humanity can inflict upon each other?  Stories of rape, violence, humiliation.  How will I be able to listen to them, empathize with them, be with them in their pain and come away whole?

I don't know if it is worth it.  Why should I tear myself apart to put someone else together?  Of course, if this happens, I intend to be proactive about self-care.  I will try to create a support system on which I can unload.  I will create safe spaces for myself, and give myself as much time and quiet as necessary to restore myself.  But still.  There are some things you cannot unhear, some realities you cannot ignore.

Last week Mike preached on Joshua 3 and 4 when the Israelites are going to cross the Jordan River at its deepest, during flood season.  Mike said it would have been nice if God had parted the waters in advance, had given his people ample time to see his power so they could trust in his provision.  Instead, it took the faith of twelve men to step into the water, to begin walking into a deep river that showed no hint of a miracle.  "Yet as soon as the priests who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water's edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing.  It piled up in a heap a great distance away."

I've been excited, and I've been terrified.  Now I hope to bring the two emotions together.  I will continue walking toward this deep river that threatens to swallow me in sorrow and fear.  I will continue walking, only because I have the assurance that if God is leading me, He will also make a way for me through the valley of the shadow of death.

Courage, dear heart.

Reframe

Whenever I'm with a group of single women, there is an 80% chance that the conversation will meander towards a discussion of the fears we have surrounding marriage--giving up freedom, trusting that intimacy will stay despite personal growth and/or change, etc.  And twice this has happened.

Me:  Marriage is scary!  I just haven't found a guy who I like and respect enough to let go of the fear and start trusting.
Friend: That's not true.  You've loved guys that deeply before.  They just didn't love you back.
Me:  ...

I'll be real, I can only barely tolerate that level of honesty.  I have been pissed about this conversation for months, and I'm only starting to process what that means.

Why does that reminder--they just didn't love you back--make me so angry?  Well, obviously because it touches on rejection and unworthiness and all those horrible feelings.  It feels like it is a break of the friendship code, where you don't, you know, shove your friend's face in all their insecurities.  But on a deeper level, that statement angered me because it took away my control.  When I narrate my singleness, I give myself the power, telling people I haven't found the right guy, I'm not willing to give up freedom.  I am the person keeping me single.  It's my choice.  But when my friend called me on this, I was suddenly stripped of even that.  Not only do I not have a person who has committed to loving and supporting me through life, I'm not even responsible for this lack.  My last shred of dignity, taken away.

The introspection doesn't end there!  Again, months after this conversation, I am only beginning to shift the way I frame my singleness.  If it's not my choice, then what?  I mean, it would be easy to sink into all the things I'm avoiding (rejection, unworthiness, etc), but there's another side.  If I'm not choosing to be single, then that means--I'm open to love.  I do give my heart away.  I practice vulnerability.  I risk my affections, and I'm willing to gamble on romance. 

I have to give up the illusion that I'm in control of my singleness, and that hurts.  But I get to give up the illusion that I'm a cold-hearted bastard.  Giving that up is a bit scary, of course, since a cold heart isn't broken so easily.  But it also means all that therapy nonsense where I worried I couldn't feel and that I lived in hopelessness was, well, nonsense.  I do nothing but feel and hope. 

That's my new narrative.  I'm ready to love and be loved.  So far those halves of the sentence are not synchronized, since I'm not interested in being loved by those who confess it, and the guys I love similarly dismiss me.  But I'm not broken, I'm not shut down, I'm not hard.  I'm ready for marriage, and when the day comes that the guy I love says, "hey, me too," I don't think it will be difficult to take the next step.

Unless he's allergic to cats.  Then there's gonna be a problem.

St. Maarten Stories: Snorkeling

My biggest concern about going to the Caribbean was getting bored.  On a list of things I value about vacations, probably two of the last are relaxing and water.  As near as I can tell, those are exactly what people go to St. Maarten to enjoy.  After a day of lounging by the pool to move to lounging by the beach and back, I was ready to spend some cash in order to get out of the resort and go on an adventure.

We could rent a Mini Cooper and drive around St. Barths!  Whoa, for...way too much money.  In the end, the tour desk in the resort lobby offered only one affordable package, which is how Lindsay and I found ourselves in Phillipsburg with twenty other people waiting for a boat that would take us snorkeling at three different islands.

As we walked along the dock, our hostess directed us to two different boats.  "Oh my word," I murmured when I caught sight of the second boat's captain.  "Lindsay," I hissed.  "Look."

"That is the most attractive man I've ever seen," she breathed.  Behind us, a woman on her honeymoon leaned in to us and added, "I hope we're on his boat, huh?"

A group of five party girls strode eagerly toward him, but our hostess directed them to the other boat.  At their sounds of dismay, she assured them, "You'll see Sander again, don't worry.  Family of five, you're with the girls.  Everyone else, you're with Sander."

Lindsay and I exchanged grins.  Sander, a tan tall man with blond hair falling to his chin, smiled at our approaching group.  "Climb on in," he said.

"His accent," I whispered.

"Where are you from?" Lindsay asked.

"I'm Dutch," Sander answered.

"Oh, I.  That's great."  His face and his voice combined were too much for anyone to react to in anything resembling calm.

Sander got us settled into seats and fetched drinks for everyone.  He explained what bays we were in and what houses overlooking the water were owned by which celebrities.  He grinned as he drove faster over the waves, bouncing us through the green and blue waters.  I spent 80% of my mental faculties trying to look at him without looking like I was looking at him.

"He took off his sunglasses!" I groaned at Lindsay.

"Oh my--he has Zac Efron eyes!" she answered after sneaking a glance.

"I can't handle this."

"Well, then you definitely won't handle this.  He just took off his shirt."

We docked in a cove with no beaches.  Sander explained that this was our first snorkeling destination.  He talked about different kinds of fish we might see, and purple eggs, and probably something else, but I was fixated on the fact that we were in fifteen feet deep water.  I'd assumed we would always be wading in from shore, not dropping off the side of a boat.

"Lindsay," I whispered.  "I can't swim."

"What!?"

"I mean, not well.  I don't know if I can do this."

The rest of the people on our boat were passing around scuba masks and flippers.  I took a set and swallowed bile.  Some of our fellow passengers jumped off the side, and some eased themselves into the water from the ladder in the back.  I saw two women grab pool noodles for floatation devices, but they weren't snorkeling.

Sander looked at Lindsay and I.  "Are you ready?" he asked, smiling with his stupid Dutch teeth.

"Yes," I said, and took his hand.  I let him walk me over the back seats until I was by the water.  I climbed in and mimicked Lindsay's actions as she put on the mask and flippers.  She pushed away, and I glanced at Sander.  I was not going to stay on the boat like an idiot and make his tan friendly face fall in disappointment.  I took in a breath, and meant to push away from the boat.  Instead I blurted, "Could I have a noodle!?"  Sander tossed me a pink one.  Face burning in shame, I took my noodle and slowly followed Lindsay toward the cove.

She showed me how to breath through the mask as I clung to my safety noodle.  "Let's go!" she said.  I breathed in my fear and then let it out, putting my face below the water as though it wouldn't kill me.  And then it didn't.  I let myself dead man float and found that the mask actually kept water out of my eyes and lungs.  I wasn't dying--I was snorkeling!  I kicked my flippers and found myself swimming, noodle to the side and almost unnecessary.

Once I was confident I wasn't going to immediately drown, I actually noticed that I was looking underwater.  There were fish there, darting into the rocks, shining purple and yellow around the edges.  "This is so cool!" I yelled, and inhaled salty water.  I came crashing to the surface, clinging once more to the only thing keeping me from drowning, spitting out the breathing tube in horror.  Lindsay surfaced beside me.  "Um, don't talk when you're underwater," she said.  "Here, pour out your tube like this.  Got it?  Okay, let's go!"

I did eventually get the hang of things.  I gleefully swam through a school of tiny fish and tried to touch them unsuccessfully.  We saw a big needlefish swimming near the ocean floor, and urchins dotted the sand and rocks around us.  I found myself comfortably twisting in the water, reveling in the grace and confidence that floating enables.  We made our way back to the boat when we noticed people packing up.  I handed Sander my noodle and pulled off my mask and flippers.

"Let me help you," he said.  "The ladder moves."

It was rather wiggly, and his strong Dutch arm was reaching out in front of me, so I clasped his hand and pulled myself onto the boat.  It was slippery, so naturally I had to hold on to him a little longer than necessary, just to be totally safe.

"How was it?" he asked.

"It was beautiful," I said, meaning the water, the sealife, and his face.

"Great!" he said, and piloted our boat to our next destination as I grinned into the ocean spray.

St. Maarten Stories: Concessions

While we were walking along the St. Maarten beach, Lindsay asked me if anyone had ever kissed me.  I coughed out a laugh and admitted, no, no one had.  She sighed and said I was lucky, which elicited another painful laugh from me.  After silence stretched too long, I said, "I would ask when your first kiss was, but honestly, I don't want to know.  I'm feeling bitter, and I wouldn't appreciate it."

So it was fortuitous that Jordan flirted with me at the resort's chocolate buffet immediately after we returned.

Lindsay had pointed him out as the cutest guy at the resort that afternoon.  She called out to him and carried on a conversation that I mostly observed, wondering when she would finish so we could go to the room.  Unwilling to look totally anti-social, I made a few comments, but I internally rolled my eyes when she invited him to meet us later.

I might have been pissed at her extroversion, but I wasn't going to risk hanging out with a hot guy unarmed.  I dressed up and painted my eyes darker than usual.  It was nothing, nothing, but you know.  Just in case.

He did find us, practically running up, begging for our help in escaping a girl who had been following him around during his weekend at the resort.  The three of us talked until his friends appeared.  Lindsay had already met them, and Jordan moved to sit at the edge of the group next to me.  I should mention he was an absolutely delightful asshole.  He made horrifically racist and sizeist comments with a grin, and I couldn't help laughing.  He was a good ol' boy from Georgia, and I found it easy to fall into the role of being shocked and appalled at the things falling from his lips.  "You say the most horrible things," I told him.  "I know," he grinned, leaning into my shoulder.

Confident assholes.  My weakness.

Everyone else had left the chocolate buffet, and the workers had turned off the spotlights.  "Let's go inside to the bar," his friends suggested.  Lindsay said she was tired, but I convinced her to go in for just half an hour.  Jordan pulled up a semi-circle of chairs and made sure we sat beside each other.  He put his knee on my chair so I could press my hand against it if I wanted.  I did.

Half an hour came and went, and his friends glanced between us and said they were going upstairs.  Lindsay again said she was tired, but I convinced her to stay.  I felt dangerous.  I wanted--I wanted to give up.  Here I was in another country with a cute boy who I was pretty sure wouldn't say no to anything I suggested or allowed.  For so long I've loved boys who said no, who said, "oh, but I like her," who put up walls that I couldn't get past.  Jordan was wide open, and I desperately wanted to take advantage of that opportunity.

"What's your favorite band?" he asked.

"Mumford and Sons, probably."

"Ugh!  You're a hipster!"

"Haha, yeah, I guess I am.  I like my men in skinny ties and suspenders."

Jordan grabbed my arm and smiled close.  "That's horrible.  I would never be caught dead in a skinny tie."

"That's your loss," I grinned.

"I'm going to bed," Lindsay said.

I could already picture what would happen if she left us alone.  A new story, one I would probably regret.  But at least I would finally have an answer to the question, "Has anyone ever kissed you?"  I would look back on whatever happened with sadness and guilt and a deep satisfaction.

"I'll go up with you," I told Lindsay.

Jordan leaned in again and said, "I'd really like for you to stay here with me a little longer.  I'm leaving in the morning."

Well.  I smiled and said as meaningfully as I could, "I would really like that, too."  I turned to Lindsay.  "Alright, I'm ready."

We went upstairs.  I washed the makeup off my face and pulled on a t-shirt and shorts.  I said goodnight, slid under the covers, and turned off the light.  I stayed awake for over an hour regretting my decision.  I could still go back down.  I could find him again.  I could have my secret, and I would hate myself for a while, but I would feel desired and complete in a way I am increasingly desperate to experience.

It's hell, sometimes, fighting to hold onto hope.

Invisible at Church

I've been skipping church a lot, and finally a friend called me out on it.  I'd been waiting for someone to do so, which is exactly the sort of loser-move I side-eyed when I used to be an insider.  "Well, if they'd just come up to us," I would say, "We would totally invite them in and be nice."  True!  And it is undoubtedly unfair to ask people to be responsible for the emotional well-being of others.  But sometimes people are desperately unsure of themselves and need the validation that someone noticed they were gone and wish it hadn't been so.

That was a long preamble to the fact that:  I went to church today.  And I wish I hadn't.

It was Father's Day, which is never my favorite holiday.  Same for Mother's Day when there is blanket celebration with no acknowledgement of potential pain (either from one's own parents or from not being a parent oneself).  So there was the requisite adorable video and honoring of fathers.  There was a quote from Martin Luther about how we ought to be grateful for our parents because they fed us instead of letting us die.  All true, I suppose, but a single throw-away line about, "If you need to work through your family's dysfunction, go see a counselor," did little to honor the pain that I imagine at least 40% of the congregation felt.  Fathers, man.  They do a number on people.  Sometimes it's "simply" lack of time or affection, and that's enough to screw someone up.  But I've been a counselor for all of five months, and already I'm realizing how terrifyingly common it is for fathers to verbally, emotionally, physically, and emotionally abuse their children.  Handwaving that fact away with a "thank God for your parents" felt very irresponsible.

But I expected that.  What I didn't expect was a sermon based on the fact that humans bear God's image most fully in the family.  There were, like, maybe a few sentences about how the Church is a family, but mostly even that was in the context of using the Church to bolster your own family unit. 

As soon as it was said, my face shut down, my body turned in on itself, and I felt emotions crawling up my throat.  Honestly, I don't even care that I disagree with that interpretation of Genesis 1:26-28.  I personally believe that we bear God's image as individuals in relationships, but that there is no premium on marriage or parenthood as the relationship par excellence.  And I believe that multiplying to fill and subdue the earth includes, but is not limited to, physical reproduction.  But whatever.  That was not the message being taught today.  I could maybe have handled hearing that the family is the best way to represent God if even once the message had been directed to singles.  "What about us?" I thought.  "We're stuck with being sub-par image bearers.  What do we do with that?"  Hearing a callous "You just have to wait until you're married," would have pissed me off, but it would have been better than what actually happened, which is that myself and other singles (and the divorced and widowed and childless) were simply erased. 

It got worse, of course.  Because eventually we were addressed, in the form of a survey the entire congregation filled out after the sermon so that the church could better serve us.  Nice thought, and there was even one-fourth of the page devoted to singles.  There were sliding scales that asked if we thought God was using our singleness to sanctify and mature us, and I heavily circled the highest number in an attempt to prove my marital status doesn't affect my relationship with God.  Then there were a couple yes/no questions.  Two of the three were, "Are you saving sex for marriage?" and "Are you doing what you can to hold high the idea of marriage?"  Wonderful, wonderful.  My existence is summarily described by what I cannot do and by aspiring to that which I am not.  My singleness is the absence of.

To drive home the point, today was the Sunday when people with birthdays or anniversaries in the current month go forward to be acknowledged and prayed over.  I normally love this, because I really do have a high view of marriage.  But after forty minutes of being told over and over that this is ideal (and implicitly, you, Tricia, are not ideal), it hurt to hear one last time, "Congratulations to these couples who are exhibiting the truth that marriage is the place where people best bear God's image!"  I wanted to scream, "What about Jesus?  What about Paul?  What about that pesky verse that says it is better to be single than to be married?  Why is this not a nuanced conversation!?  Why do I feel like I don't exist?"

Instead, I practically ran to my car, throwing sunglasses on to cover the tears in my eyes.  As the car door slammed shut behind me, I instantly began sobbing and didn't stop until I got home.  Part of me sank into the desperate desire to be married and have kids--to be normal, to be the focus of the sermon, to be heard and valued in conservative evangelical culture.  I just wanted to fit in.  Another righteously angry part of me wanted to stay single forever, because I'm scared that if I ever do get married and have kids, I will be awash in relief at having arrived, and I'll blissfully forget the other singles who will still be ignored and undervalued.  I hope I will not be that way, but I've seen how the glow of being an insider can make me oblivious to those on the outside.

I don't mean to bash on my church family or my pastor.  I love my church to pieces, and I think this hit me so hard because I have such high standards.  They've been very nuanced and balanced and thoughtful in the past, and I'm sure they will be again in the future.  But today hurt.

Maleficent Movie Review

SO MANY SPOILERS AHEAD.  Don't read if you don't want to know literally every major plot point.

I was interested in seeing Maleficent, but I hadn't actually thought to see it in theaters until a friend asked to see a movie and I thought, "Why not?"  I was so ignorant.  Maleficent blew me away with all the usually awesome movie stuff--excellent acting (Angelina Jolie is magnificent) and breath-taking fantasy landscapes and creatures.  But what solidified my love for the film was its beautiful feminist messages.

For starters, it is an undeniably female-driven movie.  Maleficent and Aurora are the center of everything.  The three fairies provide comic relief and a significant amount of screen time.  There are three male characters to round things out--men to round things out!  One as the sidekick to a female!  Oh my gosh, what a wonderful thing to see women as the stars of a fantasy epic, living adventurous stories and making terrible and wonderful decisions.

Second, Maleficent continues what Frozen began:  the assertion that love comes in many forms, and that female love relationships are just as strong as male-female romantic ones.  (It also continues a hesitancy to rely on the rape-like "true love's kiss" while a person is unconscious.  I adored Prince Philip saying, "I don't feel right about this!  I barely know her!" when the fairies urge him to kiss the sleeping Aurora.)  But he does kiss her, and nothing happens.  She's still asleep.  And man, oh man, then Maleficent steps out, apologizes and cries and repents; she kisses the princess whom she loves and cares for, AND SLEEPING BEAUTY AWAKES.  True love's kiss is one woman caring for another.

And most importantly, I was completely surprised by the entire plot.  Maleficent is essentially a rape allegory.  The young carefree fairy befriends a human boy.  She thinks she loves him and she trusts that he loves her back.  Years later, out of greed and ambition, he drugs her so that she falls asleep, physically violates her, taking something of hers without her permission, and when she wakes alone, she howls in physical and emotional agony.  Dear God, that scene was crazy painful.

Seeing the action as rape makes the movie so incredibly powerful.  Her vengeance is understandable.  I rooted for her to make the guy crawl.  Her turn to darkness is a bandage for her pain.  I was behind her 100%, even though I was uncomfortably aware that she was acting the villain.

But it doesn't stop there!  Maleficent learns to love again, albeit by loving the child she cursed.  She saves the princess, risking her life in the process.  And then love saves her, quite literally.  The child she loves frees the wings that had been ripped from her, and in a burst of bright light, they reattach and Maleficent is whole again. 

There is still, however, that pesky king rapist.  He attacks her in exactly the way he knows will hurt her, and clings to her as she tries to fly away.  I'm entirely sure that the fight scene at the end was probably nothing overwhelming or particularly epic.  But seeing it as an abuser and a rapist attacking his victim made me so uncomfortable.  I was cringing at the screen the whole time.  I honestly didn't know what would happen, what I even wanted to happen.  Should she kill him?  YES, I WANT JUSTICE.  But that would turn her into the villain we assumed she was.  In the end, she breathes deeply and says, "It is over," releasing him and turning away.  She chose FORGIVENESS.  Not in like, the way where everything is okay.  But in the real forgiveness way, where she chooses not to let him have a hold on her anymore, where the victim says, "I will not let you make me less than I am."  It is SO AWESOME.  Of course, because justice is still demanded, he throws them both off the castle walls.  He, being a terrible rapist, falls to his death.  She, being a redeemed survivor with returned wings, flies away.  And it is soul-wrenchingly beautiful.

I loved this movie.  I loved it so hard, and I want to make everyone in the world see it.  I want people to empathize with the victims of assault, to despise those who violate others, to learn the painful lessons of forgiveness and loving again.  This movie was my everything!

Coward

As a struggling-to-reform perfectionist, I try pretty hard to be vulnerable and okay with weakness in front of Anju and Ketan, both of whom are well on their way to being full-blown neurotic perfectionists.  This means freely telling them, "I didn't know that," and "I was wrong," and "Whoa, that made me nervous!" I also tell them about all the things I'm scared of, from failing to heights to spiders.

When they both started reading Divergent, we naturally began categorizing each other into factions.  We have had this conversation approximately twenty billion times.

Anju:  You're definitely Amity, Miss Trish.
Me:  Yeah.
Ketan:  And Erudite!
Me:  Yup.
Anju:  But not Dauntless.  You're scared of everything.  Haha, you're such a coward!

So I clench my teeth and nod and admit that, yeah, I'm scared of a lot of things.  I do not, no matter how badly I want to, point out that she is scared of infinitely more things than I am, because I am (barely) above comparing myself to a seven-year-old.  And when Ketan boasts that his nickname would be Three, thereby claiming to be braver than Tobias, I hold my tongue and do not mention how he sometimes cries himself to sleep. 

We went to Six Flags today, and I hate roller coasters, which combine two stupid things: heights and falling.  That lurching feeling in your stomach that makes you think you're going to die?  I am totally fine going throughout my day without intentionally afflicting myself with it.  I want them both to know that it's okay to say no, that no matter how many times they whine at me or tease me, I'm allowed to say no and peer pressure isn't going to change that. 

I mean, I'm like really saintly towards these kids.  They had better look back some day and think, "Wow, Miss Trish actively and lovingly shaped us into confident, self-accepting human beings."  But if they keep needling me about how big of a coward I am, one of these days I'm going to pull a Severus Snape and scream, "DON'T CALL ME COWARD!" before fleeing into the Forbidden Forest.