Yesterday I Cried

Yesterday I cried, but the tears were few.  Rather it was a cry that came from deep within.  A cry that's hard to explain, easy to hide, and hard to stop.  It was a cry from my heart that started in my gut.  It was more emotional than tears can express.  It was a taste of anguish.

Growing up, I don't remember crying much.  I cried when I got yelled at or in trouble.  Mostly it was lip biting while desperately trying to hold back my tears. I cried when people died and when my dog S'more died.  Laughter rather than tears defined my childhood.  I was known for my laughter and occasional snorts.

One summer when I was about 14, I was standing at the mirror in the bathroom.  My eye hurt and I was trying to figure out what was wrong.  I noticed a small black dot on my bottom eyelid near the corner of my eye.  I thought something was in it, and I wanted to take care of it (I have always been a fixer).  After unsuccessfully trying to get it out with water, I went to my aunt to informed me that it was my tear duct. It was supposed to be there.  I was surprised to learn that there was a special part of the eye whose entire job was to secrete tears.  Tears was its specialty.

You know those random conversations that you aren't sure how you got in them. One night while talking with one of my friends who had studies anatomy and physiology, we got talking about crying.  (Now he had studied this, and I barely knew what he was talking about then, so explaining it now will be even more confusing). The jest of our conversation was that there is no biological connection for why emotional experiences would cause physical responses.  You see a cat killed and you start crying.  There is no reason why that would happen. (Remember I don't know if this is true or not, but this is what I remember from the conversation.)  That night  I realized that there was something unique and special about our emotional responses.  Something of God.

I've always been a pretty compassionate person, but most of my tears dealt or related to me.  How did I feel about this? How was I affected? I am the one sad about this.  For most people I think this is pretty common. As a woman who lived with lots of different women throughout my college career I experienced a lot of tears from myself and others through the stresses of course work, death, betrayal, loss, and pain.  My best friend and I often talk about "last time we had a good cry" and the build up of needing another one.  Crying is healing.  Crying releases something that's good for you. I have always felt better after a good cry.  I'm actually really good at crying quickly and quietly.  I just need to sometimes let it out.  Then I can move on with life.

"I don't know how to deal with my frustration," I said frustrated nearly two years ago.  I had just driven home on snow blown, ice covered roads,  barely a drip of gas in the tank, no way to get money, and after getting someone to help me out- I got my car stuck in a snow pile on our street. Fed up by my car, I traded with the father of the family I was living with to bathe his child covered with poop if he got my car out.  Happily he traded while I changed shirts and bathed the crap off this beautiful little boy.  I still had to figure my meetings for the day even though everyone was caught up by the snow.  I desperately wanted to cry, but I couldn't.  "Kick something" one of the guys I served with advised.  "Haha I don't know if I could do that."

At that time, it had been a few months since my crying "capabilities" had changed.  Something had changed inside of me. I cried but not for the normal things I used to cry over like my own frustrations and hurts. Rather I cried over the brokenness the surrounded me.  The brokenness of relationships, normalcy, love, families, jobs, sufferings, fights, pain, death- over the City of Detroit... even now as I write, I stop because I don't know how to move forward. I want to yell out "no, don't you see. Don't you see all their pain. Don't you see what's going on around you."  It's half cry but more of a yelling out.  A welling up from the inside out.  A rush of emotion that is so deep that it seems insurmountable.

The first time I remember encountering this wave of grief was a fall afternoon.  I had started my day with Mass which was the memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows, and afterwards prayed in the chapel.  During Mass the priest talked about how with great love comes great suffering.  Looking back in my journal, I recognized that I had received great love, and I questioned if that meant I also was going to encounter great suffering like Mary did.  Then I prayed a prayer I didn't want to pray because even though I knew I should, I didn't really want God to answer it. "Mary, I pray for your eyes to see your Son and his children as you do- with eyes filled with love and suffering. Then I pray for the hope and faith to rely completely upon the Lord."  (As a disclaimer, I was praying to God not Mary.  For the way in which my prayers were answered were by the Lord and His Holy Spirit.) 

And He answered that prayer almost immediately. For that day my eyes were opened to the City of Detroit in a new way.  While on the Sister Judy route delivering lunches to the homeless, she told me about the hardships of the prostitutes she worked with yet couldn't really help because of the lack of resources available for women in their circumstances.  Then she told me about the morgues filled with people who have died with no one to claim them for burial.  Maybe family members didn't know that they died or even worse maybe they did, but they didn't have the money for a proper burial.  Or maybe they were homeless and no one was there to care.  Or maybe there were people like Sister Judy who cared, but didn't have the means or qualifications needed to bury them.  Instead they sat in the morgue until it's too full then they are buried in the Potter's field.  Sister Judy would sometimes hold memorial services for the homeless people she knew who had died.  Different friends of there's would speak and then they would gather back at the church for pizza and fellowship- if they had the money.  My heart broke as she told me these stories.  My dad had always taught me the importance of burying the dead, and the Churches teaching on it.  I was horrified by how the morgue could be filled with all those bodies and how family members weren't able to properly grieve over their loss. 

Not that my heart wasn't heavy enough that afternoon, I sat with Josh Rock, the director of Youth Works, for nearly an hour talking about the Detroit public education system.  We talked about people graduating from high school without being able to read.  We talked about classes being filled with 40 plus students.  We talked about all the "dyslexic" students who really just needed a little one on one attention with reading.  We talked about a failing education system with little opportunity to get out.  I saw all my hopes and dreams as a future teacher flashing before my eyes.  Is this really what it's like? 

As I walked home from work that day, my mind my racing and my heart was grieved.  I talked with Priscilla on the front porch (some how uninterrupted by children) about the brokenness of the world, and how sometimes God gives us opportunities to see it through His eyes and to grieve over it.  We talked about one of the Brothers who God has really given the Lord's heart and how he has been graced with the ability to grieve and to love deeply. Even today, I still don't really understand it, but I continue to experience it.  Throughout my year in Detroit, my tears were less about me and more about others.  I experienced grief far beyond anything I ever imagined.  There were many of times in which I was just in agony over the situations that were before me, and all I could do was turn to God in prayer.  Often, I could barely pray.  Rather I would beg, worship, and cry some more.  I truly learned what it meant to "rely completely upon the Lord."

While in Detroit, I learned about a preacher named David Wilkerson.  Pastor Wilkerson was a small town preacher who was led by the Lord to New York City.  Many lives were transformed on the streets of New York through the power of God working in Wilkerson.  Over the last year or two, I have read his book The Cross and the Switchblade and listened to some of his sermons.  The Call to Anguish has stirred my heart in ways that only God can.  He says, "All true passion is born out of anguish."  Nehemiah from the Bible is called on by the God, and before he starts "the work of God" he is led to anguish and prayer.  A total surrender to God.  It is only then that he is able to be led by God to do not his own work, but the Lord's work.

Since coming to Belfast, I knew this "Baptism of anguish" needed to occur.  I also knew I didn't want it.  (Read former blog post called Love for further details.)  At the beginning of January while on staff retreat and focusing on Nehemiah, I thought "what would I do if I believed that God would take care of me?"  What would I do if I completely relied on God?  My mindset switched, and I realized how much I was holding back since moving to Belfast.  I wasn't really allowing God to work through me because I was afraid.  I wasn't really trying to settle here or learn to love Belfast.  Rather I was doing just enough to get by without giving my all and relying completely on God.  That day, I prayed for my heart to be expanded and to see God work miracles. 

A week and a half later I cried.  I cried because of the sufferieng some of the young people were facing.  I cried over the fatherlessness they experienced.  I cried over the flag protests and the divide this city has/ is going through.  I cried because the young people I had just spent two hours with were hurting, and I wanted them to know how loved they were.  I cried.

Little by little. Little by little.  That's how I have come to see God work in my life and in so many others lives.  Sometimes there are big changes, but usually it's the little things that make the difference.  Most of the time we don't even notice it, but little by little, little by little- it's occurring.  I continue to pray for the grace for God to expand my heart.  I pray that I can fall in love with the City of Belfast and it's people more than I could ever imagine.  I pray that my heart may break for the people here, and that I am given the opportunity to storm the gates of heaven.  I have no idea how long I will be in this city with these people, but I pray that the bricks I lay will be honoring to God and foundation for His people.  May He provide the strength, love, and grace I need each day to truly be His hands and feet.  

Peer Pressure

Everyone's eyes were on me while quickly scooting away.  Looks of fear, shock, and amazement covered their faces as they watched to see what I was going to do next.  I had just talked to them about how pressure can build up, and often the littlest things can set us off. I dropped three white candies into the bottle and poof a stream of cola went straight to the roof.  Excitement filled the air as everyone said "do it again!" 

Many people have seen the cola explosion done before in school, summer camp, or online.  Tonight, I did it as a visual example of how peer pressure can affect us.  Most of us will never explode fizzy drink like a geyser, but we can have times in which the pressure from others causes us to crack and do things we never imagined ourselves doing before.  In today's culture, young people are constantly experiencing pressure not only from friends, but also in school, from family, from media, and from the society in which they live in.  It can be a lot to take, and it's important that we all learn how to cope with the pressures we encounter in positive ways or we may one day shoot fizzy drink everywhere.

Every Wednesday night, you will find me in a green hut fondly known as the PC (YI project centre) for our Lifeline nights.  Lifeline is a program for 15-18 year olds from the Colin area in West Belfast.  Each night we have about 60-80 young people walk through our doors with many more who have just started coming.  We have a rotation of coffee bar hang out nights, single gender small groups, sacred space faith nights, and life skills nights that happen every 2-3 weeks.  Lifeline is funded by the Northern Ireland Big Lottery and part of our grant's goal is to tackle criminal behavior and reengage young people with formal education.  Our Life Skills nights attempt to accomplish this.

Deboragh Webb my incredible co-worker and partner in crime has a criminology something another degree and uses her loud voice, short stature, and wealth of knowledge to equip young people with skills hopefully to prevent criminal behavior or at least get the young people thinking a bit more about it. 

Tonight's session was amazing and I am so blessed I got to be a part of.  The lights were dimmed down, cards with words relating to peer pressure like "sex, drugs, and fighting" were hanging from the ceiling with painted splattered on them to look like lava, mats were on the floor for young people to sit on, and at the back of the room was this massive volcano.  The environment was set, and the room was a buzz as young people arrived.  I floated between groups people excited that I knew most of them who were there.  There were also a few faces there that I knew from street work that I wouldn't have imagined coming to our programs, but tonight they did.  It was a good night for them to be there.

The night started with a challenge.  Two of the youth workers called on two "volunteers" that didn't really volunteer at all.  They were pushed and encouraged by everyone to eat a disgusting plate of beans and artichokes while the other one had to do 10 more sit ups than he thought he could.  Immediately afterward a video was shown of interviews of young people and staff about what they thought peer pressure was.  Without us even saying what the "theme" of the night was, the young people already knew. Such a classic teacher strategy. 

Probably the best part of the evening was when one of the gapper interns who grew up in the neighborhood shared his story of being peer pressured as a youth.  It started as bullying then led to people taking advantage of his desire to have friends by convincing him to do things that he wouldn't have done other wise.  Eventually he became really down yet continued seeking after these "friends" while getting into further trouble with drugs and alcohol. But his story didn't end there, a voice within led him come to reality with the situation, tell his mum what was going on, and surround himself with better people.  Those people became the community of YI, and he is now making a huge influence of young people's lives through his young mens work and street work.  I'm really honored and blessed that I get to work with him.  He's one of the most encouraging co-workers I have. The young people were also really able to connect with his story, and it was helpful  for them to see how someone from many of their situations can change too.

After the story, Deboragh talked about the different kinds of peer pressures while I prepped for the cola pressure experiment.  One of our goals of the night was to have everything connect together, and I loved how we had so many people involved in different parts. We all stepped in, and helped with what was needed.  And the cola didn't go everywhere, but it stayed in the contained area I had prepared.  Not a recommended indoor activity!

Volcanoes are such mysterious entities.  They are so fascinating because they are unpredictable.  There is so much going on that we don't see or recognize.  When we least expect it they explode.  Sometimes they do straight into the air as a massive eruption while other times they slowly trickle down the sides.  Peer pressure can often have the same affects depending on the person pressuring or being pressured.  The young people were given the opportunity to connect what we were talking about to their own lives by writing down a "boulder" a way in which they have been pressured into something or in which they have pressured others into something.  Most them talked about smoking, drugs, and alcohol while a few were a bit more vulnerable about other ways they have experienced peer pressure.

Reading through each of those boulders, the gravity of the work I do sunk in.  It's easy to label and stereotype the issues these young men and women have.  They are just "punks" and "hooligans," but really they are just children desperately searching for love, meaning, and acceptance.  Those "boulders" aren't just little pieces of paper, but actual situations, stories, lives, and hardships that are faced every single day.  A month ago during my prayer time, I drew a little picture in my journal with me hunched over with a bunch of boulders on my back, and Jesus standing near a stream of water with his arms out.  He just wanted to unload the boulders of burdens off my back and refresh my soul with the streams of living water.  Tonight, I see the Lord desiring to do the same thing for each of those young people.  They might not even realize the load on their back, but I see how they have started to hunch over from the heaviness they carry.  I pray that the Lord will continue to use me as his hands and feet to lighten the load of my brothers and sisters through his love, hope, and joy.  For all the pressure will be gone, and only freedom will exist.

Ping Pong

Ping pong- it's the mark of a youth worker.  I'm not very good at it... yet.  It's the art of going back and forth.  It's a balance of bounces, quick moves, points, excitement, and competition.  Hoots and hollars!  It's important to have a white ball perfectly round.  Even a slight default in shape can throw off the whole game.  And the paddle. People become very particular about the shape, size, and condition of the paddle they use.  Each unique hands grips onto the wooden handle hoping for that one shot that will win the game. A broken paddle could throw off everything.

Then you have the real players who know the game isn't about the perfect paddle, the size of the table, or even the perfectly round ball.  Rather it's about the love of the game.  It's about the ability to adjust to all situations.  You stretch, focus, get into game position, and strike against your opponent.

But it's not really about beating your opponent rather it's about the process.  The process of going back and forth.  Being focused and patient.  Remembering not to get too caught up in the little losses, but to stay focused on the game.

And sometimes you need to dive risking everything in order to get that one point.  It's all about momentum.  Respect. And love! That is where games are won and lost.

There's a mark of respect to those who can play well.  Hoots and hollers fill the air as plays are made.  But once again for youth workers, it's not about winning or losing but the process.  Youth workers are often known for "just playing games with youth," and even though we do play a lot of games there is so much more occurring than meets the eye.  Youth work often isn't about the results, but rather the process and the journey we take with each young person. 

Anyone is capable of playing games with young people.  The true art is building relationships, teaching lessons, and awakening hope within each individual while playing the games. Conversations are had and trust is being built.  Interest is being taken in lives that are often broken.  Just like the real players, it doesn't really matter the shape of the ball, the size of the table, or the condition of the paddle because love conquers all.  If it's about the love of the game or love of the young person then hope can be awakened, mountains can be moved, and lives can be transformed.  It's an art. It's a mark. It's my job and it's worth risking it all for that one sweet moment that changes everything.