A Letter Home

Last night I hung up the phone after talking to my grandmother only to receive a call from her a few minutes later. She asked how I was feeling about coming home, is it sad, will I be ok, am I going to be content being home again? It meant a lot that someone from home was taking the time to ask those questions because honestly, no, I won’t be content. It will be hard, it’s sad to leave, and there will be times when I really will think I am not going to be ok.

I know that God has put this place and these people on my heart for more than just to spend this year here (3 months + 9 months). I do not believe this is the end of God’s plan for me here and it is hard to see myself as the ‘settling down’ type. For now I just have to follow where he leads me.

Anyone who was around me a year and a half ago when I returned from Bulgaria the first time got a good look at what reverse culture shock, culture shock entering your home culture, looks like. I was engaged in conversations and lectures on the topic and even did some reading on my own beforehand, but nothing could have prepared me for this experience, except that: the experience. To be blunt, it sucked to have triggers I still haven’t been able to pinpoint make me cry several times a day for three weeks. I didn’t know why I was having such a hard time, but I can only expect the same or even worse going home the second time around.

For my friends and family: This is going to be a hard transition for me. There are going to be times when I just need someone around to listen or even to be a distraction for a little bit. Please do not tell me to ‘just forget about it” or to “just focus on things here”. That is probably the worst thing you could say and I cannot tell you how hard it is to hear. It may be a while before I can fully articulate what I am going through or how my experience has been, what I learned, and how I have changed. I have tried to post updates, I really have, but honestly, I am just really terrible at it. That is going to part make this processing a bit harder. Some of the things I have seen and experienced have been life changing in both positive and negative ways, and condensing an entire 9-month experience into a little conversation is not easy. Not only that, but I have been living in a culture that values relationships. They do not engage someone in conversation if they do not care, which is something Americans are notorious for. To be frank, if you don’t care, then please don’t ask me.

It meant so much to me to have my grandmother ask those questions because they are questions that need to be asked. She may have expected most of my answers, but some of them came as a surprise to her, as they do to others. Believe it or not, time on the mission field can be a very lonely experience, especially if people at home do not know what it is like and going home is no different. In this time of transition, I am going to need support from those around me who care.

Grace and Prostitution

I have been extra surrounded lately by strong women doing amazing work in the fight against human trafficking. We have had the conversations I have so desperately missed: “What is being done? How does trafficking look among different (European) cultures? Who are the victims/perpetrators? What is the next step?” and the hardest for me, “How do you not hate the men involved?”

Through the work that I have done and been exposed to, I have had encounters with Johns, a term for men who solicit (pay for) prostitution. One experience, in particular, just drove me over the edge. This man sat across the table from three former prostitutes, women that I had been working with for months, and me, and listened to their stories. They told about how they had come to be prostitutes, what the life of abuse has done to them, and the difficulties they have been through trying to leave that life behind. One woman asked, “How can you do this and still love your wife?” “Oh, I still love my wife! Having sex with a prostitute doesn’t require any feelings. I don’t have to love her so it’s not like I love my wife any less.” The man left completely unapologetic to the crimes he had been committed of; but not before shaking my hand and thanking me for the work I am doing. “These women really need the help,” he said. I have never wanted to hit someone like I did at that moment.

As if I didn’t already have a hard time loving these men, it now seemed impossible as I got in my car and drove home that day.

The idea that Jesus died on the cross for everyone is not an easy thing to grasp and accept. These men do not deserve that kind of grace. They do not deserve to have a second chance.

But then again, neither do I.

A few days ago, I listened to a song I have heard a hundred times before, but this time, something struck me.

The first verse contains these lines:

Cigarettes are burning down to my fingers

In my motel, where the smell still lingers

From the night before...

With a ten-dollar whore who didn't even know my name

The idea that a man becomes a John in hopes of seeking comfort and approval breaks my heart. It does not change the situation; however, knowing that is the best way he knows to feel those things is saddening. One way or another, these men need help just as much as the women do. (By the way, I am only speaking about Johns right now. Pimps are another story.) This man in particular told my women story after story of the pain he feels, which drives him towards these acts, "We have pains, too. It's not just you women, the prostitutes, who are hurting." Whether these stories are true, or just an emotion-inducing cover up, I do not know, but I have heard them plenty of times. Either way, I cannot be the one to judge.

Despite my feelings of hatred (judgmental, I know), it hurts to see human suffering.

Grace is a hard thing to give, but so easy to receive.

Jackie Green "Write a Letter Home"

Why I’m obviously not Bulgarian

Today, January 1, 2013, marks exactly 17 weeks that I have been living in Bulgaria. I’d say I’ve done a pretty good job of living here and getting acclimated, however, there still are and always will be things that prevent me from being seen as a Bulgarian.

·      I can’t walk in heels (but I’m learning)

·      I can’t walk on ice (not so much learning happening in that area)

·      I have dreads, which apparently not only pegs me as a foreigner, but specifically American

·      I have tattoos

·      I try not to wear the color black too much, and when I do, it’s usually paired with some brown

·      I’m not fond of dressing up, especially to run errands

·      In fact, my style, the “ Messy hair, comfy, and hopefully a bit stylish” look, seems to be pretty out of place here

·      I wear scarves as a normal part of almost every outfit, instead of only for the warmth when it gets cold

·      My ski coat comes out once it gets below 50 degrees Fahrenheit

·      Being more reserved in public is something I often have to be pretty intentional about

·      I usually carry a one and a half liter water bottle wherever I go

·      I tend to want to drink more than 350 mL (about 12 oz) of water during a meal

·      I like refills. Free refills

·      I often carry a travel mug of hot cocoa or hot tea with me, especially on cold bus rides at 6:50am

·      I do not like coffee, especially straight espresso shots

·      I hate using an umbrella, my raincoat is where it’s at

·      I sit on the ground

·      I like open windows

·      I am white. Really white

·      I love my Tevas

·      I say “Yall”

·      While I’m at it, I’ll go ahead and admit that my Bulgarian, if nothing else, usually blows my cover