thankful

Every year on Thanksgiving I try to write. This morning, I sit in the quiet of my mom’s house and bask in the beauty of silence (no honking cars or beeping in reverse trucks outside window!). I listen for the Lord, and I’m thankful. This Thanksgiving is completely different from last Thanksgiving; instead of comparing the two and justifying which is better or worse, I’ve decided to embrace the change and find joy in the present time. The other day, one of my friends defined “joy” for me: a state of hope that isn’t fleeting or conditional. Always present. I think this is why Jesus Christ reminded us so often to be joyful—in triumph, trials, and everything in between. It isn’t a moment or a person or a situation that gives us joy. It is hope. Hope for a better future, an everlasting life of no pain, fear, or anxiety. Hope that what we are doing is making a difference—whether it be trying hard every day for our children, working every day to make ends meet, praying for a concern that hasn’t yet been answered, or living a thousand miles away from those you love to become a doctor. We do it all with joy for tomorrow, that tomorrow will be better today, and we hold that hope above all else. Joy and hope keep us going.

This time last year, my future was uncertain. I was interviewing at medical schools and finishing up my last year of college, without a real sense of where I would be this time next year. I was confident in God’s plan for me and trusted Him throughout the journey. When I got into Harvard, I was over the moon, but I was also scared. It became a reality that I would be leaving my family, my boyfriend, and my home for at least four years. I worried that I would lose touch with those I love, that my niece and nephew would not remember me, that long-distance would be riddled with problems, and that I would find out I wasn’t really cut out for medicine. But like all things, God has power over tomorrow and will always provide.

This year, I’m thankful for change. It is hard, and it rubs against the grain that we’ve made in life but helps us find new places for joy. I’m thankful that God put me in Boston. I love the city (despite the cars honking and beeps in the morning), and I’ve made the most wonderful friends who are kind, compassionate, and will make important changes in healthcare. Ultimately, I’m thankful for friends who push me to become a better me. I’ve found a Christian community that reminds me to pray often, fellowship with others, and live into the freedom that God gives us. My relationship with Avery has changed as we navigate loving from a distance, and I’m so thankful for his constant support and ability to adapt as life moves around us. I’ve had to be more intentional about calling family and staying connected. I’m thankful for the long calls and FaceTime chats we have about life. I have fallen in love with medicine and thank God for helping me believe in myself. I didn’t realize the beauty of working with patients, being trusted during sometimes the scariest time of a person’s life, and having the power to really make a difference in the lives of others. I love learning about complex medical problems and having hope that new, life-saving discoveries will be made in areas like genetics, cancer, and heart disease. I’m thankful for financial stability, the ability to live in Boston and attend school, and those who so generously help me. I’m thankful that my family is healthy and well. The gift of health is fragile and fleeting, and it really is our responsibility to do what we can for as long as we can.

I’m thankful for home, both the place and the people, because without it none of this would matter. Home is where I’m grounded, renewed, refreshed, and reminded of what’s important. Home helps me remember that change comes unexpectedly at times, but joy and hope persist despite evolving circumstances. That is something to be thankful for.

the sun

It’s an early Saturday morning and the sun tries to pour in through the cracks in my window curtains. My heart leaps at the sliver of light that finds its way in, and I don’t think of the things I have to do, the upcoming exam, the assignments due, the distance from my family, the laundry I need to clean, the run I need to go on, the emails I need to send, or the million actions I need to do. My heart rolls over with my body as I anticipate the bright, vibrant sun that bathes the earth in wonder, and the small part of that beautiful wonder I get to enjoy today. It is a small, simple, remarkable feeling of joy that the little sliver of light gives me. Daily I encounter–in myself or others–suffering, pain, illness, hopelessness, hurt, injustice, separation, and fear. It is easy to be bathed in the hurt of this life. In this moment, though, early on Saturday morning, in a corner of Boston, on a small bed in a small dorm, I feel hope and joy for all things ahead.

Thank you God for this beautiful day.

It is yours.

the free

Piece by piece

We build the wall

That works to separate us all

From those who have from those don’t

From those who can to those who won’t.

We throw our words around like flames

That scar and burn but mostly blame

Because those who won’t just steal from me

And those who don’t just need to flee.

Word by word

We all fall down

Our piercing words can only drown

Those who seek a sweeter place

To love and live and show their face.

All they find is hate and harm

From those with dangling, cross-shaped charms

“Build the wall!” they shout with glee

And as we do, we imprison the free.

Heart by heart

We deny the hate

That steals our love and determines our fate

We stand together in unity

Remembering whose pain once set us free.

We don’t speak loud but we do speak out

Because acts of love don’t scream and shout

The greatest of love has spoken for me

Now I speak for Him on that sacred tree.

I wrote this on a plane ride back from visits in Boston and Providence over the weekend. I was really inspired by the people, love, passion, and humanity that swept me up over the past few days and felt compelled to write this piece of poetry. It is political, but our lives are political. They are messy, confusing, never black and white. This poem, I hope, urges us to consider the gray– to find our place in the gray. The piece is also about love, peace, freedom, Christ, and unity. I hope the beauty of the woods isn’t missed for focusing in on the tree. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

poems from seaside

I think

there are so many poems

about the ocean because it is

simultaneously violent

and peaceful.

At the same time it

crashes against the coast

destroys a weak vessel

and carries away debris

It

smoothes the rocky shore

coos the frightened bird

and hugs your planted feet.

It somehow reminds us

gently

chaotically

simply

subliminally

of that violent yet peaceful

love

that roars as it sings.

That kind of love that lives within you and within me.

——

If each day is a fresh page

Then I want mine to be

Inked with words of prayer

Stained with drops of coffee

Smudged with chocolate fingers

And scented with smells of you.

If each day is a fresh page

Then yesterday doesn’t matter

And tomorrow can’t be viewed

So I’ll sit here and

Think

Today, what good can I do?

——

prayers are like raindrops except you send them up instead of let them fall. everyday you send a raindrop up to heaven to join the puddle pooling at God’s feet. everyday you wonder, did my raindrop reach the stars or did it break along the way? then one day, you realize your raindrops were never supposed to go up all the way and stay. you just forgot to look around and see everyone soaked and smiling by the rain that wiped away their tears. your tiny little prayers were falling all the while, and finally you learn, prayers are a lot like raindrops,

they fall on those who are near.

sacred places

“There are no unsacred places; / there are only sacred places and desecrated places.” — Wendell Berry
I’m starting to understand that there truly are no unsacred places — this is a bold claim. Some may perceive the site where a white American minister burned himself alive in the name of racial reconciliation as unsacred, or the home of hundreds of incarcerated men and women as unsacred, or the doctor’s office where an abortion has been performed as unsacred, or a strip club where infidelity puts food on the table for women employees as unsacred. I am guilty, as I predict we all are, of having passed an opinion on each of these cases and many others without considering the human lives involved. And while yes, I do believe that there are very uncomfortable aspects in each of these places and scenarios, I’m starting to see that life is much more complicated than the simple dichotomy of sacred/unsacred or right/wrong or good/evil. I didn’t coin this distinction, though; that was Wendell Berry. Luckily it wasn’t me, because Berry importantly includes the alternative to unsacred: desecrated. I looked up “desecrated” in the dictionary to see exactly what he meant. Something desecrated has been violently disrespected, or possibly perverted, violated, infected, polluted, vandalized, debased, or degraded. Berry is onto something here. People — the most critiqued in society — are likely to have been victims of many waves of desecration in their lifetimes. I imagine people as those beautifully painted Russian nesting dolls. We may look whimsical and pleasing on the outside, but within each of us there are many unseen, hidden layers. These mysterious, unknown layers may be what have shifted some of us from the sacred to the desecrated. We’re all damaged, polluted, degraded in some way. Some of us are just better at hiding our layers than others.
So there are no unsacred places, only desecrated places, and those not yet desecrated, or the sacred. There are no unsacred people. There are people who have been cheated, lied to, abused, hurt, neglected, abandoned, scared, dishonored, gossiped about, rejected, and shamed; they are simply damaged. If someone we love is damaged, do we abandon them? Give up, toss them to the side, move on, and hope for better luck in the future? I hope the answer is no. At least, I’m hoping no one gives up on me. I’m damaged, just like you are. I want to see people as the complicated, multi-layered, dynamic living souls they are. This world is far too vivid and beautiful to see only in shades of black and white. That place we call harmony, sympathy, and understanding is all gray.
—–
How to Be a Poet by Wendell Berry
(to remind myself)
i   
Make a place to sit down.   
Sit down. Be quiet.   
You must depend upon   
affection, reading, knowledge,   
skill—more of each   
than you have—inspiration,   
work, growing older, patience,   
for patience joins time   
to eternity. Any readers   
who like your poems,   
doubt their judgment.   
ii   
Breathe with unconditional breath   
the unconditioned air.   
Shun electric wire.   
Communicate slowly. Live   
a three-dimensioned life;   
stay away from screens.   
Stay away from anything   
that obscures the place it is in.   
There are no unsacred places;   
there are only sacred places   
and desecrated places.   
iii   
Accept what comes from silence.   
Make the best you can of it.   
Of the little words that come   
out of the silence, like prayers   
prayed back to the one who prays,   
make a poem that does not disturb   
the silence from which it came.

images

I’m sitting 30,000 feet above the earth as I write this. I was elated when the American Airlines flight attendant poured my plastic, clear cup mostly full of ice and one quarter full of ginger ale and then, to my delight, passed over the entire can full of sugary goodness for me to enjoy. What an indulgence. I don’t normally drink soda, but my guilty pleasure is a nice, cold ginger ale, and I only drink them when I’m in the air, flying above the stretches of green and blue below. The distance between myself and the earth as I soar across the darkened North American sky creates a real sense of daredevil-ness, so I delight myself to one ginger ale. (Maybe this feeling is why my sister is becoming a pilot). I watch the dissolved carbon dioxide in my sugary elixir bubble up to the top like the joy I feel within myself. I rejoice in this feeling, because it may be fleeting, and I want to hold on as long as I can.

I’m convinced life is a series of catching the bubbles of joy, laughter, and happiness when they rise within us. They may be fleeting, but simply indulging in the goodness of life can bring them back.

I was reminded this past Sunday of an image I had a few weeks ago, in the midst of my medical school interview season. I was at Ethos church one Sunday when we were given some extra time to reflect and spend time in prayer and communion with God. In a moment of desperation to hear from God, I was given a powerful image that still lingers with me.

Last year I had a dream that I was in a small, wooden sailboat that had a beautiful orange and red sail that carried me through a little lake. The water was peaceful and calm and a dark, deep shade of blue. As I went along easily in this beautiful little serenity, I looked up to see – not physically see more than simply understand – that God was pulling my sailboat along the river. That he was the grand designer of all the adventures in my life, even the simple and mundane. Even the exotic and chaotic, he was the grandeur creator. I tucked this image away in my heart to grasp onto when I felt like I was aimlessly sailing my boat into the uncharted sea; someone greater than me already knows both the path and the destination.

Later that year, in the spring or summer of this year, I had another vision that I was walking through a series of wooden rooms with variously sized doors and windows. Except that it wasn’t really me more than I was just a set of big feet (it sounds strange) but it became clear that the purpose was for me to hone into these feet, the manifestation of our physical foundation. The things that carry us from place to place. In this image, I looked down to see God holding, gently, the tops of my feet as he picked up each one and set back down through the house of rooms and doors. Some doors we came to were closed, but I would glance over to see an open window filling with sunshine – and God brought me to that closed door for a reason. Had I walked through it, I would have never seen the beauty coming through the window. I continue to see this image of an omnipotent, kind God leading me gently and thoughtfully through the maze that is my life.

Finally, I had a vision within the last few months of another God moment. This one perhaps more connected to my feelings at the time. Early this year in the semester, I was dealing with some unwanted questioning about my life. I felt misplaced and out-of-order. I grappled with these feelings for a few weeks, always wondering where they came from and why I felt so odd and unfamiliar to even myself (the Queen of Self-Reflection!), but I did. I felt, maybe depressed? Maybe anxious? Maybe fearful of my uncertain future? Maybe scared of leaving a place like Belmont and the routine of my life? Who knows. I carried these thoughts with me into church one Sunday. As I sat in prayer, a time I’m so thankful Ethos gives us to have, I had a vision of myself standing along the edge of a beach. I was all alone, no one else was on the beach except me – desolate for miles to come. The vast ocean lay before me, always active while simultaneously calm. The stretch of shore expanded behind me. I thought to my previous images, and expectantly, I looked up and down the beach to see Jesus walking toward me or looking for me or something. But to my surprise – I saw nothing. No spirit. No person. Not a single movement. I stared ahead toward the ocean, thinking to myself, God, where are you? I expected him to show up. But then I looked down and saw the constant crashing of the ocean waves against my fragile human legs. The waves continued on, constantly washing across my feet, removing the remnants of sand that lingered from before, and immediately I heard, “Mary, I am the ocean. Constantly washing you anew. I’m always here, even in places you don’t expect me to be.” God painted this beautiful image in my head, and I rolled up the canvas to carry with me forever.

May your boat sail on, footsteps continue on, and waves carry on, washing you anew every day.

 

faith

Following Jesus can be hard. Temptations abound in a world that glorifies temporary pleasure over long-term happiness and quick intimacy over intentional relationships. It’s easy to fall prey to superficial, surface-level friendship on social media and to the black hole of beauty, trendy fads, and “aesthetic” that permeates our Instagram pages. It’s hard to remember to love your neighbor when your neighbor is someone who you feel alienated, victimized, or persecuted by and it’s especially hard to imagine loving our worldwide neighbors when we shut them out and make them feel neglected and orphaned. Remembering to focus on your inner adornments is forgotten when we aspire to look like Kylie Jenner and celebrities who battle the same insecurities that we do. Being a follower of Jesus Christ in a society of trendy, oftentimes hypocritical Christianity is especially challenging. People mistrust Christians because they’ve been hurt by us, whether because of some outspoken, radically conservative voices or because they see an absence of love and acceptance like they thought Jesus gave. Overcoming the mistrust that pollutes our society is our responsibility as Christians, to be vessels of Truth, acceptance, and compassion. But following Jesus can be hard, and the difficulty starts within ourselves.

I read in Colossians 2:12 this morning: “having been buried with him in baptism, in which you were also raised with him through faith in the powerful working of God, who raised him from the dead.” The words that caught my attention were “buried” and “faith”. Our societal burdens and insecurities can be easily buried with Christ through baptism, a literal washing away of all those things that bring us down. I imagine going under water in an act of commitment and proclamation to God and leaving behind my desire to be perceived a certain way online, by the ones I love, and to total strangers. Leaving behind any addictions or weakness. Burying the things that stretch and test you — in the worst of ways. That is what baptism in Jesus Christ offers. There is a second aspect to this relationship with Christ that is the hard part, the daily struggle that we face that I described above.

And that is faith. When we come up out of those waters of forgiveness, a lifelong journey of faith ensues. And no, it isn’t easy. It requires waking up daily to thank God for whatever will happen that day — when you are peeved at work, stressed by finances, neglected by friends, hurt by significant others — God wants thanksgiving for even those moments. It can be easy to think, why didn’t the God of the universe make it easy to be a follower of Christ? Why am I constantly being inflicted with temptations and tragedy that feel far from God? Is it even possible to be close to my savior in a society that separated from Him? Why is this so hard? I ask these questions like any Christian does, and the only comforting conclusion I can come to is one of love.

It’s simple: no one wants to be in love with someone who didn’t have to choose to love them back. Love requires sacrifice and compromise, commitment and compassion. Christ showed us the most radical act of love possible and simply asks for a fraction of that given back to Him. It may be hard, but it is worth it.