The "O" Factor...

Or "3 Reasons White Folks Deny the Existence of Systemic Racism"

In my post yesterday I talked about standing with oppressed people as an act of love for our neighbors. I am sure there are people who read it and thought, "the slaves were freed in 1863, what are they complaining about?!" or "the Civil Rights movement happened 50 years ago, it's their own fault if they aren't succeeding!" 

Statements like these are heartbreaking, because it means we truly do not see what is all around us. We have convinced ourselves of a narrative that the day Dr. King dreamed about has come and everything is fine. The idea that we are all judged by the "content of our character" and not the color of our skin makes us feel good, but the truth is we are not there yet. The following are actual things I have heard people say as reasons they do not believe racism (systemic and personal) exists:

1. "I love Oprah and she is black!" or "Oprah has more money than God and she is black!" 

2. "OJ wasn't convicted and this proves the system is not rigged against black people!" 

3. "We elected Obama. We can't be racist because we have a black president!" 

Here's my brief response to each of these statements:

1. Oprah is amazing. She has worked extremely hard for everything she has and is an inspiration to many people. However, we (white Americans) have a history of using black people for our entertainment. The fact that you love Oprah does not convince me that you are not racist. Especially when you say things like, "she's not like other black women...most black women are angry and all Oprah wants to do is give people new cars." I'm just gonna leave that one there. 

2. A couple weeks ago I watched ESPN's "OJ: Made in America." It was really well made and extremely painful to watch. The commentary on race relations and the history of LAPD's violence against the black community made me weep. After hearing all the 911 calls Nicole had made over the years and seeing photo after photo of her bruised face from OJ beating her, I nearly threw up when I saw the crime scene photos. When it was over I thought two things, "you don't stab someone you don't know that many times..." and "I suppose if I were black in Los Angeles in the wake of the Rodney King verdict, I would've been rooting for OJ's innocence too." 

The problem with using OJ's acquittal as proof that systemic racism does not exist is the Mark Fuhrman tapes. That trial hung on 2 things: tapes of Mark Fuhrman (who you can catch on Fox News as an "expert") detailing racial profiling and use of excessive force against the black community and a glove that didn't fit (for reasons I won't give away here). The reality is that (because of their poor choices) the prosecution failed to prove their case and OJ's history of spousal abuse was overshadowed by the history of the LAPD's abuse of the black community. Both are tragedies because, like I said before, injustice is everywhere. 

3. Barack Obama is the 44th president of the United States of America- we have arrived! The fact that we are "proud" of this (like posting on social media that we helped an elderly woman cross the street) shows we have so far to go. He is 1 of 44. Yes, we elected a black president. We also have never seen people try to disprove a president's birthplace like what we have seen against President Obama. It pains me to say that even in the last year of his presidency I've heard people say, "but he wasn't even born in America!" Let me put your mind at ease, my friend's neighbor is the doctor who delivered him here in Hawaii. He's American born (and even better- he is Hawaii born!). 

These examples or, The "O" Factor, are household names because they are exceptional. Their stories are not the norm. We know them and cite them as examples of our progress because we don't want to be racist. Racism = bad morals and we want to think of ourselves as moral people. However, the fact remains they are exceptions to a not-so-silent truth that black people cannot get as far as white people in our country. 

This must continue to change- but it won't happen by pretending we don't see color...

#youstilldontgetit

For months I have been drafting something on this subject, but have not published until today. I suspect this will be the first in a line of posts that will ruffle feathers, but I've never been one to shy away from conflict and this is one I consider worth my energy. The intention of these posts is not to offend or upset, although I realize that will happen, it is to help us love our neighbors. Or maybe just realize who our neighbors are...

Over the last year I have posted statements of solidarity with an oppressed population of people. When I first began posting these statements, I did not realize how many people it would upset. I did not realize how many people in my social media would fiercely oppose this idea of standing with a group of people who are being oppressed. I certainly did not realize that it would go so far as being trolled by people I once considered friends.

Standing with the oppressed is something I believe in because I am a Christian, not in spite of it. I believe that when there are people who are pushed down, it is my call to stand with them and say "this is not okay!" or rather, "Your Kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven!"

There is no shortage of injustice in the world. Violence happens in every corner, in every culture. It happens among people who look the same, and it happens against people who look, speak, and believe differently. We live in a fallen world and this is just the way things are. However, I think we can all agree, this is not the way things should be.

The #blacklivesmatter movement was born as a response to historical and systemic injustice. It was never a statement that meant "black lives matter MORE" or "other lives don't matter". Anyone who is affiliated with this movement has said that the silent word at the end of the phrase "black lives matter" is "TOO" or "ALSO" or "AS MUCH AS OTHER LIVES". It is not excluding white lives, blue lives, rich lives etc. It is a plea for their lives to matter as much as the aforementioned. If you are violently objecting my use of this phrase you either A.) don't believe that black lives matter as much as other lives or B.) still do not understand what it means.

Now, some of you are probably really angry right now. You may be saying:

1. "But all lives matter!" or
2. "But that guy killed those cops in Dallas!" or
3. You are convinced that the only way to get beyond racial injustice is to pretend it does not exist ie, "we have to come together! we can't talk about race! talking about race only divides us!" or
4. "I have black friends and they don't feel this way."

1. Yes, all lives matter. But right now, there are oppressed people who are asking to be seen and heard. Let's open our eyes and ears and hear their stories.
2. That was a horrible tragedy. It has shaken many selfless law enforcement officers and their families to their core. But that psycho on a rooftop no more speaks for #blacklivesmatter than the Westboro Baptist Church speaks for all Christians.
3. Yes, we need to come together. But ignoring racial injustice does not bring unity. Honest dialogue about real issues brings unity. Crying with those who mourn brings unity.
4. Maybe this is true, it is not my place to say how anyone else feels. But, maybe you guys aren't really "friends". (A test of this would be to ask yourself, "how often do we eat together? how often do we talk about real stuff?")

Tune in tomorrow for my top 3 reasons white folks don't believe in systemic racism...

Questions?

Recently I have read a lot on social media about the appropriateness of asking questions. Rather than adding to the speculation of those particular situations, I would like to share a couple of stories from my own life.

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My teary-eyed 10 year old self once asked a youth leader, “How do you know God is real?”

“It is better to be safe than to be sorry,” replied this good-intentioned, well-meaning leader.

In other words, it was better for me to “believe” and go to Heaven than doubt and end up in Hell. Being the people pleasing pastor’s kid, I prayed whatever prayer she led me in and walked away thinking, “that did not answer my question”. I spent the next several years of my life praying every night that God, if God was indeed real, would not to send me to Hell.

Though traumatized and confused for much of my adolescence, I am not angry with that leader for her response. I have spent a lot of time considering why an adult would say something so irresponsible to an impressionable child and the answer is simple.  

Fear.

The only reason a person would answer that question with “better safe than sorry” is because they are afraid. Maybe she was afraid for me. Maybe she was afraid that I could not handle a deeper answer. Or maybe, just maybe, she was afraid of what her lack of answer said about her own self. Either way, her response taught me 2 things, 1. Hard questions scare people (so I should not ask them) and 2. People who are afraid of hard questions are usually hiding something.

(For those of you who read that last statement and immediately got defensive, I don’t know you, so how could I possibly mean you? I am talking about myself here as much as anyone else.)

When I was in my early 20s I had a friend who was really obnoxious. He was a nice guy and very likable, but he asked A LOT of questions. One day he asked me a question that I thought (prayed) no one would ever ask me. I gave him a non-answer answer (kind of like that youth leader gave me) and hoped that would suffice but, like I said, he was really obnoxious. He called me out on my non-answer and kept pressing until I completely lost it. I yelled at him until I was in tears because of how terrified I was of acknowledging the truth and having another person know the truth. 

That was one of the most difficult (albeit life-changing) conversations I have ever had and it taught me a couple things as well. 1. Hard questions terrify people (but they are necessary and I should be willing to ask and answer them). 2. People who are afraid of hard questions are definitely hiding something (I certainly was).

It also taught me: 3. if you want to know something, ask. It is the only way to learn. 4. The truth hurts- but in a liberating you to new life kind of way (like childbirth).

So here is my response to all those who think we should not ask questions: 

Questions are not the enemy. 

The person asking questions is not your enemy. 

The truth deserves to be heard. 

The truth will set us free. 

Isaiah 61, Romans 8 and all that jazz

Five years ago at this time I was preparing to move to a foreign country to be a volunteer missionary. It was something I felt I was meant to do and was extremely excited for the opportunity. I had no idea what to expect and had all sorts of expectations all at once. There are parts of that experience that I would not trade for anything including the friendships formed, my Spanish language skills and my Arequipa family.

After I had been there about 8 months, my cousin Brandon died tragically. It hit my entire family like a freight train and being isolated from them made it worse. It was the first time I had experienced grief like that and I suspect I will never fully recover. Amid my grief, I chose to stay because I felt that was the right thing to do. I guess I figured that most people don’t get to quit their jobs when they’re grieving, so I would keep going.

About six weeks later, something happened within our organization that I considered extremely unfair and hurtful to someone on staff. The boss man called and invited those of us who were upset to sit down for a chat. I went to this meeting with the intention to voice my concern and ask what the reasoning was for the action taken. I was greeted with contempt and hostility- and I in turn responded with contempt and hostility. This person accused me of “not liking him” (well, I definitely don’t now) and conspiring against him (which I did not) and THEN used my grief against me saying he thought I should leave the organization because my grief was dragging the team down.

Brandon’s death was the worst moment of my life…that conversation was the second.

I walked around for a long time feeling like a failure, being angry and allowing that conversation to define me. I felt hurt, betrayed and pissed off to the point of obsession. My vision was so limited, as it tends to be when in the middle of difficult times. 

Well, it’s been four years and I still feel hurt but I am also incredibly thankful.

I am thankful that I can now see the light in dark places because I survived that whole ordeal. I am thankful that I can share this story and hold out hope to anyone who feels like the rug has been ripped from under them. I am thankful for the things that would have happened differently (or not at all) if my plans hadn’t been destroyed by that guy…

Like meeting my husband. 

Yes, I am thankful. 

For the Record

Before I begin I’d like to thank Papa and Annie for being the best friends my parents ever had. I’m so glad they realized that pastors are allowed to have friends. I love you. (There are others, thankfully, but you two will always stand out!)

As a pastor’s kid, there are some misconceptions I would like to clear up.

1. The pastor, pastor’s spouse and the pastor’s children are not perfect. (I cannot stress that last one enough.)
2. Nor are they closer to God than everyone else in the church.
3. The pastor’s family fights. Sometimes the pastor’s family fights on Sunday mornings on the way to church causing the pastor to get out of the vehicle and walk the rest of the way to church and never carpool on Sunday morning again.  
4. In the case of number 3, it is very difficult for the pastor to get up and preach an inspiring message. Give your pastor a break. Seriously.
5. Your pastor’s spouse (particularly those who happen to be women) carries the weight of every criticism and attack you launch on the pastor and pastor’s children. Stop expecting them to want to be around you and attend all your “ministry functions” when you’ve done nothing recently but chew the pastor out.
6. The pastor and pastor’s spouse answered a “call” to ministry. The pastor’s children did NOT. They do not know all the answers so please stop turning to them every time there is silence in your Sunday school class.
7. For that matter, your pastor does not have all the answers. Especially about how to fix your kid. For all you know, your pastor’s kid is more broken than yours. Confide in your pastor, seek counsel, but don’t be pissed** if he/she doesn’t have quick fix for you. The good news is YOU also have the ability to seek and hear from God. 
8. Your pastor’s family needs him/her more than you do. Do not hold it against your pastor if sometimes he/she has to say “no”. You should want your pastor’s family to be healthy.
9. Though your pastor and spouse are flawed human beings, they are there because they love God and your church. (At least I hope that’s why. You may be unfortunate enough to find yourself in a church with a certified narcissist who just loves the sound of his own voice. If you suspect this, please RUN to the nearest exit and never look back.)

Okay, now that I’ve shattered your rose colored glasses, let’s get down to business. These misconceptions about the pastor and pastor’s family are a result of an invisible line drawn between pastor and congregation. Believe me when I say that this line is detrimental to the wellbeing of the pastor, the pastor’s family and the church. This separation creates loneliness for the pastor and pastor’s spouse, unrealistic expectations for pastor’s children, and the temptation for your pastor to abuse the position.

Maybe you like the lines because it makes you feel good to follow someone who seems to have it all together (seems is the operative word here). Yes, your pastor has probably spent more time studying the Bible than you have, but that is as much your choice as his/hers. Stop thinking (or letting your pastor think) it is not your place to ask how he/she is really doing or to inquire about a decision he/she has made (respectfully, of course!). Don’t conspire or attack, but go to your pastor with kindness and the intent to erase those lines and create a new kind of relationship.

Bottom line: The Church is a body. It works together. The parts all need each other. This INCLUDES your pastor and pastor's family. Your pastor needs you as much as you need him/her. Don’t let your pastor (or anyone in the church) get to the point where he/she believes he/she is the most important part of that body. When this happens, it is only a matter of time before your pastor’s family and your church are completely destroyed. 

Trust me on this one. 

**sorry, Mom, I tried to find another word but that is the one that fit best. Grammy would approve. 

Power or Service?

After college I knew a guy who was a monk in the Catholic Church for a while. Ever bothered by the fact they do not allow women to be priests I asked him what the reasoning was. He told me that the priesthood was a position of service, not of power. I loved that! But then he said that a woman seeking priesthood was probably doing it for the power and not from a heart of service or she would just become a nun. (All my feminist friends just groaned in disgust).

I do not know if this is the Catholic Church’s official reasoning, so I won’t hold it against them, but I was very confused by whether or not he believed the priesthood was an act of service or a position of power. Now before all the Protestants reading this think “thank God we’re not like them” I’ll stop you and say, we are the same. Our pastors may get spouses instead of cool hats and robes to wear, but the same issues exist on our side too.

The majority of people who enter ministry do so with good intentions. I truly believe that most people who feel called, destined, led, whatever, into church ministry want to share what God has done in their lives and thereby help others. This desire to do “God’s work” is not the problem. The problem is when that work is no longer done in response to a hurting world. When the work someone does in the church (be they pastor or lay person) becomes about anything but helping those in need, it is only a matter of time before it becomes a problem.

Imagine with me for a moment someone who has a job they do in the church. Once upon a time they did that job because it was something that needed done and they volunteered. However, now they’ve been doing it so long that God forbid anyone come in and do it differently or try to steal that position. Or consider a person who has substantial wealth and gives faithfully to his church. He began giving money as a way to help the ministry but now uses it to make sure everyone knows his opinion about how things should be done is the only one that counts. Or the pastor who was once eager to learn how to lead, is now convinced that he has it all figured out and anyone who questions him should move out of the way.

Crazy, right? It is crazy, but sadly, extremely common. Serving has turned into self-serving. Acts that were once done to draw people to Christ have become ways to attain self-importance. The people in these scenarios forgot that The Church is not about me, it’s about them.

Am I saying that people should not continue to serve in one position for fear they will abuse it? Certainly not, we all have gifts and we should use them. However, I do think it illustrates the need for accountability for everyone involved in the life of a ministry. Church should be a place of conversation, where lives are shared and people find acceptance and belonging. 

But, when a person holds on too tightly to their “position”, conversation stops, egos run rampant, people get bulldozed and the church becomes 

IRRELEVANT.

It took me almost 4 years...but I'm BACK!

For as long as I have breathed, my parents were involved in ministry and from the age of eight, my dad was a full time pastor. This means I spent the better part of my childhood and adolescence within the walls of a church. I have been incredibly fortunate to meet wonderful people and know the love and support of an enormous church family. But this post is not about them...

Like all parents, mine definitely tried to shield me from the ugliness of the world. For them, this also meant shielding me from the ugliness within the church.

I was twelve when they could no longer protect me from the truth. My father, who has always poured his whole self into whatever he does, was sobbing in a way I did not know a father could. He had, like always, given himself (and our family) over to an opportunity he and my mom believed was God’s call on our lives. He announced his resignation to our church in Kentucky and we were weeks away from leaving, but that afternoon there was a phone call and everything changed. After months of planning and life rearranging, all that was agreed on was ripped away.

I don’t know if my dad ever fully recovered from that, but he has pressed on in ministry to this very day (way to go, Daddio!).

What I do know is that this was the day I knew church people, particularly those in leadership, were capable of the deepest wounds a person can ever receive. 

Of course, this is not news to anyone who owns a television or has read an article about the countless priests who have molested kids, pastors who have had affairs with church members, or deacons who have stolen money from their congregations. These stories are all over the news because, in addition to being serious issues the public should be aware of, the media loves to watch the mighty fall. Stories like my dad’s, stories like mine, do not make the news. They do not make the news because the collateral damage is not dramatic enough to be entertaining.

Well, this story is not meant to entertain, and it certainly is not for the media to launch more attacks at the church. It is my sincere attempt to ask church people, especially those in leadership, to consider whether or not what they are doing is drawing people into the presence of an accepting, loving Christ or not? If it’s not, they should stop, fall to their knees and plead for mercy.

Let’s fast forward to my college years. Long story short, it was a square peg/round hole kind of situation. I do not know what it was exactly, but I just didn’t fit. Part of me was proud of this, and I kind of enjoyed being the sandpaper. But I was too young to fully embrace the beauty of being different and I suffered a lot between the desire to be accepted and the need to be honest.

My 21 year old self had written a little devotion piece to be published on my Christian university campus and someone in a leadership position was not thrilled about what I wrote. Basically I said that the consequence of being expelled would probably prevent a person who needed help with an issue (such as alcoholism) to seek treatment. Okay, okay, so I accused the system of choosing a high gloss finish over authenticity. That’s fine, it’s their prerogative to want me to change it because I pointed out a flaw in their system. It was, however, very unfortunate that members of leadership accidentally blind copied me to their email that was not very nice about me (although they did accuse me of being “subversive” which I now take as the highest compliment of my life). And it is especially unfortunate that this person also called me into a meeting that I still regard as the fakest interaction of my life.

Those people have probably not given me a second thought, but I have considered deeply how a person in leadership could have been so threatened by stupid 21 year old me.

Well, it’s taken me 12 years, and a few more awful experiences in the church, but I think I've pinpointed what was so off about that situation and what I now believe to be the biggest problem of the church: the quest for POWER and CONTROL.

Power is a dangerous thing, especially in the hands of people who believe their cause is from God. Sadly, the church seems to be filled with people who have forgotten that The Church is a place of service, not a place where one exerts authority over others without question.

I’m gonna stop here for now but I’ll give you a hint, when leadership in the church ceases to be synonymous with serving the needs of the congregation and community, the church is doomed. 

XO,
Suthee

The Bird

A couple months ago I was standing in the worship center preparing for chapel with my students when the most peculiar thing happened. A bird flew inside, frantically circled the room, and then landed on the branch of a silk decorative tree. It rested there for several minutes while I stood there screeching, “there’s a bird in the tree!” Now, if you know me, you know that birds are not my favorite so I was kinda freaking out. Eventually I had the sense to open the side door but the bird didn’t immediately fly out of the tree. It sat comfortably until I shook the silk branches and THEN flew out and quickly found a real tree with real branches to rest on.

I’ve thought about that morning a lot and (honestly) wondered if it was some sort of sign. I don’t know, but something about that bird in the silk tree resonated with me.

And then last week it hit me.

I am the bird.

I am the bird and my life, particularly the past year, has been a series of silk trees.

I’m gonna go out on a limb (pun intended) and say that most of our lives are full of silk trees. We have safe places that we land when we’re frantically searching for home. Maybe it’s a person, a location, or an activity, but we all have places we go when we need to be comforted and feel relief.

However good for us they may be at the time, silk trees are a temporary fix and will never be all that we need. I’m not denying the importance or validity of silk trees because if there’s one thing I’ve said A LOT in the past six months it’s that “you do what you have to do to survive”. What I AM saying is that we need to avoid getting so comfortable in a silk tree that we don’t notice when the door to the real thing is opened. We must have the discernment to recognize when we are released into freedom.

So here’s to the silk trees that keep us safe for a time, and to the One who liberates us to real life…

Why I'm Not a Missionary Anymore, part 3...

But, it was still a crash…

And crashing sucks.

I knew I was where I needed to be, but like I said before, I hated it. I was still grieving the loss of Brandon. I was angry. I was heartbroken. I had lost so much in such a short amount of time. In just a few weeks I had experienced a tragic death, loss of job, and the end of a relationship. All of this spoke a booming “NO” into my being. The rejection and pain I felt with each of these “NOs” I internalized as a “NO” from God as well.

And this is about the time that my “survival mode” kicked in. I had internalized enough of the “NO” that I, subconsciously, did some rejecting of my own.

I stopped praying. I stopped writing. I stopped reading. I almost completely stopped listening to music. It would come in small bursts that I would say something to God, but honestly it felt like talking to empty space. I felt disconnected from God. From myself. And I desperately wanted to be disconnected from anyone who knew me well enough to challenge me to engage.

This lasted a few weeks.

It’s strange that you can know something in your head, but not accept it. Somewhere in me I knew that God wasn’t looking for reasons to exclude his creation (not even former missionaries who were spiraling all over the place). But I did not accept it. I had taught my students for years that God loves them no matter what. I had spoken into the lives of friends convinced that they were alone and unloved that God ‘s love was without limit and they were never alone. I was convinced of God’s eternal and unending love for his creation, ALL of his creation, all of them except me. Somehow there were conditions when it came to me. Certainly all of the “NO” in my life meant something, right?

Then one day I took a drive by myself to the North Shore. For the first time in a month or so, I listened to this song that had come to mean a lot to me while in Peru called, ‘I Love Your Presence’. A couple notes into the song and I was crying. And with the tears came the yelling, asking why all of this had happened. I cried and yelled and cried some more. I said I pissed about everything that had happened, how I had no clue what I was doing with my life, and would really like for him to give me a break.

And that’s when I heard the one word I needed to hear more than any other.

Yes,
this sucks.

Yes,
you are allowed to be angry.

Yes,
it’s scary.

Yes,
I’m right here.

Yes,
You are in my care.

Yes,
You are loved.

Yes.

God was speaking his love and affirmation to me in the middle of my North Shore meltdown. And here is what I’m learning as a result: sometimes we get so caught up in the “NO” that we cannot hear the eternal “YES” God speaks into our lives. I’m not saying that we don’t experience “NO”. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck. I’m not saying that the “NO”s don’t matter because God speaks “YES”.

What I AM saying is that in the midst of “NO” we can hold onto hope that “YES” is being spoken somewhere, even if only in small whisper in the middle of great torments.

From there we will grow and be changed...

To Be Continued (again, I know)...

Why I'm Not a Missionary Anymore...part 2

In my mind, there was only one option of where to go when I left Peru. Although my parents were no longer there, Hawaii had become home and I was eager to be near the water. I was praying that those who had so lovingly sent me off on this adventure 8 months previous would be just as gracious upon my return.

Before making the trip to Hawaii, I stayed with my parents for a week in Texas. It was wonderful to have time with them and get through the worst of the reverse culture shock within the safety of two people who’ve seen me at my worst and are (like it or not) stuck with me for life. They spent every moment I was with them encouraging me that I would get through this and telling me that I would be okay, although at the time I did not really believe it.

Knowing that something is right and liking it are two very different things. I knew the right thing was to leave, but I didn’t like it. Correction: I HATED it.

That week with my parents, who’ve had their fair share of heartbreak in life and in ministry, was probably the most important time of my relationship with them (if you can even qualify something like that). My gratitude goes beyond words and I hope they know how much I love and (still) need them.

And, as if I could’ve ever doubted it, my return to Hawaii was full of ALOHA. My sister and everyone from my friends to church family to former students, their families, and my co-workers were nothing short of amazing. They asked me about Peru, but didn’t push, they let me talk when I needed to, cry when I needed to and have done nothing but pour out their love and support for me for the past 2 months. Which, has been another important lesson in grace: when you are wounded and spinning out of control, you need a soft place to crash. Yeah, that’s right, I said crash. Not land. Landing is a planned arrival, crashing is what happens when all your plans have gone to hell.

Between having two jobs immediately upon my return, a room back in my old apartment, and generous friends and sister who’ve driven me around and allowed me to borrow their cars…crashing has been as safe as a crash could ever be.

But, it was still a crash…

To Be Continued...

Why I'm Not a Missionary Anymore...

I’ve struggled to write for a couple months now. In part because I wasn’t sure where to begin, but mostly due to the fact that I was afraid of what would happen if I let it all go. I am no longer afraid, so here’s what I’ve been thinking about…

2010 has been, by far, the strangest and most difficult year of my life. It began with my being a volunteer missionary, living in the Amazon Jungle in Peru, speaking Spanish, and building relationships with people I knew I would have for the rest of my life. It was a dream come true…and while the experience was extremely challenging, I knew it was also a tremendous blessing. There were days when I felt like I could live in Peru forever and days when I had no clue what I was doing there. I loved my Peruvian family, but there was a part of me that knew that my particular gifts and personal call weren't the best fit with the mission of the organization. I struggled with this a great deal, but figured that since God had provided the way for me to be there and given me great love for my team, I was going to stay the course.

March 3 changed everything. My cousin, one of my best friends, died of an accidental drug overdose and everything fell apart. I fell apart. I cannot think of another time when I felt that lost. I sincerely hope that you do not understand what I mean when I say this, but grief does violent things to you. I stopped sleeping, I could barely eat. I got out of bed only when I absolutely had to and cried more than I ever have in my life (and that is saying something). I was mourning the loss of someone I have loved for almost 27 years, but I was also grieving the pain he must have felt to have been that far into substance abuse and that none of us knew the depth of his suffering.

I wanted to go home that day because, honestly, I didn’t know what business I had in Peru “helping” anyone else if THIS is what happened to my own flesh and blood. However, I knew that I was in shock and could not make a sound decision quite yet. So I waited. I gave myself a month to let the shock wear off and see where I was then. A month came and went and while I was not convinced I was supposed to stay, I was also not convinced I was supposed to leave. So I waited some more. I was writing and reading and doing everything I knew to do to make it to another day but nothing was changing.

A couple more weeks passed and in a quick turn of events, I ended up in Arequipa for a few days. On a Monday morning I was sitting in a meeting with my boss and a consultant for the organization talking about how I was doing and how I truly felt about staying in Peru for another year and a half. As much as I hated to hear it, I felt this great sense of relief when they said they believed the best thing for me was to go home. I did not want to abandon my team, but I knew that I couldn’t go on the way I had been for the past weeks. As much as I wanted to love and support them, I knew that I was not going to be able to do that in the shape I was in. Despite my best effort to pray and read and serve and be in God’s presence, I was rapidly becoming a person I didn’t recognize because, like I said, grief does violent things to you.

Sometimes you do everything you can do and it’s not enough. This might be one of the most important lessons in grace I’ve ever learned. Because I did everything I knew to do, but it was gonna take more than just my will to get me through the darkness. It was gonna take time. And it was gonna take my being still and allowing God to speak healing into my life…

To Be Continued...

Back in the US of A

They say you go through "reverse culture shock" upon returning to your home country after a significant amount of time away. Apparently 8 months in Peru was a sufficient amount of time for airports to induce this state of panic and distress.

Let me tell you, it's awesome.

Had a near melt down in the bathroom trying to figure out what to do with the toilet paper. Seriously. I sat there for a while before finally accepting the fact I could flush it.

Witnessed a man crouch down and yell in the face of his 3 year old who was crying in his stroller. Haven't seen anything like that in a long time. What is wrong with people?!

I've answered nearly every question asked of me in spanish. I got excited when the man at customs decided to go with it and switch to spanish.

Overwhelming sense of fear that I'm going to gain back the 25 lbs I lost in Peru in the next week. lol. Not kidding.

Profound sense of sadness that I am not with the people I've lived every day with for the past 8 months.

Looming sense of failure that I did not complete the job I was sent to do.

Waves of sheer panic that a week ago I had the next 19 months of my life planned and now have NO CLUE.

And somewhere...buried deep...is a voice that tells me everythings gonna be alright...I hope.

Hope that is seen is no hope at all, afterall? Yeah?

Aloha Still Means Te Amo,
Suthee

A New Chapter...

The past few months have been very difficult for me and God has been growing and stretching me in ways I had not expected. Months ago I began to realize that it was possible that my personal gifts and call to ministry may not be the best fit with the Extreme Nazarene organization. I prayed and waited and continued on in my work, but felt more and more distance from what I feel called to do in this life. Then 6 weeks ago my cousin, Brandon, died of an accidental overdose and I pretty much fell apart. Through my grief, I cried out to God to help me get through and by His grace alone I've made it this far. But, it has been confirmed to me through conversations with my family and with my leadership here, that the best option for all involved, is that I discontinue my work with Extreme. My heart is very heavy, for I truly love my team, and truly wanted to complete my job here. I believe in Extreme, I believe in their vision, I believe that I have learned a lot and received great blessings in the time I've been a part of this organization. However, I feel a peace that while God brought me here almost 8 months ago, in this moment, He is leading me elsewhere.

Thank you so much for supporting me over these months, I appreciate you all so much. I sincerely ask forgiveness if you are disappointed in me, it is this thought that has grieved me more than anything. I love you all. Please write if you have any questions. (I believe you can cancel your financial support online, but if not, please let me know and I will find out how to do that.)

Aloha Means Te Amo,
Melissa "Suthee" Sutherland

Jesus Wept

Jesus wept.

John 11:35 is the shortest verse in the Bible and is often memorized jokingly amongst Sunday school children to win a prize. Admittedly, I was probably one of those children. And yet, how this verse has come to mean so much to me in the past couple weeks…

Lazarus, a dear friend of Jesus, had died and his family was mourning. Although Jesus knew he had the power to give Lazarus life, he wept for his friend. He wept with his friends. He was deeply troubled and moved by their grief. Wow.

Over the past 3 weeks I have been surrounded by great love and compassion for which I must give thanks. Unfortunately, I have also been told some very unhelpful things, like I should not cry anymore, or that I should be okay by now. The truth is I am not okay. I feel pain like a gaping hole in my being. I have a deep sense of loss. I have endless unanswerable questions.

I know that to see someone like me, who is by nature rather hilarious, with puffy
red eyes more days than not, is difficult. I wish I could be what they want me to be. However, along with my sense of humor, the other gift I’ve been given is my inability to hide my emotions. And right now, because I cannot hide, the only thing I have to offer anyone is my vulnerability and brokenness.

Vulnerability and brokenness are not “good” words. They are sad and scary words. Yet, Jesus too, offered the world his vulnerability and brokenness. He was “a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering,” (Isaiah 53:3). Thankfully, though I do not quite understand what this means yet, it also says “by his wounds we are healed,” (Isaiah 53:5).

It is absurd to me that I have been told not to grieve. I mean, if Jesus (who was about to raise Lazarus from the dead) can weep for his friend, why can’t I? Maybe it’s bad business? Maybe I’m not selling this Jesus saves stuff well enough if I don’t have a smile plastered on my face at all times?

Hmm.

But then I remember that the Gospel is not for sale. So it’s not my job to sell it. There are moments (like right now) when I become so angry that I don’t think I can take it anymore. And then I think about Jesus. I think about the words that caused me to believe in him. He was the most loving man who ever lived. Certainly that is why he wept. He was so filled with love. And if we claim to be his body, we also should be so filled with love. But love means you are open to being hurt. Love means you are vulnerable to grief.

I am grieving. My family is grieving. And the Jesus I know is moved by our grief, and is weeping with us.

Aloha Means Te Amo,
Melissa "Suthee"

March 3, 2010

On Wednesday March 3, Dalila and I went to Belen to visit two families we’ve been working with for the past couple months. The pastor who was in town teaching our class and another guy from our group also came along because we were going to meet the husband of one of the women for the first time. We knew that the husband was abusive when drunk which, quite frankly, is every weekend. Upon entering the house, I felt an immediate sense of inhospitality on the part of the husband. He told us very roughly that he had to leave for work shortly and basically asked why we were there. Knowing that his frustration with our presence could easily turn into consequences for his wife later, I began to pray. I prayed, “we need your presence, we need you, do something.” The pastor began to speak, telling a story, and I continued to pray. The wife sat quietly, her mother-in-law and another neighbor began crying and I watched the husband’s entire countenance change before my eyes. He softened and relaxed. By the time the pastor finished his story, I was pouring glasses of orange Fanta for everyone, the husband was thanking us for visiting, asking when we would come back, suggesting we come on the weekend when he doesn’t have to go to work. Amazing.

Afterwards, we visited another family, then walked to the Plaza de Armas so the pastor could see a bit of Iquitos. I never take my cell phone to Belen because thievery is a rather popular sport, so when I returned I was surprised to see a missed call from the Simpsons, our cluster support family. I walked up to their house, and Heather met me on the stairs and took me by the arm telling me they had received a call from Brian Tibbs, who had received a call from Brent Deakins, who had received a call from my dad asking me to call him. I immediately felt sick.

This was not good.

I called my dad and said, “What?...What happened?” And then I heard words that, even now as I replay them in my head, are unbelievable. “Brandon’s dead.” My cousin, whom I love like a brother, was gone. I asked if he was sure. He told me he wished he wasn’t, but yes, he was sure. I’m sure I asked what happened, but I do not remember. I cried like I have never cried and kept saying, “this is not okay, this is not okay, this is not okay”. Heather sat with me as I cried on the phone with my family. When we walked to my room, I collapsed on the bed in the entry way and sobbed. Heather told the girls what had happened, and soon I was surrounded by Emperatriz, Juliana and Dalila who told me to cry, yell, talk, do whatever I needed to do. I don’t know how long I stayed on that bed, but they stayed with me. Over the next hours, all of the girls had returned and took turns sitting with me, talking with me, crying with me, praying with me. Laura and Brittany sat with me all day Thursday and took care of me.

I must say thank you to these wonderful women: Kristy and Nancy, Katie and Emperatriz, Brittany and Esther, Laura and Juliana, Katie and Priscilla, Dalila and Heather. They are my safe place.

Finding a safe place is sometimes an impossible task. After two days of lying in my bed crying, I was told by some people here (not any of the above mentioned) that I needed to stop crying and be okay. No, I’m not kidding. God forbid I really feel this. God forbid I grieve and mourn and wail. God forbid I’m not funny for a few days because I am hurting worse than I have ever hurt in my life. God forbid. I won’t pretend to hide my anger on this subject. Let’s just call it a second round of culture shock.

I really don’t understand the thought process here. I really don’t understand how it’s better to wear a happy face in front of other people and then cry yourself to sleep at night because you won’t admit what you’re struggling with. You know me, I’m all about getting things out into the open. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It’s never a mystery how I am feeling. Everyone knows. And while I’m sure at times it is exhausting for those around me, at least I’m honest.

I realize, of course, how incredibly selfish this all sounds. But really, I don’t feel like I have anything to give. I’m trying. But I am so confused. I’ve never felt anything so intense. I feel like the rug has been ripped from beneath me. Even as I write this, the giant lump in the back of my throat is antagonizing me, reminding me that the pain is just as real today as it was 10 days ago. I’m praying. I’m praying like I’ve never prayed before. My prayers go something like this, “help me. I can’t do this. I need you.” Sometimes I believe that God is listening. Sometimes I feel like I’m just talking to myself, giving myself a pep talk. And sometimes I believe that God is listening and everything will be okay. Sometimes.

And this is why I love the Psalms. David was real. He was not all about sunshine and daisies. He yelled and cried and danced naked. He accused God several times of abandoning him. And yet, he was a man after God’s heart. Maybe we should understand that phrase differently? Not that David was a man who was really godly…but he was a man who was desperately seeking to know and sense God in his life. Godliness is not something I relate to. Desperation to know that we’re not just floating all alone out here IS something I relate to.

In Psalm 13, David spends 4 verses accusing and pleading with God to understand why he’s been left all alone and then he says, “BUT I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.” Everything is far from okay. BUT, I will make this leap of faith and say that I know God is good. I do not understand any of this. I cannot make sense of it. BUT, I want to believe that at some point, I will sense peace.

Maybe this is not the blog of a good little missionary. Maybe I should talk about how my Brandon’s death has made me more thankful that I am here. But it hasn’t. It HAS made me more aware of the desperation we all feel to know and be known, to love and be loved. And THAT is the only reason I would give as to why I’m still here in Peru…because that desperation is something we all know, if we are honest.

Is It February Already!?!

Hello from the beautiful and humid Amazon Jungle!

The past month has been filled with much work and many lessons. In mid January we were blessed to be involved with a medical and impact mission project here in the city of Iquitos. Together, with the long term staff and an amazing group of short term volunteers from the U.S., we hosted 7 medical clinics in 7 different areas of Iquitos and saw over 1200 patients. While the nurses and doctors were caring for patients, the 40/40s were translating, talking and praying with families, and providing hours of games and activities for children. What an amazing way to share the love of God! It was a beautiful thing to see how each person used their gifts to bless the communities. In addition to the medical clinics and activities for children, we also hosted 4 showings of the Jesus Film, which was a really wonderful way to further express our purpose in being here. Each day was different, with its own set of challenges, but each day our teamwork improved and people were loved in the name of Jesus. By the end of the project we were all exhausted and yet with reawakened passion for our call to the jungle of Peru.

Since the project we have returned to classes and the work in our churches. Dalila (my Peruvian partner) and I are currently working in Belen, a particularly impoverished area of Iquitos, where we will plant our first church. We have begun relationships with 4 different families, visit them on a regular basis, and are beginning to disciple them this week. I first visited Belen my second or third day in Iquitos, and from that moment have had a deep compassion for the people there. The opportunity to be a light in such a dark place is both exciting and humbling. Please pray for us as we continue to form relationships with people in desperate need of hope, that the people would know the great love God has for them and Christ would truly transform their lives.

Thank you so much for all your love and support, I am very blessed to share this journey with you!

Aloha Means Te Amo,
Suthee :)

All New Episodes...

I’m late in saying it, but Happy New Year! I hope your holiday season was filled with much laughter and quality time with loved ones. We celebrated Christmas with a mixture of Peruvian and North American traditions. On Christmas Eve, we attended church and then went to the Simpson’s (our support family) house for games, a gift exchange, and of course—food! In keeping with Peruvian tradition, at midnight we celebrated by greeting one another with hugs, set off some fireworks, and drank hot chocolate. Yes, that’s right- we drank hot chocolate in 90 degree weather! After our celebration at the Simpson’s we went to the Plaza de Armas in Iquitos and walked around taking photos and observing the mass of people celebrating the holidays. On Christmas day we had a semi-traditional North American lunch complete with stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie. It was a very special time together, though we all missed our families and friends back home. New Years we celebrated again at the Simpson’s with a time of worship and prayer and yes, more fireworks!

Honestly, I’ve hesitated writing lately, because I have been dealing with some major culture shock. My love affair with Peru stopped somewhere in the second week here in Iquitos. Don’t get me wrong, Iquitos is beautiful and the idea that I live in the Amazon Jungle is something I’ll always treasure. But, there are days when all I want to do is go home, days when I question why I’m here at all, days when I just want to eat some spicy ahi poke and hang out with my friends at the beach.

Last week was particularly difficult and I spent a lot of time crying and praying that I would know what to do to get through it. It was in those dark moments that 1, I was reminded of what wonderful friends and family I have in the states and 2, I realized what amazing friends I have made here on my team. There is no doubt in my mind that I am blessed beyond what any one person deserves AND that life looks a lot different when we choose to be grateful. Thank you, my loved ones, for all the prayer and encouragement. I could not do this without you. Really.

Inolvidable (Unforgettable)

Thursday we traveled by boat up the Amazon River to a village called Padre Cocha. We spent the morning going door to door to invite people to a program in the center of the village that afternoon. When we returned to the church we ate lunch, which consisted of a whole fish (head and all!) in a cold soup.

After lunch we explored the village some more and then rested in the church. I was laying on the floor of the church and was awakened by two little girls talking to me and killing all the ants that were crawling around me. I sat up and talked with them, and pretty soon there were 5 little girls ages 7-11 telling me about their families and asking me about mine. One little girl informed me that I was older than her mom (that’s always nice to hear haha!). In those moments talking with them, I was reminded yet again why I made the decision to move to Peru for two years.

At 4pm, we all walked to the center of the village and played with children who came to the program. I counted 75 children playing elbow tag and simon says and by the time we sat down for the drama, the amount of children had doubled. After the drama, my friend Gary shared some of his testimony (in español) and presented the Gospel. Hard to believe 3 months ago we didn’t know how to tell people where we were from much less tell the greatest story in history!

At the close of the program, we had small gifts of pencils, soap, and toothpaste for the kids and there were at least 200 children following our group through the village back to the church. It was amazing.

We returned home exhausted and soaking wet from the rain, but content in the knowledge we had learned much in the day...

Aloha Means Te Amo,
Suthee

Moment of Clarity

Sometimes in life we are given moments of clarity. Moments when every question we have is silenced by an overwhelming peace that even though everything is NOT OKAY, we know exactly why we are breathing. Yesterday I walked through Belen, an extremely poverty stricken area of Iquitos, and felt awake for the first time since I was standing in Kibera, Nairobi.

Those moments in Belen were confirmations not only of my purpose in Iquitos, but also my purpose on the planet. Right now I am breathing the air of my home for the next 2 years and while this is at times a difficult thought, I could not be more sure that I am exactly where I should be.

I urge you, if you do not know, to find whatever it is that makes you step back and see that life is so much bigger than whatever stress you may have right now. I beg you, to find a way to participate in the liberation of those around you. I plead with you, to find someone who needs to be loved and love them. Because nothing else really matters…to have this gift and not gift it would be the greatest waste…

Aloha Means Te Amo,
Suthee 

"Life is Like a Box of Chocolates...

you never know what you're gonna get." -Forest Gump

Those words may not be profound, but they are certainly true- life is full of surprises! 3 months ago when I was leaving Hawaii, I felt a deep sadness for the people I was leaving behind. I was scared and nervous and didn't know how it would all work out. Honestly, I didn't think I would form friendships with people like the ones I had in Hawaii, but nevertheless set out on this journey because I believed it was the next steps I had to take.

In California, when I found out who my roommate would be for the next 3 months, more nervousness set in. Brittany is 19, from Kansas, and from her Facebook profile seemed very conservative and well...I'm me ;) Much to both our surprise, we became very close and learned that we had more in common than either of us thought possible. Together we shared many laughs and tears and also a great love for our Peruvian family in Arequipa. She has been one of the greatest surprises and blessings of my life and I'm so thankful that it's not safe to judge books by their covers...

On Thursday afternoon, I was filled with the same apprehension before leaving Arequipa for Lima. I felt the way I did the day I left Hawaii. It's strange to think that after only 3 months, my friends and family in Arequipa became so important that I would be filled with the same sadness. Sometimes I wonder if maybe it would be better to not become that involved with people, I mean, it would certainly make leaving places much easier. But when I think about the experience of the last 3 months, there is no way I would trade my relationships with Alyssa & Leanne (my girls from Canada who are still in Arequipa) or my relationship with my Peruvian family. How much they have added to my life in such a short time-- Wow! I am so blessed. The sadness of missing them is worth it...

Although I do not understand it, I can say with confidence that God's love for us is neverending and full of amazing surprises. My time in Arequipa was proof of that and for that reason I know Iquitos will be even more amazing!!!

Pray for us as we begin classes on Monday and bond with our Peruvian counterparts...the adventure has just begun!

Aloha means Te Amo,
Suthee :)