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…
Friday, October 8, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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)...
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)...
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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...
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...
Monday, June 28, 2010
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...
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...
Saturday, April 17, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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
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
Sunday, March 28, 2010
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"
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"
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)