Leah
Leah is a dancer. Leah dances without any clothes. Leah has a tattoo of an anchor hovering above her left breast, and a tattoo of a wheel on her shoulder.
“What do they mean?” I ask.
“Would you like the true story, or the one I tell the customers?”
“Always the truth.”
“My broth...”
“Up next is Leah!” crackles over the loudspeakers from a voice two packs away from a pneumonectomy.
Leah is a dancer. Leah dances without any clothes. Leah is a contortionist when it is her time to be a contortionist. Leah is a contortionist on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.
Leah is a friend. Leah is a friend without any clothes. Leah makes me watch her be a contortionist, but only on Tuesday nights.
She holds her back to the pole, using the strength of her calves and thighs. She stretches out her arms, and her eyes shoot to me before she looks down and hangs her head as an apology.
Arms stretched out, back to the pole--Leah is on a cross. Leah is on a cross without any clothes. Leah gracefully slides down the pole to come to a kneeling position on the floor. Leah never looks up, scrapes in the dollar bills from the ground to the music of primal shouts and jeers. Leah follows her shadow off of the stage.
“Grace, Grace is up next!”
“But Grace went before Leah!”
“...And Grace danced next to Leah.”
Leah is a dancer. Leah dances without any clothes. Leah has a tattoo of an anchor hovering above her left breast, and a tattoo of a wheel on her shoulder. Leah had Grace dance before her, with her, and Grace will dance after Leah.
Grace is not a dancer, but Grace was on a cross. Grace was on a cross without any clothes. Grace’s eyes shot upward before the head fell down in shame. In defeat. In complete sacrifice.
Grace fell off the pole. Dead. In a forward motion reaching for Leah.
And if she listened hard enough, Leah would hear Grace say, “I danced before you. I held myself to a cross so that you will never have to do that again. Watch me dance. Watch me dance a dance that keeps your eyes above the floor.”
Grace will pull your eyes up.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
When Far Feels Far
“People will die while you are away.” I remember this being said during my orientation week in DC, but it was basically meant as a, “No matter where you are, the world is still slightly tilted in one direction, and it keeps spinning, and time keeps moving, so, please, don’t expect the world to stand upright and still for the year you are gone.”
People have died while I have been gone. Many of them, actually. But I think the news of my grandpa’s death actually made the world adjust to an upright position and freeze momentarily just so that I would have time to let that sucker-punch to the heart really sink in.
It was a cruel move, world, and I know you’ll kick me as soon as I start to stand back up. So I might just stay down here for a while longer.
All of a sudden, family isn’t a Skype call away. They are 8,122 miles away. Give or take.
And I tried to think of what I would have said to my grandpa if I had been able to speak with him one more time. The best I could come up with was to thank him for that time when I was maybe five, and I made it my five year-old life mission to complete this very lengthy “Book about Me” that covered everything from what I knew I was going to be when I grew up (paleontologist) to my mother’s middle name, to how many steps it was from my house to the nearest convenience store. The problem with filling out this one was that is was ironically very inconvenient for anyone to walk to the convenience store. Grandpa, and all of his disdain for crowds made a walk to the convenience store with his granddaughter seem nice. We walked to the closest gas station, bought candy corn, and walked back. I was a champion because my book was complete, and Grandpa was my hero because five year-olds cannot walk to the gas station alone, no matter how many times they ask, and no matter just how big they can make their puppy-dog eyes.
My favorite memory of my grandpa was actually at my grandma’s funeral. Everyone deals with grief differently, of course, but Grandpa and I needed a quiet place to be alone, and the house was full of people who wanted to hug us. The teenage musician in me was drawn to the very out-of-tune guitar in the corner. Somehow I got a pack of new guitar strings and I snuck off as quickly as I could to a bedroom where I thought no one could find me. Grandpa new the best rooms for hiding in his own home, and about three minutes after my brilliant escape, he found me. He didn’t say a word as he sat down in the rocking chair next to me. I looked up at him for some kind of affirming eye contact, but there was none. I went back to stringing a hopelessly old guitar, he continued rocking, and I learned the importance of being able to be alone with someone.
My arms hurt from thinking about how far I’d be willing to stretch them to hug my dad. This headache won’t go away because my mind is trying so hard to dig up any memories, but I honestly don’t have that many. I sent an email to my mom and dad asking for stories, and now we are working on compiling some. I love quiet people. I love how their minds work, but the problem is, once they are gone, the mysteries of the inner-workings of their mind have no way of becoming tangible anymore. At least, in this time.
And I celebrate his life. As my mom wrote, "He was generous to a fault," which I now have the privilege of seeing lived out by my father. And some day, I hope to be known in the same way, once I finally have something to give.
Missing you and all of your quirks, Grandpa. Also, I think I might have a crush on you. Hope that isn't too weird.
People have died while I have been gone. Many of them, actually. But I think the news of my grandpa’s death actually made the world adjust to an upright position and freeze momentarily just so that I would have time to let that sucker-punch to the heart really sink in.
It was a cruel move, world, and I know you’ll kick me as soon as I start to stand back up. So I might just stay down here for a while longer.
All of a sudden, family isn’t a Skype call away. They are 8,122 miles away. Give or take.
And I tried to think of what I would have said to my grandpa if I had been able to speak with him one more time. The best I could come up with was to thank him for that time when I was maybe five, and I made it my five year-old life mission to complete this very lengthy “Book about Me” that covered everything from what I knew I was going to be when I grew up (paleontologist) to my mother’s middle name, to how many steps it was from my house to the nearest convenience store. The problem with filling out this one was that is was ironically very inconvenient for anyone to walk to the convenience store. Grandpa, and all of his disdain for crowds made a walk to the convenience store with his granddaughter seem nice. We walked to the closest gas station, bought candy corn, and walked back. I was a champion because my book was complete, and Grandpa was my hero because five year-olds cannot walk to the gas station alone, no matter how many times they ask, and no matter just how big they can make their puppy-dog eyes.
My favorite memory of my grandpa was actually at my grandma’s funeral. Everyone deals with grief differently, of course, but Grandpa and I needed a quiet place to be alone, and the house was full of people who wanted to hug us. The teenage musician in me was drawn to the very out-of-tune guitar in the corner. Somehow I got a pack of new guitar strings and I snuck off as quickly as I could to a bedroom where I thought no one could find me. Grandpa new the best rooms for hiding in his own home, and about three minutes after my brilliant escape, he found me. He didn’t say a word as he sat down in the rocking chair next to me. I looked up at him for some kind of affirming eye contact, but there was none. I went back to stringing a hopelessly old guitar, he continued rocking, and I learned the importance of being able to be alone with someone.
My arms hurt from thinking about how far I’d be willing to stretch them to hug my dad. This headache won’t go away because my mind is trying so hard to dig up any memories, but I honestly don’t have that many. I sent an email to my mom and dad asking for stories, and now we are working on compiling some. I love quiet people. I love how their minds work, but the problem is, once they are gone, the mysteries of the inner-workings of their mind have no way of becoming tangible anymore. At least, in this time.
And I celebrate his life. As my mom wrote, "He was generous to a fault," which I now have the privilege of seeing lived out by my father. And some day, I hope to be known in the same way, once I finally have something to give.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Quick Update
I just came back from the supermarket. As I grudgingly had Christmas thrust upon me at the beginning of September, I find myself mentally making pointless threats of, "If they don't turn off techno Rudolph right now, I will..." but again, these are pointless threats that, if I allow myself to walk through the consequences, result in my ending up in a jail cell. Or running really fast. Neither of which would be pleasant. It's quite hot here.
Writing has become a kind of chore for me which is disappointing because it is something I so much love to do. Manila turns creativity into work, and I often find myself saying, "I need to..." where I would usually be saying, "It would be enjoyable to..." (Well, I would never say, "It would be enjoyable to..." I would probably say, "It totally would be wicked sweet to, like..."). So blogging is difficult, and it takes a lot longer than I intend for it to take. And compressing everything into a single post. My journals are full of incomplete phrases and drawings of trees that look nothing like trees, so to try to compile words and pictures of what are potentially trees into anything coherent and cohesive takes a long time. I think that is my way of apologizing for a lack of updates, but it is also letting you into my mind in the tiniest way.
Both my mother and I have been getting the same kind of questions about recent prayer updates, and the topic seemed like one more appropriately covered in a blog post. It is happier, in a way, than my last prayer email.
So. What happens to the victims once they are rescued?
My answer is that we have an amazing aftercare team comprised of the most loving and compassionate social workers I have ever met, who do everything in their power to get these girls and boys to exactly where they need to be. The social workers are with us from the scene of the rescue, and then they walk with the victims through an extensive aftercare program which eventually leads to reintegration. That's my answer, but it is the short answer. There are a lot of tricky twists and turns that our aftercare team has to maneuver, but that is why we have an entire team. And that’s why the team we have is made up of the people it is; they have to be amazing.
About a month ago, a group of us went to one of the shelters for the girls so we could all paint our ideas of what hope looks like. It was a strange phenomenon, meeting all of these girls we had been praying for, and it was wonderful. Yes, these girls were victims of human trafficking or sexual assault, but we weren't there to discuss that. We were there for much more important conversations like what truly is the deal with Justin Bieber's hair? Also, what do I do to get my skin so white? And many comments on my dear friends’ lovely nose shapes. We shared stories about our tattoos. We played games, painted, and ate together. My friend took all of these paintings and made a beautiful installation piece for the big Freedom Forum we had a couple of weeks ago. From darkness to light. It was amazing to see what these girls had painted. So many representations of light, so many birds to signify freedom, and so many paintings with "Jesus" in large letters proclaiming that he is, indeed, the hope that set each of us free. My painting looked much more like hope had a mental breakdown. But it also looked a little bit like fireworks, and to some people that might represent hope. For me, it represented my inability to paint.
But the laughter! So much giggling. These girls are just girls. Or...still they are girls. From what they've experienced, they should be shells, and they should be bitter. But God, in all of his power, and in all of his goodness, preserved in them whatever it is about innocence that is so honest and joyful.
"What's your name?"
"Whitney, yours?"
"*Name of someone whose case details I know*"
"So good to meet you!" ...while thinking, "You should not have that smile on your face. How do you have that smile on your face?”
All conversation was followed by hugs that were the most meaningful of my life because she …and she …and she …and she …they were finally choosing for themselves who they would touch, and they chose me.
This was really the first day of work I came back to my apartment with a smile. Most days at work I am still able to know that what I am doing is working toward justice for these girls and boys, but rarely do I get to interact with the positive outcomes of what we do in the office. It was a blessing for me, the one who put her heart way out there in the realm of human trafficking and is shocked when a piece of that heart finds its way back to me.
The second question that came up what, "What do you do when there isn't a rescue happening?"
This is also a great question but a difficult one to answer. Today, I am writing a concept paper for a program that would allow IJM to take on cybersex casework. I am also in charge of either finding or making a piñata. My life is weird. …And I do mutter that to myself at my desk when I realize that on one tab of my browser is an article on cybersex stats and the on the other is a picture of a giant Dora the Explorer piñata which popped up as a result of the Google search, “How to avoid being a piñata event failure.”
At the moment I am overwhelmed with what we are trying to accomplish. Not so much the piñata, but I am writing this concept paper for what would be called an online child exploitation project. It has been a ton of work and a ton of wading hopelessly through very grey areas of right and wrong. Is a child who is rescued from the immediate danger of producing more pornographic movies, but older files are still being distributed, still being exploited? Does a victim remain a victim if her pictures and videos still circulate the internet? How does the answer to that affect aftercare? If a parent takes a picture of her kid in a bathtub, is it pornography? When does art become pornography? Who knew my aesthetics courses would ever come back into play in this field of work. So right now, I'm pretty frustrated. I can't define "exploitation," I can't define, "child pornography," and all previous studies openly admit to being inaccurate because tracking a global issue like this one might actually be impossible. Prayers. PLEASE. This is an issue so near and dear to my heart that I want to assist in creating a program that is sustainable.
Prayer Requests
My biggest prayer request is about finding work when I get back to the US. My ideal job would be one in DC with an anti-human trafficking NGO that would allow me to travel 30%-40% of the time. I know, that’s super specific. I am really praying that an opportunity with NCMEC will present itself. But if anyone knows of anything or anyone who would be a good resource, I am happy to reach out to whomever to get a conversation going. Prayers that opportunities will present themselves would be great. Doors will be opening and closing… all that.
Within the next couple of months, a lot of the interns we have now will be leaving. They are my friends. We work together, eat together, play together, and live together. And with the way my brain works, it feels like there could never possibly come a day when I am not with all of these people I have come to adore. Pray for all of our abilities to adjust. And pray for the new interns who will be joining us in January!
Pray for morale in general.
God is working on me. And, to be honest, it is both painful and exhausting. I always get excited when things get hard because I know the outcome is always worth it, but in the moments of hopelessness, I need prayer.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Writing has become a kind of chore for me which is disappointing because it is something I so much love to do. Manila turns creativity into work, and I often find myself saying, "I need to..." where I would usually be saying, "It would be enjoyable to..." (Well, I would never say, "It would be enjoyable to..." I would probably say, "It totally would be wicked sweet to, like..."). So blogging is difficult, and it takes a lot longer than I intend for it to take. And compressing everything into a single post. My journals are full of incomplete phrases and drawings of trees that look nothing like trees, so to try to compile words and pictures of what are potentially trees into anything coherent and cohesive takes a long time. I think that is my way of apologizing for a lack of updates, but it is also letting you into my mind in the tiniest way.
Both my mother and I have been getting the same kind of questions about recent prayer updates, and the topic seemed like one more appropriately covered in a blog post. It is happier, in a way, than my last prayer email.
So. What happens to the victims once they are rescued?
My answer is that we have an amazing aftercare team comprised of the most loving and compassionate social workers I have ever met, who do everything in their power to get these girls and boys to exactly where they need to be. The social workers are with us from the scene of the rescue, and then they walk with the victims through an extensive aftercare program which eventually leads to reintegration. That's my answer, but it is the short answer. There are a lot of tricky twists and turns that our aftercare team has to maneuver, but that is why we have an entire team. And that’s why the team we have is made up of the people it is; they have to be amazing.
About a month ago, a group of us went to one of the shelters for the girls so we could all paint our ideas of what hope looks like. It was a strange phenomenon, meeting all of these girls we had been praying for, and it was wonderful. Yes, these girls were victims of human trafficking or sexual assault, but we weren't there to discuss that. We were there for much more important conversations like what truly is the deal with Justin Bieber's hair? Also, what do I do to get my skin so white? And many comments on my dear friends’ lovely nose shapes. We shared stories about our tattoos. We played games, painted, and ate together. My friend took all of these paintings and made a beautiful installation piece for the big Freedom Forum we had a couple of weeks ago. From darkness to light. It was amazing to see what these girls had painted. So many representations of light, so many birds to signify freedom, and so many paintings with "Jesus" in large letters proclaiming that he is, indeed, the hope that set each of us free. My painting looked much more like hope had a mental breakdown. But it also looked a little bit like fireworks, and to some people that might represent hope. For me, it represented my inability to paint.
But the laughter! So much giggling. These girls are just girls. Or...still they are girls. From what they've experienced, they should be shells, and they should be bitter. But God, in all of his power, and in all of his goodness, preserved in them whatever it is about innocence that is so honest and joyful.
"What's your name?"
"Whitney, yours?"
"*Name of someone whose case details I know*"
"So good to meet you!" ...while thinking, "You should not have that smile on your face. How do you have that smile on your face?”
All conversation was followed by hugs that were the most meaningful of my life because she …and she …and she …and she …they were finally choosing for themselves who they would touch, and they chose me.
This was really the first day of work I came back to my apartment with a smile. Most days at work I am still able to know that what I am doing is working toward justice for these girls and boys, but rarely do I get to interact with the positive outcomes of what we do in the office. It was a blessing for me, the one who put her heart way out there in the realm of human trafficking and is shocked when a piece of that heart finds its way back to me.
The second question that came up what, "What do you do when there isn't a rescue happening?"
This is also a great question but a difficult one to answer. Today, I am writing a concept paper for a program that would allow IJM to take on cybersex casework. I am also in charge of either finding or making a piñata. My life is weird. …And I do mutter that to myself at my desk when I realize that on one tab of my browser is an article on cybersex stats and the on the other is a picture of a giant Dora the Explorer piñata which popped up as a result of the Google search, “How to avoid being a piñata event failure.”
At the moment I am overwhelmed with what we are trying to accomplish. Not so much the piñata, but I am writing this concept paper for what would be called an online child exploitation project. It has been a ton of work and a ton of wading hopelessly through very grey areas of right and wrong. Is a child who is rescued from the immediate danger of producing more pornographic movies, but older files are still being distributed, still being exploited? Does a victim remain a victim if her pictures and videos still circulate the internet? How does the answer to that affect aftercare? If a parent takes a picture of her kid in a bathtub, is it pornography? When does art become pornography? Who knew my aesthetics courses would ever come back into play in this field of work. So right now, I'm pretty frustrated. I can't define "exploitation," I can't define, "child pornography," and all previous studies openly admit to being inaccurate because tracking a global issue like this one might actually be impossible. Prayers. PLEASE. This is an issue so near and dear to my heart that I want to assist in creating a program that is sustainable.
Prayer Requests
My biggest prayer request is about finding work when I get back to the US. My ideal job would be one in DC with an anti-human trafficking NGO that would allow me to travel 30%-40% of the time. I know, that’s super specific. I am really praying that an opportunity with NCMEC will present itself. But if anyone knows of anything or anyone who would be a good resource, I am happy to reach out to whomever to get a conversation going. Prayers that opportunities will present themselves would be great. Doors will be opening and closing… all that.
Within the next couple of months, a lot of the interns we have now will be leaving. They are my friends. We work together, eat together, play together, and live together. And with the way my brain works, it feels like there could never possibly come a day when I am not with all of these people I have come to adore. Pray for all of our abilities to adjust. And pray for the new interns who will be joining us in January!
Pray for morale in general.
God is working on me. And, to be honest, it is both painful and exhausting. I always get excited when things get hard because I know the outcome is always worth it, but in the moments of hopelessness, I need prayer.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Idealism Smash
I spend a lot of time thinking about whether things I write call for a prayer email or a blog post, but this seemed to have more stories, and maybe a swipe at some distant point I kind of start to make, so blog post it is.
On Tuesday I hit a low. A low low. I called in sick, and although I wasn’t suffering from food poisoning (as was probably assumed) I was still stuck in bed. Whenever my brain started to think, my stomach started to hurt. When my stomach hurt, my eyes would close, and I would fall asleep. Most of the day was spent sleeping. I woke up around 5.30pm, very wearily looked over to see if I could figure out what was making that annoying scratching sound, and I saw my dog was gnawing on the leg of one of my chairs. I turned over and pulled the covers tightly over myself. Quickly, I remembered that having my body covered in the heat was miserable, and I angrily kicked off the covers, wishing so badly for the emotional security even of a blanket but not being able to have it. I am not depressed. Don’t worry. I am just very tired.
I can’t explain where all of my frustrations are coming from. Maybe by now I am starting to anticipate frustrations which make them more noticeable and even less appreciated. Whatever it was, all of my anxieties, struggles, thoughts, frustrations, extreme lack of sleep, and humanness all added up to the inability to move or think about anything other than my inadequacies. Laying there and thinking about how an estimated 600,000 girls around my city are being sold for sex ultimately ended with my head smashed between two pillows and my puppy continuing to slim the legs of my chairs. It was not my proudest moment, but it might have been my dog’s. She is shaping the chair legs in a suspiciously symmetrical way. I suspect she is harboring a deep desire to study carpentry.
The next day, I dragged myself out of bed and down to the 7-11 where I was to meet a coworker before our day of things I can’t tell you about. While waiting, one of the three birds in all of Ortigas singled me out as the perfect place to poop. I kind of laughed, because, well, there was nothing else left to do, and given the events of the last few weeks, being pooped on was really the last thing left to go wrong. I found some old receipts in my purse, scraped off the very Manila-colored* feces, dumped some alcohol on my shirt, and called it good. I looked like I felt which was a nice change from being able to hide behind business casual.
*Greyish?
My day was difficult. It was emotionally demanding, physically demanding, and troubling.
Justice.
Justice?
My word. I’m sitting with a man who wakes up every morning to water lapping at his bed. He spends the early morning scooping the ocean out of his living space and drying his bed, and then he leaves for the day to catch fish to provide for his wife and children. This man bows his head when asked, “Why do you think your daughter would engage in prostitution?” He responds, “Her dream is to buy us a home.” He thought she was a waitress. Her younger sister was overhearing this conversation.
What is justice then? Is justice making this girl stop making more money than she can in any other job and force her and her family to live in poverty, its own injustice?
Do we allow this girl to continue working a job that robs her daily of dignity and her God-breathed purpose so she can pay for food?
It becomes a matter not of getting rid of injustices, but which injustice is worse? Less illegal? Less sinful, perhaps?
I am not an idealist. That was cleared from my system several years ago. I know now that behind every prince and princess living in happily ever after is a pile of credit card debt and an internet history that will nauseate you. And behind their castle are the slums with whore houses and naked children digging through the trash. That’s just sin. It’s not pessimism; it’s a world separated from God.
I had a religion professor in college who drew the history of the world on the board. It looked like this:
Very simple. In the beginning there was God. The Fall happened, and we trudged along for years until Jesus came, and He redeemed us, but we are still not back to where God intended us to be. We are supposed to be with God, as we were in the beginning. As my professor put it, “We aren’t where we are supposed to be, and we won’t reach it on our own, but there is nothing stopping us from trying to get there.” …that sentence actually took me out of total pessimism and into what I’ve termed “optimism for a pessimist through grace.” It was only a few weeks later that I changed career goals in order to “seek justice,” as Jesus knew I’m sure, is wayyyyy easier said than done. The above picture I had so perfectly completed with an angled line to the bottom of the cross feels a lot more like this:
Where I should feel steady, along that “Jesus came to earth” line, I’m constantly feeling like “justice” and humanity is falling below it, accepting grace and treating it like a one-time gift and not the most precious gift that has ever been given, and one that is constantly being renewed as we’re forgiven. It’s a gift that we should revere, and it should cause us to put all people before ourselves.
So many pimps have Bible references tattooed on their bodies. And sometimes I feel like I am reliving the fall of mankind over...and over.
All this to really say, justice, whatever that may be in the eyes of Jesus, is unsolvable to all but God. I read some book once that said God is a mystery, not a puzzle, because puzzles can be solved while mysteries can only be explored. This being the case, what is ideal for God, justice being one of those ideals, is going to be a mystery for us until God comes back. Until then, we can search for it as we are called to do, but there will not be a steady incline toward holiness.
But that would be nice.
So that is what I’ve learned. And days will happen that result in my head between two pillows while asking my dog philosophical questions but then apologize for talking about content that is too mature for someone her age but she just continues to give my apartment furniture a new, rustic and chewed-on look. But when you ask God to send you where no one wants to go, I think even He is understanding of those days.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
On Tuesday I hit a low. A low low. I called in sick, and although I wasn’t suffering from food poisoning (as was probably assumed) I was still stuck in bed. Whenever my brain started to think, my stomach started to hurt. When my stomach hurt, my eyes would close, and I would fall asleep. Most of the day was spent sleeping. I woke up around 5.30pm, very wearily looked over to see if I could figure out what was making that annoying scratching sound, and I saw my dog was gnawing on the leg of one of my chairs. I turned over and pulled the covers tightly over myself. Quickly, I remembered that having my body covered in the heat was miserable, and I angrily kicked off the covers, wishing so badly for the emotional security even of a blanket but not being able to have it. I am not depressed. Don’t worry. I am just very tired.
I can’t explain where all of my frustrations are coming from. Maybe by now I am starting to anticipate frustrations which make them more noticeable and even less appreciated. Whatever it was, all of my anxieties, struggles, thoughts, frustrations, extreme lack of sleep, and humanness all added up to the inability to move or think about anything other than my inadequacies. Laying there and thinking about how an estimated 600,000 girls around my city are being sold for sex ultimately ended with my head smashed between two pillows and my puppy continuing to slim the legs of my chairs. It was not my proudest moment, but it might have been my dog’s. She is shaping the chair legs in a suspiciously symmetrical way. I suspect she is harboring a deep desire to study carpentry.
The next day, I dragged myself out of bed and down to the 7-11 where I was to meet a coworker before our day of things I can’t tell you about. While waiting, one of the three birds in all of Ortigas singled me out as the perfect place to poop. I kind of laughed, because, well, there was nothing else left to do, and given the events of the last few weeks, being pooped on was really the last thing left to go wrong. I found some old receipts in my purse, scraped off the very Manila-colored* feces, dumped some alcohol on my shirt, and called it good. I looked like I felt which was a nice change from being able to hide behind business casual.
*Greyish?
My day was difficult. It was emotionally demanding, physically demanding, and troubling.
Justice.
Justice?
My word. I’m sitting with a man who wakes up every morning to water lapping at his bed. He spends the early morning scooping the ocean out of his living space and drying his bed, and then he leaves for the day to catch fish to provide for his wife and children. This man bows his head when asked, “Why do you think your daughter would engage in prostitution?” He responds, “Her dream is to buy us a home.” He thought she was a waitress. Her younger sister was overhearing this conversation.
What is justice then? Is justice making this girl stop making more money than she can in any other job and force her and her family to live in poverty, its own injustice?
Do we allow this girl to continue working a job that robs her daily of dignity and her God-breathed purpose so she can pay for food?
It becomes a matter not of getting rid of injustices, but which injustice is worse? Less illegal? Less sinful, perhaps?
I am not an idealist. That was cleared from my system several years ago. I know now that behind every prince and princess living in happily ever after is a pile of credit card debt and an internet history that will nauseate you. And behind their castle are the slums with whore houses and naked children digging through the trash. That’s just sin. It’s not pessimism; it’s a world separated from God.
I had a religion professor in college who drew the history of the world on the board. It looked like this:
Where I should feel steady, along that “Jesus came to earth” line, I’m constantly feeling like “justice” and humanity is falling below it, accepting grace and treating it like a one-time gift and not the most precious gift that has ever been given, and one that is constantly being renewed as we’re forgiven. It’s a gift that we should revere, and it should cause us to put all people before ourselves.
So many pimps have Bible references tattooed on their bodies. And sometimes I feel like I am reliving the fall of mankind over...and over.
All this to really say, justice, whatever that may be in the eyes of Jesus, is unsolvable to all but God. I read some book once that said God is a mystery, not a puzzle, because puzzles can be solved while mysteries can only be explored. This being the case, what is ideal for God, justice being one of those ideals, is going to be a mystery for us until God comes back. Until then, we can search for it as we are called to do, but there will not be a steady incline toward holiness.
But that would be nice.
So that is what I’ve learned. And days will happen that result in my head between two pillows while asking my dog philosophical questions but then apologize for talking about content that is too mature for someone her age but she just continues to give my apartment furniture a new, rustic and chewed-on look. But when you ask God to send you where no one wants to go, I think even He is understanding of those days.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Monday, July 29, 2013
The Power in General Revelation
Minutes after I landed in Manila, I had heard all of what was awful about it – It’s dirty. Big bugs. You think you’re sweating now? Wait until you start walking. And blah, blah, blah, the list goes on. Just as there are negatives to any place, there are negatives to living here, too. But the words that stuck with me the most were, “You will forget God loves you while you are in Manila.” A biting joke. I laughed, but the words bit down hard on my heart. I felt them spread down through my stomach and out to my fingertips. And through the night I kept reassuring myself, “No way can any place make you forget God loves you. No way can any place make you forget God loves you…”
So a week later, I had forgotten that God loves me.
This was a terrifying and baffling feeling because I have been pretty faithful with my reading and praying. I have found the rare moments of quiet time. For me, the culmination of those three things result in a pretty solid feeling that I am in connection with God, and that we have a relationship where I am continually learning and He is continually revealing. It isn’t like that here. I can read, pray, think, sit in silence…whatever. But I can’t hear God over the sounds of traffic, and I can’t feel him over the sting of sweat in my eyes. I lose sight of his goodness at the sight of myself covered in the pollution of the city. I can’t sense Him when I have to be cautious of the acid rain instead of being able to play in puddles left by thunderstorms. What I love about God’s personality is hidden in Manila and hidden well.
Two weekends ago I was able to leave Manila and spend a few days on Palawan with a dear friend, and all of those character traits about God that I love were back. It was quiet, I was only sweaty because of hiking along the beach, the air was clean, and I could look up and open my mouth when it rained. To me, these things in nature signify a patient God, a giving God, a restful God, a powerful God, and a God constantly seeking me. A healing God, a restorative God, a God who respects hard work, and a God who is overwhelmed with happiness when we take time to bury our feet in the sand, run into the ocean, and put this routine on repeat for several days.
I am an awesome no theologian, but all of this made me start thinking about general and special revelations (I really am Calvin College). For me, it seems, I have trouble deciphering special revelations without the lenses of general revelation. Special revelation without general revelation is like being grabbed by a total stranger. The stranger could choke you or hug you. General revelation is the back-story…the character. It builds to the climax of every special revelation and supports it. It tells you who the person is who is grabbing you and what his intentions may be. Or special revelation without general revelation is like doing calculus without ever taking pre-algebra. Not impossible…but it would take a lot more work, and the algebra would be learned in a more difficult context of calculus rather than focusing on algebra as algebra. It’s just harder. Interpreting the Bible without having constant reminders of God’s personality is HARD. I feel like I’m being grabbed by this stranger, but I’m never sure why. (Emotionally grabbed. Not literally grabbed. I am still sane. Probably.) The anxiety of stumbling through the Bible and feeling completely blind to who God is, is terrible.
I was also told that Manila will bring out sides of you that you didn’t know you had, and it will amplify all of your bad qualities.
Anger. Woah.
Never have I ever considered myself to be an angry person. Typically, I am able to detach enough from a situation that I am relaxed enough to let go (…I’m not claiming that is healthy!) Or if I am angry, I figure out why and then I fix whatever it is and let anger go. Not anymore. I am constantly angry and for no real reason. I’m angry that it rains, I am angry that nothing is EVER on time. I get angry when things aren’t running efficiently or when I don’t have enough work to do. I am angry about human trafficking, and for the first time last week, I couldn’t sleep because I could only see girls’ faces when I closed my eyes…so I was angry that I couldn’t sleep. I get angry that it is impossible to keep my apartment clean. When meetings go too long. When they don’t go long enough. When I don’t have time to work out. When food takes too long. When I remember that I don’t have a microwave. When I “need” a MilkyWay and Macaroni. When my shower doesn’t feel like getting warm. When the ants invade. When rats invade. When I step in a puddle and am confident that I am going to die from Leptospirosis. When someone bumps into me on the street. The smell. The abandoned animals. The hungry street kids. The lines at the market.
And the sexpats. The sexpats who wear their young girls like jewelry.
All of this anger grew and grew until I was sitting in an ineffective meeting, and I had to leave. I felt that if I didn’t get up and go, I was going to flip the table a pull a Hulk. For my mind to have even managed to reach, “I feel that it would be totally appropriate to flip this table right now,” was bad enough, that the added, “Turning green and having all of my super giant muscles rip my clothes does not seem an impossibility,” thinking seemed genuinely disturbing. So after my walk and channeling my inner, relaxed, Bruce Banner, I realized that I am going to have to look harder to find God in the things that are around instead of convincing myself that he isn’t anywhere here. And even if it isn’t “God,” I just need to look for good things.
And this post isn’t going to end with me being slapped by the Jesus stick, modern-day slavery being abolished, and my suddenly finding God everywhere and all things are fluffy and I never again want to punch the elevator panel because it wants to stop on every floor for no reason. I still want to punch the elevator every day. And I want to line up everyone who has hit me with their umbrella and hit them with mine. And modern-day slavery is a BEAST (as are the mercury levels in the rain water (most likely.)) And I still end every day completely exhausted because, for a kid who likes to go through life wanting as little attention as possible, being White in Manila is like wearing a sequin-covered spandex suit with built-in speakers that play Rick Astely and Shania Twain back-to-back on repeat. I do not go unnoticed. And I can never tell if people are amused by me or want to punch me.
…but I have started to notice God’s personality now and then.
I see God in the universality of the wagging dog tail. I see God in the most delicious red velvet cupcake ever (that even comes in a mini size!). I see God’s personality in my friends who pop their heads into my cubicle to ask me if I want to go get lunch. I see God’s humor when I tell them I do not want to go, but I am forced to go anyway (…and I’m always grateful). I see God’s forgiveness in the eyes of the puppy I just adopted who has no idea that she was left for dead on the unforgiving streets of Manila, and she is now much more concerned about eating her bed. I see God’s provision in that food is inexpensive enough that I can feed the street kids when I see them. I see God’s hand in helping me relax because an entire season of a TV show is only about $1, so I can relax while meeting my budget. I see God’s righteous anger in my coworkers who are driven every most days to “fight the good fight,” shall we say. But mostly I see God when I sit back and laugh at myself when I remember that God is still in control.
And the things that make me happy right now include this one patch of grass that I am not allowed to walk on, having a cold so I can’t smell Manila, any food that is spicy, my puppy, very cold beer (but oh how I miss a good, dark beer), and knowing that I am going to buy a Batman action figure for my new desk. …I have a long explanation for why Batman is my favorite super hero.
So. It isn’t much, but it’s enough. I long for my weekend getaways, but know that the pictures on Facebook are my gems - my happiest moments.
I know this sounds overdramatic, but you will have to take my word for it.
If you are a prayer, I could use prayer for my anger. A lot has happened recently which would warrant anger, but those are the things that have made me not so angry. It’s the little things. Pray for a clear mind in the times when the little things build up, and pray that if the little things are building up on top of a surface of anger of which I was not aware, that I deal with it properly.
Pray for my health. I seem to jump from one sickness to another.
Pray that I will find joy. Or at least that my pessimism would just back off a little ;)
And of course…the ever-nagging money issue. Costs will be about $26,500 for a year, and I am at about $14,000. You can give online here:
I just typed a lot of words, and even though I could type a lot more and make a LOT more superhero references, I will refrain and listen to your reactions, read your emails, and, as always, answer any questions you may have for me.
My love to each of you,
Whitney (whitney.custis.wilson@gmail.com )
PS On a lighter note, here is a picture of my new puppy. She was abandoned on the streets with her brother and sister, and I picked her up this week. Her name is Rory, and she thinks she is one tough dog. In protest to a lot of people here dressing up their dogs and making them wear heavy perfume, Rory decided to have gender neutral things and smell like a dog.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Tucking an Ironic T-Shirt-Wearing Personality into a Pantsuit
...And the countdown has begun! A week from tomorrow, I will be on a plane to Manila!
Am I excited? I haven't had time to think about it.
This last week I was in Washington DC for training. Basically everyone was Harvard law trained, and I felt like I had a giant sign hanging over my head that said:
"THIS PERSON IS NOT QUALIFIED TO DO WHAT SHE IS ABOUT TO DO! SERIOUSLY. ASK HER WHAT HER DEGREE IS! THEN ASK HER HOW IN THE WORLD SHE BECAME INTERESTED IN IJM! THEN WHEN SHE TELLS YOU THAT SHE DOES STRIP CLUB OUTREACH, ASK HER HOW SHE GOT INTO THAT! FORCE HER TO DISCERN HOW MUCH SHE SHOULD TELL YOU! I AM A REALLY MEAN SIGN!"
It was a very specific, very obnoxious imaginary sign.
I was the only intern/fellow out of 80 to not have a degree in what I am pursuing, and that is a little scary.* Once some people began to understand that this wasn't an out-of-the-blue life change, and that I have helped a prostituted woman steal a cat, I think they were more comfortable with my being there* I also learned that one cannot skip over the "What's your degree?" question and jump right ahead to, "I love strippers." That is, in fact, how you get people to go sit on the opposite side of the room from you.
*Vomit-inducing terrifying
*They probably did not at all care that I was there, but it made me more comfortable to verbally affirm that what I am about to do makes any kind of sense.
But it was really a great week and everyone who works at IJM is so so wonderful. I would meet someone and think, "This is the coolest person I've ever met," but then I would meet someone else and have the same thought. There are at least 15 people who are the coolest person I've ever met. It's complicated.
What I loved the most is that 90% of IJM is run by prayer. The other 10% is run by people who sincerely believe in the power of prayer. Basically all of IJM is run by prayer. I had a really amazing conversation about praying. When asked what I find gets in the way for me most when I pray, my answer was, "Words." So I was told not to use words when I pray. Did you know that's a thing? I really didn't, but now I know it is.
Prayer
Pray for my flight. What I am most anxious about is that I know there will be men on this flight who are going to the Philippines specifically for sex vacations. Pray for them, too.
Continue to pray for trafficking in the US as well as overseas. Trafficking is "the cool justice thing" in the church right now, and that is scary because fads tend to die down. Pray this one keeps rising. I suggest you "like" Human Trafficking Awareness USA on Facebook so that you know what is happening in every state.
I could also use prayer that I would get excited! It's hard to focus much when I need to fit a year of life into a suitcase or two. ...and that it's been recommended that I take a helmet and some bear spray. Not just your average mace...bear spray. I'm not actually concerned about any situation in which I might need this, I am much more concerned about how dumb I'll look walking around in a helmet while holding bear spray.
I could really list a ton of specific prayer requests about human trafficking, but I also need prayer for me. I hate admitting it, but I need it. My health...emotional, physical, and spiritual could all be lifted up in prayer. I know that I will be encountering things that will cause the past to replay itself which will definitely take a toll on these three things.
But you know what? I'll tell you this because it makes me really excited. God has brought me to a place where I am able to genuinely thank him for the past. It's the strangest feeling, but not at all a bad one! So when I get pulled down emotionally, physically, and spiritually, pray that I am reminded that, pretty soon, I'll be praising God for it. I'm doing the same for you! It's not anything I want you to miss out on.
This sentence is just so I don't end a post with a sentence ending in a preposition.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Am I excited? I haven't had time to think about it.
This last week I was in Washington DC for training. Basically everyone was Harvard law trained, and I felt like I had a giant sign hanging over my head that said:
"THIS PERSON IS NOT QUALIFIED TO DO WHAT SHE IS ABOUT TO DO! SERIOUSLY. ASK HER WHAT HER DEGREE IS! THEN ASK HER HOW IN THE WORLD SHE BECAME INTERESTED IN IJM! THEN WHEN SHE TELLS YOU THAT SHE DOES STRIP CLUB OUTREACH, ASK HER HOW SHE GOT INTO THAT! FORCE HER TO DISCERN HOW MUCH SHE SHOULD TELL YOU! I AM A REALLY MEAN SIGN!"
It was a very specific, very obnoxious imaginary sign.
I was the only intern/fellow out of 80 to not have a degree in what I am pursuing, and that is a little scary.* Once some people began to understand that this wasn't an out-of-the-blue life change, and that I have helped a prostituted woman steal a cat, I think they were more comfortable with my being there* I also learned that one cannot skip over the "What's your degree?" question and jump right ahead to, "I love strippers." That is, in fact, how you get people to go sit on the opposite side of the room from you.
*Vomit-inducing terrifying
*They probably did not at all care that I was there, but it made me more comfortable to verbally affirm that what I am about to do makes any kind of sense.
But it was really a great week and everyone who works at IJM is so so wonderful. I would meet someone and think, "This is the coolest person I've ever met," but then I would meet someone else and have the same thought. There are at least 15 people who are the coolest person I've ever met. It's complicated.
What I loved the most is that 90% of IJM is run by prayer. The other 10% is run by people who sincerely believe in the power of prayer. Basically all of IJM is run by prayer. I had a really amazing conversation about praying. When asked what I find gets in the way for me most when I pray, my answer was, "Words." So I was told not to use words when I pray. Did you know that's a thing? I really didn't, but now I know it is.
Prayer
Pray for my flight. What I am most anxious about is that I know there will be men on this flight who are going to the Philippines specifically for sex vacations. Pray for them, too.
Continue to pray for trafficking in the US as well as overseas. Trafficking is "the cool justice thing" in the church right now, and that is scary because fads tend to die down. Pray this one keeps rising. I suggest you "like" Human Trafficking Awareness USA on Facebook so that you know what is happening in every state.
I could also use prayer that I would get excited! It's hard to focus much when I need to fit a year of life into a suitcase or two. ...and that it's been recommended that I take a helmet and some bear spray. Not just your average mace...bear spray. I'm not actually concerned about any situation in which I might need this, I am much more concerned about how dumb I'll look walking around in a helmet while holding bear spray.
I could really list a ton of specific prayer requests about human trafficking, but I also need prayer for me. I hate admitting it, but I need it. My health...emotional, physical, and spiritual could all be lifted up in prayer. I know that I will be encountering things that will cause the past to replay itself which will definitely take a toll on these three things.
But you know what? I'll tell you this because it makes me really excited. God has brought me to a place where I am able to genuinely thank him for the past. It's the strangest feeling, but not at all a bad one! So when I get pulled down emotionally, physically, and spiritually, pray that I am reminded that, pretty soon, I'll be praising God for it. I'm doing the same for you! It's not anything I want you to miss out on.
This sentence is just so I don't end a post with a sentence ending in a preposition.
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Warrior
What's Going on Here!
Yesterday my ego was inflated so that it filled the room and began to pour all over the streets of Grand Rapids. Not in an unhealthy, prideful way, but I heard a word I deeply admire being applied to my person, and that made me feel something. So, yes, I strutted around for a few moments before coming back to reality and walking a lot less like a bro at the gym.
I was called a warrior.
As a girl (Oh yes, I know, here we go, nothing non-debatable can come after the phrase, "As a girl...") no one has ever bothered to call me a warrior. And if you are a girl, I doubt that anyone has told you that you're a warrior. Or if someone happens to tell that you are a warrior, it is immediately followed by "princess" or replaced with a more feminine synonym. You're a "leading lady," a "trooper," a "star." Oh, wait. My favorite..."prayer warrior." (Only women can be those, haven't you heard? We gather in groups to make brownies, pray for our preschoolers to become Harvard scholars, and travel in herds to the bathroom. No. Men need to pray too. For all the thing.)
This, my friend:
Connotes something complete different than this:
(Google "Warrior" vs. Googling "Leading Lady")
And those are pictures very similar to what pop up in my head when I hear either of those terms.
To be called a warrior was simultaneously fantastic and devastating because I did not know if a warrior was something I could actually be, despite hearing it. Am I supposed to be the leading lady who cries and mourns rather than the unnamed and genderless figure ready for war?
I did a little Googling to settle on the definition of "warrior," a person engaged or experienced in warfare, and then I did some Bible-ing to see how that applies to me. As a girl. There, said it again.
There was dear Deborah, whom according to my Bible was a judge, yes, but was also leading Israel (Judges 4:4). (Note: She was not leading the "women of Israel," but the whole dang thing.) I imagine a few battles would come across the leader of a nation.
And a name we pass over often, Junias, Paul's relative who was in prison with him for handling warfare.
Priscilla and Aquila? Starting and running a church has its battles.
I could keep going, but I'll let you do your own digging if you feel so inclined.
The end result was that I decided I am a warrior, and it is very okay to be called that. I can let the word sink into my heart and feel the definition being pumped through every one of my veins. Then I can live it. I can live it in prayer and live it on the streets. I'm a girl, and I'm a warrior. Last night I fought against drugs and prostitution. I am a warrior. Today I took a walk and read a book. I am a warrior. I use a real ninja star as a drink coaster. I am a really cool warrior.
Manila!
I don't have much to say about Manila at the moment.
Endless thanks to those of you who are praying and giving. If I said I could do this without you, you could stop praying and giving to prove me wrong. Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.
Letters have been sent out, but I can still send you one! Or if you know someone who wants to help fight against human trafficking/prostitution, let them know I can send them a letter as well! And I am so, so, so, SO happy to answer questions about what you can be doing in your area to help! Please know that my intentions are not limited, and although I will be in Manila, an enormous part of my heart lies with the sex industry situations in America, and I plan on spending the majority of my future with the battles on the home front. So, please! Don't hesitate to ask anything!
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Yesterday my ego was inflated so that it filled the room and began to pour all over the streets of Grand Rapids. Not in an unhealthy, prideful way, but I heard a word I deeply admire being applied to my person, and that made me feel something. So, yes, I strutted around for a few moments before coming back to reality and walking a lot less like a bro at the gym.
I was called a warrior.
As a girl (Oh yes, I know, here we go, nothing non-debatable can come after the phrase, "As a girl...") no one has ever bothered to call me a warrior. And if you are a girl, I doubt that anyone has told you that you're a warrior. Or if someone happens to tell that you are a warrior, it is immediately followed by "princess" or replaced with a more feminine synonym. You're a "leading lady," a "trooper," a "star." Oh, wait. My favorite..."prayer warrior." (Only women can be those, haven't you heard? We gather in groups to make brownies, pray for our preschoolers to become Harvard scholars, and travel in herds to the bathroom. No. Men need to pray too. For all the thing.)
This, my friend:
Connotes something complete different than this:
(Google "Warrior" vs. Googling "Leading Lady")
And those are pictures very similar to what pop up in my head when I hear either of those terms.
To be called a warrior was simultaneously fantastic and devastating because I did not know if a warrior was something I could actually be, despite hearing it. Am I supposed to be the leading lady who cries and mourns rather than the unnamed and genderless figure ready for war?
I did a little Googling to settle on the definition of "warrior," a person engaged or experienced in warfare, and then I did some Bible-ing to see how that applies to me. As a girl. There, said it again.
There was dear Deborah, whom according to my Bible was a judge, yes, but was also leading Israel (Judges 4:4). (Note: She was not leading the "women of Israel," but the whole dang thing.) I imagine a few battles would come across the leader of a nation.
And a name we pass over often, Junias, Paul's relative who was in prison with him for handling warfare.
Priscilla and Aquila? Starting and running a church has its battles.
I could keep going, but I'll let you do your own digging if you feel so inclined.
The end result was that I decided I am a warrior, and it is very okay to be called that. I can let the word sink into my heart and feel the definition being pumped through every one of my veins. Then I can live it. I can live it in prayer and live it on the streets. I'm a girl, and I'm a warrior. Last night I fought against drugs and prostitution. I am a warrior. Today I took a walk and read a book. I am a warrior. I use a real ninja star as a drink coaster. I am a really cool warrior.
Manila!
I don't have much to say about Manila at the moment.
Endless thanks to those of you who are praying and giving. If I said I could do this without you, you could stop praying and giving to prove me wrong. Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.
Letters have been sent out, but I can still send you one! Or if you know someone who wants to help fight against human trafficking/prostitution, let them know I can send them a letter as well! And I am so, so, so, SO happy to answer questions about what you can be doing in your area to help! Please know that my intentions are not limited, and although I will be in Manila, an enormous part of my heart lies with the sex industry situations in America, and I plan on spending the majority of my future with the battles on the home front. So, please! Don't hesitate to ask anything!
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Friday, March 15, 2013
Michigan -----> Manila
On Monday, it will be exactly three months until I hop on a plane and head for Manila.
For those of you who do not know, I applied and was accepted into an internship program with the International Justice Mission. The injustice of human trafficking has been weighing heavily on my heart for years now, and this internship will be the first step from transitioning from a would-be career in music to a must-be career of providing justice for those caught in sex slavery. Since I am not able to tell you much about what I will be doing until I'm in Manila, my blog updates for the next several months will be about my spiritual preparation, what I am currently doing in Grand Rapids, and keeping you updated on how my fundraising is going (Yes, I understand that we all just went, "Oh yeah, money," and then gulped out of guilt or frustration and are now going to go for a walk/smoke. It's okay. God provides.)
Looking Ahead!
What I CAN tell you, is that when I say "The Philippines," most of you will think of this:
And there will be water, and sun, and hugging, and much rejoicing!
On the contrary, I will be going to the most densely populated city on planet earth. The much more appropriate picture would be:
No water, lots of sun, and an easily burnt, mildly upset, introvert.
But this week, my first support letter went into the mail! If you do not think you've been sent a support letter, please ask for one! I would love to send a letter your way. I need prayer warriors as much as I need money. My email address is whitney.custis.wilson@gmail.com, and I would love to hear from all of you and answer any/all questions!
What is happening NOW!
What is happening now is that God is whipping me into shape. I found myself praying about a week ago that God would use me for something that no one else wants to do in the fight against human trafficking. Whether that be hanging out in the slums, or sitting at a desk, I wanted God to know I am 100% in. Done deal. Whitney + Jesus= Hooray. Living pawn. All that.
What a dangerous prayer to pray.
If God were as avid a texter as I am, God and I would have probably had this post-prayer text conversation:
God: LOL.
Me: ...That's rather ominous, Lord.
God: ROFL, for real.
Me: ...God...
God: Was that in vain, or are you trying to get my attention?
Me: Your attention! You're freaking me out!
God: LOL.
I can guess that is how that conversation would have gone because over the past week, I have flushed crack down toilets, walked/jogged/sprinted down the most dangerous streets in the city, made threatening phone calls, received threatening phone calls, driven to every mental health facility in the area, been in the emergency room, learned that the mental health system is pitted against the poor, seen a woman's stitches from where she was stabbed in the chest, walked with prostitutes, learned about AIDS, watched a woman find Jesus, and maybe aided in the kidnapping of someone's house cat.
And that was all to help one person, and possibly to un-help one cat.
And this was all 15 minutes from my house... Imagine what's happening 15 minutes from your house!
Training week one has officially come to a close. There have been no serious ramifications other than falling asleep face-first in some ice cream, causing that ice cream to melt, and ultimately resulting in me missing out on an ice cream experience. An experience I never take for granted.
But in all seriousness, despite the week being crazy and learning that there are many jobs that people don't want to do, and that the human trafficking problem is so big that we need social workers, and mental health clinics, and new laws to protect women, and what seems like a kazillion other things, God has been completely faithful. He has brought people to me when I have needed them, and allowed me to carry some things on my own. He is always my refuge and my strength (I just love that, don't you?).
My love to each of you,
Whitney
For those of you who do not know, I applied and was accepted into an internship program with the International Justice Mission. The injustice of human trafficking has been weighing heavily on my heart for years now, and this internship will be the first step from transitioning from a would-be career in music to a must-be career of providing justice for those caught in sex slavery. Since I am not able to tell you much about what I will be doing until I'm in Manila, my blog updates for the next several months will be about my spiritual preparation, what I am currently doing in Grand Rapids, and keeping you updated on how my fundraising is going (Yes, I understand that we all just went, "Oh yeah, money," and then gulped out of guilt or frustration and are now going to go for a walk/smoke. It's okay. God provides.)
Looking Ahead!
What I CAN tell you, is that when I say "The Philippines," most of you will think of this:
On the contrary, I will be going to the most densely populated city on planet earth. The much more appropriate picture would be:
No water, lots of sun, and an easily burnt, mildly upset, introvert.
But this week, my first support letter went into the mail! If you do not think you've been sent a support letter, please ask for one! I would love to send a letter your way. I need prayer warriors as much as I need money. My email address is whitney.custis.wilson@gmail.com, and I would love to hear from all of you and answer any/all questions!
What is happening NOW!
What is happening now is that God is whipping me into shape. I found myself praying about a week ago that God would use me for something that no one else wants to do in the fight against human trafficking. Whether that be hanging out in the slums, or sitting at a desk, I wanted God to know I am 100% in. Done deal. Whitney + Jesus= Hooray. Living pawn. All that.
What a dangerous prayer to pray.
If God were as avid a texter as I am, God and I would have probably had this post-prayer text conversation:
God: LOL.
Me: ...That's rather ominous, Lord.
God: ROFL, for real.
Me: ...God...
God: Was that in vain, or are you trying to get my attention?
Me: Your attention! You're freaking me out!
God: LOL.
I can guess that is how that conversation would have gone because over the past week, I have flushed crack down toilets, walked/jogged/sprinted down the most dangerous streets in the city, made threatening phone calls, received threatening phone calls, driven to every mental health facility in the area, been in the emergency room, learned that the mental health system is pitted against the poor, seen a woman's stitches from where she was stabbed in the chest, walked with prostitutes, learned about AIDS, watched a woman find Jesus, and maybe aided in the kidnapping of someone's house cat.
And that was all to help one person, and possibly to un-help one cat.
And this was all 15 minutes from my house... Imagine what's happening 15 minutes from your house!
Training week one has officially come to a close. There have been no serious ramifications other than falling asleep face-first in some ice cream, causing that ice cream to melt, and ultimately resulting in me missing out on an ice cream experience. An experience I never take for granted.
But in all seriousness, despite the week being crazy and learning that there are many jobs that people don't want to do, and that the human trafficking problem is so big that we need social workers, and mental health clinics, and new laws to protect women, and what seems like a kazillion other things, God has been completely faithful. He has brought people to me when I have needed them, and allowed me to carry some things on my own. He is always my refuge and my strength (I just love that, don't you?).
My love to each of you,
Whitney
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)