Confusing and Imperfect Love

Dear Friends, Family, and Prayer Partners,

I have written and rewritten this letter at least a hundred times (maybe six), so I am just going to write something, send it, and see what happens.

I started with a very long “summary” of this year which was incredibly annoying to write and even more annoying to read, so what I think is going to happen is that I will touch on a few things that have happened this year, you are welcome to respond, and we can start an individual conversation.  What I really wish I could do is take all of you out for coffee and force you to listen to me whine about how confusing God and the world are, but since that can’t happen, individual correspondence is the next best thing.

Azkaban and Gotham City are the two analogies I tend to shift between to describe Manila.  I have also tried out Dante’s Ante-Inferno on my really bad days, but that didn’t go over as well, so Gotham and Azkaban it is. 

In all fairness, Manila only became so bleak because the West took a beautiful culture and tried to make it America when it should have been allowed to evolve from its own history and not ours.  Good going, us.

The city also speaks nothing about the people living in it.  I have never experienced such warmth, love, and understanding anywhere else on the planet.  Where there is dirt or a puddle of water with a suspicious green glow, it is counteracted with smiles, hugs, and all the food you could ever need.  There are no greater people than those in the Philippines.

But when I do imply that Manila is a soul-sucking crime hole, I mean it in a very loving way, as Manila and I function within a love-hate relationship.  This, a lot of the time, is hilarious for everyone except me.  People get to watch me have small freak-outs every time I have to get in a crowded elevator.  Anyone who gets to watch me yell at a cab driver for trying to charge me extra because he “took me further” because he got LOST is most certainly amused, and the poor 18 year-old grocery store kid who caught me in the feminine hygiene section on my way to the dog food section who stopped me to inquire about my “flow” was hopefully amused and not at all frightened when I put my hands over my ears and ran away going, “What is reality!?!?!”

(I have SO many stories.)

It is hard to talk about the hard things.  I’d much rather write you a long update with a bunch of funny, semi-sad stories and never touch on human trafficking, poverty, humanity, and Church with a capital C, but since those are all of the reasons I came here, I will address them.

Justice is much more complicated than any of us could imagine.

It doesn’t seem like it should be complicated.  I mean, what’s good is good, and what’s bad is bad, and what is bad should go to prison.  That’s how we tend to think of right vs. wrong.

But right and wrong begin to blend when our “trafficking victims,” young girls and boys, are selling their bodies voluntarily so that they can make money to feed their brothers and sisters.

Right and wrong blend when the woman too old to be considered attractive enough to sell her body, manages the girls who do, and she appears to love and keep these girls safe while they “meet” with clients.  She will go to jail for life.  For being poor.

Right and wrong blend when some of the men who is pimping the “trafficking victims,” again, is too old to sell himself, but makes sure the girls he manages are fed, get the medicine they need, and he makes sure they are always safe.  He will go to jail for life.  For being poor. (He is also the man the girls beg to see after they are removed from the bar.  They want to know if he is safe.)

Right and wrong blend when law enforcement agencies are overheard making disgusting and demeaning sex jokes in front of the girls, and you begin to learn that the “good guys” are actually some of the worst people you have ever met.  They should go to jail for life.  ...Which I have maybe told them to their faces.  

And right and wrong are lost when some of the most dangerous bars that desperately need our help will never be touched because they are owned by the police.

And even if right and wrong, justice and injustice were clear, that would hardly make a difference when what is perpetuating all unjust acts is a much larger problem than human trafficking: Poverty.

As long as poverty exists, girls will be for sale.  Money and lust keep the world turning since the world seems to have run out of grace and mercy.

I have come to believe that many the people we put in jail should not have necessarily gone to jail, and every time we get a “life in prison” verdict, my stomach immediately bunches into knots because the children of that man or woman who we just sent to prison are now going to be forced to sell themselves.

About five months in, I started to believe that my good intentions/desires to help people are actually perpetuating both poverty and violence.  And coming to this realization and witnessing it firsthand leads to some important but uncomfortable thinking about injustice, but also about God.

I have watched a lot of people, scattered all over the world, leave the Church this year, claim God to be implausible, and suggest that God is something humans turn to in order to comfort themselves and justify a lack of understanding.

What scares me more than watching people leave is my being able to see the truth behind every point that was made about why God could not exist and agreeing with it.

So life shifted from my not understanding right and wrong to not understanding the God of the universe.  Not that I understood him before, but I became painfully aware of my lack of understanding.

So, at the very end of November, after trying to work through all kinds of terrible things that had happened while I was here, topped off with my grandfather dying while I was unreachable in Malaysia, and watching the two people holding me together fly back to the US, I became a shell of a person.  That sounds really dramatic, but I’m not overly dramatic, so it must be true.

I maybe didn’t leave my bed for a full two weeks (except to eat and such), but when one is having to wrestle with God or no God, “justice” perpetuating injustice, good actually being bad, and even the less painful thoughts of, “Maybe my theology is just being correctly adjusted.  Wait.  Then what have I been believing my whole life!?” are still exhausting, and getting up to eat is maybe more of a challenge than it should be.  I wasn’t depressed, I don’t think, and I wasn’t even really sad. I was just confused and disillusioned.  I now understand that that is an okay thing.

Eventually I had to get up to leave for Bali (I know.  Woe is me, right?) where I was with a couple of people I could be completely honest with, and sarcastic with, and who were going through the same thinking as I was.  As I sat (having very illegally climbed over a fence to sit on a very tall cliff overlooking the ocean) and witnessed the most amazing sunset that I have ever seen, my legs wrapped in a saree, while hanging out with a bunch of monkeys at a Hindu temple, I fought with myself about the science behind a sunset.  But that science couldn’t account for what went through my heart as I saw it.  (That seriously annoyed me because I don’t like “feelings” things.)  My phone had mysteriously died, as had the phones of the two people I was with, so we couldn’t get the sunset on camera, but I loved that.  The sunset was just for us.  And the monkeys.

We were caught in a downpour as we walked back from the temple, so I hopped on the back of a strange man’s moped, and held my arms out the entire way home, being pelted by heavy, Bali rain, because I had managed to stop being a shell and exist as a person again.  A confused person, but a person.

The best conversation I have ever had about Jesus came the next day when this Hindu man and I both realized that we worship Jesus.  Jesus is one of the many gods in the Hindu religion (and it is indeed the same Jesus as Christians worship), but this man was ecstatic about Jesus and how good he is, and how powerful he is.  I have never seen anyone get that excited about Jesus, and the last place I expected to see that excitement was from a man who was explaining to me how to prepare an offering to keep the bad spirits out of my home.

My very comfortable theology on hell was turned upside down in that moment.

This sent me into a whole new existential crisis that I will not waste your time explaining, but will happily discuss if you decide you have questions.

Props to you if you’re still reading!  This is already longer than I intended it to be.

So then in February, I did a visa run to Cambodia, a very Buddhist nation.  Some of my friends and I were walking through this temple that took decades to build and even longer to decorate.  My friend whispered, and I don’t think she meant any of us to hear it, “Wow.  They must love their god so much more than I love mine.”  Something like this had also been said about the Hindu temples of Bali. This really got my brain turning, and also my stomach, as I tried to learn from Buddhism how to better love my God and show him that love in something that takes hundreds of years to make.  To love him in something I may never see finished.

Coming back from Cambodia, my journal entires and prayers all started with, “Dear God.  You, know.  If you’re actually there...” or “Dear God, I know you don’t exist, but...”  which is all pretty funny now because starting a discussion with someone in order to tell them that they don’t exist is a whole new level of ironic.

Jesus was probably also pretty annoyed, so he gave me Rachel Held Evans, who gave me the permission I apparently needed to ask questions.  So I started asking questions like, “Can there be a hell, or is it a metaphor?” “If much of the old testament is metaphorical, then has God ever interacted with man apart from Christ?” “What would that mean?”  “If the creation story is metaphorical, then how did sin enter the world?”  “How can prayer work within free will?” ...and all kinds of other questions that probably make my mother extremely uncomfortable.

And now is probably a good time to interject that the coolest lessons I have learned about Jesus this year came from Hinduism, Buddhism, and atheism.  

I had already had many major “tipping points” but the tipping point of all tipping points was this month.  I came back to my apartment after having met up with an eight year-old client who was raped and may continue to be raped by a government official who will never have to face jail time because of his high position, and the internet had exploded.  After finally allowing myself to think about Jesus as a reality, the Church decided to make that difficult to justify.  It would appear that the world as we know it had ended because many many months ago, World Vision decided to employ married gay Christians, someone at Christianity Today got ahold of this information, published it, and as a result, a very embarrassing and disappointing discourse began.  

This is when I tried to disassociate myself from the big-C Church, but I failed miserably.  

The harder I try to run, the closer the Church pulls me to herself, and I have decided that the God who allows me to ask very big questions would probably be okay with my diving head first into a mess (this seems to be a thing for me) and ask new questions.

My friends and I started writing back-and-forth, and we all realized that we were all being hurt by the Church’s actions, and the Church was inadvertently removing us from herself by calling us Millennials and dismissing anything we have to say despite our being, unavoidably, the next generation of Church leadership.

We realized that our thoughts were starting to take the shape of a book, and that somehow became, “Whitney, could you make this a book?”  And so, against my better judgement, this will be the next really messy and uncomfortable project I willingly insert myself into.  But for a Church I love so so much (but totally against my will), I’m willing to let things get a little messy.

So that’s where I am right now, and because of all of my chaotic thought processes, that is why I haven’t sent an update in a very long time. 

I have just under two months left in the Philippines, and I have no idea what will come next, but I know it will have to do with human trafficking.  I have applied for a position with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children as a staff analyst to help analyze video content to find missing children.  That is a very fancy way to say that I have to watch porn to help find abused kids.  My thinking is that if this job is done well now, maybe it won’t have to be a job anymore.  I could use prayers for this.  I know it sounds terrible, but this is exactly the kind of work I am looking to do.

My plan right now is to move to Denver and study forensic psychology to better equip myself for a position like the one I just described.  Denver has one of two human trafficking research centers, and I would like to be able to learn more about what trafficking looks like in America from a well-established research facility.

Other than that, my immediate plans are to sleep for a month, watch Netflix, eat salads, and try to stop assuming that every white man I see is trying to buy sex.  I can honestly say that I have never been more tired than I am at this moment.  Spiritually, physically, mentally, emotionally...you name it, I’m exhausted in it.

In this final update, I am going to ask three things of you:

1. If you are financially able to do so, please sponsor a child through World Vision.  Ten thousand children were dropped in this last month, and children, like the eight year-old client I know, need your money to prevent abuse.  The $30 a month goes to schooling, and education is HUGE in the battle against human trafficking.  I know that many people who dropped their sponsorship felt morally obligated to do so, but what really happened is that 10,000 children’s probability of being trafficking has increased exponentially. IJM works with World Vision, and they are a top notch group that I very much respect.
2. Pray for the Church as “social justice” has become a huge buzzword, and we have all decided that we need to help.  One of the many things I have learned about fighting for justice this year is that it is VERY DANGEROUS to try to help a cause that you do not fully understand.  Diving into a justice issue without knowing much about it is much more likely to cause harm than good.
3. I’d like to say that I don’t need prayers, but, oh man, I totally need prayer.  I have developed this ability to sleep at least 18 hours a day and still be able to go to bed on time and immediately fall asleep.  I think this is probably considered burn-out, but I have to keep going until June 14.  Reverse cultural shifting is also a process for which I could use prayer.  I’m guessing this won’t be too hard, but answering, “How was the Philippines!?” most certainly will be.  Lastly, I have a lot of things that I am processing and that I will have to continue to process once I’m home.  I’ve got a lot of growing up to do yet and could use prayers for that =)

So to sum this up quickly, I am walking away from this year very uncomfortably and with more questions than answer.  But, and I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true, I really see this as growth.

Thanks for reading this novel.  I didn’t mean for it to be five pages long, but accidents happen.  I just touched on things, so if you want to dig deeper into something, ask!  I know an unfortunate number of things about human trafficking, but I know that information can be helpful to people wanting to better understand it.  I also know that the stories I have can be a little too much for people and don’t want to subject everyone to those stories.

Thank you for your prayers, and your love, and your financial support through this messy year.

My very confusing and imperfect love to each of you,

Whitney

The Uncomfortably Big World

A huge part of working in the field with IJM, and a huge part of the majority of my life, has been watching people come and go quickly.  As soon as I begin to be able to wrap my mind around a personality, and I no longer feel like I’m running around a person in circles, but I have finally caught up and am running beside them, they disappear.  Or I disappear.  Somebody disappears.

This doesn't make me sad.  ...anymore.  When people move in and out so fast, I learn to fall in love with them quickly (and usually a little too cautiously), I learn to fall out of love even more quickly, and I learn to appreciate people.  Fast.  It is easy for people who are able to assume that someone is going to be around forever to under-appreciate loyalty and consistency, but for travelers, movers, and nomads, loyalty and consistency will never go unnoticed.  At some point, I’m sure some of us will even have a big ugly cry about how much it meant to us while we journal about it. 

One of our favorite questions to ask upon meeting new people, and a question the world seems to be very hung up on at the moment is, “Are you an introvert or an extrovert?”  It’s an important question for us because the extroverts need each other for 5-hour lunch dates, the introverts need to acknowledge camaraderie (from a distance) and send each other emotionally-involved Facebook messages that will never be talked about face-to-face, the introverts desperately need the extroverts to come pull us out of our apartments and force us out into that uncomfortably big world to see things that we need to see, and I’m sure the extroverts probably need introverts for something.

And, of course, the introvert/extrovert spectrum is just that...a spectrum, and we all have found ways to tweak these generalizations to make them our own.  A friend told me this week that she is “an extrovert with introvert tendencies.”  I would get more specific and call myself “an introvert who is extroverted in that I am very comfortable with public speaking, and I am strangely not embarrassed by much.”  Then that shifts to a new kind of specific.  I am a sarcastic romantic who struggles with balancing the two.  He is a romantic idealist who is constantly hurt when there is a problem he can’t solve.  And slowly personalities start to emerge from the foundations of “introvert” and “extrovert.”

Today I was having a very introverted day that involved me waking up around 10am, and not moving from my bed until 4pm.  I know that sounds sad, maybe a lot sad, but my brain likes to wander, and I love giving it the opportunity to do so.  It’s a rare occasion that my brain and I find time to do this, but some days my brain needs to be able to wander off to where it would like. 

I wish I could say that it wandered off to something profound that led to something prolific, but mostly I spent time trying to think about better questions to ask someone in order to get to know them better other than “Are you an introvert or an extrovert?”  I also thought about how annoyed I get by overly idealistic quotes that people paste over backgrounds of flowers and beaches and post on Facebook.  For some reason I thought about The Lion King, how much I miss salads with goat cheese, and baby names.  Something about writing screenplays.  Then I thought about skipping the introvert/extrovert “Who are you?” questions to the “What makes you?” questions.

What in this uncomfortably big world makes you feel alive?

For me, I feel most alive when I’m doing, not thinking, and I'm able to forget about time.  I feel most alive at the bow of a boat, when I can’t see what’s coming next, and I don’t care.  The only thing to think about is the love for what’s in front of you.  I feel most alive when I’ve tied a rope to the back of the car, and I’m being pulled on my snowboard down the street, and I suddenly realize that, when the car stops, I’m not going to stop.  I feel most alive over eye contact that can be interpreted much more deeply than the words a person is speaking.  I also feel alive over a really good cup of coffee and blank paper.

What in this uncomfortably big world makes you terrified?

High school girls, attempting to be honest in blog posts, and a few other things.

What in this uncomfortably big world makes you safe?  Bored?  Annoyed?  Challenged?  Defensive?  Optimistic?  Quiet?  Loud? Rebellious?  Get out of bed?  Retreat back to bed?

It is amazing to me that, just as something as huge as the universe is constantly expanding, so is something as small as a single person’s personality.

At 4pm, I got up for some cereal, tried to reassure my dog that it wasn’t her, it was me, and that I just needed to be alone today, and then I got back into bed and watched movies.

I would call this day a complete success, which is funny because I can name more than a handful of people who would consider my success to be a punishment.

But as my brain was flying a million miles an hour trying to figure out how to know and love people better, I really just landed on how cool it is to have to opportunity to know and love people in whatever capacity I have to offer.  And it is amazing to know and love people who are nothing like I am, and, even harder, to love people who are a lot like myself.

It would be a lie if I said that this year isn’t turning out to be the hardest of my life.  But I say that very comfortably.  There is something simultaneously challenging and rewarding to knowing that you’re under construction and that you’re going to meet the other side with anticipation and as a person you weren’t eight months ago.  Much of that is due to people who asked questions and desired responses, to people who listened, and to people who shared their own stories. 

This is getting so off topic.

Knowing people is a privilege.  Stories can be good.  I love knowing what makes a person.  Different personalities need each other.  The Superbowl is tomorrow.  And now I am happily getting back in bed.

My love to each of you,
W

Questions

It occurred to me today that all of the great works of literature and art that we now look to for answers began with questions.

Socrates questioned how we could determine what right and wrong are when not even the gods can agree on such things, and now I believe there is only one God.  Voltaire, Moore, and Swift all questioned (and ruthlessly satirized) the reasons society and culture function the way they do, and now I am a pessimist with the best of them.  Bartok questioned why the fugue couldn't be perfectly symmetrical and wrote a piece based on “the devil’s interval” which would have been criticized and condemned a few centuries before his time.  Simone de Beauvior questioned a woman’s role and realized that she had the intellectual capacity to begin to offer answers to her own questions.  More recently, Andres Serrano questioned whether the final product of a piece of art was more important than the medium when he submerged a crucifix in his own urine, photographed it, and presented us with a picture that was ethereal, surreal, and holy (until we learned the medium/read the title).  Ke$ha questioned whether or not a party could start until she walked in, and the answer is yes.  Yes it can.

So I looked up to the sky, then the ground, and then directly in front of me, questioning on which level God in his omnipresence might dwell, and then I told him that I am not certain about anything about him other than that Jesus is God.  Then I told him that I am actually not certain about anything at all.  Then I napped because I’m currently suffering from food poisoning and figured that I was delirious and needed sleep more than I need to inform God of how ignorant I am, as he already knows.

There is a point somewhere in there, I believe, and I believe that point may be that questions propel us forward.  I am not saying that because I have a lot of questions and feel the need to justify having them.  I am saying this because I am currently experiencing that asking questions provides a lot more knowledge than having answers, and that being certain about much of anything can actually be dangerous.

As far as how this related to interning with IJM, I have been facing the question, “What does justice look like when combined with a Christ-like grace?”

Because I will never clap when someone gets arrested.

And my mind went back to 2006ish to the infamous Amish schoolhouse shooting.

Charles Carl Roberts decided one morning to walk into an Amish schoolhouse and open fire on ten girls before killing himself.  Five girls were killed and five were injured.

The Amish community reacted by forgiving Roberts and attending his funeral (easier said than done).  Robert’s mom reacted by offering herself weekly to read and play with one of the girls who is now confined to a wheelchair.

Tragedy and injustice built community, and as difficult as that is, and even though I’m sure fathers and mothers who lost daughters often question their ability to forgive, the story they are telling is one of grace and love.

When someone is arrested, I will continue to keep my hands at my side even though I don’t have the answer to what grace and justice should look like when they are in sync.

And I will keep asking questions about everything and never blindly accept anything as truth.

So.  When lying on bed, begging death to just come for me already, being a little over-dramatic, and having way too much time to think because being sick is boring, and my brain starts going…

How come when I repeat a word over and over, it stops being a word?  Is there really a cure for every disease, or are some just going to remain incurable no matter how hard we try?  Why does communal hate seem to bring people closer together than communal love?  Where can I get toilet paper at 2am?  If the Bible has been used to justify oppression, slavery, segregation, and all other kinds of evils, what evils are we attempting to justify today?  If it’s going to take 100 years to map the brain, why doesn't someone get on that already?  Does God exist inside or outside of time?  If he exists in time, then do we really have free will?  If he exists outside of time, then what is the purpose of prayer?  Is there anything creepier than that baby that lived in the sun from the Teletubbies?  How is the universe constantly expanding, and what fills the area where the edge of the universe has yet to reach?  What would bring peace to Sudan?  Will I ever understand the stock market?  If I stare at my hand long enough, am I seeing my cells duplicate?  Who on planet earth encouraged Stephanie Meyers to go into writing, and where can I find them?  Does anyone else have these questions?

…And I ultimately end up underneath my bed asking my dog why people can’t just all get along…

…maybe the hopelessness I feel is actually leading somewhere.

My love to each of you,

W

For Someone I Love

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.

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.

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

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