Strong in the Broken | Rachel Pieh Jones

Strong in the Broken: Learning Trust, Embracing Vulnerability

Today’s Strong in the Broken post comes from Y.P., someone I have immense respect for in her life and work, living in a foreign country far outside her comfort zone where she takes daily relational risks and is learning to trust. I think we all face this battle of choosing whether to listen to (possibly) rational fears or to take a chance. Here’s a glimpse into Y.P.’s process.

For some reason I grew up believing that once you learn to differentiate between which people to trust and which ones not to, you’d be set for life. Turns out, I’m still not set. Not sure I ever will be.

Trust is a bigger battle than I imagined. To stay vulnerable when everything inside of you tells you to back up, to remain trusting when everyone tells you to wall-up, to maintain a tender heart when the world tells you to harden.

You can call me naïve, and you won’t be the first one. I do trust a lot of people to have good intentions. I trust that if someone offers me a ride, they mean it. That they don’t want to drive me out to no-man’s-land and rape and kill me. I trust that if someone asks where I live, they don’t want to come to my house at night and set it on fire. I trust that if someone stops to talk to me, they do just want to converse a little in English. I trust that if someone asks me a personal question, they are interested in me. That they don’t want to shame me publicly based on what I tell them.

This comes with a high price. It’s always more costly to choose to share my stories than to stay silent or switch topics. It always takes more energy to engage with someone who has hurt me before than to stay away from them. It takes a lot out of me to be ‘naïve’ if that’s your word of choice.

Especially in a climate where suspicion is a virtue.

My brain doesn’t want me to trust. Something wants to see evil and danger everywhere and to find excuses for why I shouldn’t trust. My brain quotes books and news headlines and other people’s horror stories, and it rehashes my own past experiences. It tells me, “Watch out. Bad things have happened before. They will happen again. I told you so.”

This fear wants me to put everyone into boxes with the labels, either: ‘safe’ or ‘unsafe’.

Yet my God is a God of second chances. And fifth. And seven-times-seventieth. God doesn’t act based on past painful experiences, hurts, or disappointments. So who am I to live that way?

And I find God constantly whispering into my ear, over the sound of fears, “trust again, I know you can do it!” And so, at least I try. Because He knows what He’s talking about. And He doesn’t do boxes, certainly not of fear.

By Rachel Pieh Jones|July 5th, 2017|Categories: Strong in the Broken|Tags: strong in the broken, trust|1 Comment

Strong in the Broken: Singing in the Storm

Today’s Strong in the Broken post is by Serenity, offering a specific insight into longevity abroad and how to achieve it joyfully. (By the way, yes, I’m still accepting posts for this series, probably through August.)

“AND SING!!! Don’t just listen to your music, sing along. Sing when you cook, when you clean, when you drive. Sing in the night, in your mind you will wake up with a song in your heart. A song of praise to our God.” My mother sent this advice to my roommate in a much needed email recently. As I read those words, I realized that this decision to sing was what has kept my mother overseas for the past thirty years, and it is what has sustained me too. It is through the songs, and through the singing, that we have been able to weather the storms, which are many.

Living in my little part of my very big city, I have had to fight for joy almost every single day. There has been pain. Lots and lots of pain. There have been tears, hugs, and hands held while prayers have been said and unsaid. And I have searched for ways to keep my head up and hold on. When my mother’s email arrived, it was an affirmation that singing is important. It was a confirmation that having the music at work, at home, and in the commute can be a tool. A tool to help us to sing.

The struggle to sing is not something I only bear for myself but it can be a challenge for those around me also. I sometimes look out at my class and see a student who has just moved, a student with no idea how long they will stay and one student whose brother just left her to study in a different country. I see another student experiencing the grief of death, another grieving because visas were lost, and yet another student who can’t understand a word I say. I have found that if I look at these moments in themselves, they are ugly. I struggle to find the beauty in them.

The Right Now can often look like that. We might feel rejected or abandoned. And, we definitely do not feel like singing. But then I remember that the Right Now will eventually form the fabric of an incredible tapestry. So the songs must continue. That can mean that someone else might be singing for us, or that we only have the energy to listen to the music, but the songs and the singing continue.

As we walk through these seasons of life we find ourselves angry, sad, and hurt. I find myself staring rejection in the face again and again. I sometimes forget how to be genuine. Sometimes it is something as small as being just too hot outside, and I find myself suddenly petulant. It is in those moments when I sing, actually sing, and I remember that I will look back someday at the Right Now and I will see the beauty. I have a lighthouse tattooed on my right forearm to remind me of one of my favorite songs and to remind me to keep singing, to keep holding on. It is a constant reminder for me of the song inside of me.

There have been moments, and there will continue to be, where I feel ignored, taken advantage of, abused. Living overseas sometimes means that I’m misunderstood in my host country and I’m confused in my home country. But instead of allowing the lies that I am less than someone or something, I choose to put truths in front of me. Truths that do not let my fear hold me back. Truths that help me to sing a new song each morning. This means that I keep getting up, keep investing, keep loving, keep serving, and keep trusting. My heart and soul remain in a messy state, and have hardly anything figured out as I transition from one country to another, but I do know one thing – that I will keep singing, even when the storm tries its absolute best to stop me…I will keep singing.

Serenity calls South Asia home, but also feels at home in the Mid-West. She drinks more coffee than is beneficial, and spends most of her time telling little people that math and manners are really important.

Facebook: Serenity Ward

Instagram: renward92

By Rachel Pieh Jones|June 27th, 2017|Categories: Strong in the Broken|Tags: serenity ward, singing, strong in the broken|0 Comments

Strong in the Broken: Loving Others While Fearing Others

Today’s Strong in the Broken guest post is by Jennifer Brogdon about finding the courage to love people in spite of her fears.

I do not recall fearing others the first half of my life.

It begins the first time I hear someone say this or that about me. It heightens when I notice others plot to vote against me in a school election. At its peak, I hear the booing as I walk up to receive an award and want to hide from the public (or people in general) forever. At the same time, loved ones’ verbal cut-downs continue throughout the years. This punch to the gut continues beating me up in every new relationship—not necessarily from anything the other person does but from the possibility of what they could do. I see the lady with the beautiful garden and the multitude of trinkets sitting on her porch each time I jog by and the woman in the brown house with white shutters who checks her mailbox during my stroll. As a Christian, I know I should not avoid people but rather love them. I am scared though. In this instance, I am scared of the frailest woman and what she may think of me.

To rightly love others, I must get over my fear of what they think of me.

I hear a couple explain the difficulty in building relationships with the people in their community across the world. They share how it takes years for the people to welcome you in a deep and meaningful way. This hits me. I think about the importance of staying in the same area for a long time because of this, but then it hits me harder as I ponder my impact on my own community. Over the last few years, the impact has been small.

On my next run around the neighborhood, I start to notice people, namely the elderly. I wonder who they are, what they believe, how they feel, and what they may need. Do they have faith convictions? Is their faith deeper because of their years? Are they lonely? Do they have loved ones who take care of them? Questions like these flood my mind, but then fears sprinkle in one by one—as they often do. I wonder what people would think of me if I went up to talk to them. I imagine a snarky response or being ignored. I fear their reaction to how I would approach them, when I would do it, and what I would say.

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for two and a half years and only know the neighbors to my left and my right. I believe the couple when they said relationships take time to build, especially in a different culture. How much more frightening is it to approach those who see you as a foreigner than the elderly woman who lights up with a youthful glow in seeing a young face speak to her? The boo-ers from my youth were people I knew for many years. I remember calling them my friends. The verbally abusive were the ones who knew me (or thought they did) the best. I shudder to bring many people close enough to where they could point fingers or stab me in the back.

But something deep compels me to love even if I don’t receive love in return. The One who fully loves me despite my failures to love him persuades me. Perfect love casts out fear, and his love proves perfect in my salvation and in my future hope. I fail at times. I keep jogging by the lady because the bullies of my past are all I see, like a horse with blinders. The two greatest commandments say to love God and then love your neighbor. To love my neighbor, God is the one I need in clear view!

Hiding from others displays zero love, for God is love and came down as the God-man. He came to seek and to save the lost with full knowledge he would bear the sins of man and endure the wrath of God. This love took everlasting death from me and gave me eternal life. If this reality does not encourage me to abide in Christ to fight my fear of others which enables me to love others as he loved me first, what will?

Jennifer Brogdon is a stay at home mom who ministers to students at Mississippi College during her free time. She enjoys running, reading, traveling, watching classic movies, and writing for Desiring God, True Woman, Servants of Grace, her own blog, and others. Jennifer and her husband Shane are members of Grace Community Church in Jackson and have a heart for the nations. You can find her on Twitter @brogdonjen or her blog https://www.jennifercbrogdon.com

*image via Flickr

By Rachel Pieh Jones|June 20th, 2017|Categories: Strong in the Broken, Uncategorized|Tags: courage, jennifer brogdon, love, strong in the broken|0 Comments

Strong in the Broken: Living While Recovering

Today’s Strong in the Broken post is by the talented and prolific Daniel Maurer. Check out his books and website (links in the bio below). Dan is the only person who has ever played a bagpipe for me, in my yard. It was awesome. Enjoy!

My Broken Doesn’t Define Me, But Without It, I’m Missing a Great Gift

Don’t worry—I’m not going to take you to rehab.

I know how tiresome reading another account of addiction-and-depression-to-recovery can be, because I share them all the time on my blog. In fact, recovery from addiction to drugs and alcohol has become my non-fiction brand as a freelance writer, whether I like it or not. Some days it feels like I eat, sleep, do jumping jacks, play Scrabble, and poop recovery.

My real passions dwell in my family, my faith, reading, walking or jogging with my wife and our dog, writing science-fiction, planting my garden, and exploring the vastly more interesting realms of topics that pique my curiosity. For example, one book I’m currently reading on the history and fascinating development of the periodic table has me enchanted like a beaker bubbling along, perched in a science lab filled with flaming Bunsen burners.

Being a pro writer is amazing too. What’s great is I have connected with other writers all over the world, like Rachel. Visiting her blog and reading her work is—technically—part of my weekly agenda. How cool is that?! I love my life and I wouldn’t trade being a writer for anything. I feel more whole today than I ever have in my life.

But I gotta be honest . . . I wouldn’t truly be whole without first being broken.

The thirty-second version of my little tale is that I served as an ELCA (progressive Lutheran) minister in western North Dakota for eleven years. I was a good pastor. I enjoyed studying scripture and proclaiming the Word. I loved my people. But I was also depressed. I was frequently bored. To combat the gnawing worms of ennui and melancholy eroding the foundations of my soul, I drank and I took pills, mostly painkillers. Of course, this only made things worse in the long run.

One of the reasons I get tired of reading and hearing other addiction-recovery stories is that they all end the same way. There’s never a magical twist in the plot. The details might be different, but yup—all of them don’t end well.

Just over six years ago, I was arrested for felony trespassing while I was in a blackout.

Then I finally got sober (I’d already done several “rodeos” in rehab prior to my decisive arrest). I moved from the country to a large city. I developed my new vocation as a writer and reconnected with my family, myself, and God. I strive to never seem “in your face” with my spirituality, but the fact is it’s extremely important to me. The big surprise for me came when I was standing in the basement jail cell wearing an anti-suicide smock.

I asked myself, “How the hell did I get here? Where is God now?”

I didn’t immediately receive a reply to those questions, but they came soon enough. I think an appropriate one-word summary to the answer I got was . . . submit.

A longer answer I discovered in Paul’s Second Letter to the Corinthians (12:10):

Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong.

One of the best real-world allegories for this concept of strength-within-weakness you can see in the Japanese art of kintsugi. The artists who create such works first begin with the broken pieces of pottery or ceramic.

Whereas most potters or ceramic workers would likely curse their rotten luck of having dropped their work—then undoubtedly had to haul out the broom, pan, and garbage bin to dispose of any evidence of their clumsiness—some ingenious Japanese craftsman in about the 15^th century got an idea:

Why not put the pieces back together and create something beautiful?

The gorgeous creation that first bloomed from the once-destroyed piece of lacquerware most likely came as a delightful shock for that brave medieval craftsman who first experimented. Today, instead of striving to hide the cracks and breaks, kintsugi artists accentuate and aggrandize the damage with gold, platinum or silver lacquer.

The result stuns and dazzles, just as much as it shows us that the brokenness can be more than simply useful, but also elegant and transcendent.

“Living while recovering” is a daily process for me. I need to apply continued effort to stay sober because addiction is a brain illness. I don’t dwell on the past, but I never shut the door on it. I regularly attend Twelve Step meetings. God has taken my cracks and my shattered past to make a difference for others, not just with the work I do, but also simply being there for others who are hurting. With a problem as serious as addiction has become in this country (worldwide really), it’s a gift to let my broken past be a gift for others.

I am strong, because I am first broken and weak.

Daniel D. Maurer is an author, a freelance writer, a public speaker and a blogger. He has four published books: Sobriety: A Graphic Novel (Hazelden Publishing, 2014), Faraway: A Suburban Boy’s Story as a Victim of Sex Trafficking (Two Harbors Press, 2015), Papa Luther (Augsburg Fortress, 2016), and Endure: The Power of Spiritual Assets for Resilience to Trauma & Stress (Mount Curve Press, forthcoming—fall 2017). He lives with his family in Saint Paul, Minnesota. For more info, please visit his blog at Transformation is Real.

By Rachel Pieh Jones|June 13th, 2017|Categories: Strong in the Broken|Tags: daniel maurer, kintsugi, recovery, strong in the broken|0 Comments

Strong in the Broken: Sick While Stuck

Today’s Strong in the Broken guest post is by Beth Watkins, about sickness, trauma, refugees, and healing.

On our first weekend in Cairo, almost two years ago, it happened the first time. A sudden, extremely painful episode that doubled me over on the floor, unable to speak, vomiting from the pain.

We went to several doctors, had several tests done, and they all told me the tests were clear. Every couple of weeks, it would happen again, and leave me sore and tired for days. More doctors, more tests, more of everyone telling me I was fine.

We were working at an organization assisting refugees out of the church. It was a stressful, demanding job, managing a multi-cultural team and overseeing job training and placement services, and the adult education program. Working with vulnerable people and with people from multiple countries and cultures is challenging.

The season in life prior had been no bowl of cherries, either. In the previous four years overseas I’d been robbed, had a house fire, was interrogated in a second language and eventually expelled from my first desert home. I had to be evacuated from a warzone the same year, returned, got married, travelled constantly for nine months, and then…Cairo. The stress and trauma of the last few years finally caught up.

After a year of the pain attacks, my British husband and I decided we had to move back to the US. So we began the long, expensive, stressful, and uncertain process of applying for his permanent American residency.

From there, it was one month, one week, one day at a time.

I was exhausted all the time, stressed all the time, and in pain part of the time. I was anxious for our refugee friends, worried about my weakening body, and terrified we’d be stuck in Egypt longer than planned. I’d cry myself to sleep at night over negative changes at the organization for our refugee coworkers, while not knowing if I was doing lasting damage to myself by just being there.

I wanted to stay and fight for my vulnerable friends. And I wanted desperately to leave and not feel stuck anymore in a place where I was feeling weaker and more damaged by the day.

I was only working three days a week, and sometimes barely managing that. But in those three days a week, I was able to do more than I ever thought possible. I fought for our refugee coworkers to have equal rights. I quadrupled enrollment in our adult education program. I created new jobs, and rewrote contracts for those jobs to protect the rights of refugee workers. I worked with other organizations in the city to coordinate services, and held new workshops for HIV+ women. In a country where relationship is everything, as much as I could I sat with people, asked about their families, shared my snacks, helped in menial tasks that weren’t mine to do, and tried to make everyone feel important.

Somehow, in my two weakest years overseas, working the least hours in a week in any other season in my life, I managed to contribute more and grow more than during any other time in my life.

It took eleven months of bureaucracy and endless mountains of paperwork to get the green card. We left Cairo for good six days after we had it in hand.

We are still searching for answers, and my health still has a long way to go to get better. The anxiety has decreased. The pain is lessening. For the first time in almost two years I feel as though I’m getting stronger, and not weaker. But I have been told by doctors and counselors that I won’t recover my capacity for at least a year, and maybe never. I am still sick, but no longer stuck. And I am grateful.

All the while, in the back of my mind, are the refugee friends we left – some of them struggling with worse illness then mine – who have no outs or options. While I am back in my home country, they are in a country without welcome.

And I’m sick over the fact that they are still stuck.

Beth Watkins has spent the last 6 years working in North and Sub-Saharan Africa with street children, refugees, and other vulnerable populations, and is currently settling back in the US with her British immigrant husband. She blogs about living toward God’s kingdom and finding our neighbors at http://www.iambethwatkins.com, where you can also download a copy of her free e-book, “For the Moments I Feel Faint: Reflections on Fear & Showing Up.”