Published this week: Debut book of poetry AND contributions in the newly released (in)courage Devotional Bible

I could use words, but tonight they are hard to come by…  Honored. Humbled. Hopeful.

Buy the books?  Share in the journey of the Story and my heart.

Both are available on Amazon.com

To learn more about the Devotional Bible, please visit
http://incouragebible.com

To learn about my first publicly published poetry book, Never Again: Poems and Pleading for Freedom, click title and also stay tuned.

 

 

Forgiven, Forgive me, too? The Love Strong Chronicles VII

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Dear Hurtful Ones,

To the one who abandoned me… To the trauma without words in my infancy and in the months to follow which can still cause my body to reel in yet my mind has few memories and my voice no utterance…

…I don’t know who you are or what the circumstances were. I wonder if you think of me. I shorten my breath when I consider how early death or misfortune may have stricken your days. I do not search for you, the distance and details make such a journey futile and my wonder released that years ago. But today, in the thump thump of a heart trying to heal, know this.

It is true. You hurt me.

I forgive you.

Once and with finality. I forgive you. Giving up a child should not hold shame, but rather imperativeness to the world and to the arms of love to scoop up the orphans. I have been gifted much and in this know that mercy hunts us down and can cover all actions. Those who leave and those who are left, remember because forgiveness stands, love wins.

To the ones of my youth… To the ones in my home, in my daily happenings, and circle of influence that speared my innocence and grappled with attachment to me as I trampled opportunities for love… To the ones who caused angst and tears, touch and trust to become ideas that made me tremor and escape from…

…Know I have learned from those who teach me that each generation does the best with what they can and how they know. I agree. It will be true of my generation, too. There is much we would all do differently if we were granted hindsight in the moment. Today, without intricacies blasted from the rooftops because there is no need for that and in the slow inhale that brings oxygen to my muscles and girds my loins, know this.

It is true. You hurt me.

I forgive you.

Slowly, repeatedly, engaging in the process of allowing layers of me be rebuilt, I rise. Understanding that not all is redeemed and may never be this side of Heaven, but gathering freedom and releasing grace in waves that my human ways mirror heaven’s endless pour out. I use life and loving, writing and wrestling, speaking and silence to fill the gaps of what was lost in me and pray your empty spaces find in-pour, too.

Because we survived and forgiveness has been whispered, believe with me that love wins.

To the ones of recent… To the ones who misunderstood my character and defamed my name… To the ones who claw at my worth by diminishing the good I do, the beautiful I am… And those, those who love in messy human ways that cause my core to feel cold or actions to be reevaluated…

…Don’t withhold your hearts from me, I have a wind of warmth that breezes through day after day, circumstance after circumstance; I am held. So today, in the chase of hope that my spirit finds the forward in, know this.

It is true. You hurt me.

I forgive you.

Without hesitation. It comes swiftly because love covers a multitude of grievances. Without end. We walk the road into who we are and who we will become.  We grapple with truths and grow in what is real. I could not stand again until I forgave. The world of our hearts gets turned upside down in forgiveness. It walks life back into afflicted strands and in this life, know I am still for you. I can not be deterred from caring because love has won.

Right now, all those who hurt me, knowing or unknowingly, actual or perceived, understanding and remorseful or still wielding bludgeoning weapons, know this:

It is true. I hurt you, too. I hurt others. I stand in need of forgiveness.
I can not demand it of you or convince that it is vital to both of us.

But for the times I distorted the radiance of the Life gifted to us, I am sorry.

I am sorry. Proffer what you will to me.

Grace is ours bathe in, hope is ours to chase, forgiveness is the ignitor of life anew.

And to the nun that opened my willingness to write the Love Strong Chronicles out loud, thank you.

To the arena full of women who share stories and asked for mine, thank you.

To the students and parents who affirmed that in educating, we all learn and find places to grow roots, thank you.

To the loved ones near in actuality and in spirit, I am indebted to what you teach me to feel, to be, and to hope for; thank you.

To the One who has forgiven me and raised me from the ashes of hurt, an unending thank you.

Forgive others with me today, in the next week, when your heart can.

We do not get to think the world is stacked against us and be victims when victory can heal. Life is hard, and it may not get easier. There is no spring flower that blossoms in the freeze of winter’s cold, so let the seasons be, but when summer draws us in, go with it to the noonday sun and be better, love stronger.

Friends, for all that you enjoy and for that which you endure, now is the time to forgive and let the strength of love outdistance, to allow the grace to go further, so much further than the hurt. I am cheering for you, more than you know.

Serve.Weep.Love.Hope.FORGIVE.

nasreen

john 16:33

Today I die: The Love Strong Chronicles Part VI

Sweat poured from my forehead.  I felt my shirt stick to my back. The chill inside and the heat of the body slammed in anger toward one another.  I was awake now.  Surely I wouldn’t sleep again for hours.  Not with that startle of my body getting rifled through. Somehow the words, the actions, the abandonment, the hate, the ugly of life that had shamed me found metal.  Metal formed into bullets and they seared through me. My last thought before waking. “Today I die.”

A movie.

A mixing of reality.

A mind wandering from sacred space I nto the pits of human dysfunction and injustice.  Both the fictitious cinematic tale and unspoken truths found residence in my dream in the same stream of thought.  Not a dream to be had once, but one that stomped through my years.

There was no tortured soul in it, but starkly a deep trauma finding escape in picturesque form in my subconscious and then likened in my nightmares.

But not there.  Not at the convent.  The nightmare had no air in the home of peace, the place of joy.

The nun who told me to come soon, she said the same words.  She told me she took little babies, took forgotten women, took her extra time and loved.  Simply loved with all her life so that none would have to say “Today I die.” 

Some did die though. 

As I spoke of the circles hanging from a chain around my neck, as I spoke of the little ones who never breathed this side of heaven after hours of smiling as she asked of my three little boys who romp and race around my days, she remembered.  She remembered in that moment, a conversation chased away by the ding of the elevator and the turn of the hall.  The moment where she started to tell us of the babies who did not make it, whose life could not be secured by human love alone.  I would ask her again later, I would ask of death and what she saw. 

The nun. The Catholic Sister who held those who lived and those who died.

The mother. Her child gone too soon.

The widow. The tears and trials that will not let up.

The son. No manual of how to grieve and yet gripped by the tragedy.

The afflicted.  Feeling alone with life, but a chore and curse.

Our love, no matter how strong.

The hate, no matter how sordid.

Is human.

Human.

Today I die.  Not from nightmares or famine.  Not by choice or by calamity.

I die to that which defeats. 

Love will win.

It already has.

Save not the victory for Heaven alone, but for the now, the today, the present.

For the all that you endure, the ways your body has been rifled by pain and for all that you enjoy, as the light of Heaven shimmers through the gaping wounds, chase hope, chose to die to darkness and live where Love wins.

Life abundant.

Heal. Breathe. Live. Invest. Stay.

Easter is coming.

nasreen

What We Don’t Know: The Love Strong Chronicles Part V

I didn’t know adopted parents would scan my words looking for glimpses of how to love their little ones or teenagers better.

I didn’t know adoptees would write of their fears and failures experienced through life and their climb for meaning in letters to me.

I didn’t know those struggling in faith and wondering of worth would slow down to take in my words and tell their stories too.

I didn’t know that so many hopefuls and those hurting would gather here on Friday and then send texts, emails, FB shares and comment in public.

But they have. They have read and reflected. They have traveled into my heart and then looked at their own.

They have.

You have.

I invited you and you have come along. You have passed along the links and said prayers on my behalf.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway

You have understood that this takes courage and you keep spurring me on to write more, wounds and all.

You and I, we are learning what loving strong looks like together.

And I rejoice.
Then want to stuff my words in the ground.

I am honored.
Then get the urge to delete or quit.

I feel the privilege of touching lives.
And then cower and lose the guts to stand by my determined hope.

The battle rages in my psyche and the peace settles into my soul in a torrent of unpredictable waves. The UNKNOWN is frightening.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Maya Angelou

Frightening. But so is deadening to that which beats within me.

I believe that in telling my story, something sets free. I am convinced that asking you to look at your own has merit and momentum waiting to be tapped.

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photo by Marie Elzinga

The Nun, The Teacher (The story starts HERE, if you missed Parts I – IV.)

I didn’t know she was a teacher. I had always assumed she worked at the orphanage as one would who had taken on a full-time job.

But she was a teacher.

These Catholic Sisters spent time in Bangladesh as nurses and teachers. Lives devoted to service in a land far different from their childhood homes.

Life stretched out before these nuns to be caregivers and educators.

And they did it.

They didn’t know what was ahead of them when they took their vows and charged the world with their meek and mindful love.

They changed the world.

They recounted instances of their professions within their telling of lives lived well. They spoke with surety that their work and service left others better.

An educator, by training and by passion, I found myself beaming to be in conversation with other teachers. To hear of their students and the people the children grew up to become, I got it. I knew of this pride and expectant joy.

But my nun.
The one that held me. The one who loved when she didn’t have to and didn’t know what my future held. She was a teacher.

She was the teacher who walked a student home to talk to his mother.

She was the teacher who didn’t know what the home would reveal about the little boy who soaked up her lessons. She was the person who wanted more of the story, to learn of his life.

And in this, she was the one who saw a dirty rat run across the belly of his baby sister who laid on a dirt floor.

She cried a small cry as she told me.
The kind of cry that doesn’t let the tears fall or the chest heave. The kind that many miss because it is tempered with control. But it, like most small cries, was screaming with emotion.

She told me she didn’t know what she could do to change enough for the little boy and the rat infested house, but she knew that the unknown couldn’t stop her from trying.

So the teacher became a “home for women and children” dreamer.
So the teacher became a hostel founder.
So the teacher gave her time and her arms to holding babies whom others had discarded. So the teacher became the love of my infancy as my life intersected with hers decades ago.

So the teacher, with academics known and vows spoken, stayed in the story of a little boy and his baby sister. She didn’t know where it would bring her, but she has no regrets.

And as for me?

I don’t know what should be in the blog posts and what should stay in my journal. I don’t know why this is the time to uncover this story and why you keep reading.

But the nun.

She told me to come soon and in doing so, I heard of bravery..

I won’t be the same again.

I likely don’t know even the breadth of her swath of love, but I know she loved strong even when it was difficult.
So yes, I believe that in telling my story something gets set free.

I am convinced that in asking you to look at your own story that you will tap merit and momentum.

We don’t always know what, but like the nun, the unknown, it must not stop us.

We must be willing to try to love strong in the stories of our lives.

Be it clear, this is not easy.

I have grown weary and cold in moments directly after the hours I have told parts of my story .

I have distanced from people because my intensity is often uncorraled and I am tired of apologizing and explaining.

I have even set up a therapy appointment to tell someone with an outside perspective of life trauma and ask of childhood attachment wonders.

Doing what I don’t know is risky business, but it let’s me practice strong love.

I don’t get to keep the picture perfect life as my story gets told, rather I get to imperfectly finally live.

In all of this, the chronicles still stand. It’s a commitment to consistency even if my growing and learning paints the canvas with more shapes of dysfunction than shades of perfection, so be it.

I have hope.

I am learning to love me.
You get to learn to love you.

Stay in the story longer, both your own and the ones of those around you. This is what changes the world.

Love strong.

Then the art of our lives becomes a song and the notes that keep the melody are tuned to redemption.

Love strong.

Then even if the music that wraps around our chorus has strains of discord and human fragility, it tempos our songs, our stories, and make us human.

The notes of the last verse, oh how we might wish to erase, but they help us now shed the masks and reach for real. They curl in fragrance to worship and pull Heaven to earth when we can’t find our way. Heaven holds, guides, and surprises us.

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Stay here.
Stay in the love.
Get drenched in grace.
Even if you don’t know how thick the forest or the bends of the river.

Stay in your story.

You matter.

Learn of stories from the world over.

It is a big place.

Stay in the love; no length of winter and no vile rodent, nothing is too much for love. Hate, misfortune, injustice, mistakes, unbelief, death, abuse, fear, futures, and the unknown—love can out distance. Not all will be redeemed this side of Heaven, but we don’t know what will be, so love strong and live well.

For all that you enjoy and for that which you endure, stay, even if you don’t know, this is living, this is brave hope chasing.

nasreen

Baby for Sale: The Love Strong Chronicles Part IV

A dollar amount.
It has never sat well with me.
That some one could name a price and buy a baby.

I still remember the taunt on the schoolyard playground.

“Your parents bought you? I hope they didn’t pay very much because your skin is dirty.”

There.

A one-two sucker punch.

I didn’t care much for my adoption as a child and wondered why things couldn’t have been different.

However, the color of my skin didn’t raise shame until that moment.

My adoptive parents didn’t use color as an indication of anything. One brother biological to my adoptive parents and also one from South Korea, my life saw color differences as the norm. Our family was a little mosaic a decade or two before it became more common place.

But beneath the monkey bars, not far from the cement tunnel I liked to sit in when the days were hot, I was left standing feeling unworthy of much.

The nun a few weeks ago sat with her lips pursed.

I thought I may have driven all that way to Notre Dame and would not get a single story out of her. She had told me to come soon. (Click here to read of it.)

My mind started to busy at the cost and impulsivity of the trip. My physical body flirted with using less air but I felt it and kept breathing steady.

Her smiled had disappeared and it baffled me. Her mind travelled far away, though her hand still tightly gripped mine.

I grew uncomfortable. For all the joy that washed over her from the time we had walked in until then, I sensed we had lost some momentum and I didn’t want to be a part of that.

I convinced myself in a few short seconds that I didn’t belong there and that my friend would surely bring me back home if I just asked her to.

The nun.

Her green shirt was soft. It reminded me of what grandmas, well, nursing home grandmas would wear. I looked at the flowers on it and noticed that they rose and fell with her natural breathing. She wasn’t uncomfortable yet. She was still relaxed.

So what was she summoning? Memories? An answer? Regret for my visit or her work in Bangladesh?

I was about to fill the silence so the hum of the heater had some competition for volume.

And then she spoke.

Her head turned slightly as to perhaps meet my eyes and then she shifted her gaze to my hands.

I was back to the playground. I saw my color and wondered how she viewed all the little babies who were radically different than she. My heart knew the answer. She must have loved us much.

She saw my color and she cherished it. It brought her back to a land and people that had become her own.

Her words interrupted my reflection and she whispered the story. The quiet calm words pierced the darkness of the memory.

She released facts and emotions in rapid succession that met my heart well and caused me to bleed all at the same time.

And then she stopped.
Staring me squarely in the eyes and said, “I am so very glad your parents gave you a good home. They changed your life. You are worth it. You would have been Muslim, you know. That would have been nice too, but I am glad you got to come.”

Those sentences, packed with depth right after a her heart-wrenching story. (Which I will share a bit of next week Friday) left my thoughts pulsating.

I could not develop a long string of thoughts that made sense. Just quick blips of truth my heart was able to hear.

I was bought at a price, but I was gifted life in this.

My life held promise, not because of the color of my skin but because I was placed in a family and future opportunities were present.

People are different from one another because of where they grow up, how they are wired, AND how they react to their circumstances. Different. Not better or worse. Ever.

Many times in my life I have had to reclaim my worth.

I have had to reach for real; real truth, and discard the lies.

My worth feels threatened by people’s statements and actions to me, their pride and their shame in me, the number of those that leave and those that rally around.

But the truth is, my worth, as is yours, is innate. We are created with beauty, purpose, and to be loved as us.

We can refine and reach for real as we grow and stretch through life’s experiences, but our worth is ours to claim.

The nun. She reminded me of this.

The friend. She tells me of this repeatedly.

The Scriptures. They declare this out loud with power.

And you?

Can you hear who is saying that circumstances and prices aside, you are worthy to be there? You get to do life. Live it strong!

Can you get past the naysayers, the external differences, the claims of yourself or others to be superior?

We are all worth the price love is.

Can you be this voice in someone else’s life?

Can you grab the hand of someone or send them an email to share how the world is better because they are here?

Tell them they hold beauty.
Tell them their story matters.
Remind them of who they are.

>
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picture of me at the orphanage in Bangladesh

Baby for sale?
Perhaps a little crude and a little true.

And if there was a dollar amount, am I worth that cost?

Today is when I start living like it. Worth every penny.

So friend, for all that you enjoy and for that which you endure, listen with me to the voices that tell of your worth. Chase hope.

nasreen

Jason Gray’s “Tell Me Once Again Who I Am to You” http://youtu.be/eKyY8zfjBMQ

I am speaking in Pennsylvania this weekend at the Winsome Retreat, honored to get to encourage others to reclaim their worth.

Real life takes real stories — INVITATION

Vulnerability.
Belonging.
Worth
.

Trigger words.

They are lauded and lofted as the things that make community work.
Rightly so.
These are needed and craved by human hearts.

But the words.
They trigger.
Our fear.
Our past hurts.
Our current insecurities.

These words play red-rover with our hearts and minds since we are both wired for flight in unsafe scenarios and wired to need connection.

Connection and having a home for your heart is important to me.

It is part of chasing hope.

The hope that as I laugh and cry, dance and bleed, sing and silence in front of you, here, on this blog each Friday in the Love Strong Chronicles, that you will find parts of your story come alive. That you will lean into people near you and share your story. That you will spill across the internet with your big bad bold self and own your passion. That you will heal and arise, that you will do good work where you can, and that you will never give up.

Chase hope with me.
Share your story.

The one you lived last week or the one from decades past.

The one you are proud of and the one you trying to free from shame in.

Friend, I am convinced, that in the sharing of stories–
the story of my life,
the unleashing of yours,
the listening and learning of what real is,
that connections and community will be birthed and our hearts will be of great hope.

Story sharers– We will become a more humble strong, a more resilient courage, and a more active surrendering people.

I am excited to join with places like (in)courage, an online community that has gone got their boots on to hit the floor of our hearts and raise our eyes to community anew.

I am honored to be a part of their 2014 (in)Real Life Conference this April 25 & 26. This is a conference comes to you, right where you do your life.

This FREE conference takes the time to share how real life takes real stories.

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Meet our crew of speakers HERE.

Check out the agenda and register HERE.

So consider this your invitation if you haven’t gotten one already.

Your thing? Join in!

Not your thing? Give it a try.

Not a woman? You know one, right?

Not sure your friend was invited? Get on that!

This isn’t a conference of saints or uncontrollable sobbing, but it is of those who hope and those who will lift emotions to the light of day as stories chase and rest in beautiful truths our hearts need to hear.

And, did I mention, we need YOUR story. We invite you, share life with us a while.

Join us in a month.

Feel free to learn more by visiting the Twitter party tonight at 9 pm EST by searching for the hashtag #inRL or zipping me an email.

If you are in the Twin Cities, I will be hosting in my home Friday night and joining a meet up in Edina on Saturday. You are welcome to join me at either or both places.

In real life…
Cheers.
Chase.
Connect.

nasreen