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

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

Gasping for Air: The Love Strong Chronicles Part II

Gasping for air.

There have been moments the past few months I have been gasping for air.

I had not run too far.
Smoke had not met my lungs.
The walls did not actually cave in.

But oxygen escaped rapidly.

When my lack of belonging and my questioned purpose lifted breath out of me and prevented it from returning to fill my chest, I felt lost.

A teacher without a classroom.
A writer without a book.
A speaker without a message.
A sojourner without a destination.

An orphan without a home.

But how dare I feel that.

How in the facts of being granted a family and chance at life in the States, with adoptive parents who sacrificed much and got a run for their money in my rebellion, could I say I was an orphan without a home?

Might I have any claim to be without destination when I have been blessed with two towns that have welcomed me and embraced what I had to offer? When I profess a faith that keeps its eyes not on this world alone, but in the promise of more?

And of the message, the hope chaser, the one who believes that in loving strong we truly become alive and when we do good work, activate in our potential, we can grow ourselves, communities and the world. Of this message, did it fall mute on my own ears when death stole from those I care for or did it lose strength when people stood on the fringes of faith?

Write on and remember it as such. No book defines the writer, rather words scribbled on paper or across the heart, splattered on the computer screen or spoken into the open. This inflicting thought reared false too. Surely the ink has dried to reality.

But the teacher. The teacher without a classroom is perhaps the most absurd. Are we not all teachers? And one of curriculum and academics, desks and pupils, shall not the lessons ring evermore in new venues and mediums if the passion and training did not exit?

Why then did my chest concave?

Was this fear?
Was this hurt?
Was this hunger?

I chased air.

I needed answers.

I chased.
I needed.
I craved just enough to get in a car with a dear friend and meet the unknown with urgency unqualified and my momentum uncategorized.

Yes, two weeks ago I talked to a nun who held my abandoned, rejected self and who had set out to care until I was gifted a future. The phone had been pressed to my ear and my beating heart nearly muffling the song her voice was to me.

My lungs burned to expand again.

I heard her words.

My husband and boys gave me space and I listened. I listened to the nun.

She told me to come soon. (Read Part I HERE)

And I did.

The next day.

Her words fought against my buckling from suffocation and landed me in South Bend, Indiana.

This, the visit to the Sisters of the Holy Cross to see the nun, who with others, would finish out the days of her vows at the Mother House. Each with decades spent abroad serving with their nursing and teaching skills, with their hands of love, I went to visit.

There we sat.
Holding hands like we had loved for a lifetime.

The nun held my hand with a quiet strength.

Her eyes bounced around her memory and then shifted to take me in.

I was one of her babies.

Warmth found my chilled skin.

Belonging danced with acceptance in my soul.

The chairs around me filled with angels as if the great cloud of witnesses came to affirm this aging nun that she had done good work.

The unfaltering smile on her face hastened me to believe that the trip to the convent was well-placed.

The demons of my insecurities would not find welcome here. Peace drew close and wonders piled in, but with calm, they filled the couch space to my left.

My mouth parted open but nothing met sound. It turned to a nervous smile and the nun swiftly let her other hand reach to tap my face.

A hush little baby lullaby floated through my head and the slam of a creaky door outside the room brought the finale to my minds’ wander.

The tap tap, as if a secret handshake between her years gone by and my cheek.

My body leaned in.

Had I felt this before?
Her gentle constant.
Had she really never stopped loving me?

The final tap lingered and turned to one of the purest strokes my being has been witness in.

Gasping for air. Again. Here.
This was not fear.
This was not hurt.
This was not hunger.

This was being overwhelmed in the gift of time. The eight hour drive exclaimed confirmation of time well spent.

I was nearly not able to bend to grab the scrapbook that sat near my feet. She thought I was leaving and she clutched tightly until I spoke of pictures I had brought. Pictures sent with letters during the long wait for my arrival 30 years ago.

She took in the pictures.

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She told me of laundry.
She remembered the hostel she founded.
She recounted the hours she spent after teaching to help babies eat and be safe.
She spoke with fervor as she spilled details about the group of 19 Precious Jewels she brought to America.

And then she said it.


I can hardly breathe.


One of my babies is here!
You came all this way, I sure hope I’m worth it.

The nun.
The one who told me to come soon.
She gasped for air, too.

She wrestled worth just as I do.

And then she stopped.

Swept back to the joy, she began to soften her shoulders and moved back towards me.

She stretched her heart and life’s work out like the table in front of us. The years had smoothed out the mountains and valleys and her spirit had peace.

I soaked her in.

I listened as she continued recalling snippets of a life I had once been a part of.

I vaulted it. The hurt of my story was certainly going to arrive, but not there in the visitor’s house lounge.

Not then.

Hours later it would, but in that moment, I belonged. I had a right to teach others of their belonging even if I question mine.

She, the nun who ascribed worth to little dejected children, she questioned her own and then stopped…

….to start breathing again.

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There is more.
But this Friday bids us pause.

Tell me of you.

Feel the air with me.
With her.

We are allowed to breathe.

Best of all is it to preserve everything in a pure, still heart, and let there be for every pulse a thanksgiving, and for every breath a song. ~Konrad von Gesner, scientist, theologian, writer

For all that you enjoy and for that which you endure, chase hope, breathe deep, and when you gasp, remember you belong.

nasreen