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

The hurt and healing of meeting a nun– The Love Strong Chronicles Part I

Last Friday.
A week ago.
I spoke with a Sister.
A Sister of the Holy Cross.

A nun who had held me in a country.
A country torn from a war, measurably impoverished, and yet with fertile ground from the five rivers and beauty in its people. A land with vibrant religions and heritage, and yet a place that couldn’t find it’s footing as little ones sat without families.

Babies.

I was one such child.

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The nun.
I had met her before.

I met her when I was a child, a child without questions to ask because play and friends running about took my time.

I saw her as an adult, with others around, and heard of the few babies who had grown up, returned to Bangladesh, and were struck with survivor’s guilt and more questions than they had before going.

But last Friday, a week ago, I heard her voice on the phone. She had written to me from the convent on the grounds of Notre Dame. She said I could call. So I called last Friday.

She told me to come soon.

Soon was already pulsating through my heart.

I had stood on a rooftop in a small village in the Dominican Republic just weeks before and felt the pang of not knowing where I had come from. In seeing a village with little comparable to the life I live in Minneapolis but much to the place of my birth, my mind knew I had been afforded much in my adoption, but my heart couldn’t stop racing.

Something tripped a reaction.

A reaction that was willing to explore who I am before I keep writing of hope chasers, of loving strong, of belonging, of aloneness, of freedom. But the reaction was a zig zag of intensity.

And so I hung up.

The intensity of emotions had plowed right back to my core.

I hung up on the nun first.
My own baby lay in my arms.
The youngest of our boys.
He sleeping his three year old fatigue away.
The day.
He had played hard with a houseful of friends.

I looked at him.
I knew his story.
He had survived premature birth and a brush with infection.
He had thrived in our home from the moment we took him away from his month stay in the neonatal ICU.
He lights up our life.
He will likely change the world.

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But of mine.
I knew less of my story.
I haven’t been engaged with the country or given the chance to fall for the people.

I have not ventured into the emotions out loud of being abandoned. I have not testified in my teaching or writing that who I have become is because I took adversity and survived. I have only briefly exclaimed that I have been adopted for a reason, that I have a story to share of hope and hurt, loss and love.

But now it is time.
It is time to own all of it.
To journey forward with you, and encourage others to be in the know that we are all held.

Will you join in?

Not to just hear of my story, but in it to hear of yours.

Not to just be consumed with the past but to be alive, doing good work now.

Not to just talk and hear tough conversations but to become people of compassionate action and strong, strong love.

Not to focus on the shame and unworthiness our lives teach us, but to know we are never alone and freed to serve, weep, love, and hope.

Last Friday.
A week ago.
I decided to visit the nun.
The nun that told me to come soon.

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Last Friday.
A week ago.
I spoke with a Sister.
She told me to come soon.
So Friday led to Saturday.

The trip.
A drive from Minneapolis, MN to South Bend, IN.

A nun.
A convent full of women who had peace for lives spent loving.

It exploded my heart.
It gave love to the hunger.
It gave glimpses of God to my blindness.
It gave history to my parched tongue.
It gave perspective to my wandering soul.

It doesn’t do my wash, or finish my work, it doesn’t rock me to sleep or prepare food for the family table, my life still clips along.

But the Saturday following the Friday phone call, it gifted much.

It gave miles and a friend, a husband’s blessing and Providence. A well of questions and an ocean of just wanting to soak in and learn of the people.

I posted to Facebook.
My adoption wonderings became public.

My zest for a life lived well, real, raw, and fully present started to blossom before winter had fully thawed.

And truth is, my visit to the nun, it is an uncovering of the fullness of all my years. Of what has broken me and what has made me, of both what life has offered me and what I can now offer the world.

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Last Saturday.

It hurt.

It healed.

It plays on repeat in my head and has not found words yet in my heart.

But it will.
It has to.
I need to know you are with me to write in this space.
I can write this quietly.
I can save it all for a book.

Or we can do it together.
Here.
Sign up on the right hand side to email subscribe. Push like. Tell me you are here. I won’t post daily, perhaps just Fridays. But when I open my heart, I invite you in.

Be with me in this and know that I will continue to cheer for you; for all that you enjoy and for that which you endure, chase hope with me.
The Love Strong Chronicles

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Other places I will speak of reclaiming our worth and that our stories are to be shared:

The Winsome Retreat April 4-6, 2014.


The (in)RL Conference by (in)courage April 25 – 26, 2014.