Today was graduation day. It’s almost been 10 months. Perhaps the new birth is a bit overdue; I know it is. But this life is breathing air on its own, the way the Creator designed it. Lungs pump in the oxygen of hope. This freedom is intoxicating; dizzy with the possibilities.

For 31 years I bought the lie that life is about survival. Instead it’s so much more. The Savior said that he came that we might have life and to have it in abundance. I don’t think I quite understood this often-quoted Bible verse until now.

Week after week I sat in the comfy wicker chair in the counselor’s office learning to own my pain, my thoughts, fears, beliefs, dreams, desires, talents, feelings, attitudes and behaviors – to own my own life. I had never realized it was already mine. I had thought I had to purchase it from the past – a cost so great I could never afford.

Mention the word “counseling” and watch how uneasy people become. It’s taboo. They’ll shift from one foot to the other as if they can dance around an unsightly speed bump. They’d rather not slow down and talk about it. If you’re in counseling, you must be mental. What ever happened to “there is much wisdom in the counsel of others”? Don’t get me wrong. I used to be the most guilty and adamant against such therapy. And then…I broke. The weight of the world tends to do that to human arms, especially ones as little as mine. To admit I needed help felt more difficult than balancing the globe.

 

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He sat cross-legged among the seven other kids and staff. We bowed heads in the circle, folded hands and prayed with thanks for the bowls of food in the middle. Maybe the floor mat felt awkward to his bare feet that were use to the dirt and rough surfaces of the street. His eyes shifted restlessly between faces that now held laughter and a new-found peace.

His younger brother and little sister were here at the Safe House. How did he find us? What drew him? Perhaps it was the rumor of free meals and a warm bed. At 15, he wasn’t use to anyone telling him what to do. Roaming the streets, like his siblings once did, was his comfort zone. He couldn’t read or write but putting the tattooed, smoking youth in the kindergarten class at the migrant school with the little Burmese and Karen kids stirred rebellion that spilled over in an unexpected outburst.

Her shriek stung our ears as much as the tiger balm stung her eyes. She had been down for her afternoon nap. The older children were to be about their household chores after school. The other six were accounted for…but the youth was missing. Did he go into the room and smear it on her eyelids while she dreamed? Why would he do such a thing to his little sister? Perhaps her tears screamed the pain that he would not allow his own heart to face. And he was gone. Back to the streets. It may be hell, but he knew that maze. Making straight paths would require many walls to come down.

His behavior spoke loud. The choice to leave stated, “I don’t need help. I can do this life on my own.” Maybe he even said these words in his native Burmese or Thai but my ears didn’t know enough to understand. When the break comes, may his tear-stained eyes find a Chair open to sit in, cross-legged. May his hands spread open and allow the washing.

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As much as I like the Simon and Garfunkel song, I know that no one is a rock or an island. We need each other. Some days I feel as if I have been dashed against the island’s rocky shore. Washed up and half-lifeless on the gritty beach; I am a survivor. Perhaps that’s why I’m so drawn to work with refugees, street kids and the outcasts. In part, I understand their journey.

Co-dependency and self-sufficiency are antonyms and cuss words. To be enmeshed and insist both are needing to be index fingers is sick – more like giving life the middle finger. But to point alone is just that – alone. If I am an index finger, then you are a thumb. I need you, you need me or how can we fully grasp life? And so God made it.

Simplicity dictates the complex. Even the mind-boggling has to begin somewhere with one small step. The mind formats life on a grid beyond the conscience when we are so young. The body remembers the sin done to us and by us. But the network can be over-laid with a new layer of perspective. The bridge of the new looks down to see the ancient, crooked and cracked stone-ways falling into disrepair.  Humility ushers in the construction crew to build this fresh framework. This is the hug that pulls the whole to the heart, filling the hole with new Peace. But resurrection cannot come without death. I’ve spent too many years in the tomb. I’m so thankful I finally asked for help. Hands fold in thanks and open up as Heaven smears smile-lines around these blue eyes. He’s been waiting for this prodigal – welcome home.