Mine and Ours, All or Nothing: A Story of Presence

As an oldest child in a dysfunctional family system, I was taught at an early age that everything was mine to do. Being a young caregiver blurred the lines of responsibilities and distorted my sense of self. Scarcity pushed me to give away far too much of myself seeking approval and to meet the needs of others. Trauma led me to take on roles that were not mine and to latch onto a false notion of power and control.

I was hyper vigilant and became more so with every passing year. My senses always engaged and on full alert out of concern for my own safety and that of others. I didn’t know how to relax or have fun. Mixed with an empathetic spirit, I was easily overwhelmed by the world’s pain and suffering. I couldn’t be present because I fixated on a better future as a coping mechanism.

When I was in seventh grade, the United States launched Operation Desert Storm, invading Kuwait as part of The Gulf War with Iraq. Many of my classmates were suddenly patriots. Chanting God Bless the USA. Wearing shirts covered in American flags, with the slogan these colors don’t run. Harassing and threatening the one Palestinian kid in our grade. Making racist jokes about Arabs and Muslims. I remember a particularly ugly exchange between two kids in Typing class about war, bombs, Armageddon, and apocalypse.

I knew violence was real. I lived with it, and next door to it, and down the street from it. And because for me, violence was so personal, I found a weird hope believing the world as a whole was a safer place filled with possibilities. Greener pastures. Bluer skies. I escaped the present by imagining life somewhere else. Desert Storm stirred up doubts about the future and intensified the fear of the present.

On the day of that big fight in Typing class, by the time I got off the bus and walked home, I was in tears. I went right to my bedroom. There was a big round mirror on the floor, with a long crack at the top, leaning against the paneled wall. I lit a candle and sat in front of it. And just cried. I’m still not sure if I was praying to God or talking to myself.

There has to be something I can do. I’ll do it. Just tell me what’s mine to do.

Looking outside myself for an answer, I missed the one right before me in the mirror.

For my first seminary field placement, I participated in an ecumenical group that visited immigrants detained in a county jail. Twice a month we drove to the jail, hidden away from view in a building that looked like a pre-fabricated sporting dome. Allotted two hours to meet with men who signed up in advance. The conversations usually began with a disclaimer that we were not lawyers or able to provide legal counsel. That we were there to be present. The topics ranged from small talk to encouragement, from stories of how the men were detained to dread of what was next, from worries about family to hopes for a better future. Something I knew a little about.

Sadly, for many of the men we met, their futures included deportation. A bus to another jail or a flight to another country. Those conversations have never left me. And at this moment in our country, as immigrants are increasingly targeted and threatened, and as deportations pick up speed and cruelty, these stories rise to my consciousness with new intensity and frequency.

Reading about a military plane that transported more than 100 migrants to India, with their hands and feet in shackles for the duration of the flight, I thought about the men I met in that jail, where immigrants wore green striped jumpsuits to distinguish them from other inmates whose stripes were orange. The men we met were from all over the world; Mexico and Central America, the Middle East, Eastern Europe and Western Africa. I remember one man from Australia. Sometimes I would leave the visit, feeling like listening wasn’t enough. That conversations didn’t matter. That simply being present didn’t make any difference.

And then I met Muhammad, a few years younger than me, cynical and also eager to communicate. He rapidly interspersed questions with commentary, leaving little room for dialogue. He talked about religion, about Mary the Mother of Jesus, prayer, the Bible and the Quran. He wasn’t sure it was really okay for a Christian woman and a Muslim man to be speaking. And yet he kept on talking. And I stayed present. Listening. He was especially curious about forgiveness. What does Christianity teach about forgiveness? What does the Bible say about forgiving others? Can God forgive me for my mistakes? Will my mother and wife ever forgive me for the decisions that led to my detention and pending deportation?

As a guard informed us our time was up, I was finally able to offer a word.

Muhammad, I believe in a god who forgives and wants us to forgive ourselves. Can you ever forgive yourself?

His eyes opened wide. He sighed. I can still see the inhale and exhale of his breathing as his hands were placed back into cuffs. He thanked me for showing up that day.

That day was more than a decade ago. I often wonder where he is. Has he found forgiveness? Has he forgiven himself? Did the presence of our group that day or any day have consequence or meaning? It’s still easy to look back and think our group should have done more. In many ways, it was incredible the jail allowed us to even do what we did.

Another part of my field placement was answering calls on an immigration hotline, which was really just a cheap flip cell phone, listening between the lines and interruptions to what the caller was really asking and directing people to needed resources. Translating and making copies of documents for Dream Act applicants. Making sure the lobby was clean and the coffee was hot. Holding a fussy baby while the parents met with the lawyer.

Each of these tasks on their own could feel like too little or not enough. And all together our individual efforts, especially when combined with those of others, add up to something big. Impactful and transformational.

The same church that sent me off to seminary and taught me the power of a tiny mustard seed also planted the idea that being in ministry meant being all things to all people in order to save some.

This lesson, taken from the Apostle Paul, mirrors what I was taught in an abusive family. It sets us up for failure. No one can be everything to everyone. And attempting to be is not only a sure path to burnout, but also to irrelevance. It is not my job to save anyone else. The farther I move from institutional religion and the longer I am away, the more convinced I am that salvation is for human systems not for human souls. That self-forgiveness is far more salvific than the forgiveness of sins.

Standing in front of the mirror this morning, I caught a clear glimpse of that young, anxious, 12-year-old me. The one who came home from school scared and sad, and wanting to make a difference in the world, but at a loss for how to go about that. Thinking that I had to fix it all. That anything less than everything was insignificant. That being present and showing up was naïve and simplistic and impossible.

And I spoke with her. Praised her sensitivity and empathy. Celebrated her attention to the pains and possibilities of the world. Honored her desire to learn about and alleviate suffering. Apologized for letting her believe her gifts were weaknesses and her efforts not enough. I asked for her forgiveness. Gracefully and tenderly she offered it.

And then I thanked her for motivating me to try even when I cannot do it all and to play even when by society’s definition I am not going to win. For inspiring me to get curious about what is mine to do and creative with the ways I do it. She reminded me of what I know and yet tend to dismiss, that storytelling is mine to do. That shortly after the start of Desert Storm I wrote a cheesy poem about loving our enemies by standing up to them when they mistreat our neighbors.

I cannot single handedly change a broken immigration system or liberate captives and I am not powerless. I can share stories of my experiences as part of a larger collective labor. Share them here, with others, and with elected officials and people in positions of influence. Creatively. Boldly. Passionately. Prophetically.

Telling stories requires knowing stories. Knowing comes from being present. Present with and for myself. With and for others. Presence is community. Being and building and belonging in community. Not allowing perceived helplessness or real despair to push me into isolation and individualism, to over or under value my worth and responsibilities.

Immigration is not the only broken system in our world or the United States today and immigrants are not the only people that are at great risk for harm. Maybe the stories rising in you relate to other broken pieces of the torn fabric of humanity. And maybe storytelling isn’t what is yours to do. But something is. Oh, how the world would change if we all knew and did what is ours to do!

Over the weekend, I heard someone say, there’s so much to do. Show up and do something. For me this looks and sounds and feels a lot like being present. Like saying yes to what is mine.

Will you join me in reflecting on what is ours to do and get creative about how we do it?

Water-fully Yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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