Toes

Many people that know me know that I am not too fond of feet. If you lovingly tease me about giving me a foot massage or playfully stick your foot in my face, I will respond-in a negative way. The truth is that most feet are not very attractive, unless kept properly cared for with nails trimmed, calluses removed, and, if you are a woman, with a nice coat of toe polish topped off on them for good measure.

The other day, I was shocked to discover, as I was staring at my own feet that are in much dire need of a pedicure, that they looked similar to other feet that I have seen recently-my mother's. I have my mom's feet! From the wide shape making it difficult to find cute and trendy sandals to the toenails, I realized that my feet were not my own, but, rather a product of genetics passed down from my mother's side of the family. If my feet were my mother's, in what others ways was I becoming like my mother?

As I looked at my body, I realized that I had my mother's wide, child-bearing hips, thick calves, and sturdy build. I believe that my family was made for hard, manual labor, out in the farming fields of Arkansas and Oklahoma. I am also seeing red skin tags begin to appear on my arms and neck…can I endearing call them red freckles? I also have my mother's beautifully smooth skin. From my Aunts to my Grandmother who is 90 years old, the women in our family possess clear, strong features and relatively wrinkle-free skin. I faithfully cherish this skin with sun-block but I don't think I will ever have the great skin that my mom has.

Aside from these physical characteristics, there are many other qualities that my mother has unwittingly passed down to me. For instance, when a party happens at my house, I spend the majority of it in the kitchen, making sure that the food is out on time, that everyone has what they need as far as food and drink are concerned, that dishes are being cleaned up and messes are being cleared, etc. My satisfaction during a party is when I hear the people around me laughing and connecting…the sound of this fellowship surrounds me and brings a comforting feeling to my spirit. My greatest joy is found in serving my friends and family and that is exactly what my mother is like. Her love is shown through acts of service, mostly occurring in the background, ensuring that the person she is helping is successful.

When I decorate for an event or for a home, it is my mother's creativity that works through me. I recently decorated my bedroom and my mother and I worked in tandem to make the room inviting, cozy, and luxurious. My mother decorated both of my childhood homes with style and grace. I remember her and my father working on plans to landscape the front and back yards, as well as the interior of the home. I believe that we had one of the best homes on the block.

Finally, I have always been an avid reader. One of my favorite childhood memories was watching my mom escape into the world of books to experience a few minutes of rest amid the clamoring environment of needy children. I can spend HOURS reading a book, leaving the dreary reality of life to enter into different worlds filled with adventure, romance, mystery, and excitement. I tell people today that part of my poor eyesight is the result of spending countless hours reading under poor lighting conditions (usually by the flickering light of an old flashlight) before bed. Without witnessing the love that my mother had for books, I wouldn't have survived undergraduate and graduate school, with its countless hours of study and reading.

Therefore, when you see my reading, serving, or decorating, thank my mother as these are the qualities that she has given to me. Toes that have stood for hours helping others, toes that were used for standing in the back of the line so that her children could have the best, and feet that bend down to pick up babies, and create beautiful spaces…these are the kind of feet I want to have! I am fond of these toes, MOM!

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

As many artists and poets lament, saying goodbye to persons, places, and things in life can be extremely painful and traumatic. One of my mentors told me that life is a series of events in which you are constantly letting go of what is in the past and replacing it with something new. But, what happens when you have to say goodbye to something that you dearly cherish and there isn't a new "hello" to embrace? You feel like you have jumped off of a cliff and have landed flat on your face. But, instead of dying or making it over to the cliff, you awaken from your shock to realize that your heart and body have been crushed. You are left to bleed and recover in the valley, seemingly alone and in great pain. What makes this experience even more devastating is that all of the memories from the past, good and bad, are not left behind on the cliff, but, rather, have jumped with you into the abyss, leaving you haunted by what could have been and what was.

As I alluded to in a past blog, not only did I have I to walk away from an abusive marriage, but I also had to say goodbye to a thriving women's ministry. That last weekend of ministry has remained fresh in my mind to this day. I had a wedding that I was officiating that Saturday morning, out of town, and I had to spend Friday night away from home for the rehearsal. This was the first wedding ceremony that I was facilitating and I was very nervous. However, my mind was focused on what I was going to tell my women's ministry team leaders later that Saturday night regarding my leave of absence. I was also reuniting with old friends at this celebration and I was self-conscious because I had put on a great deal of weight over the last two years. This wasn't a time where I wanted to draw attention to myself. In a way, I could not wait to get this wedding over with. My own marriage was irrevocably broken and I had to unite my friends in a new marriage covenant under God. Though I was tremendously proud of my friends, I was also terribly grief-stricken about my own set of circumstances. In addition, I had breakfast with my friend's parents right before the ceremony, and, in a loving but not so subtle way, they told me that I should probably go on a Jenny Craig diet because of my weight and, since I was SUCH a pretty girl, they didn't want to see anything bad happen to me. After thanking them for their concern, I quickly recovered, went back to my hotel room, changed and then got ready to officiate and sing for my friends and their families.

After the wedding was successfully performed and the reception was well under way, I immediately headed back to my house to prepare for the team meeting. I remember that, though my heart was breaking, all I could think about was ensuring that the ministry still continued in my absence. I desired to see these women continue to develop and utilize their talents and gifts to their fullest potential. I felt like a shepherd that was leaving her sheep alone in the pasture to fend for themselves. I did not want the ministry that God had allowed me to begin to be hindered in any way by my marital situation. I had already prepared a brief political-church statement to tell them that I hoped would build them up, edify them, and ensure that ministry would ensue over the next few months. My statement went something like this, "This brings me great sadness, but, for reasons having to do with my marriage, I am going to be stepping down from ministry for six months, in order to better deal with these issues, but you will not be left alone, as other staff members will be helping to oversee women's ministries. I want you to make me proud by continuing to do the work that God has called you to do. I want you all to know that I love you tremendously." This statement was not entirely true since I was being mandated to leave my job, women's ministry was being restructured, and things would not look the same after six months. However, my leaders told me, "Julie, we will make you proud," and I knew that things would be okay.

That Sunday morning, I had to announce my leave of absence to my entire team of 25 women and I was nervous again, wondering what their reaction and response would be. I didn't want to cry or break down in front of them because I believed that this display of emotion would betray my anger and shock at how the church leadership had treated me. However, I felt the support and love from these women, in the room, and I knew that God would carry them in the months ahead. Finally, after the meeting, I went to my office, and, with the help of friends, packed up all of my beloved ministry belongings, left my keys on my old desk, and left my job behind. At that point, I contacted the Executive Director, and updated him on the status of the weekend as far as my meetings, my packing up of my office, etc., was concerned. At that point, I was told that I had done a "picture perfect" job of leading my team through this leave of absence situation. He couldn't have done it better himself, and he was proud of me. I could barely get through the conversation without hanging up on him. I quickly cut off the conversation and I proceeded to let my guard down and weep over all of the events that has transpired not just over the weekend, but over the past few months.

I had jumped off the cliff and had submitted to the authority of the church leadership. I had done everything that had been asked of me, which included signing a contract whereby I would not disparage the church in any way, to any one, during the six month period, or the partial compensation that I would be receiving would be terminated. While God's presence was upon me in an incredible way as I said my farewell to the ministry I cherished so dearly, I was left, flat on my face, to grieve both my marriage and my life's vocation. I am still sore from the bruising and my heart is still mending. Though I can get up, rise, and walk a few paces ahead, there is no immediate, new, solid career opportunity to embrace. The memories of the past continue to haunt me-the comments from close staff members that told me that I would "never work in ministry again if I divorced,", or that, "I was being stubborn and hard-hearted regarding my marriage, " or that, "I should just resign from ministry and make it easy for the Elders"…or the comment, when I was holding another staff member's baby that I, "would be that way in a year(pregnant) ", when that person already knew about my painful divorce. I admit that these moments can cloud my vision as I move forward and that they affect my view of the church, on a universal basis.

One thing I do know, though, is that I am in close company with the many spiritual fathers of Christianity. Abraham was called to leave his familiar homeland and become an alien in a new country and, though his wife was barren, was told that his descendants would be as numerous as the stars in the sky. He had to wait decades to see the promise fulfilled in the miraculous birth of his son, Isaac. Then, as his son was thriving, God called Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac, and, not until his fist was raised to plunge the knife in Isaac's chest, did God provide Abraham with a ram to substitute for his beloved son. God's power was also displayed in a mighty way through his prophet, Elijah. In fact, Elijah engaged in a tremendous battle against King Ahab, which resulted in God showing his glory before the followers of Baal. However, right after this miraculous event, Elijah ran into the wilderness- distraught, distressed, and fatigued. King Ahab, with the assistance of his Queen, Jezebel, ordered him to be killed because he had defied their authority. The Lord was with him, however, and provided a ministering angel to attend to his needs. Once strengthened, Elijah continued about his business of allowing God to work through him. There were also many other prophets, such as Jeremiah and Habakkuk, that were told that Israel would be brought into captivity because of their corporate sin. There was nothing that the prophets could do except tell God's story, listen, and weep over their beloved people.

God's servants seem to have a penchant for waiting, wailing, grieving, and suffering from depression. In a way, I guess I am right where God wants me to be. I have had to break up with the familiar and comfortable past and I have to continue to wait for a promising new "hello" to life. May I be ready to extend my hand in confident greeting to whatever God has ahead of me-broken, but not destroyed, bruised but not abused, tired, but not defeated.

Ruined for Life

I have the best Dad in the whole world. When I was a child, I remember engaging in the popular "my dad is better than your dad" debate with other children on the school playground. In all objectivity, however, as an adult, this saying STILL holds true. I have many relatives and friends who would agree with me on this statement, with a mixture of both admiration and envy, of what I and my siblings have.

Like any daily family dynamic, though, I did not realize how marvelous my father was when I was growing up. I thought everyone had a dad who said, "I love you" to them on a daily basis. Didn't all my friends have a dad that wrote, "Foxy Lady" on their lunch bag? I thought that being smothered in hugs, kisses, and positive affirmation was a consistent reality for most families. I believed that every child had a parent that stated to them, 'I believe in you and you can do anything that you set your mind to do." I was sure that my friends had a dad who tucked them in at night and read stories to them, right? As the years passed, I realized that I was sadly mistaken.

I remember having a particularly difficult time in high school. Raging hormones, coupled with crippling insecurity, acne, thick glasses, braces and obesity, did not make for a smooth transition for me into the teenage years. Let's just say that I wasn't going to be on the cheerleading squad, dating a football player, or going to prom. I could even get into a size 12 pair of pants! I came home from a day that was especially painful, for reasons that I cannot fully remember, and there was a card waiting for me on my bed. I opened the card and, on the front of the card, was a pair of two hands, cupping each other. Inside the card, it read, "From the first touch, I knew you were mine. I love you, Dad". I burst out crying and flung myself on the bed with all of the emotional angst that a teenager could muster. This was just like one of those scenes out of a sappy Hallmark commercial, except that this was real and it was happening to me! Though I didn't realize the full impact of that card in that moment, years later, I realize that I both belong to and am known by my dad in a way that no bond could ever break.

Not only did Dad provide me with emotional support as a needy teenager, but Dad continues to be one of my spiritual role models today. When I was eight years old, my Dad baptized me into the Christian faith. When I was 10 years old, Dad took me out on a date and showed me what it was like to be treated like a woman after God's own heart. When I was ordained as a pastor, Dad's simple speech about my character was authentic and powerful, bringing many to tears. As a bride, Dad walked me down the aisle and symbolically transferred his protection and provision of me over to my husband with pride and dignity. Finally, when I was going through my divorce and undergoing painful discussions with my church leadership, Dad was in attendance, supporting my best interests and ensuring me that someone truly cared about not only my ministry position, but my emotional health as well. After one disturbing meeting that finalized the details of my leave of absence, Dad looked me in the eyes and said, "I am so proud of you and what you have done. You are brave." When all the men in my life had abandoned me, Dad was there to validate my emotions and my experience. Dad has been "Jesus with skin on."

So, I am happily ruined for life. No man on earth can ever compare to my father. While this is a wonderful predicament to have, it also leaves me feeling conflicted. How will I make a better choice in a relationship the next time around? What expectations are unrealistic and what expectations are normal and healthy? God is going to have to help me sift through my high standards, and distorted ideas of husbandly roles through His discerning and perfect sieve of truth. I trust that He will show me what I can live with and what I can live without.

In the meantime, I happily settle back into Dad's provision. Who doesn't want to be told that they are beautiful, wonderful, and amazing every day? I thought not. I am one lucky lady.

 

 

Jane Eyre I Am!

As a little girl, my great passion was reading. You would not find me outdoors, running and playing with the neighborhood children in the streets, or riding my bike around the block. NO! I would be holed up in my bedroom, escaping into the exciting worlds that various writers had created for me. My parents had to literally make me go outside for fear that I would have a vitamin D deficiency later in life. I was more comfortable in the fantasy worlds of romantic, classical literature, than in the mundane reality of my life as a socially awkward nerd in the 1980's.

One of my favorite novels of all time is Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte. As an introverted, bookish young woman, this novel appealed to me for various reasons. There was a plain, intelligent, kind governess as the heroine, whom I identified with, and a dark, brooding English gentleman, Mr. Rochester, as her chief love interest. I could easily picture myself as Jane Eyre, because I believed that I was plain, overweight, and really only had my intelligence and kindness to offer others. Someone saw her true beauty, Mr. Rochester, and I longed for someone to see and respond to that same inner beauty inside of me.

The character, Jane Eyre, was also quiet and still on the surface, but possessed deep passions and insights into human nature, which she kept hidden from the world around her. When she is teased by Mr. Rochester, who threatens to send her away to another governess post when he marries, she states,

"Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal — as we are!" – Jane Eyre, Chapter 23

Her response to Rochester's teasing, as he really intends to marry her and not send her away, is both emotional and violent. One wouldn't think that she experienced the world in such a way, just be looking at her. In fact, if she existed in this world, she would most likely be overlooked in favor of someone more attractive and gregarious. In fact, when it turns out that Mr. Rochester is already married to an insane woman that he has kept locked up in his house (remember that ,this is fiction?) Rochester remarks, "This young girl who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell." Jane Eyre, Chapter 24. Only later would she mourn and grieve, alone and with incredible abandon.

This novel has resonated with me over the years. I was raised in a reserved household. Both of my parents were quiet people, not prone to express the full range of their emotions on a daily basis. They were consistent and expressive in their love for me and my siblings, but were unfamiliar with voicing fear, pain, anger, etc. As such, it was difficult to learn how to express my own emotions to others. By nature, I am prone to introspection and I find that I have to "go inward" to analyze my emotions before I can express what I am feeling to the world around me. I often felt stifled and imprisoned by my personality because I didn't know how to fully release all that was going on inside me. It has taken much life experience, therapy, and intentional, safe pockets of community for me to learn how to be authentic and passionate in my expressions on matters of my heart. However, I will always tend toward deep analysis and stillness in my responses rather than quick reactions to most situations (unless I am in my car when someone cuts me off, and then I will automatically express a colorful array of words!).

As the saying goes, "still waters run deep", and many of us that are still possess insights that can be overlooked in a busy, chaotic world. Proverbs 20:5 states, "A plan in the heart of a man is like deep water, but a man of understanding draws it out." I encourage you today to be a person of understanding, who draws out the deep waters of the lives of those around you. You will be pleasantly surprised in what you discover if you take the time to delve into those "depths".

I am proud to identify with this heroine, Jane Eyre, as she has been a pleasant companion to me over the years. Though I no longer pine for a moody, emotional hero to save me from a bleak existence, I am grateful that a character was written in whom my heart identifies with, in its passionate yearnings, quiet expressions, and intelligent insights. Charlotte Bronte, who lived in the mid-1800's, was well advanced in her wise observations of the female condition. Next time you are around a quiet person, think of them as a "Jane Eyre' in whose person is a storehouse full of wisdom and authenticity. You rock, Jane Eyre!

On the Floor with a Lazy Susan

I have a confession to make. I am NOT a cook…not really even a good one. The problem is that I don't LIKE to cook. I attempted cooking when I was married. I felt the fluttering of domesticity rise to the surface of my being, and I made meals for my famished husband. Women constantly told me that I "would learn to love it" and that is just not so. I get worried and anxious if I have to "throw something together" at the last minute or if I have to decide on a menu plan for the week that doesn't involve something frozen. When the movie "Julie and Julia" arrived in theaters, many of my girlfriends felt guilty for not being able to master Julia Child's French cookbook…all I felt was hungry for someone to GIVE me some of that delicious French cooking! I figure that I don't HAVE to like cooking, so, therefore, I don't have to cook. I am still woman, hear my tummy roar.

This being said, with all of my grumblings and complaints, I do know a little something about certain cooking utensils, especially the "lazy susan". It is that round, rotating circle that is piled high with various treats. With just a touch of my hand, I can access the food on any part of this circle, at the dinner table, instantaneously. It is food with immediate and satisfying gratification. This is my kind of cookware!

However, I recently read a quote about this instrument, within the context of grief, and it made me re-think my view of this smorgasbord of delicious delight. Anne Lamott, author of Traveling Mercies, stated that, "grief is like a lazy susan." How is grief like a lazy susan? Well, a lazy susan has motion, it rotates, it spins, it stops, and, no matter where you start, you always land back to where you started. There is no real beginning and no real ending to the lazy susan. I realize that I have been grieving like a lazy susan, especially over these past ten months. Within this time period, I have lost my marriage, however dysfunctional it may have been, my ministry vocation, my home, and most of my belongings. Choosing health meant losing stability in my safe and comfortable world.

I have noticed that I try to "get over it" and "move on" from this hurt as quickly as I can. However, I find myself, at times, right back to where I was in the beginning: naked and wracked with debilitating grief, struggling to get myself out of bed and dressed for the day. I have been running from grief and sadness like a person frantically running out of a burning building. The fire threatens to consume me, turning my entire being into smoke and ash. But, once outside the building, I find that I have already been singed and that the fire is on me. I have carried it with me into the wide open space. I have to deal with it; I am just afraid to sit in the ashes of despair.

Shelia Walsh, a Christian writer, speaker, and musician, went through an extreme period of depression and anxiety that threatened both her physical and emotional health. In one of her writings, chronicling this harrowing experience, all she could do was lie on the floor. On the floor, though, was where she found Jesus. She said of Him, 'I never knew you lived so close to the floor.' She wasn't alone as I am not alone.

No matter where the" lazy susan" of my grief ends up as I spin around in circles, Jesus is always there, with my grief. Jesus lives on that lazy susan and is waiting for me to stop running from grief, to invite it in, dine with it, and let it go, gradually, little by little, piece by piece. I resonate with Anne Lamott's observation that, "I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the silence, in the dark." {Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith}. So, this is where I sit, on the floor, with a lazy susan, in the dark, hoping and praying that the burden of grief will lessen the more that I encounter it and that Jesus will meet me there, close to the floor, with my lazy susan. I may not master the art of French cooking, but I am mastering the art of grief..take that, Julia Child!

Large Bather

As I entered the last room of the Renoir exhibit at the Los County Museum of Art, there it was, displayed on a large, neutral colored wall, under fantastic lighting-Renior's last painting, the pinnacle of his career, as hailed by a vast majority of art critics…a portrait of two very large women bathing in the nude! Their creamy skin shimmered with Renoir's masterful use of paint, and their fleshy folds extended from the top of their chests to the top of their knees. These models were statuesque women being celebrated for their heavenly bodies and glorious proportions. This artist desired to evoke and capture impressions of the human body, freeing them from reality and liberating them to encompass universal meaning. Renoir was particularly interested in the female form and paid homage to its capacity for fertility, softness, and gentle beauty, much as the master painters did in the 16^th and 17^th centuries.

When was the last time I paid homage to my fleshy folds? Have I ever celebrated the fact that my body is unique, unlike anyone else's, and designed in God's image? I recently heard a woman say that she had learned to love her body and to see her thighs as vessels that helped birth her children. What a beautiful thought! Those aspects of my body that I think are flaws, are actually the things that make me truly lovely..those supposed flaws are the outside roadmap of my life's course. It is a reflection of both my physical and spiritual journey. This is something to be honored and cherished, not scorned and despised.

I don't know of any woman today that doesn't suffer from poor body image. American society is searching to create a breed of skinny, big-breasted women who don't eat and who exercise fanatically. While health is important and proper nutrition is essential to that health, when can we learn to accept ourselves the way we are?

When I was dating my husband, who is now my ex, we got into a discussion about body image and weight. At the time, I was at a healthy weight and had felt good about my shape. I was proud of the hard work that it had taken to get me that state-emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I remember asking him what he would do if I gained more weight when we were married. I realize now that this may not have been a good question to ask. Some questions are better left unasked if you don't want to know the truth. He responded, "Well, right now, I don't' want to say anything, but you could stand to lose a little more weight." My heart stopped and my mind went back to my overweight childhood, where I was ridiculed and mocked for my weight. I couldn't speak or breathe. How could he say such a thing? How could he be so cruel?

After an awkward silence, we attempted to reconnect in our conversation, but I had to get off the phone and cry. I couldn't believe that he thought I was overweight. In my mind, that also meant, "ugly", "disgusting", "not good enough", etc. I ended up crying myself to sleep and I woke up and immediately went to God with these feelings. I remember saying, "God, I don't know what to think. Please help me and show me what to do." Now, this was truly one of the few times that I actually consulted God on what to do before I started reacting without thought. He directed me to Psalm 139:14 which says, "I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Wonderful are Your Works" (NASB). God said, "This is what I think of You and that is all you need to know." An incredible peace and confidence spread over me. It didn't matter what my fiancée thought….what mattered is what God and I thought about the matter. Later that day, I conveyed that thought to him and life continued.

Since that point, I have fluctuated dramatically in my weight due to a variety of physical and emotional life. I realize that seeing myself as beautiful will be an everyday challenge and a choice of the will. God's perception of my worth has never changed and it never will, even though society's standard of worth surrounds and condemns me. Seeing the "large bather" commemorated in Renoir's work pleasantly surprised me, reminding me of my own beauty and that of the women around me- faces wrinkled from much laughter, bosoms sagging from nourishing children, eyelids puffed and sunken from shedding tears over loved ones, stomachs stretched from housing unborn children, etc. Today I celebrate my fleshy folds and my "reubenesque" shape…if God and Renoir admire it, why can't I?

BCUZ UR KEWL

Recently, I have had the pleasure of tutoring teenage mothers in my local community. These young moms range in age from 14 – 17 years old, and have children ranging in age from 10 months old to two months old. These girls come from a low-income area of the San Gabriel Valley and are in a special degree completion program at their school. The tutoring I provide is to supplement their current curriculum and involves preparation for their High School Exit Exam, enabling them to graduate with their High School Diploma.

My passion is to connect with these young women, to provide further training in English, Reading Comprehension, and Writing Skills, and to encourage them in their continued education beyond High School. Like a lighthouse serves as a beacon of hope for land to weary sea-farers, so I would want to be a beacon of light to these girls as they traverse their own shores of personal drama. Many of these girls come from low-income, low-education households that do not provide a challenging academic atmosphere for their children. The struggle in these households is for daily survival…there is no room for dreams to thrive in this present condition. My goal is to see their talent, their giftedness, and to empower them to develop that talent…to look beyond their current circumstances to the promising future that could be awaiting them and their children. Their potential is truly unlimited and their beauty is undeniable.

With this gift of being present with these wonderful ladies, however, comes the painstaking reality that some of these students may not desire real change in their lives. I am reminded in John 5:1-17 of Christ's conversation with the lame beggar in Bethesda. This beggar had been near, not in, the healing waters of Bethesda for 38 years. Before Christ healed him of his illness, He asked him the important question, "Do you wish to get well?" (v.6). The man answered that he did want to get well, but that he did not have anyone to help me into the pool. After this, Jesus healed him and the man went away rejoicing. These young girls are surrounded by family members who have never received a formal education, who have worked menial jobs all of their lives, and whose primary cultural value is creating families, regardless of age, job status, etc. Many of their siblings have children out of wedlock and all of them live communally, relying on their parents to support their way of life. We also have government and state programs that provide them with food and medical care for themselves and their children that, while much needed, also creates a learned helplessness in which it is much easier to rely on government assistance than to create one's independent way in the world.

How much of a difference can I really make? I know, in reality, that most of these girls are undocumented and have no other way of life than what they know right now. It is much easier to get pregnant, have another child, and subsist of welfare, than it is to study hard, work hard, and become a fully-functioning, contributing member of society. Even if they receive a college education, they would need to become a citizen to receive a decent paying job and have a professional career. Do these girls REALLY want to get well? If they do, it involves a long, hard road of work, discipline, accountability, and community support.

One of my students wrote "becuz ur kewl" on a formal essay assignment, when answering the topic of naming the most influential person in her life and why. While the sentiment is heart-felt and endearing, will she learn to write properly and present herself to the world as an intelligent, respectable woman and mother? Only time will tell. In the meantime, I get out of bed every morning, and hope that my encouragement will inspire these girls and that my life will, in some small way, reflect what it means to be a decent member of society and a woman of God.