In order to unravel the mess of today, I have to go back to the beginning. Back to the time when I was most fulfilled. radiant. joyful. at peace.
I had found my calling and moved to Africa to work with an international organization. Street kids became my best friends. Elation at helping a woman get out of prostitution and attend school. Teaching, laughing, having the adventure of my life. I woke up every day with such excitement - I thought I'd be in Africa for the rest of my life.
Except there was a dark lining to the dream I was living. Increasingly, I was being targeted on the streets. A culture that ranks livestock above the value of women. The perception that women from the West are promiscuous thanks to our movies and television shows. I carried an umbrella as protection and had to regularly raise it to ward off unwanted advances. Some who were bolder had to be shoved or smacked - anything to stand up against the threat. Sitting in a cafe became unpleasant, as I was indecently propositioned if the person I was with left me alone for even a minute. Public transportation became nerve-wracking (I was expected to make my own way around town). One time, the van stopped taking passengers and took off with me, the fare collector waving a condom in my face. I calmly prayed, pretended to be ignorant of the threat, and acted like I knew the crowd of people waiting at the next taxi stop. In front of those witnesses, I boldy lunged for the doors and fought my way out. Another time, the taxi driver forced the other women on board to get off while the men on board moved in closer to me. It took me a moment to realize what was going on (I wasn't totally fluent in the language), and I suddenly leaped for the exit before the men had a chance to stop me. Shaking, I tried to figure out where I was and make a plan. Men thought that they could talk to me in the filthiest English words that they had learned, grabbing at me, trying to force me to yield to their vile intentions. Anywhere I went. The only reprieve (and a slight one at that) was if a man accompanied me. I asked the leadership I worked with for assistance, and they denied me. After all, their own wives and daughters traveled around the city daily and were "fine." Except that on several occasions, I had stepped in to stop a molestation on the streets of their daughters.
The land that I loved had turned into a threatening, scary place where I felt alone and without help. Certainly, God protected me in every instance and was there with me. I have many stories of His hand in delivering me from danger. Nevertheless, the strain and toll on me was real. Something I minimized at the time, but I see how much these experiences influenced the next phases of my life.
I was granted a reprieve in the midst of the trauma when a friend sent me an airline ticket to visit home for Christmas. For me, the time back in the States was a blur. I visited with family and friends. I shared at churches about my work in Africa. I told only a few close friends about the difficult side of being overseas but mainly emphasized the wonderful parts, which were true. I was determined to complete my assignment, no matter the cost, though it felt comforting and safe to be back in the States, on even ground. I always do what is expected of me.
I kinda fell into a relationship. Totally unexpected, a friend of a friend who I'd known casually for a number of years. He lived closest to me and became my ride to many social events and speaking engagements. My trip back to Africa kept getting delayed. He slowly moved closer. I remember thinking, "Well, he doesn't disgust me." He heard from God. I acquiesced. Figured I had another 18 months overseas to figure things out. I was like a helium balloon without an anchor, solid-looking on the outside but empty within. Drifting in my life. Lost. Caught up in a whirlwind of activity, emotions and expectations that I did not have time to fully process.
I returned to Africa still in a daze. Things got worse there. The guy turned up the intensity of his attention with telephone calls and e-mails filled with promises that I would be taken care of, safe. Lots and lots of e-mails with promises of provision and security. The head of the organization came to Africa, chewed out the local leadership for not protecting me, then asked me to continue my work in other countries, expanding my role, since I had been successful in fulfilling my job there in Africa. Within weeks I was back home, got engaged, bought a dress (more about this in my next post), then back on a plane to E. Europe.
The helium balloon that was me sat on a shelf when not in service. I came alive when I visited with the Bible students, hung out with gypsies in their churches, and had a specific task to accomplish. I remember passing the cutest wedding shops and thinking they weren't accessible to me. I didn't question why I thought that way. I thrived in serving God's goodness to others but lost my way in receiving it myself. Helium-balloon-me returned to the States at the end of my service, deflated of my life purpose, now on a new course: matrimony. Though I expressed my concern with the emptiness within me and how lost I was, the momentum of the "romantic" whirlwind carried everything along. Many seemed enamored of the dramatic story. There were no speed bumps along the way to check the rapid-fire developments. I went along with everything, while starting a job in a crisis center and living back home with my Mom who immediately launched back into her "let's tear her down in every way possible and never let her forget she is unworthy" campaign.
These are the circumstances leading up to my unfortunate wedding. My heart grieves for how lost I was and my inability to step in to protect myself. I didn't think I deserved more or that there was more for me. And I lived with that belief for a very long time.
