On 9/11 and PTSD

A major legacy of 9/11, for me in the past seven (!) years of living in New York City, is survivor stories. A resilient community, formed from a crucible of crisis.

Just like the legacy of my own little exilic hell at City College of New York, morbidly drawn to Holocaust Studies, to survivor lit.

Survivors.
Tell me your secrets, and you will tell me my story.
Tell me your sorrow, and I will tell you my hope.

Where did it come from, your will to live, that lunatic hope?

How did you make it, against all odds? 

And WHAT. is this joy, this foreign lightness,

that surprised you when it showed up to stay?

What treasure did your tragedy bestow?

Surely, if you can survive, you can learn to live. One can hope.

*** 

Anniversary grief of any kind is a curious thing. Hard.

to any suffering friends, i pray that in these days,

in the cycle of seasons, in the recurrence and repetition,

welcome or not:

in these days, may you return not only to your hurt,

but to your Help.

your ever-present Help.

oh my friend, you are not alone.

let not your pain crush your heart.

i know you want a map of the wilderness, the mutilated world,

but traveling friends and His guiding presence,

that's all we are given.

oh, and and perishable bread for today
(but enough for a Sabbath)
and promises...

friend, we can hold hands.

i don't know how, but i do know now,

it will be okay soon.

***

at first, the stories are about surviving trauma.

then,
then, they are about surviving Post-Trauma.

the latter is the more difficult task, I think.

the former, your body does for you, on total out-of-body auto-pilot.

***

and then, you have to get back into your skin, saggy and ill-fitting and scraped now.

when it comes to Post-Trauma, you are warring against your self, and against your seemingly self-annihilating mind. you are fighting for the present, and for your right to stay there.

Living in the day-to-day, after you have met the extremes––dull. Dull, dim, dark.

Dull like your pain. Dull unlike your flashbacks.

But, oh God, those flashbacks, they are searing. Blinding.
Shocking. stunning. Unlike real-time, which is dull like paralysis.
They demand that you attend to your pain.

They say, heal. Arise. Go. onward.
They say, you are forgiven. What? is that what I really need?



Survivor stories are travelogues of traveling friends. Witnesses who have gone before. Who have found themselves ejected from the life they once knew, in a blur, and then have wandered the wilderness. Some make it out.

Thank you friends, for sharing your stories. The moment you start telling your story, you have survived the prison of your secrecy. When you were unknowable and alone after being dehumanized, it was such extremely narrow confinement.

oh, it is NOT good for man to be alone.

Thank you for your will to live.

Where others had stayed in slavery
When others had perished in the wilderness...

 Each of us cries with thankful heart, "Lord why was I a guest?"

What is there to say, but Thank You.

***

At first it is terribly dark and cold and grey. They try to fumble their way back to a lost world. lost life. lost garden. Safety was back there. Simple was back there. Plans were back there.

But it is lost. Life can only be ahead. They float on through.

Sometimes they fight.
All the rhythms that were once parasympathetic, all that was for granted, now you must fight for it.

Now you must gasp for air.

Now you must fight for joy.

Now you must wrestle in worship.

Now you must fight to live.

Don't run from the tension.






And suddenly, light. The tears have filled all the secret silent spaces, and they are refracting all the debris of your life from the tunnel's end, into a kaleidoscope.

Life is bursting into full color.

The sun has risen.

A new day has dawned.

It is Easter.

Just like He promised. I will find you. I have never forsaken you.
I descended to the dead. On the third day, I ascended into heaven.
I am seated at the right hand of our Father, where I am your strong and perfect plea.
I came that you might have life––and have it abundantly.
If you are faithless, I will remain faithful.
I will bring you safely home.

We sing a new song:

Oh, if it had not been for the Lord, we would have been swallowed in the sea.
We were so near to death. If it had not been for the Lord, let Israel now say.
You have led us well. You have saved us and safekept us.

Do you know, you can do more than survive?

You can live again.

Sometimes lost, always found.

Stood up for Alyosha's honor and humanity today but it sucked all of mine right away. I deflated, felt extirpated, like I was just a guilty stain, that he just needed to vomit and flush me out.

Really if he even indicated he misses me or that I was ever worth anything--you know, like a woman preoccupying her mind in search of a lost coin, the shepherd's mindful numbering of that lost sheep, the child retracing her steps to find that lost sticker whose gummy reverse was no longer sticky from her moving it between her hand and her shirt... or a friend lamenting a lost friend... then it wouldn't do such violence to my lost heart.

Instead, he builds so much happiness on my heartbreak. Tosses me aside like litter, drops me carelessly. As it goes with any trash, whether it's just a little wrapper to get at the thing you actually want, in which case you'll hardly even notice it's missing. Or whether it's a big mess and heavy burden, in which case you are relieved and rejoicing to be rid of it. Why am I so easy to part with? Why was I forgotten and overlooked? My evaluation of myself and his of me... So condemning. So suffocating. And I got so lost in those tears and fears.

In the shadows of that steep valley the LORD came after me, He found me. He wrapped His words around me and absorbed my tears with His rod and staff in ways 2-ply tissues couldn't.

I see you, girl, I see you,
and I've got you like none other.
I noticed you'd turned your gaze from Me...
so I came looking for you. 

I'll always find you.
I'll always reach you.
I cast away sins, not sinners.
You have Me, you'll always have Me.

Maybe someday, Alexeichik will not cast me out with my sin.
Maybe someday, but not today.

So I will wait and watch, pray and plead.
So I will wait and hope, not for the maybes and somedays, not for him.

But I will wait for the LORD alone,
Who always comes through.
Who sees AND finds me.
Who knows AND loves me.
Who forgives AND heals me.
He is the Lifter of my head.
He is the Fixer of my gaze.

I will wait and take heart, be hidden in Him, be found through faith--because the lost her is not the true me. Though I lose myself, I am not lost if He makes me, He is no loser; He's a Seeker & Chooser, a Finder & Keeper.

Learning to Be a Child, 1.

At the bottom of the moody pendulum,

on those days I feel overlooked,

days like last Wednesday,

I just want to be petty.

Do You see me, Lord? Do you remember?

You said I would live Your child forever,

but I feel like I'm growing old and dying, dying, dying...

Forget being the bigger person.

Let me be childish, as a child.

Pacify me.

These are the days that I wrenchingly know,

that my heart is too small for the land beyond the sea,

that I'm helplessly unready for the world I want so badly.

Why is there ugliness left in my heart?

Why does unforgiveness still persist?

Why is the wound still open and stung by salty tears?

Why does hurt remain? And tears, and sorrow?

Why is there working and waiting to do yet?

Why, LORD? When will faith turn to sight?

Bring your frustrations and worries to Him, even if they are about Him.

Franklin wrote, reminding me that I can and should go to my Maker.

And David too, said that I had the LORD's pity:

If you must cry and cry out, include Him in the conversation...

Know that He mourns with you.

My heart heard something true

about the Covenant Keeper's unconditional love,

yet something slighting his trustworthiness, his steadfastness,

His worthiness to be loved, honored, trusted, and feared above all else.

Really? Can I give Him that last-Wednesday heart?

Can I give Him bloodthirsty psalms and abandonment laments?
This heart, with all its doubt and accusations, hurt and dishonor,

Is He patient with it? With my fear and flight?

Know and give thanks, Irene said:

You would not be wanting that world so badly,

if it were not for God's hand that is readying you.

This post is to be continued,

the wrestling to be remembered,

because God cleared his throat,

and this huge age-old mountain in my heart

upped and dumped itself in His sea that day.

how do i approach in a third way that is other from

trembling fear

&

o no big deal

how do i enter the throneroom bold but not brazen,

not presuming but assured.

Love of a jealous kind, 1.

i'd rather feel the pain all too familiar
than be broken by a Lover i don't understand

Bleating for comfort

from your staff and your rod.

and finding only your rod of jealous discipline.

consider, lord, how it looks to us.

how it is that the pitiful don't want your pity.

they want... to be unpitiful.

but those moments when i've actually grieved for her, thought of her, there is only aching joy, stabbing envy.

i cry, not for her, for me. messed.

if she can tear her gaze from perfection to see and take thought now of all your children still alive in bodies of death, she cries. she cries for them, for me.

for now with veil lifted and curtain torn, she sees, she feels what she knows, she rests. where faith has turned to sight, where the cup of every unmet desire overflows, every lonely thought and every unrealized impossible promise no longer harasses her with doubt.

and here, where you've said it is finished, we are left undone. to walk... strive... crawl... wrestle. scream. over your silence.

but such is my selfish, blinding, furious pain.

i cry, not for her, for me.

i will obsess, attend to the pain, lick the wound. i see it, not her. i see you, this is your doing, father. what more are you teaching me to expect from a father. i thought i could see past my earthly father but how are you any better. you say you want my trust, it feels you want my distrust.

omnia vanitas. i have chased the fleeting moments of the ease of standing on my own two legs on solid ground. then you cripple me and bid me walk on water?! i want satisfaction, sufficiency. not you. fullness, not faith. you refuse to satisfy me with trash.

it is mercy, really.

i don't want your mercy.

i cannot do this week. and i definitely cannot do next week. you will need to do it for me.

silence because the king is asleep.

wherefore, o lord, and why? it is a silence only god can bear.

wake up, you who died, and bring me to your resurrection.

Studies show weaksauces cave under pressure.

Why am I here, Dad? Why am I anywhere at all. I feel like such FAIL... such a waste of carbon.

Well, yes... you are made of carbon.

Uh. Yeah. THANKS.

And also... you are made.

*silence*
*shifty eyes*
*shifty feet*

I'm insulted!

You're used to it.

Yes. I can take it. I took it to the cross.
But you should know...
Everything I created, I purposed.

*shrugs*

O there now, dearie.*divine pat on the head*
I know you know it. And you'll see it, in time.

And... I much prefer "carbon under pressure."

Job 23.10, please.
Shall I come forth as diamonds?

On Comprehending Little

All-knowing, all-good God, in mercy take captive my every thought... hope... fear... doubt. Plant me, and I will not be shaken. Give us more Grace today, and a full Grace, for for her to live is Christ.

Your thoughts are higher than mine

Your words are deeper than mine

Your love is stronger than mine // Jason Upton

[My Glory]-ous

Daddy, did You make me for mediocrity...

No, love. For glory. Mine.

誰能了解主的心意?

沒想到 竟然 在我出生時 媽媽還沒有成為美國公民
而且 爸爸媽媽兩個到現在都還沒正式的放棄中華民國國籍 (沒有內政部核發的證明書)
所以依照教育部的法規 我沒辦法使用外國學生申請入學管道進入台灣任何一所大學
即使我從未申請過中華民國護照、國籍等，都是不適用這個入學辦法的

可是我是美國公民啊
真可惜 是在我連續熬過好幾夜 趕著申請轉台灣大學
申請書跟文章都差不多寫完了
才發現 我不合格
差三個月 就合格
(媽媽 10/1989 成為美國公民 而且在我出生前兩個禮拜就已經通過歸化考了)

遇到這種情況時 都會有點失望 覺得白白努力了一場
小信時 就抱怨 上帝 幹麻要這樣玩弄我呢

然而 我要因耶和華歡欣 因救我的神喜樂 (哈巴谷書 3:18)
主啊 祢叫我安靜等候祢 相信你 你是可靠的 全能的
我信不足 球你原諒 球你幫助

You will make sense of it all... someday. We wait for You.

Until Now

I resented that You had bigger dreams -- plans -- for me than I had for myself.
  Then I said,"Here I am, I have come—
    it is written about me in the scroll.
      I delight to do your will, O my God;
        Your law is within my heart. Ps 40

Lord, make me more like Your Son. A servant under orders. A Son in unbroken communion. Humble. Believing You not merely as an announcer, but as the very bringer of the Kingdom. Yea!

App

How do you capture a soul in 250 words and sell it to a university?

Pearl pleads please please do it.
I promise to try, but is that ever enough?
No. Fight. Left.

Why have You opened these doors?
Shall I charge.
Or will You slam them shut again.
I feel... caution and curiosity.
You. Baffle. Me.

OOoo...
Stop tickling me! Ha... ha... ow.
Stah -- Ah HA -- Stop --It -- That -- Pickles -- Ha - Ow -- How.

Here We go again. The uppercase is for You, Emmanuel. Because You're WithBeforeAboveBehindBesideAroundTheGroundBeneathInside me.

When the dust settles again, just let me sing hallelujah still.
Even if it's a cold and broken whimper.

You...
I must have You!
If nothing else in this world
I must have You.

Praise You for laments and losses. Lest I love my life my self and my trash too much. Pastor spoke on Psalms 90-91 Sunday, and I remembered that morning You with Irene and I sat only a trimester ago, marveling at the way the light bounced off the icicles outside. We rested by these same words. You have a funny way of digging up skeletons. Maybe I will learn this time around.

Making You my Home. Not a cop-out, retreat, escape -- at least, not the way I've made it my last resort. Entering Your wing is active, forward trust. Entrust. My life and heart are Yours. I was made for You.

So I can ask You God to relent and deliver, and You might even deem the prayer good and acceptable... But is this enough? Even those without the help of Your Spirit can cry to be delivered from their trials. So instead I ask for this (God! take these trembling hands before I shrink from Your touch again, hear my shaky words before I try to swallow them back): let my affections be purified in this furnace. Grant me a teachable heart, to learn sooner rather than... not soon. To abandon this life and all its temporary glories and causes, to find in You full and satisfying all in all in all... A stilled and swaddled: child in her Father's arms. I knew no such picture in this life it must be You.

Funny thing about swaddles... I feel freer already.
Whatever's next... Just keep me near.

Tomorrow I'll write of the apple.

Please

Daddy can You see me giving up? I don't think I can do this anymore. Change my heart again, can You? You can. Will You?

H for Hopkins

Am I, for instance, just sidling back to God because I know that if there's any road to H., it runs through Him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can't be used as a road. If you're approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as a means, you're not really approaching Him at all. That's what was really wrong with all those popular pictures... the fact that they make an End of what we can get only as a by-product of the true End.

Lord, are these your real terms? Can I meet H. again only if I learn to love you so much that I don't care whether I meet her or not? Consider, Lord, how it looks to us. What would anyone think of me if I said to the boys, 'No toffee now. But when you've grown up and don't really want toffee you shall have as much of it as you choose'?

A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis