The Holidays. Sometimes that's all you need to say and people start stressing out. The stress could be brought on by family, money, relationships or really anything that just seems to be amplified by the Christmas season. We often focus on what we don't have, whether than to be thankful for the things we have, not to mention the things we take for granted - health, family, electricity, gas, hot water and even sanity.
We are so worked up about what our family said or does not say at the Holiday's. What they do or do not do. What we get or do not get. We seldom stop and slow down and realize the simple fact - we have family. We have more things than most could ever help for.
Throughout the years I have tried to stay grounded and volunteer where I could. I have volunteered at soup kitchens, delivered food baskets to the needy, built homes in subzero weather, participated in Toys For Tots, Sponsored families and sang at Old folks homes. Christmas comes along once a year, and unfortunately so does most of our good will.
I never have stopped at the local salvation army and gave them a donation, but during the holidays I dump dollars in there as some one is keeping track. I have the giving spirt during the season and then like most of us, it fades shortly after. We feel good doing what we do, but then our life slaps us in the face, and calls us to attention that work, play, movies, family and "me time" is much more important NOW.
We gave at the office. We appease ourselves by looking in our check book and realizing that we gave double what we did last year. This year we tipped the postman, where last year we did not. That we left an envelope for the garbage men, even though they often drive by our house only coming back when we call. We build ourselves up because we volunteered at The Soup Kitchen, even though during the holiday season they have more volunteers than they can count or need. Where am I in June, when it is hot and the volunteers are needed more than ever. Lines are long and help is short.
The point is, there is so much more we could do. There are many organizations we can support both with donations and time. To narrow any one or two is doing the work of those organizations a disservice. This year I am especially touched by one organization, and if nothing else I hope you will read the story of how they came about. I hope you will be touched and find ways you can help in your community. I hope that at least it will soften your heart after the holiday is over and that you WILL make a difference after the new year, not just leading up to it.
To Write Love On Her Arms, is Non-Profit organization dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for those struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury and suicide. They are an organization that exists to educate, encourage, inspire and invest directly into treatment and recovery. They help a group of people that in our society our often written off or worse yet, overlooked.
The message is clearly aimed at those entering adulthood, the 18-25 year olds. You may have seen the message, perhaps on a shirt or a friends 'My Space' page. Bands are now touring in support of TWLOHA, where the proceeds, or part of it goes to this organization. Whatever it is, it is not enough.
According to The World Health Organization over 121 million people suffer from depression, and almost 20 million in The United States alone. Depression is one of the leading causes of disability and many of those that suffer have family history of depression.
ts just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing
Depression can often lead to addicition. Addicition can lead to self-injury (also a type of addicition). Finally, in some cases the self-injury can turn to suicide. It is also important to remember, sometimes there is no progession as such. Depression can lead to someone attempting their life, without previous injuring themselves.
I can not begin to do this organization justice in this one column. Many of you may know someone who is suffering from depression, addicition or is even thinking about suicide. I know that it seems like every year, someone close to me has struggled with all of the above. I can tell you I intend to do much more in 2008, than I did in 2007. I started by buying shirts for all I love in hopes that thir walking billboards will spark discussion and lead one more person to become aware of this group.
Here is the story - please go to their website to read more (and the completion of the story):
TO WRITE LOVE ON HER ARMS by Jamie Tworkowski
Pedro the Lion is loud in the speakers, and the city waits just outside our open windows. She sits and sings, legs crossed in the passenger seat, her pretty voice hiding in the volume. Music is a safe place and Pedro is her favorite. It hits me that she won't see this skyline for several weeks, and we will be without her. I lean forward, knowing this will be written, and I ask what she'd say if her story had an audience. She smiles. "Tell them to look up. Tell them to remember the stars."
I would rather write her a song, because songs don't wait to resolve, and because songs mean so much to her. Stories wait for endings, but songs are brave things bold enough to sing when all they know is darkness. These words, like most words, will be written next to midnight, between hurricane and harbor, as both claim to save her.
Renee is 19. When I meet her, cocaine is fresh in her system. She hasn't slept in 36 hours and she won't for another 24. It is a familiar blur of coke, pot, pills and alcohol. She has agreed to meet us, to listen and to let us pray. We ask Renee to come with us, to leave this broken night. She says she'll go to rehab tomorrow, but she isn't ready now. It is too great a change. We pray and say goodbye and it is hard to leave without her.
She has known such great pain; haunted dreams as a child, the near-constant presence of evil ever since. She has felt the touch of awful naked men, battled depression and addiction, and attempted suicide. Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds. Six hours after I meet her, she is feeling trapped, two groups of "friends" offering opposite ideas. Everyone is asleep. The sun is rising. She drinks long from a bottle of liquor, takes a razor blade from the table and locks herself in the bathroom. She cuts herself, using the blade to write "FUCK UP" large across her left forearm.
The nurse at the treatment center finds the wound several hours later. The center has no detox, names her too great a risk, and does not accept her. For the next five days, she is ours to love. We become her hospital and the possibility of healing fills our living room with life. It is unspoken and there are only a few of us, but we will be her church, the body of Christ coming alive to meet her needs, to write love on her arms.
She is full of contrast, more alive and closer to death than anyone I've known, like a Johnny Cash song or some theatre star. She owns attitude and humor beyond her 19 years, and when she tells me her story, she is humble and quiet and kind, shaped by the pain of a hundred lifetimes. I sit privileged but breaking as she shares. Her life has been so dark yet there is some soft hope in her words, and on consecutive evenings, I watch the prettiest girls in the room tell her that she's beautiful. I think it's God reminding her.
I've never walked this road, but I decide that if we're going to run a five-day rehab, it is going to be the coolest in the country. It is going to be rock and roll. We start with the basics; lots of fun, too much Starbucks and way too many cigarettes.
Thursday night she is in the balcony for Band Marino, Orlando's finest. They are indie-folk-fabulous, a movement disguised as a circus. She loves them and she smiles when I point out the A&R man from Atlantic Europe, in town from London just to catch this show.
She is in good seats when the Magic beat the Sonics the next night, screaming like a lifelong fan with every Dwight Howard dunk. On the way home, we stop for more coffee and books, Blue Like Jazz and (Anne Lamott's) Travelling Mercies.
On Saturday, the Taste of Chaos tour is in town and I'm not even sure we can get in, but doors do open and minutes after parking, we are on stage for Thrice, one of her favorite bands. She stands ten feet from the drummer, smiling constantly. It is a bright moment there in the music, as light and rain collide above the stage. It feels like healing. It is certainly hope.
Sunday night is church and many gather after the service to pray for Renee, this her last night before entering rehab. Some are strangers but all are friends tonight. The prayers move from broken to bold, all encouraging. We're talking to God but I think as much, we're talking to her, telling her she's loved, saying she does not go alone. One among us knows her best. Ryan sits in the corner strumming an acoustic guitar, singing songs she's inspired.
After church our house fills with friends, there for a few more moments before goodbye. Everyone has some gift for her, some note or hug or piece of encouragement. She pulls me aside and tells me she would like to give me something. I smile surprised, wondering what it could be. We walk through the crowded living room, to the garage and her stuff.
She hands me her last razor blade, tells me it is the one she used to cut her arm and her last lines of cocaine five nights before. She's had it with her ever since, shares that tonight will be the hardest night and she shouldn't have it. I hold it carefully, thank her and know instantly that this moment, this gift, will stay with me. It hits me to wonder if this great feeling is what Christ knows when we surrender our broken hearts, when we trade death for life.
As we arrive at the treatment center, she finishes: "The stars are always there but we miss them in the dirt and clouds. We miss them in the storms. Tell them to remember hope. We have hope."
I have watched life come back to her, and it has been a privilege. When our time with her began, someone suggested shifts but that is the language of business. Love is something better. I have been challenged and changed, reminded that love is that simple answer to so many of our hardest questions. Don Miller says we're called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding. I agree so greatly.
We often ask God to show up. We pray prayers of rescue. Perhaps God would ask us to be that rescue, to be His body, to move for things that matter. He is not invisible when we come alive. I might be simple but more and more, I believe God works in love, speaks in love, is revealed in our love. I have seen that this week and honestly, it has been simple: Take a broken girl, treat her like a famous princess, give her the best seats in the house. Buy her coffee and cigarettes for the coming down, books and bathroom things for the days ahead. Tell her something true when all she's known are lies. Tell her God loves her. Tell her about forgiveness, the possibility of freedom, tell her she was made to dance in white dresses. All these things are true.
We are only asked to love, to offer hope to the many hopeless. We don't get to choose all the endings, but we are asked to play the rescuers. We won't solve all mysteries and our hearts will certainly break in such a vulnerable life, but it is the best way. We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out again and again until we're called home.
I have learned so much in one week with one brave girl. She is alive now, in the patience and safety of rehab, covered in marks of madness but choosing to believe that God makes things new, that He meant hope and healing in the stars. She would ask you to remember.