On Being Single

It was about 10:30 PM on a Friday night. The main street was bustling as everyone was just beginning to leave their houses to go out, eating and visiting. Again, I had another epic yet “to be expected” encounter with a taxi driver. He wouldn’t listen to my directions—the ones I know “work” because I’ve memorized them from an Arab. He wanted to chit-chat with me [no, sir] and offered to take me to his house to visit with his two wives. [Ugh.] Frustrated and annoyed, I get a little sassy and pay him the exact fare, as he dropped me off about 5 “American blocks” from my desired destination. [Thanks, dude.]

I decide to delight in the opportunity to get to walk outside at night, something that doesn’t happen unless THIS happens. I put in my one working earphone on my little iPod shuffle and listen to the sweet sounds of some old-school Caedmon’s Call. We weren’t even on the chorus yet and I was already being followed. By a guy in a white Toyota van—ya know the one I’m talking about? The totally stereotypical “Middle Eastern” van? I pay him no attention and note that I’m alone on the dark side street. No shebab [youth males] are even out to… “protect me” [what? My neighborhood shebab love me.] There’s only one street light on. He does the classic follow behind and then speed up, rolling down his window to make kissing sounds and talk to me. I read the side of his van: Mohammad’s Plumbing Services.

This continues the whole way home, me ignoring him and him driving at 1mph to tail me. Eventually, I glare in his direction, hurl some [pathetically structured] insults and watch as he gets excited about how I’m showing a little life now. I definitely don’t want him to know what building I go into but I was just about home. In God’s sweet protection and provision, the bottom floor of my apartment building is a dukan [a little food/convenience shop—a gas station without the gas]. I walk up the stairs and am greeted by my three main men in the building, who take care of the place and subsequently… me. They only know “Helloooo” and “One, two, three” in English. So I say, in Arabic, “He is no good. He is my problem,” [Arabic’s hard…], and point to the guy waiting in the white plumbing van outside on the street. My three guys jump off their white plastic chairs and race outside, yelling at this man. All I heard was “shame on you!”, “American”, “blonde” and “good girl.” The rest, I’m sure, were bad words I’m not allowed to know.

The guy drives off, quickly realizing that he chose the wrong Shagra to follow, that I did have some male protection and that he did just waste 20 minutes of his night. I was exhausted and my guys could tell that. I sat and had some tea with them before going up to my apartment. I thanked them incessantly and they wished Allah’s protection on my life always. Sweet men.

I know, this makes my life seem so dramatic. But really, this is a story I wouldn’t even really share with friends in the ME—just because it’s “too everyday-ish.” This stuff happens all the time. And we just deal with it. I mean, when I noticed him following me, I just rolled my eyes and my temper flared up since I hadn’t fully recovered from being upset with my lazy taxi driver. When I talk to my married friends they say, “Oh, I just call my husband and he meets me outside and yells at the guy,” or does whatever the situation calls for. Well, guess what? I don’t have one of those—a husband.

I get to fight these fights by myself. Often, Father sends me men who can help, but ultimately, I’m alone in this.

And what makes me laugh is that married women look at me, with big, round eyes, filled with tears, pitying me that I don’t have a husband—especially for a night like this. Haha. No, I don’t have someone to fight for me. No, I don’t have someone to come home to and tell what happened in my day. [Instead, I blog.] And no, I don’t have someone to walk with me and avoid situations like this in the first place.

But I see it as God’s goodness to me right now:

• Other people are blessed by the time and energy I have to give them because I don’t have a husband or kids to be home for.
• I get to experience so many other families and friends because it’s just me—it’s easy to bring along just one more person into their families of 8… or 15.
• I’m forced to learn how to ask for help, trust other people and navigate “community.”
• He’s the one Who fights for me, protects me, provides for me…

It’s good for me to be single… let me be single. :)
No, I don't hate men—I adore them. I’m just not partnered with one right now.
Today, let me, and whatever single women around you, find delight in His perfect plan.
Remind us that we are useful and valuable to Father’s Family as His single daughters.
It’s not a pity—it’s great.
Just because it’s just hard sometimes, doesn’t mean it’s not Good.
I really just want people to “walk with me.”

Accepting Help Even When You Don’t Think You Need It

The other night I stopped by a lovely American chain restaurant with a friend.
She’s in her forties, married, with kids who are almost grown up & married themselves.
[I love visiting with women outside my stage of life.
They offer such unique perspectives & I find myself verbally-processing things
in a way that is different than with my peers. I also find myself watching for
their reactions to what I’m saying & how I’m saying it.]
Well, I tell you what, “Susan,” we’ll call her, totally caught me.

She was sharing with me some stories from her marriage & I was telling her some stories from my… never-married-life…How I’ve had some family & friends, here & there, close to my heart or new to my heart, just love on me.
They’ve helped me in such unexpected & generous & thoughtful ways that I would, sadly, never dare ask for. I was telling her a story about a sweet friend who forced a brand-new computer on me [see picture] because I was going to go live in the Middle East, alone, without one.

And Susan suddenly said to me:

“I bet it was really hard for you—
to let him love & bless you like that.”

And I just stopped, with my chip mid-air, salsa dripping down the side, with some Celine Dion anthem playing in the background and said,

“Yeah…. it was. I cried. I don’t like crying.”

[My mom wanted him to buy her new living room furniture
while he was at it, but that didn’t happen.]

“It’s hard for you to accept things from people, isn’t it?” she asked me.

Yikes. I guess so…

And so what do you think I’ve been thinking about ever since?
Nothing but how I hate being helped.

I like to be the helper, the caretaker, the need-see-er & meet-er.
I don’t like people doing nice things for me that are sacrificial
or even a slight inconvenience to them.
I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be seen as weak. Or as a charity case.
I don’t want to need help.
I want to be responsible & kind, carrying my load & probably yours too.
I want you to know that I’m tough & that I’m handling it. No sweat.

But… that’s not how our Father’s intended us to live.
He put us in community, with a need for Him & a need for one another.

So why is it that I refuse help when it’s offered—why don’t I ask for it when I need it?

Pride. Selfishness. Shame. Insecurity. Fear. Stubbornness. Guilt.

Thankfully, one of the major lessons I’m learning by being “on my own”
in the Middle East as a single, white female,
is learning to accept help when I don’t think I need it.
What I love about this lesson is that it has been one
that has transcended language, religion & culture,
one that has been taught to me by Americans & Arabs alike.
People have forced themselves on me in the forms of food, advice, clothing,
haircuts [really bad ones], food, rides home, places to live, $1 DVDs,
food, marriage proposals, electronics, small children, food,
packages from home, and the list goes on.

Ya see, somewhere along the lines, I started living like I had to always be strong,
always be right, always have the answers, always…
And I’m slowly being deprogrammed. [Speaking of computers… ha.]
When I have to leave my apartment & be strong every day,
independent & completely cross-culturally competent [which I’m not],
it’s nice to finally give that up to some degree.
I’m choosing to quietly & graciously say “thank you,”
& to savor the moment by letting another person bless me.
I’m learning to allow God to love me through others.
As Susan reminded me,

“Don’t take away another person’s chance to bless you.”

[And really, how much do I hate it when I have to argue with someone
to let me do something for them or give them something
or send them home with some cookies? C’mon!]

So you can just know that under all these layers,
I’ve been spending a lot of time these last few months being humbled & loved.
I’m learning to be quiet & grateful, contemplative & appreciative,
marveling at how our Father loves to love us—
by giving us opportunities to be the “blesser” AND
by making us sit still, hands & hearts open, being the blessed.

If we’re always being prepared for something,
sometimes maybe it’s best to just be made
to stop & receive the help we’re being given—
even when we don’t think we need it.

Of course, with me, there's a bit of a circular learning curve happening here,
but I'm also starting to see a beauty in asking for help -- even when I don't need it.