Image Bearer
January 31st, 2012 by Mariam
In the quiet, in the stillness of the day,
I imagine your face
and I see you dancing at His feet
Swept up in His embrace
You are laughing, radiant
Image bearer, Soul,
You are home.
by Mama
Do Something
December 14th, 2011 by Mariam
There are some things I would much rather avoid.
Marathons. Buffets. Fried food. Freezing cold weather. Wet socks.
And pain.
I’d rather avoid pain than endure it. There must be another way…? I ask Him.
Such was the case the other evening when I came across a website about modern day slavery I did not want to know more. My mind begged me to go to sleep… don’t stay up investigating the contents of this site. Don’t go there. You know what it will do to you. Sometimes it is better not to know…
But my heart and soul, they begged to know. Please, Mariam, please, go there… don’t curl up and shake in fear…
I feel things deeply. Those closest to me know this well. Very deeply. And it has been like this since I was a little girl. My mind said to me, you won’t be able to sleep at night, you won’t be able to get the images out of your head… it will tear your heart. My heart said to me, but that is how God created you… He made you to feel things deeply. So He will hold you together too.
He has been faithful.
So, I entered the site.
I read.
I looked.
I absorbed. Tried to at least.
I wept.
Oh, how I wept. These are your children, Lord. These are your children…
They. Are. So. Young.
I know what happens to the children in Armenia once they are too old to be in the orphanages.
I know many end up on the street coerced into prostitution with the promise of finances that they desperately need to live. We just received an update from friends of ours who are working there who have only confirmed that this situation has gotten worse… and these are 17 and 18 year olds.
This site exposed trafficking of children even younger. Much younger than this. As young as 4 years old…
My head hurts. The pain is here.
But I cannot avoid the awful reality of what has become of us. The words and images are in my head. And my heart begs me now: Do something, Mariam.
Please, begin to do something.
Some. Thing.
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Oror
October 25th, 2011 by Mariam
I wish I had been there.
I wish I could have been there to see him when he was young, talk to him, see his mother – see his mother, my grandmother.
She died when she was only 27 years old. He was only 6.
I have been spending some precious time listening to my dad’s stories. I am documenting them. There is still a lot to do. This is only the very beginning of the beginning. We have only just started. I am not even sure what I will do with his stories and Mama’s stories. A novel? A short story? A keepsake for me. For us. Whatever it is, I just love sitting at their feet and listening to them speak, remember, recall, share. I love this. I have always loved listening to other’s stories…
Oh, Dad. What a life you have had. What a journey! Whenever I sing the Armenian folk song, the lullaby, Oror, Dad tells me he thinks of his own mom. ”I remember praying to God that He would bring my mom back to life,” Dad tells me wistfully. ”I would pray this prayer every. single. night.”
I try to hold back my tears.
I try to imagine that, understand that – a little boy praying every night that his beloved Mom would come back to life. The repetition of it. The ache. The depth of belief. The innocence and the complexity. The desire for a restored world.
“I only have a fading memory of what she looked like…” His already gentle voice grows even softer. I know this pains him. I know he wishes he could remember more. But he was so young.
I wish I could have been there.
We’ll see her again, Daddy. You know we will.
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Basra to the South
October 10th, 2011 by Mariam
We just met them. But there is an instant connection.
Laughing together, eating together, crying together… speaking the same language.
They have been in the South for a year now. A year.
And they arrived from Iraq.
An Armenian family living in Iraq.
From Iraq.
To the South.
Here.
There is so much I could write I do not know where to begin. My heart is burdened for this family. Life here in this country is so different from what they are used to. From what they long for. And yet, they are thankful to be out of the war. Three wars.
They. Lived. Through. Three. Wars.
The violence, the rape, the fear, the cries of anguish invading their minds day and night. The sounds of bombs, guns, sirens… constantly.
My child is afraid of thunder.
The daughter tells us how one buys fish in Basra. ”You go to the market by the sea, you pick out the fish you want and then you sit together with the other women there who are waiting while the store keeper cooks your fish, along with all the other fish, in the fire pit… ah, the sweet aroma of the cooking fish fills the air and the sound of chatter…” she smiles longingly… ”I miss it so much! And the fish?! Ah, you have tasted nothing like it.”
I can just picture the atmosphere in my mind as she is talking. I can see the women gathering together, sharing news of the day, smiling, joking, connecting, living in community. Together. And I can smell the fish… ah, yes…
“Here,” she goes on to tell us, “Here, no one talks to you. Everyone jumps in their car and is off. And the fish tastes like cardboard.”
I tell them how I wrote a song about an Armenian girl whom I have called Narineh who went missing in Iraq.
They look at me stunned. ”You wrote a song based on a girl who went missing? Who was this girl?” I tell them her story. Her story had crushed my heart when I had first heard it.
“That incident crushed you? Ah, the stories we could tell you… if that crushed you, then the stories we have seen, we have lived through, what would those do to you….?” Their eyes fill with tears. I shudder. I know they have seen more violence and pain than I could ever imagine. I am weeping.
And they are here now. Safe. But still missing the only home they have ever known…
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five years ago
September 17th, 2011 by Mariam
I have been spending time going through old journals for the past couple of weeks. I have been reading a couple of entries, here and there, when I have a moment to myself… a moment of quiet and I take one of these journals, make myself a cup of tea and read. I read about the present past.
I am reading about five short years ago. Five long years ago.
In a couple of weeks we will celebrate five years of marriage and as I read through these entries where I have captured time, emotions, fears, joys… I marvel. That was 5 years ago. We have told our story, the story of how we met over and over again because people ask over and over again. It is a good story. And each time we share this miracle – because there is simply no other way to explain how this West Coast girl met this Northern boy living in the South… no. other. way. And he happens to be Armenian? And he happens to be passionate about the Gospel? Right. The Sovereign One orchestrating something quite miraculous…the details fit so perfectly that only He could have designed it all. Our story overflows with grace. I weep just reading how it all came together. Our first conversation. I have recorded it with my pen. Who is this man, I have asked myself. I know he is the one from that very first phone call. And I am full of joy and afraid all in the same breath. Joyful and afraid of being right. Full of joy and full of fear that what I had been praying for has actually come to pass. He heard me.
My Father heard those prayers. He heard me. As I lived and worked and sang, I prayed for a life partner with whom I could live and work and sing and He helped me wait till it was time, the exact, precise, ordained-perfect-best time to meet the one. And grace kept me from following the norm, from doing what everyone else was doing. Grace held me strong, enveloped in that pure embrace, guarding my heart – not by my strength, but His. And then it was time. Six years ago, a courtship (and his very first gift to me? A journal. How did he know…?) Five years ago, a marriage.
I read my own words from this month, 2006, the anticipation of a marriage and what is to come…
