Scent of a Woman

Her hands are small, delicate, matching her petite frame. Her fingers slip effortlessly into the scissors she uses to cut and style women’s hair. Her hands transform lackluster tresses into sultry manes worthy of a night out. But tonight she has her own plans. A dance, perhaps? A visit with friends? A special dinner? The doors of her standing wardrobe are open – discarded dresses flung on her bed, forming a makeshift blanket of bright colors.

I’m temporarily distracted by the sound of my father tap-tap-tapping his razor against the side of the sink as he shaves in the bathroom. I look over to see him contorting his face in the mirror. I get a faint whiff of his shaving cream.

I turn back toward my parents’ bedroom. My mother has finally decided on her outfit and is now facing the mirror. She brushes her hair and tilts her head side to side while she sprays to get some volume. Tonight her hair is reddish auburn. She likes to experiment with her hair color – it has been every shade from blonde to dark brown. She dabs a bit of concealer under her eyes, sweeps on dark grey eye shadow, and glides on reddish lipstick.

She is stunning.

And then, she reaches for the box. It’s a velvet purple rectangle, reserved for only the fanciest of events. I watch as she lifts open the lid and gently removes the glass bottle nestled inside. It fits perfectly in her hands, and she treats it like a treasured jewel. A semi-circle filled with a deep orange liquid, plugged by a blue scalloped top.

Shalimar.

She pulls off the top and puts her fingertip against the opening, tilting the bottle over to get just a drop onto her skin, and then transfers the fragrance behind her ears, and just a bit on her neck. The perfect finishing touch to her preparations. And then they’re off – out the door.

Her scent lingers.

*~*~*

Mother’s Day, to me, is just another day. It’s not a day when I miss my mother MORE than any other day.

But sometimes, when I happen to smell that aroma on a passerby, she’s suddenly here – only she’s not. And the emptiness I’ve tried so hard to fill is gaping again. The tears I try so hard to fight well up again. My heart I’ve tried so hard to heal rips open. Again.

Shalimar makes her real. Shalimar makes her tangible. Shalimar makes her present.

19 years later, her scent still lingers.

OK, I'm getting off my shoebox now.

Past, Present, FUTURE

I have a plea.

It is a heartfelt plea to my Armenian people. And it’s a difficult one.

We have a rich history dating back 6000 years. Our culture is rich in the arts, music, literature, food, costume and dance. Our people are intelligent, talented, entrepreneurial, inventive and hospitable.

While we have had much pain in our story, our faith and resilience have always proven stronger.

The Genocide should not define us.

The events of the last 100 years, while horrific, should not supersede the last 6000.

We are not victims – we are fighters.

We are not weak – we are irrepressible.

We are not quiet – we are spirited.

We are not resigned – we are resistant.

We are not passive – we are dynamic.

We are not hateful – we are affectionate.

Unless it involves the Turks.

Do you see the hypocrisy?

Where is our faith when we despise the Turks? Where is our faith when we refuse to forgive? Where is our faith when we teach our children to continue the hatred and pass our loathing from generation to generation?

Armenians are very quick to point out that we were the first nation to officially adopt Christianity in 301AD. But what significance does that have if we are not actively living that faith – if we are not actively applying Jesus’s words and teaching in our lives?

What the Young Turks did in the 1890s and then from 1915-1923 is horrific and inexcusable. What the current Turkish government is doing now by continuing their denial and historical revisionism is outrageous. It spits on the memory of our martyrs.

My plea is for forgiveness anyway.

Although 100 years have passed, I understand that the wounds are still open and fresh. We still hurt. We still tremble in horror at the stories of our grandparents and great-grandparents. But without forgiveness, we allow those wounds to fester. The Turks do not control us – we are in control of ourselves. And we are the ones leaving our wounds open to infection. The Turks are not ripping off the scabs leaving our wounds fresh – we are doing that to ourselves, effectively leaving the wounds open and vulnerable to the “lemon juice” being poured on by the denialists.

My plea is to forgive and seek reconciliation, without which we cannot heal and close those wounds. Recognition will help; reparations will soothe. But without true forgiveness, the Turks continue to have us by our throats.

We can justify our anger. We can claim it for our ancestors. We can rationalize our rage and excuse our wrath. I’m so sorry, my hurting brothers and sisters – our fury is a sin.

I’m so proud of our recent commemorations. We marched peacefully around the world to show that we’re still here and we demand justice. We honored the memory of our martyrs.

Forgiveness does not mean we forget our past. Forgiveness does not mean we stop pursuing justice. Forgiveness breaks our bonds of bitterness. Forgiveness means we can begin to truly heal. Forgiveness allows us to not be defined by our past. Forgiveness empties our hearts of hostility and replaces it with peace.

Forgiveness shifts our eyes from our past to our future.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.

Serving the Saved

“You do feed souls, but twenty-four thousand of My sheep will die today because no one fed their bellies; eighteen thousand of them are My youngest lambs, starving today in a world with plenty of food to go around. If you truly love Me, you will feed My sheep. My people are crumbling and dying and starving, and you’re blessing the blessed people and serving the saved.”

Blessing the blessed and serving the saved.

I have not been able to get these words out of my mind since I first read them in Jen Hatmaker’s book, “Interrupted,” last summer.

These words have been messing with my head for the last six months. They’ve caused me to reexamine my church life, my service (or lack thereof), and my idea of what “mission” looks like. These words have turned me upside down.

You see, of the six billion people living on our planet, about 1.2 billion live on 23 cents a day. If you make $35,000 annually, you are in the top 4%. If you make $50,000 annually, the top 1%. Someone dies of hunger every 3.6 seconds.

Could it be that when Jesus said, “Feed my sheep,” He actually meant “Feed my sheep”? As in, give them actual food to eat. Hatmaker writes, “We appear indulged and entitled and oblivious to global crises and our contribution to the disparity.”

Let me be clear right now – I’m not here to shame anyone. I am applying this strictly to myself first. I am a rich, spoiled, selfish, so-called Christian living the high life while my brothers and sisters around the world are literally starving. How is this okay?

Yes, we plan outreach events and invite our neighbors to VBS and buy coats for the poor and presents for children with incarcerated parents.

And then we eat out three times a week, go shopping, pick up our daily Starbucks, fill our homes with books or bikes or electronic devices, all while patting ourselves on the back for sitting in church one hour a week IF we’re not busy “resting” or planning a day at the zoo with our kids.

It’s not enough. It just isn’t enough.

I live in California’s Bible belt, in an affluent suburb. I send my kids to private school. I drive a minivan. I’m a clichéd soccer mom. And yes, my husband works hard to provide. We serve our church. We’re committed to raising our children in the Word. We’re dedicated to living out God's commandments as best we can. We reach out to the people around us and are bold in sharing His Word with them.

It’s not enough.

We support orphan children in Armenia and donate to those going on mission trips and tithe regularly to our church. We’ll buy a meal for the homeless guy and pray for those in need. We’ll plant a tree and take goodies to the women’s shelter.

It’s not enough.

We have more resources at our fingertips than most people do around the world and yet we spend most of it on ourselves. Maybe this is a generalization, and I’m sorry if it hurts, but I feel that it’s true – and it starts with me.

Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of God. (Luke 6:20)

So what will this look like in my life? I’ve been wrestling with it for months. It’s caused a complete transformation in my thinking. It’s been unsettling. Uncomfortable. Frightening.

Do I really want to ask God to show me what to do? Am I ready to accept where He will lead me? Am I willing to ruffle some feathers? Am I really ready to live a different life?

“If people around me aren’t moved by my Christ or my church, then I must be doing a miserable job of representing them both,” writes Hatmaker. She quotes Franciscan priest Richard Rohr, who observed, “We cannot think our way into a new kind of living. We must live our way into a new kind of thinking.”

I want it. In fact, I’m starving for it, even if I’m afraid of it. It’s time to live on mission.

OK, I’m getting off my shoebox now.