The Parts of Me That I Try to Hide

About a month ago, Lucas and I attended some friends' wedding in Ottawa. It was a beautiful ceremony and the reception was loads of fun.

During a wedding ceremony, my favourite part is definitely the marriage vows-- provided the couple wrote them themselves. The sacredness during those minutes is so real, so tangible, you can almost feel it in the air.

One of the lines in the bride's vows said something like, "I vow to fight to continually show you the parts of my character that I have worked so hard to hide." That line stuck in my head and the reality of it brought so many scenarios through my mind-- over and over again.

We grow up learning to mask our weaknesses. We learn to withdraw from the group if we need a break; we leave the room if we can't have the conversation at that moment; we change the channel when a show upsets us. We change, we move, we leave. We escape. And so, I can go through most of my life with most of my friends believing that I am truly a patient and forgiving person. They don't know how long and arduous the forgiveness process may have been or how many tears were shed over an issue. I can give most people the idea that I'm pretty put together and stable emotionally... you know, levelheaded and composed. Yet, they don't see how many hours I've spent journaling about the issue, how much quiet time I needed and how long I had process with others.

But married life strips me of those escape routes. Quite quickly. Retreating into "my space" has become increasingly difficult-- if not impossible. I am forced to deal with character traits that are unfavourable and have let myself slip into a complacent lifestyle, because well, most people never even know how impatient and over-sensitive I can be.


The parts of me that I want to hide are the parts of me that I need to see more clearly. These are the areas of my life that need to be brought out of darkness and have more light shed on them, not less. The parts of me that I try to hide are the parts that I need help admitting are actually issues. They're the ones that I cringe and feel shame when people find out they're my issues, but they're the ones where I get to experience the grace of Christ that much more.

Lucas does, quite frequently, bring out the best and the worst in me. He sees the tired, cranky, selfish, prideful, hyper-sensitive and resentful Viviana more than anyone else. Yet his continual love for me is a living picture of the gospel. His patience and kindness remind me that I cannot work to hide parts of me; it will never work-- they will always show. Instead, I must get down on my hands and knees, roll up my sleeves and get to work weeding out these areas.

Five Months

It's been five months since I left Morocco.

I must admit that I hit the ground running after my time there. I immediately was thrown into the craziness surrounding wedding planning, then the actual madness of two weddings, then the stress surrounding home shopping and then the house closing and then the first days of work. These last months have been spent on adjusting to married life, Canadian life and post-university life. And so, Morocco has been left on the back burner. I simply didn't have time to let the implications of my departure settle. I was too excited to see Lucas again to really let the loss of friendship and cultural immersion really hit me. But now, as memories begin to resurface amidst the extreme quietness of my life, I am faced with the undeniable fact that I miss Morocco.

I had forgotten how cold Rabat had been in January and February. If I close my eyes, I can re-live the nerves and jitters I felt right before meeting my host family and the frustrations surrounding language learning. I still laugh at the intense culture shock experienced in the public baths (hammams) and those precious moments when I was able to love Moroccan children. I'm still fighting the extra pounds I gained thanks to the enormous appetite I found in Morocco and the delicious food that was constantly before me. And then my heart is burdened by the real pain I witnessed.

Glancing through my blog seems to press the "rewind" button. I feel that I could be there again, just by simply imagining and remembering it. And yet, these blogs were in no way comprehensive. How could I possibly express how dear of a friend Oumaima became to me? All of our sleepovers and pancake-making parties? How could I convey the loss of knowing that I'll never live there again? But having all these posts to click through, months after having left, is such a blessing. Moments that would probably have faded are immortalized in writing.

My ears perk up when I hear Arabic. There's a convenience store by my house and so far, all the men who work there speak Arabic. I learned they're from Iraq. I watched GirlRising last night and one of the girls is from Egypt. Though her story was heart-breaking, my heart swelled inside of me as I picked up several words from the authentic Egyptian dialogue.

I miss Morocco and the experiences I had while I was there. I desire to live outside of my own familiar cultures again. I cannot wait to consistently be surrounded by those different than I, that I may see my own culture and values through their lenses. I try to hold on to the small, precious lessons I learned from four months in that beautiful, beautiful country... Morocco.

The Restlessness of Inactivity

In our culture of drive-throughs, calendar apps and the need to develop outstanding resumes, periods of inactivity are dreaded-- perhaps feared? Ant it is in the middle of this culture, where I have been thrust into seemingly endless inactivity. My hear drops when asked what I do. I hate the "occupation" discussion. Simply put, I feel small and insignificant.

"Nothing. I don't do anything."

Yup. Small and insignificant.

And in the middle of this smallness and this insignificance, I've learned to wrestle through some mighty identity issues. Stripped of typical terms like "student" and "leader in...", I've struggled to pin down what I think I am and who I am... knowing that ultimately, I am not what I do, but functionally, that's all I've known. No, I am not meaningful because of my university coursework. No, I am not important because of my connections.

My jobs as front desk volunteer, visitor at an elderly home and a friend to a young five year old are not what give me meaning.

My dignity is (and must!) be deeply rooted in Jesus and Jesus alone. My ministry loving the elderly or my young friend is meaningful because of the God I serve. My ministry serving Lucas-- however mundane it may feel day in, and day out-- is powerful because of the God who brought us together.

Yes, I still stammer and feel flustered when asked what I do, but the true fact of the matter is that question is not my definer. Who I serve and what I love is a much more telling question.