Jenna, who I spoke of in my post yesterday, has honored us with a guest post for the “inspire: personal stories” section. September 11th affected us all very differently, and this beautiful essay captures the anguish- and love- she experienced when she visited Ground Zero on the 4th anniversary of the attack. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please see the guidelines under “what is inspire?”.

I moved to New York with an apartment waiting for me that I’d never seen before – I just knew it was downtown, a bit of a commute from where I go to school. As we emerged from the tunnel and started navigating the streets, using our mapquested directions to try and find the address, my dad remarked, “I think we’re pretty close to Ground Zero.”

He was right. My apartment lies just two and a half blocks away from the site of the tragedy. Friends asked if I would be scared to live so close by, but I was more saddened than anything else. Political insanity and hoopla and hype aside, September 11 was tragic. Think of losing someone you love. Magnify that loss by thousands. Think about seeing a tangible reminder of that kind of loss every time you buy new jeans or want to walk to the movie theater or go to the post office that stays open ’till midnight.

The fourth anniversary of the attacks rolled around shortly after I’d moved to the city, and I was unsure of how to mark the day. In the morning, I chose to simply continue with my every Sunday actions, committed to being a part of the toughness of New Yorkers who’d decided that, no matter what, life went on. But as evening fell, the Tribute in Light was lit – two spotlights stretching miles into the sky that originate, and fill the place on the skyline, where the towers once were. They speak of hope and light and goodness and life going on. But they also speak of absence. They evoke the magnitude of what once was there, in my neighborhood – that life, those people, those buildings – and what isn’t anymore. I went to the site to see for myself.

I sobbed. I sobbed for all the obvious reasons. I sobbed because they were playing Josh Groban. I sobbed for the group of people who read every single New York Times profile of every single victim out loud, from dawn to dusk. I sobbed because of the flowers left and the other people sobbing. I sobbed because my brain kept flashing on a line from an old poem: “Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world…”

And in the midst of it all, a woman, a stranger, came up to me, made eye contact with me, and gently, reassuringly, gripped my forearm.

It sounds so simple, even when I write it now. A woman saw that another woman was hurting and made a gesture of kindness to her. But in New York City – in life – to step out of your box is a risk. To approach a stranger is a risk. To be vulnerable is a risk. To show love to another person – always – is a risk. Sometimes the women who inspire us perform Herculean feats. Midwives deliver our babies, therapists and friends deliver us from mental anguish, pastors and spiritual leaders deliver messages of hope and love through their actions. And sometimes, we’re touched and inspired by the smallest of gestures. We’re touched and inspired by simple acts of love and kindness. I took my comfort from that woman, who never spoke to me and who I’ll probably never see again, because she took the time to be kind, to show tenderness, to love in a city where disconnection and a stiff upper lip are the norm. She took care of me. And she reminded me to always have my eyes open, to look for ways to care. Life goes on in Manhattan when we remember to live it fully, sharing love in any way we can. I’m so glad she was there.

–Jenna, of “Defying Labels, Gravity, and Sleep Deprivation”

The amazing paragraph you are about to read comes to you courtesy of my beautiful real-life friend R at Redhead Momma:

“I was just tucking in Noah when I swear I saw God in his eyes. To calm him, I had put on the music that I had bought for my labor with Noah, and it was dark in his room except for his Christmas lights. He was under the covers, head resting on his pillow. “I love you, Noah,” I said to him. He looked at me — our faces were so close — and then I said, “eyebrow” and traced his eyebrow. He looked me and smiled, and proceeded to do the same. He loves to get really close and point out different parts of my face. His eyes were so content, he was just pure love. He emanated something otherworldly, and the room grew even darker, and I blinked away tears. It hit me that if I died at this moment, this is the last sight I would like to see. My beautiful son, with God in his eyes.”

Motherhood is a powerful thing. When you are fighting to protect your child, anything becomes possible. If the need arises, logic and rational thought become overpowered by the fierce instinct to do what needs to be done. Your instinct may drive you back into the flames of a burning building once you realize your child was left inside. It may send you up against a powerful animal many times your size, even if the battle seems impossible to win. You will do it. Mother-instincts give you the courage to risk your life, even die for your child, without a moment’s thought or hesitation. But what happens when you find yourself in a situation where you can’t rely on instinct alone? When you’re forced to make frightening, potentially deadly decisions, in order to keep your child safe?

Imagine you have a 16 year old daughter. Imagine that the most dangerous gang your police department has ever seen decides to recruit your daughter to help them blanket your city with crack cocaine. What would you do? Could you go undercover within the gang, risking your own life and your daughter’s, to try to bring them down from the inside? Carla Shultz from Springfield, Missouri found herself faced with that difficult decision. But Schultz felt like she had no choice- her daughter was in danger. In the news story from the Ozarks news-leader.com website they describe Schultz’s frightening ordeal:

In the summer of 1994, Shultz immersed herself in the gang. Armed drug dealers cut and packaged crack in her house before stashing it everywhere inside, including electrical sockets. When the supply ran out, she went with them to Chicago’s ghettos for another shipment. Once, Shultz said, the so-called Chicago Boys stole several guns from a rival gang and drove them back to Springfield under the hood of her car. Shultz performed dozens of drug buys for police and wore a wire to capture conversations about the burgeoning business.
Shultz, who was like a mother to the gang members, is certain they would have killed her had they learned she was a spy.
“They would’ve killed me and Kari. I know for a fact they would’ve,” she said. “But if you get pushed into a corner, you do whatever you have to do to get out of that corner.”

Thanks to Schultz’s help, police were able to arrest and prosecute the gang members that were involved in running the drug ring. Justice was served, the town was free from the most notorious gang it had ever seen, and most importantly to Carla Schultz, her daughter was safe.

The thing is, sitting here in my warm house, snuggled up in bed with my laptop, I find it easy to judge Schultz’s actions. I would never do that, I think to myself. Why didn’t she just pick up her daughter and run for safety once she knew how dangerous the situation was? How could she willingly put herself and her child in such a prolonged state of vulnerability? From the safety of my bedroom it seems like a foolish and ridiculous risk to take, and I silently vow never to put my family through such a nightmare.

But I don’t think I could ever really understand. Not until I am face to face with the moment in which I need to do something drastic in order to keep my child safe. I don’t think I have any idea what I am really capable of.

After all, I am a mother.

This guest post was sent to me by a lovely blogging lady who wishes to remain anonymous. I was so touched by her story, and honored that she trusted me with such a personal part of her life. I love that this is a two-sided story: one side a powerful tale of strength in recovering from a devastating disease, and the other side an example of true love and charity reaching out to a woman in need. Please read with open minds and hearts, and remember the bravery it took to put something so private out there for the world to read. If you’d like to write a guest post, please view the guidelines under “what is inspire?” on the sidebar to your right.

If I were to write about someone who has inspired or enriched my life, it would have to be my pastor’s wife, Lisa. I think of all the women in my life, not related to me, she has touched my life the most. It all started 7 years ago when I was her daughter’s boss at work and my family and I had no where to spend Thanksgiving. All of my family was out of town and we had settled in with the idea that Thanksgiving was on our own that year. Her daughter approached me before the holiday and said her parents would like to invite us if we didn’t already have plans. I had only met them briefly once before, but I liked them and we decided to go. They made us feel so welcome and we immediately felt like we belonged. The entire day was filled with laughter, Lisa loving up my kids to death, and the feeling that they truly cared about us.

Now fast forward to 3 years ago. We were searching for a new church to attend. We remembered how kind and loving Lisa and her husband were, so we decided to check out the church they pastored. Just like in their home, they made us feel welcome. We loved the atmosphere and the pastor was dynamic. We had found our church.

About a year later, I was still suffering from depression. Bad depression. I had been suffering for so many years, no medications were working and I was battling the most horrendous demons inside me. I began to drink socially with friends at the time. Then found that the drinking made the demons go away and the depression seemed to lift. Then I began to drink to “relax” after a day with my kids, the kids I watched as daycare and the stresses of being a stay-at-home mom with a husband who worked 16 hours a day. Pretty soon I began to drink earlier in the day and by the time my kids were to be tucked in bed, I was blitzed. Not to mention the parties every weekend. Outside my life, no one knew I drank like this. I kept it a secret. Thus was my routine for 1 ½ years.

One Sunday when I was at church, I was totally convicted of my behavior. I can’t remember what it was, but God was talking to me louder than I had ever heard Him. I practically flew down to the altar at the front of our church and bawled. Lisa was instantly there by my side. She prayed with me. She talked to me. She was there. I then confessed to her my guilty secret. There was no judgment in her eyes. Just love. It was totally Christ’s love I saw in her eyes and I just knew I had to beat this thing that was holding me captive. She told me I was now accountable to her because I had told her. She would pray for me and help keep me on track. I felt assured. I was confident I could do this.

But if you’re an alcoholic, you know all the best promises in the world cannot help you fight your addiction. And I couldn’t stay sober. I would try so hard! But I couldn’t. It got to be so bad, my husband was becoming ashamed of me. When Lisa would call and ask me how I was doing, I would lie to her and say I was doing great. I really wasn’t. Then one weekend, I made the biggest mistake of my life while drunk and I had no where to turn. No where. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. So I called Lisa. I told her I had been lying to her all these months and I cried as I told her what I had done. It was Sunday morning, but instead of going to church, she came right over to my house. She held my hand as I cried. She prayed for me. And she told me what I needed to do. She hugged me. She loved me.

I ended up attempting suicide over my mistake. And as I laid in the hospital recovering, she came to see me. Once again, there was no judgment, no persecution. Just love. Love and concern. She told me there was so much to live for. She knew the desperation I was feeling and she told me that God knew my desperation. And not only that, but God loved me anyway and was ready to take my broken pieces and make them whole again. She told me she was going to be right there by my side as I embarked on my journey. She was my prayer warrior.

I have since made peace with my demons and my life is now whole again, just as she said it would be. But I don’t think I would be where I am today if it wasn’t for her unconditional love and support for me. I have never in my life seen so much of Christ in one person. Lisa personifies what I truly believe is the reason God calls certain people into the ministry. He calls those who can make a difference because they are real. God doesn’t want fake people. He wants Lisas. She’s not perfect and she isn’t mistake-proof. But she loves and she prays. She loved me and she prayed for me. And here I am today. I’ve been sober for 2 years, 8 months, and 15 days today.

To this day, Lisa can tell when I need a hug or when things aren’t right. And when she sees it, she’s right there with encouragement, scripture and arms that seem to engulf you and make you feel like the world does not exist, just you and her. Thank you Lisa for making a difference in this broken woman’s life.

— Anonymous

This is the first guest post for “inspire: personal stories”. It was submitted by Kathryn, of Daring Young Mom. Thank you Kathryn! If you’d like to write a guest post, please view the guidelines under “what is inspire?”.

She responded to an ad I placed on campus, asking for survivors of rape or sexual assault willing to share their stories on film. She was timid at first but willing to entertain the possibility.

After a few conversations, she chose to do the interview, sharing how she had been betrayed by someone she trusted, how what started out as a pleasant evening had turned into the worst night of her life. She confided in me and in my crew. Through me, she shared her most personal experiences with thousands of strangers.

She chose to be filmed with her face showing, to stand up and say, “This happened to me. It was not my fault. If it happens to you, it’s not your fault either.” These were things no one had told her. These were things she had to learn the hard way, as she reconstructed her self image over time.

We were sloppy. We needed to re-shoot portions of her interview. She returned, seemingly unfazed, and again relived her nightmare in front of the cameras.

We hired an actress to play her and recreated that horrible night. For several months, she worked with us on the film to help survivors of rape and sexual assault get the assistance they needed. With her help, I completed my senior film project and learned a whole new language for dealing with this issue. She made me a stronger and more compassionate person.

Wanting to do more, she also started a rape advocacy program to get women support quickly and with as little effort on their part as possible. Composed and tireless, she amazed me with her efforts.

Shortly after the project was completed, I heard a knock at my door. When I opened it, there stood Emily. In her hand she held flowers and a note for me.

The note was a short and sincere thank you for everything I had done to help her and other women struggling with this type of violation. She thanked me for helping her heal, when I felt like what I had done was repeatedly tear open her wounds for the sake of the project.

If I deserved flowers and a thank you note for that, she deserved something more than I could ever give. And she had it. She has it. And every single day she gives it away to others.

–Kathryn, the DYM