Never Forget

We had a most interesting experience in class today. My students observed me doing therapy with a young woman who is recovering from sexual abuse during her teenage years (this was with her permission, of course). This woman is a pastor who has had tremendous struggles coming to terms with what she considers her "part" in making the abuse happen.
Even though she was the child and the adult is responsible for protecting her.
Even though she felt threatened.
Even while everyone looked up to her as the "perfect" student.

This woman is one of the bravest people I can imagine--weekly doing battle with her inner demons. I try very hard to balance my challenges with warm support so she doesn't give up. There is so much work to be done.

And she feels that since she is a pastor, she should be able to transcend all that has happened to her. She should be able to forgive her abuser and then to forgive herself. But she can't bring herself to pray to God about any of this, or even to have a conversation with Him about what has happened. "Because then I'll have to forgive [my abuser] because God will forgive me and I'll be obligated to in turn, forgive. I can't yet."

Five students were seated on the other side of the one way mirror, taking in what we were doing only feet away from them. They were so close that they later said they could almost feel her breathing.
By arrangement, after 40 minutes of our work, we turned off the light on our side of the mirror and turned on the speaker in their room. One by one, the students began to think aloud about what they had been hearing and what issues they thought of, or what they wondered about as they listened. My pastor client took in every word. At one point, she looked at me and mouthed, "This is really interesting!" The students were not addressing her, just having a conversation together, creating hypotheses, and identifying issues and ideas that may have some interest to us for future work. After about 10 minutes of discussion, the lights and microphone came back on at our side of the mirror and we pondered what had been said.

This is called a Reflecting Team. It is a way to stir the pot, so to speak. A way to get input from more than the therapist. It feels odd in the beginning, but most people are intrigued by the insights that others have on them--things that neither they nor their therapist have verbalized. At one point when a student mentioned the Scarlet Letter, and how that identity can be hard to relinquish, my client cringed. She wanted to talk about this later. She wanted to tell me about her scarlet letter--it was a black, half-dead, silver-dollar-sized spot on her heart. She knew what to do with that part of her heart: ignore it, hide it, stay busy and talking about nonessential issues to distract people from seeing that sore spot. But she did not want to give it up. Even though our work had made it smaller--it was her Black Spot and she was not ready to say goodbye to it.

She was startled by this realization. Who would want to hold on to pain and disfigurement?

I have been thinking about this idea tonight, and I think we all have some wound that defines us in some unique way. It is hard to give it up sometimes. After all, our struggle with that wound has made us who we are--we have received secondary gain by talking with others about it. We have battle scars from it. Grappling with it has made us stronger and able to cope with future, smaller battles. As strange as it seems, we don't want to say goodbye to it forever. How will we remember all that the wound represents? For some people, these battle scars become grievance stories. For some of us, the battle scars remind us of how we have gotten where we are now in spite of everything. Perhaps the challenge of recovery work in therapy is changing the meaning of the scars: from grievance story to symbol of victory. That is my wish for my client, and it is what my students later told me, as they thought aloud about this Reflecting Team experience.

I imagine that during the ceaseless ages we shall be able to look at the nail scars in Jesus' hands and feet. It is important that we not forget what salvation has cost heaven. Those hands and feet represent victory of the greatest kind.

We are all scarred and bruised as we go through life--from one thing or another. It is part of the human condition. Our wounds can be safely relinquished to God, with considerable processing and tearfulness. We can give them up without losing the meaning of them--without forgetting who we have had the grace to become in spite of these wounds. Eventually we are left with symbols of being able to survive--of victory and hope. I am truly grateful for this hope that we all can have.

Timeless Message

Gifts From Abroad

I have bacterial pneumonia. It hit me like a brick--suddenly, out of the blue. Almost instantly I was congested, feverish, hacking, and with a sore throat that feels like I'm swallowing razor blades every time I cough or swallow. I knew it was not good when it was apparent that none of my home remedies even made a dent in it. Sleeping didn't help. Steam tents didn't break up the rattle in my chest. And as I fell asleep I could hear my lungs sounding like a concertina--rasping and rattling away.

The doctor was fresh out of medical school and looked like a good wind could blow him over. He chided me for using "cooling measures" and seemed to enjoy making the point that this idea is out of date. I only need to keep my head cool, not try to reduce my fever.
He listened to my chest thoughtfully. He thumped my back and listened to my heart. He wasn't too swift with the tongue blade, but then he wasn't sure that those were my tonsils hanging down inside my throat until I told him that I still had them. That did not inspire confidence.

But when he conferred with his attending--my regular doctor--they came back with a regimen of antibiotics and strict orders to stay in bed. Which is why I'm sitting up and writing this right now...He said that they believe I brought this back from Peru and it suddenly hit me after my antibiotic regimen for traveler's sickness was finished.

My chest x-ray looked hazy this morning. Blood cultures and lab work are pending. I'm just so grateful for antibiotics because after taking two doses I already am starting to feel a small measure of relief.

Last night as I lay on the couch waiting for Sam to pick up the medications, I was having a hard time breathing. The heat from my 103 degree fever emanated off my face and I was shaking with chills. I recalled the death scene from the book, Christi, where a young woman succumbed to something or another. It was a long drawn out agonizing time for those sitting with her, trying in vain to help. She died very young. Without antibiotics, I could have died. Never have I felt so ill before--just utterly unable to do anything for myself and miserable beyond words.

Today I'm again grateful that science has provided us with antibiotics. We get them so quickly and take them for granted. People in other parts of the world do not have this luxury. Perhaps their general health is better somehow, or they have more natural immunity. After this experience being in Peru, I'm not sure I care to travel abroad again. But I realize that my health is more important than many other things and it needs to be protected. At my age, good health does not happen by accident. I'm just grateful that an end is in sight to all this.

Uncertain Love

I love this picture and I love what it says about my precious husband. I took it after Sam and I had gotten married and were having our first visit with the rest of the family. Sam is shown here with my nephew, Leonard, who appears to be rather uncertain about this man hugging on him. Sam could not have been more pleased to have a new nephew who could sometimes be goofy, sometimes warm, sometimes playful--just like him.

I've written other posts about Sam's hugging of people--it is a wonderful, Latin habit of his. After being in Peru, I'm thinking seriously about being more like him. It is a lovely way of being. You hug people to greet them and to say goodbye. And you can hug them any number of times in between. Sam is a very warm, personable man whom I adore. His warmth has endeared him to many people. Just not Leonard yet (in this picture).

This picture reminds me of my prayer this morning on my walk. I was talking to God about how many times He's pulled me through tight situations. I've learned to trust Him and know something about His steadfastness. I also have learned about His miracles and ability to pull something marvelous--greater than anything we can imagine--out of thin air. So His majesty and ability to provide for me are not in question. There are times I'm called to wait--more times than I wish--but experience has proven that He is trustworthy and does the right thing at the right time. I would not wish things different if I could see the end from the beginning--I'm convinced of that. But what I'm not so sure about is God's loves for me.

Oh yes, the Bible is clear about how much God loves us. The entire Bible is one story after another that demonstrates the way God treats us. But recently, in my own life, I have not focused on God's love for me and it is not what is foremost when I approach Him. I've focused on doing the right things or asking Him to use me, or what I would like Him to do for other people. I've marveled aloud to Him about the things He has done and the perfect timing of His will and ways. I've thanked Him over and over for numerous things every day: my health, job, husband, family, home, opportunities, hope, the morning skies--all the beauty and loveliness of a Southern California winter morning.

Therapists call this, aboutism. Talking about everything outside of the room and not what is in the room: the therapist and the client, and what is happening between them. So when I stop a client's long story about what happened when they got angry last week with their gardener and how they told him off, their eyes flashing and fists clenching, I have to stop them and ask them about the here-and-now: "And what's happening while you're telling me this right now?" Suddenly they can see me. I'm not invisible any more while their eyes focus on what happened in another time and place. We begin talking about what is in the room and everything changes.

As far as knowing that God loves me, Barbara, more than I can imagine--this is something that I've not thought of for some time. I feel like Leonard in the picture: standing close to God but there's something in the eyes that tells you that love is not foremost in his mind at this point. Even in the face of the most generous, unabashed displays of affection. I've been so busy talking to God about other people and situations that need His intervention that I've stopped seeing Him. I've been lost in aboutism.

If I think ahead to the future of living forever with God, knowing that the timing or miracles of Jesus are perfect and greater than anything we can imagine--these things will not sustain a relationship over millions of years. But God's love for me, this will sustain me. I asked God to forgive me this morning, for always approaching Him out of my own selfish needs and ideas. But as a human, is there much else I can do? Even my reaching out for God comes out of an awareness that I need something different than what I have within myself.

Perhaps God's love is this: He stays near to me in spite of myself--my inability to think the way He does, to be selfless and filled with faith. He keeps giving in the face of my stinginess. The wonderful gifts of husband, home, job that I love--these only continue to grow in goodness--in spite of the fact that I don't deserve even one of them. The sacrifice of heaven in sending Jesus down here so I can hope--so that my morning walks with Him can be fearless, eager conversations with my Papi--my Abba. It could be that if I were suddenly bereft of God, faith in the knowledge of who He is and what He can do, that I would recognize how much I love Him.

The illusiveness of my love for God. If I could just get it out in the open, I could celebrate it. For now, I mull it over in my mind, continue to talk with God about it, and look more closely for evidence and application of His love to me, Barbara. I'm glad He is big enough to entertain my attempts to find and hold Him close, even while He holds me very close.

I have loved thee with an everlasting love.

Therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee.

This One Thing I Know

This is the textbook I'm using in my practicum class this year. It is full of helpful essays about what spirituality is, what religion is, various practices and attitudes about both, and how to incorporate them into therapy appropriately. It has been a godsend, therapeutically speaking.

My students came into class today with expressions on their faces of dread. One guy said it well as he was leaving: "I really hated the thought of this class--all it stands for and what I was thinking would happen. But this is what I've been waiting for. What faculty member do you hear praying before class starts? Where else in this program can we talk this way?" Turning to me he continued, "When you prayed today, I felt a little something" pointing to his chest. "I love this."

I was grateful for the story I heard in church this week, that I opened my class with: a girl was told that her schnauzer dog's coat would be much improved if she gave him a tablespoon of caster oil every week. She decided she would follow this advice. So every week she would wrestle her dog into a head lock, force open his jaw, and pour the caster oil down his throat, rubbing his neck to make it go down. It was always a battle of the will for both of them.
The girl only had to open the cupboard and reach for a spoon, and the dog would disappear under the couch or behind a chair, in dread of the horrid headlock, etc. One day, during their weekly struggle, the dog kicked the bottle of caster oil over on the floor--an awful-smelling, sticky mess. The girl ran for the paper towels to get it cleaned up. When she returned to the kitchen, imagine her shock to see the dog standing in the middle of the caster oil, lapping it up as fast as he could go. He liked caster oil! He just didn't like the way it was given to him.

We are surrounded by people who would be attracted to Jesus if we didn't get in the way of the natural attraction He holds out to people. I reminded my class of this today, with the silent prayer that the spiritualist, the cut-and-dried fundamentalist Christian, the pastor, the Mormon, and the backslidden Adventist, would be able to form a classroom spiritual community of solidarity. As we discuss issues of demon possession, dangers of reparative therapy for gays and lesbians, spirit guides, sweat lodge practices, and marriage for time and eternity, I will be praying the whole time. I believe God will be with us in our diversity and desire to honor Him--even if we worship the representation of Him that looks different from the others in the room.

So how is all the classroom teaching going? It will be well with my soul. I'm tired with a "good" tired feeling, a satisfaction that things have gone better than I planned, and the realization that I am finally home, academically. What a blessing.

On the cusp of a big day

Tomorrow I teach my first course entitled "Clinical-IV." It is supposed to be the capstone course in a series of four rather vague doctoral-level classes about professional development. I have absolutely no idea of what I'm doing in teaching this class!

The students first take a class entitled, "Meaning." It is about the ways we attribute meaning to things that happen in our lives. Postmodernist ideas are introduced as well as ways to include them in therapy. The second class is called "Natural Systems" and is about how to use oneself in therapy--our feelings, personalities, tendencies, beliefs, etc. The third course (and these are not given in order here) is called "Cybernetics," which covers general family systems theories. Now I'm saddled with a class that is supposed to help the students pull all of this together and help them create a theory of their own. They will then be able to discuss and demonstrate this theory and how they use it in something called a Qualifying Clinical Demonstration--set in front of all of their colleagues, formatted like a professional conference presentation is.

Sounds terrific, doesn't it? Only, I'm sitting here after burning out my brain all day, trying to figure out how in the world to teach this. What readings to use? How to create a syllabus? How on earth to discuss these issues for a three-hour slot every week? Is this something that could hold the interest of the students? Do I even know enough to be able to get them to think about what they do in therapy?

It's interesting and unfortunate that even though I finished my degree four years ago, I am studying more now than I ever did in school! This quarter I will have taught six classes, or 20 hours of graduate coursework--two of the courses I've never taught before. I am the professor of record for nine courses this term. I am also the chair of five dissertations and serving on four other dissertation committees. Oh my goodness...

So as I sit here, my brain freezing up, feeling dumber than dirt, I have to remind myself that this thing will come together somehow. I will just wake up tomorrow at the crack of dawn and try to put pen to paper and create something interesting.

California, Here I Come!!!

It is definitely time for me to go home. 10 days was a long time and I'm ready to be back in a familiar place again. There has been real pleasure interspersed with all the challenges of being here. Last evening I announced to the students, "Es un gusto para mi estar nuevamente con ustedes." They broke into wild applause. (It is with pleasure that I meet with you again today). Simple things go a long way. I sat with a young student on the bus last night, who paid her way here by selling "blankets" at the side of the road. She was only able to sell one but that only made enough for her to get here. This student came by just now bringing bed linens. Apparently, she didn't know the word for sheets and this is what she is selling. She is a student most worthy of help and if I get something in return, that's frosting on the cake. Now she has money for food while she is here plus the trip back to Ecuador next week.

My food has been problematic here. The first three days it was so salty that my ankles swelled up. I asked for rice and beans without salt. I got some sort of meat that had been soaked in salt water. They probably didn't add any salt, so they felt they had honored my request. But it almost puckered me up, it was so salty. The smell of the hot milk product that comes in a white little pitcher, makes me gag every morning (I keep sniffing it, hoping it's something other than what it is--a soy-goat milk-sewage smelling product). One morning I was served something that I labeled "Jellyfish guts." It was a large bowl of clear slime. I know no other way to describe it. It was translucent clear something or another. I turned off my brain and eyes, and ate it. Not bad, but I probably would never ask for seconds. After my mad dash to the hospital, I've been served bland food in small amounts, twice a day. It's okay--I can drop probably 30 lbs and be just fine. And I would, should I live here much longer. My clothes already fit better than when I came.


Yesterday's morning's menu consisted of tea, slimy, watery oatmeal and 8 saltine crackers. Yum. Last night's supper was red jello, cream of green mystery soup, and 3 slices of white bread. The cook seems determined that I eat lemon marmalade on something, as I keep getting it in all sorts of disguised ways on my tray: in a jar, in a cup, spread over the bread, etc. It smells like a petroleum product. But what takes the cake is the barley in cinnamon vomitus (what it looked like)! As I write, there is a large soup bowl of some orange gruel waiting on my breakfast tray. I can hardly wait to find out what that is! I must say though, my stomach is feeling about 80% back to normal, as long as I don't need to eat everything I'm served.


There is some sort of bird here that screeches in a series of four or five very loud squeals at a time. I don't know if it is someone's pet bird or a bird in the wild. It has been the last sound I hear when I lay down and the first sound when I wake up. If I could meet it out in the open I could truly wring its neck. There is some other bird that makes an odd noise like a male duck--a throaty "wow" sound over and over. He lives outside in the grass somewhere. So these birds' miserable sounds punctuate my days.

The water in the shower is finally tepid, after nine days of bracing, icy showers. I'm not sure what the issue was, but that was quite a beginning to the day. Yesterday morning there was no running water so there was no morning shower. Everyone took it in stride, myself included. I just didn't recognize myself when I looked in the mirror! My hair has been a picture since I arrived and found that I forgot to bring my hairbrush. If I avoid mirrors I do pretty well.
Not to be indelicate, but the toilet is a three-flusher type of fixture that never does what it should. I stand over it, eyes agape, waiting for it to either overflow or do nothing. This is not the kind of thing you want to bother with when you have Montezuma's Revenge.

I'm told it never rains here--never. They only have dew on some mornings but I have yet to see anything like that. So it makes sense that many people live in houses that are full of holes and whose roofs are dilapidated and iffy. The windows in my bathroom here are not sealed and caulked in and I can see daylight around most of them. Why caulk them in if there is no concern of moisture coming through? So when I shut the bathroom door, the windows rattle in their tracks. When the wind blows outside, they rattle. When someone walks in the front door of the dormitory, they rattle.
Incidentally, last night we had a very fine misty sprinkle. People acted like it was a monsoon.


There are some sort of bugs that have been biting me. I don't know if they are a form of no-see-ums or bedbugs or mosquitoes. There was a group of mosquitoes buzzing around my face this morning at 5:30 and kept me swatting and going under the covers for two hours. I keep finding little red marks on my arms and legs. Against my very white skin, I'm sure these polka-dots create quite a picture for the students.

It is time to go home. I am ready. I don't begrudge my time here, but it has been hard to be here alone for all this time, and to be without anyone to talk to consistently has been tough. If Sam were here with me, at least we could be together--although he would be bored silly. I can only think of three people I know who would have enjoyed this adventure. I have tried to take on their chipper, adventurous attitudes while I've been here, roaming about the campus, talking to everyone, asking questions. Were I to act like myself, I'd stay inside my room all the time and only go out if there is a fire in the building. I appreciate the fine example given me of being good, flexible, inquiring travelers.

This campus is in a rural region, an hour's drive from Lima. People are very poor and the homes are rag taggle here. The air quality is horrendous. My host tells me that it is a marine layer, but there is no moisture in it and it smells like exhaust. It doesn't feel exactly refreshing to go walking around the campus breathing deep lungfulls of it. It's worse smog than in Southern California. It has been eye-opening to think of how many people in this world live without the luxury of governmental controls on pollution. I am indeed fortunate.

The faculty here make the princely sum of $400 U.S. every month. Of course, that works out to be about three times as much in Peruvian money. Some of the students are raggedy and it is clear that they are making a huge sacrifice to come to this Christian university. There is a young boy of about 18 years of age who brings me my meals every day. I gave him $20 on Friday and he almost started crying. That clinched it for me. I think the money this school is coughing up to bring me here will go back to them in scholarships for their students. A little goes a long way in this country. This is perhaps the most important feature of the trip. I have realized in new ways how much I do have and how wealthy Americans are in comparison to the rest of the world. I think I can help students get an education here by setting up a scholarship for the family therapy students. That will be a tremendous joy. When I see these little brick hovels with questionable roofs, half-starved dogs lying in the streets asleep, and women washing their clothes in irrigation ditches, I feel guilty about the possibility of Sam and I buying a spacious new home. But I live in America, not Peru, and life goes on.

Even though a real whirlwind of work awaits me at home, I'm looking forward to leaving. I leave with the cheerful and respectful greeting, "Doctora!" ringing in my ears, and with the shy mumbled Spanglish greetings every day. People have tried very hard to be accommodating and they have been very dear. In particular, my host has been very kind.

I've been given a new moral reference point that includes responsibility to the world and those whose lives are very different than mine. And I am ready to go. With a full heart and many things to ponder for days to come.

Traffic

All photos from the internet. This found here

I just have to comment on the driving in this country. There is nothing like it anywhere else I've ever been. The photo above is the view I have from my seat of honor--the front single seat in the front of our bus. Yes, I am about the size of two Peruvians, so they have me up front--but also out of respect. The students sit all crunched together, all 25 of them, in the back of the bus, leaning into each other and not minding it one bit. From my perch up front, I can read all the names painted across the back windows of the little taxicabs. For some reason, the current style of signage is to have paint bleeding down from the letters. It's a bit odd, but apparently quite cool. The names, In Vacion, Arla Bonita, La Victoria, and Etsirsa bleed white and red paint down the back windows.


I've been fascinated by watching the traffic patterns from my elevated perch in the front seat. The streets are full of all sorts of vehicles that we don't have in the States: Citroens, Opals, and the tiniest little Toyota busses I've ever seen. And almost anything can be used to transport people. Look at this lovely number! You can have about 20 people packed into one of these things and people's legs are all tangled around other people who they don't even know. Of course, most Peruvians are small people, so they can fit in them much better than Americans can. I have not yet seen one morbidly obese Peruvian. They all seem to be in pretty good shape, even those with some extra padding.



These interesting three-wheeled motorcars are everywhere outside Lima's city limits. At least, I haven't seen any downtown. These motorcars are all over the country roads. They might have one flourescent or neon strip of light on the top of it, but that is all. Some of the newer motorcars have a weak, faltering headlight. It could be easy to come up over a hill at night and hit one of these by accident. Usually there are one to three passengers inside. The vehicles are powered by a motorized bike--maybe a Honda 150 if there is such a thing (they're smaller than a 350). These are definitely at the bottom of the pecking order on the street. The first say goes to the semi trucks, which are shorter but wider than ours. Then the big tour busses, then the medium sized tour busses, then the fleet of little Toyota and nondescript teeny busses and regular cars. But when you drive into an intersection, these little motorcars have to give right of way to whomever else is coming. I've seen these things cling to the side of the road as you pass by. Their passengers hold on for dear life and all lean uphill to balance it and keep it from rolling sideways.


As we drive through town, our driver aims for the center of the street, regardless of what the lines on the pavement indicate as proper passage. The goal is to avoid chuck holes. So sometimes we careen over to the left and drive there for awhile, and sometimes go off the road to the right to avoid a speed bump or a gash in the pavement. But those dirt roads leaving the university are something else! Our bus driver heads out of the gate and into a swirl of oncoming motorcars and taxis. Since we have right of way, they all move to the side as he drives on the left side of the road to avoid a big depression in the road. The little toy horns in all the cars beep and the driver completely ignores them, driving straight at them. Then we straighten out, move over to the right lane and off we go.

As we drive along, we come up behind a little Toyota bus. Our driver thinks we should pass it. There is an oncoming car. He flashes his lights several times, beeps, and off we go. We pass the bus in the middle of the street while the car moves past us on the left. I could reach out the window and shake hands with the driver of the Toyota bus if I wanted to--it's that close to my window. I see the driver inside, leaning ahead and swaying as he looks at the rearview mirror. Bear in mind that the lines in the middle of the street are merely suggestions and do not obligate anyone to adhere to them.

We come to left turn out of the little village near the university. People are everywhere and dogs are asleep in the dirt at the side of the road (and many times they sleep in the road!) There is a car ahead of us, his car turned into traffic, ready to make the left turn. Do we queue up behind him? Oh no, we pull up alongside of him so there are two of us jutting out into the oncoming traffic. When there is a one-car length space in the flow of traffic, we lunge out across it. Horns beep and we drive forward without a care. Only by the time we get into the left turn, there are three or four of us in a phalanx, all aiming for one of the two lanes going left. No matter--we jostle into whatever space there is and may the best man win.


Man.


My host asked me the other day, "And do you notice anything about who drives in this country?" It's all men. I've only seen about two women drivers. "That's because we have the idea that the woman is at home and the men take the women where they need to go." I told him that this idea lines up well with Sam's ideas about my driving. He laughed. "Actually, I never taught my wife to drive, so now I have to take her everyplace. That's our situation." He roared with laughter.



Necessity is the mother of invention. Cars, motorcars, and makeshift vehicles are everywhere here. Even with all the noise and jammed roads, I have not once felt nervous in traffic. Everything is taken in stride. You don't see people gesticulating angrily at one another, or someone stopped on the side of the road punching out another guy. No road rage. Life moves ahead in a relaxed sort of way. You weigh in your opinion by beeping the horn. You wave your arm out the window if you really need to merge into traffic, or you ask someone else in the car to do it for you out the passenger side. Someone will pull back and let you in, and if they don't you just head in and force them back. They honk and you ignore them.


In the end, everyone is your friend here. I have loved what I have learned about life by watching life from the front seat of the bus.

Life is good. People are important. Let your energy and passion be invested in who you're going to see, not in how you get to where you're going. This is the big lesson that I'm taking home.

Trauma in Latin America

I am teaching a class on child abuse and family violence here in Peru. From reading the World Health Organization's report on various country's responses to child abuse, I noticed that Peru isn't doing very well. And as I have been teaching these students every day, I have been hearing more and more stories about what they have endured.
Sexual abuse is the most frequently reported type of abuse here in Peru. More than half of all girls experience it in some form or another. After giving two lectures on it and fielding questions about how I respond to abusers in therapy, I suddenly learned that the term abuso sexual, most often refers to intercourse. I was stunned to realize how many girls are inappropriately sexualized here, and that, at such early ages!
In the first class, a middle-aged woman in the front row asked me, "What do you do if you have been sexually abused? Can you still do therapy with people? What do I need to do first?" Good questions. So glad you asked.

Another asked, "I am a pastor and a psychologist. People come to me with all of their problems. What do I do if a man comes to me with his family and I think he is abusing his daughter? Must I report him?"
Of course.
"But that means that he automatically goes to jail for 14 years. There is no therapy offered in the prisons. So when he comes out, his life is ruined. He has lost his family and his life."
He should have thought of that before he abused his daughter.
"But the whole church will be angry with me because I'm supposed to help someone like this."

"My sister got drunk at a party and several boys raped her at one time. She has never talked about it. Now I understand what her experience is after listening to these lectures and I want to help her."
It will be wonderful for her to hear that you support and understand her.
"Yes. She has had five live-in boyfriends and she shows no sign of staying with the one she is with now."
This is quite common, actually.
"I want to do therapy for her. Where do we begin?"
That isn't a good idea. We all want to help our families, but we must relate to them as people, not therapists.
"If she tells me what happened, all I do is cry. I don't think that helps her."
I think it might be a good starting point.

And there are other abuses and traumas that have never been uttered:
"When my children were 8 and 10 years old, my husband was traveling with them in Columbia. The guerillas captured them and kidnapped my husband, leaving the children in the car surrounded by the soldiers for one day. They returned my husband to the children and they continued on their journey. I have never hear them talk about this experience even though they are 16 and 20 years old now. Do you think they have post-traumatic symptoms?"

"I have had a 12-year-old boy come to my [pastoral] office and he told me that his uncle has been molesting him. Do I have to report this? I promised him that I would keep it a secret."
You can't make promises to children that legally, you cannot keep. That will most likely not help him in the long term.

"Do you think that before a woman gets married that she should always tell her husband that she has been abused?"
Would you really want to be married to someone that you would have to keep secrets from?

There is much pain in this world. It is not limited to one region. The clinical abuse stories that I have shared with them has shocked them--"How can people do this to one another?"
"Does this happen often in the United States?"
Our forms of abuse have become much more sophisticated and shocking than their run-of-the-mill pervasive varieties.

We all battle with the fallout of these kinds of acts. The devil is alive and well, and still on the ground.
I hope that our discussions down here about family life will result in good things for clients, families, and students. That will have been worth all the inconveniences and challenges of being in this place.

Cerro San Cristobal

Last week I went with my host and two students into Lima for a day of sightseeing. We took a bus tour up a very high hill to Cerro San Cristobal, on which is a very tall cross. The road, which is usually open for car travel, is closed around Easter so the faithful can walk up the very long, winding road to the cross at the top. As we drove up through the village, we got stuck behind a truck that couldn't budge. So everyone sat and waited. Or sat and waited and beeped their horn. Most of the horns here sound like toys, and people honk the horn out of principle, so it was an altogether cheery 10 minute hiatus. As we sat in our tourbus, which seated approximately 20 people, my host suddenly took my purse, cradled it on his lap and wrapped his arms around it. "Please," he said. "There are robbers who will reach in the bus and take it." I also learned that they are so desperate that some would not think twice about cutting off your finger and harvesting your ring.

The road winds up over the side of the mountain through a village of brightly painted homes built into the side of the hill. The road itself can't be more than 12 feet wide in most places. I shuddered to think what would happen should we meet another bus on our way up. From the top, we can see a huge sports arena, seen here at the right. This is called the Plaza de Anco. It was built around 1530 for bullfighting and has been in operation ever since.

I was grateful that it wasn't bullfighting season beause I can hardly bear to think of how the fights end. This arena is a great source of national pride.

From the top of the mountain, our attention was also directed to what looked like the projects--probably 20 blocks of four to five story buildings that all looked the same. There were no windows in them. It was a cemetery--the village of the dead, so to speak. Apparently, this city of nine million people has run out of space to bury people and so have built crypt-like buildings to house the dead. My host used to be a pastor in an adjacent area of the city. As one would expect, only the very poor and criminal live nearby. He often found the wheels removed from his car when he came out of church.

From Cerro San Cristobal, we headed to the Museum of the Inquisition. As expected, it was a sobering and grisly exhibition. We heard the white-washed version of history, given by a woman whose demeanor was visibly defensive. She tried to normalize the brutality of the inquisition by explaining to us that the U.S. also used the stocks to punish offenders in puritan times. She also claimed that only four people died from the torture and that the majority were Jews and Muslims who would not convert to Christianity. Yet there were plaques that gave different numbers. Approximately 46 "Judiazers" died there, she said. These, my host explained, were people who were most likely Protestants, or those who disagreed with Catholic doctrines. However, the numbers were miniscule in comparison to those who actually died there. Because this event is an embarassment to the church, the actual records have been suppressed. This, in addition to the numerous earthquake damage, has allowed reminders of the Inquisition to be lost or buried. There were many women who were killed by putting a cotton wick in their mouth and throats, then pouring water into their mouths until they drowned. People's extremities were attached to horses, who were whipped to run in four different directions until the individual was dismembered. They were hung upside down. All sorts of horrible things happened in those old walls. Walking through the underground cells, no bigger than a casket, I kept hearing the words of the hymn, Faith of our Fathers. I wonder if I would have been able to endure what these people did.

While pondering this, my host, a Protestant pastor, explained to me why South America has such strong Catholic loyalty. He said that in the late 1500s, one of the European Protestant reformers was interested in evangelizing South America. He sent over 400 missionaries under the direction of a man with the last name of something like Duran. When the group arrived here and started their missionary activities, the Catholic clergy began trying to dissuade Duran from his faith. They succeeded and he killed all the missionaries. One man escaped into the jungle but was never seen again. Amazing, how the choices of one man has influenced history and current events.

We walked in the main town square of Lima, across from the beautiful cathedral there. There are these ornately carved wooden box type things on the outside of the building and I wondered what they were. I was told, "We have a machismo society here. So the women would go up into those and look out into the square and the men would mingle here altogether in the evenings." The man telling me this laughed apologetically. I thought it was hilarious. Times and places change, but behavior often doesn't!
You can see the yellow of the building to the right of the cathedral. All the buildings around the square were that lovely yellow color. It made me realize how plain and boring our buildings are--gray, brown and beige.

Perhaps what stood out for me the most on this trip, was Cerro San Cristobal. All along the winding road up to the cross at the top, stood about 8 large cement crosses. I noticed that there were rocks on top of the horizontal bars of each cross. Apparently, when the pilgrims make their way up the mountain, they carry a rock for each sin they want to have absolved. This makes for a very laborious climb. But up they go, chugging their rocks. When they get to a cross, they leave a rock on the cross and say a prayer before going on. By the time they get to the top they have left their rocks below and have only to pray and light a candle at the large, towering cross. Perhaps they also leave flowers or other ornaments.
It's wonderful imagery--leaving our sins on the cross. But I am so very grateful that God doesn't require us to carry our sins around with us like that. Even though some people choose to do so, it isn't necessary, because He takes them from us and carries them for us.
It is a thought-provoking trip, this.

Revenge!

Montezuma

It has been a most interesting and eventful night. People do things differently across the world--and have different ideas about health and how to enhance it. Last night I was driven lickety-split to Miraflores, Lima, about 40 km away. I had tremendous pain in my abdomen that could not be relieved. Yes, my bowel has been a scene of rapid transit for several days, but I just chalked that up to traveling. Never have I had such an experience in traveling that was this bad. My host consulted with a doctor and gave me a medication that is used here and in Europe (but not the U.S.) called Floratin. It is live yeast bacteria used to combat traveler's diarrhea and that of people with HIV-AIDS. The idea of ingesting live bacteria didn't do much for me, but I thought that perhaps my provincial ideas of medicine need to be expanded.

Problem was, in about two hours I was in terrible pain.

After five hours of pain, I tried calling the campus medical offices that were listed on the back of the guestroom door. Unbeknownst to me, I was calling Peru 9-1-1. They kept asking me why I was calling Central America, and couldn't understand a word I said. That obviously wasn't going to get me any help. No dean was in sight, no student, no security officer. If I wanted to get help I would have to walk about a mile down to the front gate of the university. Then I would have to try to make myself understood. I started toward the door, but they were dead bolted and I couldn't get out of the building. My belly was in great pain and I was beginning to get hot and cold.

Thank goodness for a husband who can speak Spanish! I called Sam and asked him to call back to the campus and explain to them that I need a doctor. A few minutes later the security officer was outside the door and a student was stumbling down the stairs with a key to let him in. There I stood, clutching my abdomen, my shoulders hunched forward protectively. Up the stairs raced Joel(pronounced "Ho-El") and his wife who got me into their car. Off we flew.

A grim, humorless physician waited at the door, along with two energetic and very sweet nurses. I went right into a room while Joel registered me. There is very little privacy in many hospitals outside the U.S. Joel called to me across the waiting room, asking me my birthdate and address information. I sang it out for the wondering people in the waiting area. No HIPAA requirements here! Joel and his wife then came in and stood over me as the doctor unbuttoned my dress and began palpating my belly. He acted as if my presence bored him to tears.

He told me curtly that I have colitis and a very sensitive bowel. He ordered IV anti-inflammatory medications along with Ranitidine--something to help my bowel. He stepped out just as I heard a commotion right next to my head. Apparently that was where the hospital code cart was, and it was being whisked into an adjacent room. I heard someone get intubated and then shocked with defibrilator paddles. Then a drunk woman burst through the curtain next to my bed, shouting a man's name. The shouting turned to wailing as she was notified of the man's death.

The whole scene was visible to Joel and his wife, who stood open-mouthed at in the doorway, watching the entire resussitation effort.I'm sure the folk in the lobby were also privy to this scene. I was eventually moved down the hall into a room. The medication almost immediately relieved my distress and I fell asleep quickly.

Now I am back in my guest room, dozing off and on and feeling much better. It still feels like my belly has a war going on in it, but it's probably due to the three liters of vile, metalic-tasting electrolyte liquid I'm required to drink today. My diet will now consist of rice and maybe a cooked vegetable. Perhaps a slice of bread if I want real excitement. But no fruit (no more mangoes!), dairy, or uncooked food while I'm here.

Overall, this has been a real adventure and I might have enjoyed it had I not been in such extreme pain. I'm grateful that I'm okay. I'm thankful that Sam speaks Spanish and that I brought along an international telephone, or else I could still be writhing about in my guest room.

Doctors, nurses, and patients seem to be the same the world over. Life comes and goes in the Emergency Department. And Montezuma claims victory once again.

Peru

Some of you know that I am in Lima, Peru for 11 days. I came down here to give an intensive graduate course on child abuse in a graduate school. I am behind on sleep, have sensory overload, miss Sam, and have the beginnings of Montezuma's Revenge (from bottled water???) So I'm going to sleep. But there will be more to follow.
Praise be for international travel!