My husband and I LOVE road trips.  We have driven from Ontario to the West Coast, from Seattle to Chicago (x2), to Washington DC in a December blizzard, to Atlanta, Georgia for the Catalyst Conference (x4)…not to mention Jay’s diamond digging expedition to Arkansas with his best friend Richard (long story).  We were pretty excited a couple of months ago when we heard about the Justice Summit taking place in Ottawa – and the word “ROAD TRIP!” may or may not have been blurted out in anticipation as we began to envision our drive to the nation’s capital!  I was looking forward to meeting other abolitionists and learning from those on the front lines.  Here are some of my notes and thoughts from each session:

What I Learned From MP Joy Smith:

New Dreams Can Catch You By Surprise.  Joy was a math teacher with a dream of being the school principal, and she was slated to be the next one at her school.  But when her students opened up to her about a sexual predator who was involved with some of the kids on her school, she made a decision that changed the course of her dreams.  She immediately went to the principal and told her they needed to call the police.  Worried about the school’s reputation, the principal refused, and threatened Joy that if she called the police, she would kiss her chance to be principal the next year goodbye.  Joy called the police, and a dangerous man was arrested.  Her dream of being a school principal slowly began to transform into a new dream – one of ending exploitation and human trafficking in Canada and around the world.

Fighting Human Trafficking Requires Courage.  Fast forward several years – she became a Member of Parliament and has lead government efforts to combat human trafficking. She worked with one of the victims in Canada’s first human trafficking case. She has had 5 threats on her life, as well as her daughter’s life.  This is what can happen when you stand up to organized crime, but she is not letting fear cripple her.

Regular Life Does Not Stop Even When You Have a “Cause.”  I love how open and honest Mrs. Smith was at the summit.  She talked about being a mom to her 6 children, and about how when her bill passed in Parliament, she was in a rainy parking lot trying to find juice for her husband who was fighting cancer in the hospital.  Having a cause to fight for does not mean that the rest of life’s struggles end.

The Word That MUST characterize an Abolitionist:  Mrs. Smith said: “The only good thing about me is that I am willing.”  Let’s add “willing” to our vocabulary.

Brian McConaghy, Justice Summit 2012

What I Learned from Brian McConaghy:

Unlikely Examples of Forgiveness.  Brian, who started the Ratanak Foundation, rescues and restores child victims of sex trafficking in Cambodia.  When he was part of the RCMP, he was also in charge of the freezer contents in the Robert Pickton case.  With this type of work it is a miracle he is able to talk about forgiveness.  He showed us a picture of one of the girls at his safe house writing a letter of forgiveness to her mother for selling her into the sex trade.  Wow.  We have much to learn from these beautiful young women.

The Hearts of Traffickers Can Change.  Brian’s team not only reaches out to victims of sex trafficking, but also to pimps, traffickers, and mama-sans.  Ratanak has set up a gym where the men can work out, and the team uses that as an opportunity to build relationships, have conversation, and help them to change their ways.  Progress and heart change is happening, albeit slowly.  This is revolutionary.  Many of these boys and men grew up doing this, with role models who did the same, and they need to be re-educated by people who understand what true love looks like.  After all, the song “Amazing Grace” was written by repentant human trafficker from the Trans-Atlantic slave trade.

What I Learned from Jamie McIntosh:

We Are All Shackled.  Jamie, who is the founder of International Justice Mission Canada and just finished the Master’s program in International Human Rights law at Oxford University, reminded us that there is one chain that weaves itself around the world, and ridding ourselves from that may be the fight of our lives.  It’s so true.  We have to untangle ourselves from the system of exploitation that exploits us or allows us to exploit others.

In addition to hearing these amazing keynote messages, I attended two workshops.  Shae Invidiata from Free-them spoke passionately and practically on what effective activism looks like.  She pointed out that when we quote statistics, we have to make them relevant and easy for people to grasp.  For example, when we talk about 27 million slaves in the world today, we can mention that it is close to the population of Canada.  Imagining all of Canada in slavery puts the numbers into perspective.  I also got to hear the personal stories of two young women who were lured into the sex trade and how they are now on a journey towards healing.

Justice Summit Presenters Receiving a Thank You

After the conference we had relaxed dinner with abolitionist friends from Walk With Me and Free-them, with conversations meandering from serious topics like how song lyrics affect teenagers and how we all got involved in the fight against human trafficking, to more light-hearted topics like the Ottawa tulip festival (which we never we able to find…) and what we all do for work when we’re not organizing awareness events, or making documentaries, or taking care of trafficking survivors.   I felt so full when we left – and not just because I had pasta for dinner!  It truly is a blessing to be part of a movement with such amazing people, and spending time with them was so refreshing.

On Monday we visited Parliament Hill and got to meet with MP Joy Smith in the morning.  I have so much respect for her – she is doing so much in Canada’s government to fight and prevent human trafficking, and it was an honour and delight to spend some time with her at her office.

Meeting with MP Joy Smith

Our Ottawa visit concluded with my interview at Camino, an amazing fair trade co-operative that makes delicious chocolate, baking ingredients, drinks, and snack bars.  We received several travel snacks for the ride home, yum!  Thanks to our amazing and hospitable relatives who had us in their home, and for everyone who put the Justice Summit together.  Many blog posts will no doubt be inspired by this trip!

A couple weeks ago I went to a prostitution awareness event put together by Sextrade 101 and Sheatre.  As I drove to Toronto I wondered what the evening would hold. All I knew was that some kind of interactive theatre was involved, and I felt a mixture of eager anticipation, nervous reservation, and peaked curiosity.  What does interactive theatre look like? Would I find myself standing up in front of a full room, forced to participate or answer some kind of difficult question I lacked the answer for?  What misconceptions would the event shatter and what lessons was I about to learn?

I walked into a packed room with tables and caught the eye and beautiful smile of Natasha Falle, the amazing woman who started Sextrade 101.  ”Good, I’m in the right place,” I thought.  I sat down at a table with the Free-them crew and some others, and immediately had a roast beef dinner set before me.  It was awesome to catch up with some blog readers as I ate (you know who you are!).

The event began with a keynote by Victor Malarek, the host of CTV’s W5 and author of The Natashas: The New Global Sextrade and The Johns: Sex For Sale and the Men Who Buy It.  He talked about how before he started investigating sex trafficking for The Natashas, he probably would have supported legalization of prostitution.  But after being held at gunpoint when taking girls out of a brothel in Kosovo, speaking with sex trafficking victims and hearing their stories, and researching what johns think about women, he has drawn his line in the sand as an abolitionist, a total abolitionist.  Prostitution is violence against women, because it is not about choice but about survival.  I am grateful for men like him who take a stand.

The play was about to begin.  A group of young women and one man took the stage and introduced themselves.  In this moment I realized the profound significance of the play…these young women were survivors of prostitution and would be acting out scenarios based on realities of the sex trade.  I held my breath as they began, acknowledging their courage to share with us experiences they’d probably rather forget.

One scene depicted what it is like for someone trying to leave the trade to be in a classroom, where classmates made fun of her for not having a computer.  Another showed the girls getting ready for ‘customers,’ and another revealed the violence they experience.  The one that haunted me most was the part in which the main character is talking/fighting with her boyfriend/pimp.  The invisible chains that hold these young women in the trade may as well be physical – that’s how strong they can be.  Finally, there is a scene of vulnerability and recruitment.

The first time through we watched it like a normal play.  Following this, the audience was asked to participate.  The team went through each scene again, but this time we had to yell “STOP” if there was some way to intervene.  The audience member would have to replace someone on stage and act out what the right course of action would be.

As you can probably imagine, this was challenging and uncomfortable for many who chose to propose a new course of action.  I often find myself sitting at events or reading books thinking, “well clearly I would do this in their situation.”  But when a complex scenario laid before me with room full of people looking on (including those who had experienced the horrors of exploitation), all of a sudden I found my heroic ideas melt into a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Would I actually care enough about fellow classmates to hear their real stories?  If one of my classmates in university had been trying to get out of the trade and was struggling, would I have ever even noticed? If others stigmatized them, would I do something about it?  If they needed some extra help to find resources, would I be willing to sacrifice my time?

If I was a bystander and saw a man push a woman down on the street, would I interfere?  Should I? Would that just make her receive punishment later because her pimp is threatened by ‘outsiders’ getting involved?  Would calling the police make her situation better or worse?  What if she didn’t want my help? What if he had a gun?

The crowd got into some lively conversation about these scenarios, and not everyone agreed as to what was the right thing to do in each one.  As I wrestled with the jumble of complexity in my mind, one of the actors said this:

“We can avoid having to make these difficult decisions on how to react if we prevent this situation from happening in the first place.”

Prevention.  There it is again.  The word that drives me and bothers me, motivates me and frustrates me.  Prevention is difficult to measure.  It does not seem glorious.  It is hard to show numbers on a progress report.  But as an abolitionist, I strive to be a preventionist.  One of the young women on the stage asked, “where was all the help when I was a child?  If someone had intervened then, I would not have gotten into this mess.”

Healthy, loving adoptive families.  Compassionate, intentional teachers.  Patient, devoted mentors. Brave, fully-present parents.  Caring, hospitable neighbours.  We all have a role to play in preventing these messy, uncomfortable, exploitative, harmful situations from ever happening in the first place.

The evening ended with a story from Angel, a daughter of one of the women who was murdered by Robert Pickton.  You could have heard a pin drop.  I was so grateful for her beautiful honesty and her willingness to share how she is finding healing step by step.  Natasha Falle, who herself left the sex trade a number of years ago with the help of someone who believed in her, gave all the women who performed the play a rose at the end of the night.  There were hugs, and tears, and laughter.

THIS is what redemption looks like.

To Natasha Falle and everyone who put this event together, THANK YOU!  It was truly one of the best awareness events I have ever been to.  To the brave young women who took the stage, thank you for allowing me to learn and be challenged.  This evening is forever etched in my mind.

I have a confession to make.  I don’t really see myself as a “protester.”  I am not one who naturally chooses to hold up a sign and yell at the top of my lungs, and in fact sometimes I wonder how effective such approaches are.  But last weekend I took part in a protest at Queen’s Park in Toronto.  The goal was to demonstrate to the public that not everyone wants prostitution legalized in Canada.  Timea Nagy, who is a sex trafficking survivor, and Katarina McLeod, who worked in the escort industry for 15 years, were there as well to express why they do not support legal brothels.

My friend Kat and I attended the protest together, and took the rest of the day to unpack many thoughts.  Here are some of our reflections:

Protest at Queens Park. Photo Source: Toronto Sun

The Numbers

As you can see from the news clip, our group was not very large.  A few more joined after the footage was taken, bringing our number to around 30.  The pro-prostitution side has many vocal supporters who are keen to come show their support at various events, and some in our group were discouraged that our numbers on Saturday paled in comparison.

But the reality is that we were there on behalf of victims of trafficking and exploitation, who could not come protest because they were not allowed to.  I wonder how many of them would have showed up if they had the opportunity.  Also, there was no money in it for us to show up.  We took time out of our schedules to be a voice for those who could not represent themselves, not because we were protecting monetary interests.  In contrast, many of those who show up to support legalization are there because they are protecting their means of making money, or their “right” to pay for sex.  Self-interest is a strong incentive for people to show up.  For this reason, I was not surprised by the turnout, but hope that in the future there will be more who are willing to stand up for others.

The Chant

Following the media interviews, our group decided to walk to the edge of the road to hold up our signs for traffic to see, and chant loud enough to be heard by pedestrians.  The sign that Kat and I ended up holding said this: “Would men pay for sex if they went to JAIL for it?”  The chant went like this:

“Free the women, charge the johns!”

This is where the effectiveness of protests becomes an issue for me.  Chants and signs do not tell the whole story.  I was fully in support of yelling “free the women,” and ideologically I also support charging men who pay for sex, because their demand is what fuels the industry of sex trafficking.  I fully agree with Sweden’s approach of criminalizing the purchase of sex because it has decreased prostitution as well as human trafficking.  However, does the complexity of what we are proposing come across clearly in a two-line chant?

I believe that charging men who pay for sex is part of the solution, because it is their actions that make trafficking and pimping profitable.  But I also believe in the necessity for restorative justice.  Yes, throwing someone in jail gets them off the street so they cannot keep exploiting others.  But then what? They carry our their sentence in a place where they can meet more like-minded people, learn how to tighten up their game, and hit the streets without having experienced any remorse, or healing, or heart change.

So many of the men who feel entitled to women’s bodies were raised by fathers who did not respect women.  Like father like son.  In my mind there is absolutely no excuse for someone to hurt and exploit another, but I can see how easily it can happen when a person’s role model is setting a poor example.

Katarina McLeod and Timea Nagy leading the protest at Queens Park

The Deeper Things

Yes, we need to prevent legalization of brothels.  Yes, we need to criminalize the buying of sex.  But we also need to really examine what justice means.  We need to set up a system in which men can receive healing from the hurt and abuse of their past.  We need to teach young boys about how to respect and cherish women instead of using their cash to rent body parts.  We need to raise the minimum wage to a living wage so that women who would otherwise be vulnerable can at least have a shot at something that does not put them in danger.  We need to do much more than “charge the johns.”  Despite this not fitting on a sign, my hope is that our chant, our signs, and our presence will get people to ask questions, because lives are on the line.

The Community

Michelle & Kat - Fighting human trafficking together!

The anti-trafficking community in Canada really is amazing. It was an honour to spend Saturday fighting alongside people I love and respect so much.  I also got to meet some HFTS blog readers, which is one of my favourite things in the world!

Reflecting on the day’s events with my friend Kat was so good for me, because it reminded me that though writing a blog is important, maintaining face-to-face relationships and connections is vital.  If we want to be effective in ending human trafficking and the abuse of women, we must know each other and fight together.  For those of you who came out last weekend, thank you!

Like many abolitionists who use their early mornings, evenings, and weekends for anti-trafficking work, I have a day job.  Some days when I get home from work, I am exhausted and overwhelmed by the tasks that lay before me – whether it be fundraising for our documentary, writing letters to MPs, preparing for awareness events, researching, blogging, or catching up on emails.  I hunker down to get it done, but before I know it, it is midnight and I feel I’ve only gotten started.

Have you ever felt this way?  Like your intentions are good but your time is limited?  Like your lack of resources hinder you from ‘really’ making a difference?  Like you don’t know enough about an issue to tell others about it?  My abolitionist friend Kat and I talked this weekend about how sometimes we feel guilty that we don’t know all the answers, because we don’t want to betray someone’s trust by leaving out an important piece of information or misguiding them on a matter we have simply not had time to research or experience yet.  I’m only speaking for myself, but feeling overwhelmed can be absolutely crippling.

Instead of allowing myself to feel frustrated, last week I came to the following conclusion after listening to a message by Craig Groschel:

I will not let my inability to do EVERYTHING make me do NOTHING instead of SOMETHING.

I have a notebook where I record all the things I do to fight human trafficking, just so I can stay organized, track progress, and remind myself of important things.  I got out a big black marker and wrote the following on the cover:

Some days, my “something” fills a page and I crash into bed with the exhilarating feeling that maybe, just maybe, I changed the world that day.  Other days I am only able to fill in a line, which could be something as simple as writing a note of encouragement to someone on the front lines, or adding tags to a blog post, or reading half an article on sex trafficking.  Writing it down reminds me that though my responsibility is not to do everything, it is my stewardship and responsibility to do something.

What does this look like for you?  Whether your passion is to fight human trafficking, or serve the sick, or adopt an orphan, or teach kids, or mentor teens, or lead with excellence, or feed the hungry, or tell redemptive stories, or volunteer abroad, or write poems, or comfort the mourning, or help people in conflict zones, or support those struggling through mental illness, please don’t let your inability to do everything make you do nothing instead of something.

Maybe you could start by getting a notebook and a big fat marker, writing your reminder on the cover, and filling your first line.

Some people struggle remembering much from their childhood.  I am not one of those people.  My first memory brings me back to the age of 3, and I recall vivid details about many life experiences from that point forward.  Being raised in Finland and Ethiopia for the majority of my childhood years, I am grateful for the exposure I had to different ways of living.  Though I was unable to process much of what I saw around me in Ethiopia due to my age, I have the opportunity now to go through many of the mental snapshots from those years and process them as an adult.

Addis Ababa Traffic. Photo credit: Sameffron - http://www.flickr.com/photos/sameffron

One of these snapshots involves our car stopping at traffic lights in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital city. A swarm of children would often bang on the windows, begging for money.  This shocked me when we first moved there, but eventually I developed the hurtful skill of not looking into their eyes but acting as if they did not even exist.  Such situations are difficult to navigate through as an adult, let alone as a child.  These memories still haunt me.

Many of those kids were the same age as I was.  None of us has chosen what country we would be born in or how much money or opportunity would be available to us.  We all probably liked stickers and toys and climbing trees.  We all needed love and a parent to set healthy boundaries.  So much between me and them was the same.  But we were separated by a window pane.

I recently read a heart-wrenching article on the prostitution of children in Ethiopia.  It talks about how traffickers will go into impoverished, remote villages and purchase children for under $5.00 from families who either do not know what is going to happen to their child in the city, or are too desperate to care.  Often children would run away from their homes due to abuse or lack of opportunity and take a bus to the Mercado Bus Station in the heart of Addis, where predators would then exploit their vulnerability and sell them into the sex trade.  I remember buying a black leather backpack, which I still have, from that same Mercado.  There I was as a 10 year-old, negotiating a price for a backpack – my only concern being that a higher price would prevent me from buying candy later – while girls my age in that same market were negotiating a price from men who were going to use and abuse them – their concerns being disease, or pain, or beatings from their pimp if they did not bring in enough cash.

Mercado, Addis Ababa. Source: http://www.tourdust.com/blog/posts/a-day-in-addis-ababa

One of the only times I felt truly unsafe in my years of living in Addis was when I decided to walk home at dusk from my horse riding lessons instead of waiting for my dad to pick me up.  Our house was only a 10 minute walk away, but I remember feeling the eyes of men on me as I began to run, their whistles and comments chasing after me as my heart pounded in my chest.  Yet this was what many children my age endured on a daily basis.

Why me?  Why them?  As I say grace over my meals, I truly feel that I am receiving grace.  There are so many in the world whose lack of food on the table drives them to do desperate things.  There are so many children who are driven into horrific situations because their parents are abusive, or so broken themselves that they can’t even begin to understand how to care for another human being.

I still struggle with why I have been given so much, while so many children in the city I have so many fond childhood memories in are living lives of absolute horror.  Where are the girls who were forced to sell their bodies on the same day as I bought my backpack at the Mercado?  Are they servicing men in the oil fields of Sudan?  Have they been sold to Saudi Arabian families as house servants or sex slaves?  Are they even alive?

As I sit here in a comfortable coffee shop listening to Michael Buble and drinking a warm cup of tea, I can’t help but wonder.

One thing I do know – I have been given a stewardship and a responsibility to love others.  And not in the emotional, “fuzzy” sense of the word, but in the live-sacrificially-give-generously-act-courageously sense of the word.  My husband and I are still trying to figure out what this looks like, practically, in our daily lives.  I refuse to waste the opportunity I have been given to make a difference in this world, if only to honour those I ignored for years on the other side of the window pane.

For those of you know who know me, please hold me accountable to this.

Over the Christmas break I, like many others, fell in love with the Hunger Games trilogy.  Set in the future, it describes a society in which one region rules over and exploits the others, and every year two children from each district are chosen to fight each other to the death in a reality-show type manner as the entire nation watches.

To be honest, I was hesitant to write this post from fear if it coming across as cheesy or jump-on-the-bandwagon-trendy. But as I watched the movie on the weekend, one component in particular reminded me of the experience of sex trafficking victims.  (I promise not to give anything important away for those of you who have not seen the film yet!)

As these children and teenagers are ripped from their families and forced to commit murder for the sake of entertainment, they must do so with smiles on their faces.  Each is interviewed before cameras for all of Panem to see, and to increase their chances of survival they must make the crowds love them.  Not unlike gladiator games during the Roman empire.

This was the hardest part of the story for me to stomach.  Forcing someone to kill is one thing.  Forcing them to look like they want to takes it to a whole new level.  Forcing someone to have sex is one thing. Forcing them to appear as if they want to is beyond cruel.

Yet this is exactly what victims of sex trafficking experience, as most of them are “broken in” and trained to appear desirable for the men they are forced to service.  Most johns want to believe that the woman or child they are paying to abuse is delighted to be there.  When a victim is threatened with beatings, harm to their family, or electric shocks if they do not perform with a smile on their face, it becomes very risky for them to misbehave.  They must change themselves to save themselves.  

It explains why some victims who have been in the trade for a while can be manipulated into recruiting other girls with the promise that they will be freed as a result.  It’s about survival, about making it out alive. Unfortunately, the shame that is attached to it prevents many victims from returning to their families even if they manage to escape.

It saddens me that there are people in this world who are willing to strip a person of their dignity, their values, their livelihood, their dreams, their personality.  These things, which are the most intimate components of being human, can get buried so deep as a result that it becomes almost impossible to retrieve them.  Betraying yourself to save yourself comes with a high cost, and those who recover forever live with scars.

We must stand in the gap and prevent people from ever being forced to experience this.

When my husband Jay and I were backpacking through Central America, we took a local bus from Belize to Chetumal, Mexico.  At the border we all got off to go through customs, with the understanding that the bus would still be there to take us the rest of the way to the station like had been promised.

We discovered, however, that the bus had disappeared.  Along with dozens of locals, we had to catch taxis to the bus terminal in hopes that our pillows (the only items we had left on the bus) would still be there if we found the bus at the station. Other passengers had left even more valuable items on the bus, and some were travelling with children which made catching a taxi quite a hassle.

We arrived at the station and waited for our bus to arrive.  When it finally did, all of the belongings that had been left on it had disappeared.  Everyone was angry, as the bus driver had deviated from the plan that we had been told when we purchased our tickets.  The bus driver simply said, “I had a schedule to keep,” but considering that he got to the station after we did, we were all skeptical.  Jay has a bad back and was not happy his pillow had been stolen, but this was minor compared to what others had lost.  It grieved us to watch local people experience injustice, even in this minor way, knowing that for some of them even a taxi ride would cost more than they had to spare.

Everything in me wanted to scream, “But we paid for these tickets!  We were promised that we would be taken all the way to the station.  How dare you violate the rules of a business transaction?  As a paying customer, I have rights.”

As a paying customer, I have rights.

This is a concept I have been thinking about all weekend. What exactly are our rights as paying customers?  If I pay for a meal at a restaurant, I expect to have it served to me. If I pay for a plane ticket, I expect to reach my destination. But where does the black and white end and the gray begin?

If someone pays for a gun, do they deserve to use it for whatever they wish?  If someone pays an entrance fee to a national park, do they have the right to litter?  If someone pays to go on a safari, do they deserve to shoot a lion?  If someone pays for a diamond mined by a slave, do they have the right to wear it on their finger?  If a man pays for a woman’s dinner, is he entitled to sex afterwards? If someone pays for sex with a prostituted woman, do they have the right to her body?  Victor Malarek, the host of CTV’s W5 who we interviewed in our documentary about sex trafficking, says this:

“Money is the ultimate conscience pacifier.”

I am sick and tired of hearing johns say that just because they paid for a sexual service, they deserve to have their fantasies carried out.  In The Johns: Sex for Sale and the Men Who Buy It, one john says, “I want everything…If I am going to pay them, they better do as they’re told.”

This kind of entitlement is exactly what fuels sex trafficking.  It is how sex tourists justify their trips abroad to use and abuse impoverished, exploited women and girls.  If the exchange of money was the only moral filter for our actions, the rich would have the right do demand whatever they wanted, regardless of the cost to other human beings.  And compared to much of the world, those of us who are North Americans are rich – so how are we stewarding that power?

We need to set aside our individual entitlement and instead think about collective entitlement. My right to pay for sex is trumped by your right not to sell your body.  My right to litter is trumped by the right of future generations to enjoy the global commons.

In what ways do you think our society is entitled?  In what ways do you feel entitled?  Where do you think the lines begin to blur between paying for a service and harming others?  Do you agree with Victor Malarek’s statement that money is an ultimate conscience pacifier?  Would love to hear your thoughts.

February is the official month of celebrating love. The stores are filled with red boxes of chocolate, which still sit there – discounted – for a couple of weeks after Valentine’s Day.  Another remnant from Valentine’s week is sitting in my room – the Love & Sex edition of Hamilton’s VIEW magazine.  As the month of love draws to a close, it has served as a constant reminder of how distorted the world’s perception of love is today.

As I flipped through the articles, I was hoping to find stories of true love, sacrifice, and commitment to putting others first.  But scattered between the ads for sex toys, HIV testing, stag shops, and adult shows, most of the articles were all about “me.”  How to find cheap condoms.  How to find Mr. Right. How to get better sex.  What disturbs me most are the pages of escort and massage parlour ads at the back of the magazine, advertising faceless bodies with weight, height, and nationality details beside them.

This is NOT love.

Love is a verb.  It is about serving others.  Putting someone else first.  Making sacrifices.  But instead society has made it about how much we can devour, like locusts ravaging a land.  How much sex I can get.  How good I can make myself feel – be it emotionally or physically.

I once heard a teacher say that the opposite of love is not hate, but selfishness.  Selfishness makes sex tourists prowl distant lands for vulnerability.  Selfishness makes companies hoard profits and disadvantage the poor.  Selfishness leads to broken families.  Selfishness makes human trafficking profitable.  Selfishness funds massage parlours and strip clubs.  Selfishness refuses to look a prostituted woman in the face, an attempt to rob her of her humanity.

Selfishness is a serious offense, and unfortunately February – instead of being a month of true love – has become of month of selfishness in disguise.

Let’s make February look different next year.  Let’s pressure papers like the VIEW to discard the ads at the back of the magazine.  Let’s find creative ways to actually love and serve one another, instead of seeking “me” first.  And of course, let’s do this all year round, not just during the commercial season of heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.

It was a warm, sunny Sunday in the early spring – the kind where you feel that summer is not just a cruel myth but is on the verge of melting through the grip of winter.  I remember curling onto the couch in my living room for a sun-soaked nap, completely unaware that I was about to be plunged into a winter season of the soul.

The phone awoke me from my slumber.  My best friend Katharine had been in a car accident. Coach bus.  Airlifted.  Serious condition. Words became a jumble in my head.  Along with her family and closest friends, I spent the long, dark night at the hospital by her side.  The next day we were all ushered into a small room with very white walls, and the doctor told us what we’d all feared: at 19 years old, our Katharine’s vibrant young life was over.

Life, interrupted.

Fast forward five years to just 11 days ago.  My husband and I found out that one of our dearest friends, who was a groomsman at our wedding, had just been diagnosed with leukemia.  The chemotherapy began the next day, and as I write this our friend is still at the hospital, fighting for his life and trying to stay as positive as possible as we cheer him on and try to help in any way we can.

Life, interrupted.

Life has such heavy burdens, doesn’t it?  I think of all the split second moments when life is interrupted, and schedules, routines, and plans fade into the background.  Chances are some of you have been though this, and you know exactly what this is like.  Whether it’s a scary diagnosis, the loss of a loved one, financial crisis, betrayal, the death of a dream, or even the devastating moment a trafficking victim realizes they are trapped, life is often made up of what ifs and if onlys.

If only she hadn’t gotten into her car that day.  If only he hadn’t said that.  If only she had eaten healthier. If only I had not believed his promises.  If only I’d been a better dad.  If only If only, if only, if only.

Our minds and hearts can become so weighed down by the pain and suffering in our own lives, let alone the suffering we hear about all over the world.  Human trafficking, poverty, exploitation, war, disease, famine.  Discouragement, heartbreak, disappointment, despair.  What is our role in all this? How can we, even in the midst of devastating interruptions, live in such a way that we do not get overwhelmed?

I have been learning a lot from Ann Voskamp, author of a book called One Thousand Gifts.  I’ve been working through the concept of being more grateful, and here is a quote that really resonates with me:

“I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I’ve seen the hungry and the guns that go to war.  I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain the falls and all the good things that a good God gives.  Why would the world need more anger, more outrage?  How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us?  Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn’t rescue the suffering.  The converse does.  The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest light to all the world.  When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows.  How can this not be the best thing for the world?  For us?  The clouds open when we mouth thanks.”

I am the last person who would flippantly tell you to grin and bear it.  That suffering is not real.  That pain is exaggerated.  That grieving is easy.  But I know that for myself, the suffering in this world often leaves me burdened and wounded so deeply that all my energy is sapped and I want to quit caring.

Let’s not stop caring.

Let’s start noticing the little joys and the little gifts, intentionally practicing gratefulness, and taking the time to focus on moments that bring life.

Disappointment, interrupted.  Fear, interrupted. Anguish, interrupted.  Hopelessness, interrupted.

In doing so we can begin to flood light into a world that is so, so broken.