We were in the car driving past the hubby buildings of Athens, Georgia and I was scared shitless.

They were classic American structures no more than five stories high made entirely out of brick. Refurbished factories converted into retail hotspots and trendy bars. Athens was a complex in the middle of a vast expanse, like a sturdy tree shooting high above a flooded valley that said yes sir, how’re y’all, and we’ll pray for you. Out in the distance the rolling, rolled-over fields allowed the last of the February chill to carry through town. Bryan Wish was in the front seat with his mom talking about what he was going to say when everyone arrived at the event. The Wish Dish One Year Anniversary.

I was sitting in the back holding some banners that covered my face silently venting what the hell are you doing. I was terrified. Didn’t look it but I wanted to jump out the car at the next red light and rush into Pauley’s Crepe Bar. Have a drink at the end of the bar and forget it all, that’s what I wanted. Don’t bother with these people, Matt, just go back inside yourself. But then I had to remind myself of how some wise ass kid from Reston, Virginia touched over 200 peoples’ lives in ways he couldn’t imagine.

Let me start off by telling you how me, a guy with a nasally drone and bad attitude got to know UGA’s own Bryan Wish.

We were living in Virginia, both in 6^th grade, and we played youth football together. Never really took to each other but that was mostly my fault. I never spoke–to anyone. I was a shy kid who liked to knock his big head around. After that, we happened to play on the same house league basketball team. Don’t remember much except losing in the semi-finals.

After that we didn’t talk for over a decade. We both had amassed different lives over the years. He went into sports and marketing while I tried to be a poet, still trying. One night I remember sitting in the living room of my apartment at Providence College, after an evening of trying to forget that college was coming to an end, I get a Facebook message; it’s Bryan. His mom had caught up with my mom at a Christmas party. That night there was this distinct March chill, like it belonged among the hills of Athens but laid to rest in small, grey Providence. Bryan found out I was a creative writing major (I wanted a lucrative career…) and asked me to write a piece. He said there were no boundaries, no limits, just something true and authentic. Right away, I said ‘sure.’

Damn Matt. What are you going to write about, you’re a fiction writer, you tell lies and call them stories. You’ve never written anything true in your life. After a couple of days thinking on what I should put down, I decided to write about something I had never talked about before. Bryan’s point to make it authentic and providing a place for it to live gave me the balls to go all out. Nothing held back. It was called “The Invaluable Luxury of a Second Chance.” I’ll admit it was tough getting it on paper. But after the tears and anguish and memories washing over me, it was over. It was actually over.

My body felt underweight. Like a tumor I’d grown attached to had been extracted and what filled up was understanding, relief.

The response to my piece was incredible. Thousands of people read it. I received messages telling me how raw and powerful it was. Truth has a way of settling in people’s hearts. To this day, I hope I will never feel as proud of a piece of writing.

Bryan slowly began acclimating me to this culture of self-expression in its infancy.

He asked over the next few months leading up to and after my graduation if I’d be willing to help him edit a few pieces here and there. I thought ‘sure, why not.’ I was the unofficial associate editor to the Wish Dish. People wrote me back and forth asking me: a guy who didn’t have anything figured out beyond what he was going to do in the next three hours, to lay out their deepest thoughts in the best way possible. I was more than happy to help.

Nurturing a story, a narrative of a life coming from someone where he or she expresses themselves most through language, is one of the most rewarding experiences I’ve ever had. Fast forward a couple months after graduation, Bryan asked me to be the manager of all content. I said, ‘sure.’ Yup, I was on my way. But not everything was so smooth in my life.

For the better part of a year after taking on the role, I went through a rough time. A combination of a bad breakup, entrenched anxiety, depression, and post-graduation uncertainty sent me down a twister of drinking, erratic behavior, and self-destructive tendencies. Longstanding issues I chose to ignore for several years came back to the forefront, like a bad chemical reaction. I reverted into a version of myself who acted savage and selfish. Kept thinking you’re nothing you piece of trash and who do you think you are Mr. Writer? Those voices plagued every portion of my mind and drinking was one of the only things that made it quiet. Drink until it went black, that was the prescription.

But there was one activity that gave me a center, a grounding. Working for The Wish Dish.

The time was approaching for the Wish Dish One Year Anniversary. It had already been one year…my God. I began to accept that there was no escape from what I was about to witness. Bryan was about to finally integrate this eclectic community of writers and artists that all had one thing in common, the essence of truth. I was going all-in, a commitment. There’d be no bars or dark corners to hide in.

We’d pulled up to Nuci’s Space, this venue dedicated to the club owner’s son. Nuci was a talented guitarist on his way to becoming a real staple in the Athens music scene. But he took his own life at the age of 22. On the back wall right next to a stage riddled with guitars like a shrine there was this eight foot tall picture of Nuci standing in the middle of a field looking up to the sky. It looked like he was thinking why can’t I be up there, maybe if I jump high enough…and a jab of realization got me right in the mouth. That could have been me. It was a real possibility that if I let shit get bad enough then I probably wouldn’t be able to dig myself out. If the drinking got that bad, and kept on feeling bad for myself–Right now I could be sailing the clouds up there with Nuci looking for a place to land on the sun. After a full year of looking through hundreds of stories from hundreds of people, I realized that apart from having the love and support of a wonderful family, these stories had formed me and kept my legs planted on the ground.

I’m not saying I’m a better person or that I’m cured but I will say these stories I am a conduit for, saved me.

During the long nights of barhopping, sometimes alone, finding a shadowed corner to paint with my self-pity, waking up early trying to remember how I got back, I’d check the site and make sure everything was running smoothly. Bryan counted on me to get these stories together, these people were depending on me. I thought I had been through some shit in my time but, I had no idea how much shit life throws at you until I read these stories, your stories. They, these men and women, had allowed me to gain a perspective that my life was nothing in the grand scheme if I didn’t want it to be anything. There was this center and that was the Wish Dish.

Instead of making meaning out of every day (my old motto), I wanted people to remember that I at least tried and that was all the meaning I’d need. I was ready to leave that jerkish asshole behind and start a new chapter of my life dedicated to a higher purpose greater than my own gain—But then, another wave hit me. I was in a riptide of revelation. Shit, all those people who’ve entrusted their words to you are going to be here tonight and you’re going to see them face to face. I was finally going to see each of them, talk to them, shake their hands. Oh for the love of shit, Matt, you’re just figuring this out now?! Anxiety was kicking in two-fold.

There was no distance, no invisible fourth wall to separate me from these people. Before, they were more ideas to me who had created beautiful language, like angels. Looking these people in the eye would be like a flashback from an acid trip and that freaked me out.

Standing still in the middle of the Nuci’s giving myself a 360 degree view, I was petrified again. I needed to see if I could slug a few beers to calm the nerves. The amount of relief is almost indescribable when I found out this event had an open bar. Never said I stopped drinking and, hey, I’m not perfect. After a few Tropicalias, I got to meet the rest of the incredible core of the Wish Dish staff.

Shelby Novak, our social media director, saw me. My face was a bit flushed from the beers, Irish red, and she straight-up hugged me. I could just feel that there was a kindness and good will emanating from her, I’d like to think I picked up a little bit of that. She had the Athens vibe, happy to help someone, to give someone a blanket on a cold spring night even when she might need it more.

Not too long after we had all the chairs set up, hung all the posters, and the microphone sound tested I saw the head of content strategy, Sam Dickinson. Dressed to the nines in a blazer, khakis, and a tie he made my blue button down with Polo sneakers a bit underdressed. He shook my hand with an earnestness I don’t see in many people. Along with being as tall as a redwood he’s a great guy, he’s genuine. We three had invested so much into giving people a voice in a world where words have increasingly diminished in their significance. People use them as throwaway symbols, like inconveniences suffered through for the sake of communication. This site and these people and most importantly these stories from young, old, sad, happy, empowered, victimized—they had come into this melting pot where each was celebrated and welcome.

And dammit I was going meet them, needed a few more beers as they all started trickling in.

The event went off without a hitch. I’ll let Bryan explain it from his perspective but just let me say that he is the core of this whole thing, a molder of culture. Believe it.

Nearly 200 people showed. That’s 200 stories I’ve read. How would they see me? Would I get criticized for my methods? Do they even know who I am? Did they think their stories were just magically put up on the site?

The amount of welcome and thanks I received shocked me to the foundation.

I talked with Tom Bestul, who had written a story about his experience at Camp Kesem, a camp for children whose families had been affected by cancer. His story inspired me to volunteer more. Another one was Megan Swanson, a former Miss Nebraska who gave her perspective on the highly criticized beauty pageant process. She helped to broaden my horizons. And Denna Babul’s story of love for her dying mother-in-law demonstrated how strong a bond one can share with another. If only I could have talked to every single one of these people I would have relived every moment perusing their words. With each passing recollection and introduction the moments grew more surreal. It might have been the beer but the whole event seemed to gather this arid, temperate hue like the words exchanged between all these storytellers was adding substance to the air, filling a void. I don’t know, maybe I was sloshed. But it was beautiful nonetheless.

The event was coming to an end and I felt the need to say something.

First I want to thank Bryan for allowing me to make the closing remarks. Standing up there, the crowd stared, all focus magnified on me like was under a hot beam on an ant hill. Matt what the hell are you going to say you have nothing prepared you never prepare for anything but can you ever be prepared for the truth, truth, yes, the truth just tell the truth—And this is a rough cut of what I said, it is a thanks to all you contributors, past and present.

Hey everyone, I’m Matt Gillick and I’m the chief editor. I’ve read all your stories and for that—well let me first that I’m sorry for any mistakes I made for any of your pieces—I’m not perfect but I try. I just thought that it would be decent of me to say a few words and to thank you all. Thank you guys for taking such a risk, not necessarily a physical risk but an emotional risk in entrusting me to nurture your words and publish them for everyone to see. Someone whom you’ve never met before and haven’t seen until right now got to see the inner you and what really makes you tick. Through language you showed me a corner of your soul. I wanted to let you all know that you are all incredible people. I have been shaped by your stories, every one of them. Let me finish by saying hopefully one day I can be a fraction of the person you all are now—when I’m older and greyer.  

Later on I walked outside, into the evening. There wasn’t a chill rolling from the hills anymore. Downtown was lit up and beckoning. Bryan patted me on the back as we looked out into the night, about eight Tropicalias deep, and I was happy.

For the first time in a while, I was happy.

“It’s the size of a grapefruit.”

I imagined the bitter, fleshy pink fruit. In my mind’s eye the fruit sat, covered in layer of white, granular sugar, untouched with a silver spoon gleaming beside it. My trance dissipated like a curling cloud of smoke as I listened to my mother’s voice through the phone.

“It doesn’t look good,” she murmured.

I knew it was too late. It was too big. It wasn’t caught soon enough. It was a tumor, and it was draining my last surviving grandparent of her life.

The air was hot and humid, with the smell of food simmering on the stove. It was the kind of air that makes you feel like just one breath could give you a mouthful of whatever was cooking. I walked further into my oma’s kitchen and peered into the bubbling pot on the stove. With her giant spin in her hand, she wagged it towards me as she asked, “Hungry?” with her mouth pulled back into a sly grin.

She already knew the answer; no one could resist her spaetzle dumplings, dripping with browned butter. I gave her a long hug, pressed against the cool silk of the draping mumu that provided her a sort of sanctuary in the hot kitchen. Then I took the heaping plate.

“Wait, so how far along is she? Like, how advanced is it,” I questioned, still in shock, still hoping.

“Honey, she’s very sick.”

“Should I come home? Is it bad?”

“If you can, I think you should come…” To say goodbye?

It wasn’t said, but then again it didn’t have to be. The short exchange, now seared into my memory, was enough to tell me everything I needed to know. Tears began to well in my eyes, salty and stinging as they ran down my face. The cold night air rested on my tear-stained cheeks like a cold kiss, the dark silhouettes of buildings forming a voyeuristic audience to my grief. Almost shocked by the sound of my sobs, I went back to my apartment and feel into my bed.

“Hoopah-radah-ridah-da-felda-in-da-craada. Oops, there goes the baby in-da-craada.”

Memories of lullabies from a foreign land, dripping with harsh German enunciations, dance through my mind as I look at photos of my grandmother, cradling me as a baby. She was there, gazing down at my thick, black hair, my closed eyes, my rosebud lips, cherishing the simplicity of my total innocence. But now I’m here, cradling this photo of her, observing her in her youth. I take notice of her dark hair that’s so much like my own, and her air of seriousness that seems to radiate from the glossy image.

I can’t help but to pause and think of the authority of time.

It never stops—an infallible machine that never needs greasing or turning, wrenching or polishing. Who takes care of time? It certainly doesn’t take care of us. I wondered how long it took for the cancer to metastasize to form the massive tumor, situated atop my oma’s liver. How many seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, it took for the malignant mass to form, and for the cancer to stake its claim.

It took three hours to drive back to Rome, straight to the hospital, when my last class ended on Friday. My mother came to the lobby, to bring me to the sterile hospital room, where my grandmother lay surrounded by family. My mother whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t have long. I didn’t realize she would go this quickly…”

I nodded, and then neared the hospital bed, the ambient lighting casting a glow on my oma’s pale skin. I reached out to touch her hand, still as lovely as it had always been. I heard my aunt murmur, “She’s always had beautiful skin, hasn’t she?” I gazed down at her fingers, interlaced with mine. Over fifty years my senior and little differed between ours, besides my slightly darker complexion.

I gripped her hand a little firmer, feeling the warmth it radiated, wondering if I could feel the blood pulsing through her veins if I was still enough.

Of course, she didn’t stir from her sedated state, propped on her side as to avoid pressing on the painful tumor. All I could do was stare at her, sleeping so peacefully, only the slightest signs of her regular breaths. Inhaling and exhaling, her chest mimicked the ocean tides, and I felt soothed for a little while.

The hardest part wasn’t the funeral. It wasn’t the process of cleaning out her home, full of memories from my youth. It wasn’t that seeing my oma’s twin sister when she came to town was like seeing a ghost. It was saying goodbye to her, in that dimly lit hospital room, knowing that it was the last time. It’s an eerie thing, saying your last goodbyes to someone who is still alive. So unnatural and shocking it seemed to me at the time that I couldn’t utter a simple goodbye out loud.

I turned to my family who watched me as I stood by the hospital bed, and sobbed, “I can’t do it. I can’t say goodbye…” But what I could do was hold her hand, and I did.

This is why I relay.

So that no one else has to feel the pain of saying goodbye, for the last time, to loved one dying of cancer. I relay because cancer has gone too far. It’s taken one too many wonderful beings from this world. For all those who are battling cancer, know someone who is battling cancer, or hope that they will never have either of these connections: I’m implore you to direct your passion to this cause. Whatever your motives are, everyone who relays has the same goal—to beat cancer.

We can.

I’ll admit – I’m a layperson when it comes to relationships.

The longest relationship I have ever been a part of was in high school, and since I am only 20 years old, I am not the most qualified person when it comes to discussing how to build lasting relationships. Regardless, I will attempt to do so anyways. One night, my boyfriend was up late at the library studying and accidentally missed the last bus home. Since I was still awake, I offered to drive him home without hesitation.

At first, he refused, not wanting to come across as a burden to me, but I made my offer nonnegotiable. It was not a burden to me at all; in fact, I genuinely wanted to drive him to assure he made it home safely. As I dropped him off, he yelled, “I owe you”, as he shut the car door, which struck me as bizarre. In no way did I feel like he owed me anything. That is when it hit me. The little things are what being in a relationship is all about. I do not like sounding cliché, but clichés are cliché for a reason.

Actions speak louder than words.

You can repeatedly express feelings toward someone but it will never be as meaningful as showing them. Doing little, everyday things build and strengthen relationships. Gary Chapman, a renowned relationship counselor, believes there are five different love languages – or ways that make people feel loved. One of these ‘languages’ is referred to as “acts of service”, which refers to simply helping the other person out.

This saying does not imply kind words or physical intimacy is not important, because they are as well, but a relationship is about giving. One of the reasons I was so surprised that my boyfriend thought I owed him was because he has already done so much for me. If anything, I still owed him. One night, he set his alarm five minutes prior to my alarm so that he could make me a cup of coffee in the morning. When the alarm went off the next morning he jumped out of bed (and believe me, he is not a morning person) and started brewing the pot.

Then, on his way to the kitchen, he threw one of his sweatshirts into the dryer to warm it up, because he knows I get very cold in the morning. These small acts meant so much me because I did not expect them. Having expectations is a set-up for disappointment. However, when you do not have any expectations, or feel as if your partner should do something for you, you will always feel grateful.

You should never expect anything in return when you do something for your partner.

I know my boyfriend was not expecting anything in return, which made it even more endearing. I hear people say all the time that successful relationships take work; I disagree. You should not consider helping someone you care about as “work”. Do relationships take effort? Absolutely, but that is not the same as work. When you do something nice for another person, you should gain as much, if not more, satisfaction as the recipient. This is applicable beyond romantic relationships as well.

When you perform an altruistic, unexpected act of kindness for another person, they will likely remember how you made them feel and be willing to reciprocate the kindness. Not because they feel obligated to, but because they want to. Doing one small thing a day for someone you care about can have a ripple effect, which I believe can make the world a better place.

Being happy sounds so simple.

We’ve grown up learning “happy” as a common adjective to describe our mood and how we’re feeling. We are continuously finding ourselves evaluating whether we’re happy or sad, but sometimes we can lose sight of what makes us happy.

Whether it’s love, friendships, school, or work, it’s so ridiculously easy to get caught up in something else and completely forget what makes you happy. It sounds cheesy as anything, but I’ve realized in the last month or so, the only person that can truly make you happy is YOU.

I believe that you really have to lose sight of what makes you happy to end up finding it again, and I’ve experienced this first hand. Love is also a word that sounds so simple. We say we “love” so many things on a daily basis, but there is so much more to love than just feeling affectionate.

With love comes an endless amount of challenges.

I’ve only been in love once in my entire life, and it’s the most indescribable feeling in the world. After a fourteen-month relationship and whirlwind of emotions, fights, good times, bad times, weird times, awkward times, and everything in between, our relationship came to an end.

It was hard to pinpoint where our problems were coming from, but we both knew that we couldn’t bear to keep making each other unhappy. It was mutual, because we both realized how unhappy we were, but we had been ignoring it.

Sometimes, in relationships, you get so caught up in another person that you solely depend on them for everything, but mostly for your happiness. I had completely lost sight of what made me happy and who I was.

If anyone had told me this during any part of our relationship, I would’ve brushed it off and just kept thinking at the very least, I still had my boyfriend to fall back on. It took my lowest low and the very bottom for me to realize that I wasn’t necessarily unhappy with my relationship, I was unhappy with myself.

It’s a dreadful moment that you don’t want to come to terms with, but once I did I could literally feel a weight being lifted off of my shoulders. I spent the last fourteen months neglecting relationships with friends, neglecting my own feelings, and ultimately giving my all into a relationship that wasn’t giving back to me.

I wanted to believe every piece of advice I was given in the first weeks of my heart-breaking split, but I just couldn’t with the way I felt. I was still in love with my ex-boyfriend, and that wasn’t going to change right away.

I knew time would be the best thing for me, but who is ever really excited for time to make them feel better? I would’ve paid a million dollars to speed up the clock and fast-forward any amount of time just to swallow the grieving period and never look back. Boy, am I thankful that I didn’t have a million dollars and that speeding up time isn’t a real thing.

Time can be a cruel thing, but in the end time is our friend.

I learned more about myself in a month than I ever had in my whole life. Happiness depends completely on you, not anyone else. If you can learn to be happy with yourself, then the rest will work itself out.

To some people, it’s a foreign thought to even have to evaluate their happiness. Throughout the deterioration of my relationship, I would always look at people I knew and wonder to myself how they’re so happy, whether they were single, going through a hard time, or just had nothing exciting going on. I was plain jealous.

I wanted to know why that couldn’t be me and why I couldn’t have it figured out, even when I felt like I had it all, boyfriend included.

Happiness surely doesn’t come easy to some, but I promise that the sooner you start searching for it within yourself, the sooner you will become the person you want to be.

Her name was JuJu. A nickname from childhood that her dad had called her before he passed away. Juju was one of my campers in the Yellow unit of nine to eleven year olds and was a natural born leader.

She was only in elementary school, but carried herself as an outgoing young adult with a passion to create a brighter world through creativity and joy. I met Juju at Camp Kesem last summer. Camp Kesem is a place where kids can find solace, support, and love from others who truly understand losing a parent from cancer.

Losing a parent is difficult, and it is unimaginable to me to lose one when you are nine years old.

But Camp is about finding light in dark situations and creating incredible friendships. At Camp when the sun goes down and the campers are all in their pajamas, we have Cabin Chat. This is a time when counselors lead a discussion with a series of questions. The first couple questions are lighthearted, but eventually they become more serious throughout the week.

On one of the first days, we asked the girls in our cabin “What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I was expecting the girls to say something like “a rainbow!” or “my dog is beautiful,” but instead I was floored from the answers they provided. Juju’s answer is the most vivid in my memory.

Calmly she asked, “Does it have to be something I actually saw or can it be something I know?”

The other counselors and I were curious. We let her continue, “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen was when my dad passed away and he wasn’t hurting anymore. He was finally peaceful…I know he’s up in heaven now playing golf with my grandpa and catching up.” We were all speechless. What nine year old should be able to say that? I started thinking about how young she was and how mature I could never be at that age.

I mean nine years old and accepting that your life will go on knowing this? Feeling at peace that you know he’s safe and one with God? When I was nine, I was playing with Barbies and cried when butterflies accidentally hit our moving car. But here she was, this little girl with the biggest heart and a calm voice. I however, was not calm. Internally I was wrecked, bawling like a typical elementary schooler.

I teared up and looked around to the other counselors, only to see similar teary eyes looking back at me. As we nodded heads towards each other, it was like a wordless agreement between the counselors that we would not let our emotions interrupt this beautiful time and that our lives were forever changed. Juju was only one of the campers who became one of my role models and inspired me to become a bigger, better person.

It is incredible to be part of an organization that brings children and teens together to share this experience with and make each summer unforgettable. This summer, Camp Kesem is providing two weeks of camp so even more kids struggling with a parent’s cancer can finally be a kid again and college kids can find inspiration from 3rd graders. I joined Camp to change lives, but this summer, I can’t wait to see who will change mine.

(Written by J.S.)

At the beginning of my freshman year of high school, I was 14, naïve, and had a developing passion of life.

My life was going well- everything was going my way. After I thought things couldn’t get any better, I met Zack.

He was older, attractive, and for some reason he liked me. Talking to him was like drugs; he made me feel so alive. I had never-ending butterflies in my stomach when he was around. In my eyes, he was perfect. After about a month of “talking,” I became his official girlfriend. Needless to say, I was ecstatic. I had my first REAL boyfriend, what more could I ask for?

He was my Prince Charming.

We’d talk for hours over the phone nightly and see each other every weekend. Zack was the sweetest person I’d ever met. He made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. As you can probably imagine, I fell for him rather quickly. He had all of my heart. Since I was only 14, he became my first everything, and I mean everything.

I lost my virginity to him on Valentine’s Day.

I was so nervous and scared, but I all that I could think about was how much he meant to me. I knew that losing my virginity was a “big deal,” but what I didn’t know is that my attachment to Zack would become so much deeper. At the beginning of our relationship, I thought that Zack liked me way more than I liked him. Boy did I turn out to be wrong. My love for him became all-consuming.

He became my whole world.

I saw him every single day, and I couldn’t imagine life without him. He became my happiness. It got to the point that I had legitimate anxiety attacks when we fought in fear that he would break up with me. There wasn’t a thing that I wouldn’t do for him; I was positive that I was going to marry this boy (I told you I was naïve).

After almost two years together, our relationship began going downhill fast.

There were so many fights about pointless things and so many signs that our love was fading. He started pulling away from me, and I started desperately clinging to him in hope that my love would be able to pull us through. I couldn’t live without him.

I thought that I could make a one-sided relationship work- it had to. On March 30, the inevitable happened. We had a fight, and, long story short, he broke up with me. Drunk. I still remember him walking out of the door and officially out of my life. I completely broke down. My knees buckled, sobs came crashing out, and my heart felt like it shattered. For the next week, I alternated crying and sleeping until I became physically sick. I felt like I didn’t know how to live anymore.

He was a part of every aspect of my life, and I didn’t know how to do anything without him. I’d never experienced a pain this potent. This started my battle with depression.

I stopped being me because I honestly wasn’t sure who I was anymore. I couldn’t find happiness anywhere. I didn’t laugh anymore or enjoy myself. My family voiced their concerns for me almost daily. I tried to find any relief for the emotional pain that I was feeling through alcohol, smoking, boys, or anything that would make me feel okay for at least a second. I was at my lowest point, and I wasn’t sure it would get any better. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Something had to change.

The point where my life changed was a few months later when I put myself in the hands of God. Religion had never been an important part of my life until one night that I was crying and screaming out to God to take away my pain. I was so angry and so hurt that it was all I could feel.

It even hurt to breathe. I knew I couldn’t carry on much longer, so I broke down and called out for salvation from my Father. I will never forget the moment when I felt something rise out of my chest and dissolve. After that, it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore. God took away my pain, and I knew it was my time to rise up and take my life back. I became so adamant that I would be okay again. This was my life, and I’m going to live it.

Gradually, I began to return to my old, confident, fun loving self.

I celebrated little victories like deleting his photos off of my phone or remembering that I hadn’t thought about him that day. Slowly, but surely, I started coming out of my shell. I stopped taking anti-depressants and started being completely independent again. I loved it! Through God, family, and one of the best friends in the world, I made it through. I. Made. It.

Today, I still have the emotional scars. My depression still flares sometimes on the bad days. I push people away because I’m still so scared of becoming “not okay” again. I’m working every day to break down the walls that I built around me. I’m different, more jaded, but I’m strong now. I’m a version of myself that I can say I’m damn proud of. There’s even another guy in the picture now.

I’ve realized that I am my own happiness- no one can take that away from me. I’m still making improvements to become the best “me” I can be. I can honestly say that I’m okay. And that’s the greatest thing I could ever hope for. Against everything that I thought, I’m okay.

(Written by Margaret Coleman)

Broken I come. Empty. My cup is full of tears. Yet you are so faithful to show me where you were in the past years, The years of abuse, the years that the locust came and my life was changed. Numb and broken I stood. I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t understand. Yet you tell me now, that you were with me.

YOU WERE WITH ME.

You were holding my hand. You were my strength, you enabled me to stand. You were the sustaining grace that has brought me to stand here today. You are with me and you are faithful. Again I say, YOU ARE WITH ME, and

YOU ARE FAITHFUL.

You are here to stay. You are constant and true, You are healing the broken places- the black and the blue. I was hiding. Hiding from who you are and always have called me to be. Caught up in an endless sea of insecurity. Searching for satisfaction, while knowing you are the only one that satisfies. Not believing the truth but rather lies.

Not seeing myself through your eyes. Seemingly walking on thin ice of others words and judgments, Too often finding myself broken by their words, and not by your Word. Hiding so often from fully being with you, Because I was scared to be held by you. The depth and vastness of your loves is so overwhelming and deep. Often times in your presence I find myself undone as I begin to weep.

So I stay surface level, with others and with you O lord, Yet you know me, you know me through and through. You see my heart, and you long for me to HIDE myself in ONLY you. Surface is comfortable it doesn’t ask much, Or really tell much either. Surface never really gets to the point, it just casually talks around it. Surface is the typical response to, “Hi, how are you?”… “Good, good!”

Lord I confess I cry out, not everything is good, Not everything is okay all the time, Oh, but YOU ARE. You Father, are the bright Morning Star. You break through the darkness and you speak life.

You hold me safely, as my tears fall at night. Father you are good, always faithful. So draw me out of myself, my sin, Set my feet upon you and show me where to begin, Begin walking in security and assurance. To no longer hide but to be hidden. Hidden in who you are and always have called me to be. Caught up in an endless sea of security and mercy. Drowning in endless grace, captivated by you, Eyes locked, looking unto your glorious face.

The Creator and Captivator of my heart. Forever. For your voice is louder and sweeter than any other, Your truth penetrates my heart and it shows me who I am. It reminds me that when I feel like giving up- When I find myself saying, “I can’t…” that Jesus..

YOU CAN!

“I can, because I am” I am your sufficiency, I am your Healer; I am your Father, I am your Helper, I am for you, I am with you, I am merciful, I am just, I am faithful, I am patient; I am your refuge, I am trustworthy, I am fighting for you, and I am always with you.

MY STEADFAST LOVE ENDURES FOREVER.

He can and he will, so today I pray you feel. Feel his sweet love that conquers all fears. I pray that you see the endless grace he has poured out on your life, over the past years. I pray you feel his comfort in the midst of your pain. And I pray today that things would never be the same. That you would leave His presence radically changed. That you would believe God’s truth, rather than lies. I pray that you would take off your disguise.

It is okay to cry, you can come rest He says, you don’t have to try. Don’t try and hold it all in, bring it to me and let it shatter at my feet, Come into my arms, come and meet. Meet with me, abide with me, look to me, and confide in me. I am safe.

When you dance, I dance along with you. When you cry, I am there crying and comforting you. When you try to hide, I am the one that is your refuge and safe place. When you are scared, I am the one, who takes your hand, And lifts your head with peace and assurance. When you are too weak to fight, I am fighting for you- On your behalf and I will never stop.

When you throw up your hands and want to give up, I am the one that lifts your hands and your eyes. For I am your Helper. When you are frustrated, I whisper, “I understand, tell me more.” And I tell you of my sweet promises. When you are tired and weary, I am your strength. When you have been going and going, I am your resting place. I am here. So come near. When you find yourself full of questions and doubt, I am the answer, I will give you faith. When you are reminded of who you were…

I am faithful to tell you…WHO YOU ARE!

You are mine and you are loved, So loved that I would send my one and only Son, From Heaven above, He lived a sinless life and bore all your sins, He longs for you to come to Him. So freely come. Come and be forgiven and take hold of life. Life, He is life, I pray you all take hold of that tonight. He is restoring the years the locust have stolen. And he is making you whole. Whole, and holy, He is making you more like him.

The Lord is making you new, Yes you He is making you new. HIS steadfast LOVE ENDURES FOREVER, through and through!

(Written by Laurel Haislip)

I am a woman in the world—single and powerful and astonished at my ability to create my own security, “in brave and extraordinary search for my own shape.”-Mary Helen Washington

There’s nothing like a breakup to leave you broken up.

Self-esteem shatters to the floor like shards of glass, the weight of a lifetime of insecurities trampling down over a fragile identity. You feel defeated. You feel unworthy and alone. It’s no surprise you lose yourself.

I’ve been there, done that and I’m proud. Proud because hurting is what causes us to grow, to reevaluate our sense of self. To feel deeply, love deeply, and hurt deeply are the most tangible evidence we have of our humanness.

There are so many reasons why we often feel inadequate. Perhaps you struggle to overcome past circumstances or continually compare yourself to others’ unattainably high standards. Perhaps, no matter how hard you try, you fight an uphill battle for happiness. No matter where you turn, all roads lead deeper into a whirlpool of self-loathing.

I am here to tell you that you are loved. You are strong. You are worthy.

You extend beyond any definition, label, or role that another assigns to you. Believe in your own strength and be proud of what you have accomplished. What is meant to be will be. What is not, will not. Hold things in your memory, untarnished and not bitter, to live there always. Trust in the ways of the world. Nothing truly matters except your happiness—go on a pilgrimage to find it. Just you and the world, spinning in space together, your own best friend and lover.

Be complete with that.

You don’t need anyone else in this world. With all your might reject the stigma that to be happy you must be in partnership with another. Those who discard you and hurt you are unworthy of your efforts and your time. Be okay with emptying the trash before it stinks, with washing the plates before they grow mold, stacking them cleanly on the shelf beside your memories.

Because at the end of the day, when all the cards have been played and all the people long gone, the only companion you are promised for life…is yourself.

(Written by Blaize Burley)

As a nineteen year old girl with my whole life ahead of me, I will admit that I frequently think about what the future looks like.

With that comes many questions of uncertainty: Will I venture off to a big city or stick with the comfort of a small town? Will I ever decide on what my major will be?! (Still undecided but that’s another story for another day) will I have the “American dream” house with the white picket fence or the Southern Antebellum home with a wrap-around porch I have always wanted?

Will I have 3 kids or 4? Maybe 5? and of course, the most anticipated question of them all…Who will I marry? Who will I grow old with and sit with in rocking chairs on our wrap-around porch?

These are all topics I pray about frequently, knowing that the Lord will reveal answers to me in His due time.

However, the more I pray about my future, the more I anticipate it and lean on God’s guidance in the uncertainty of life, the more I find rest in Him. “Love Me First“, he continues to say.

The Greatest Commandment Jesus tells us comes from Matthew 22:37-38. “And he said to them, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and FIRST commandment.’”

Notice Jesus doesn’t say we should love our reputation first. He doesn’t say we should love our possessions first. He doesn’t say we should love our significant other first. Nope. He says love the LORD YOUR GOD with everything that is within you first, and nothing in your life should come before Him who created you for His Glory.

Love God First…fall deeply in love with Him to where obeying him and pursuing a relationship with him is all that you think about. Love Him to where He is at the forefront of your every thought, to where you cannot go a day without spending time with Him in the word or in prayer. Love Him to where you begin to love what He loves and hate what He hates. Loving God First is the call we have on our lives.

Everything else you have is just a bonus including your job, your house, and even your spouse.

God. Is. Love, and this letter, which has encouraged me for years and comes straight from God’s word, is a demonstration of how much He loves us and desires us to fall in love with Him too:

“Dear child of mine,

I know everything about you. (Ps 139:1) I know when you sit down and when you rise up. (Ps. 139:2) Even the very hairs on your head are numbered. (Matt. 10:29-31) For you were made in my image. (Gen. 1:27) For you are my offspring. (Acts 17:28)

I knew you even before you were conceived. (Jer. 1:4-5)

I chose you when I planned creation. (Eph. 1:11-12) You were not a mistake, for all your days are written in my book. (Ps 139:15-16) You are fearfully and wonderfully made. (Ps 139:14) And it is my desire to lavish my love on you (John 3:1) simply because you are my child and I am your father. (1 John 3:1) I offer you more than your earthly father ever could. (Matt. 7:11) For I am the perfect father. (Matt. 5:48) Every good gift you receive comes from my hand. (James 1:17) For I am your provider and I meet all your needs.

4(Matt. 6:31-33) My plan for your future has always been filled with hope (Jer. 29:11) because I love you with an everlasting love. (Jer. 31:3) My thoughts towards you are countless as the sand on the seashore. (Ps. 139: 17-18) I will never stop doing good for you. (Jer. 32:40)

You are my treasured possession. (Ex. 19:5)

I want to show you great and marvelous things. (Jer. 33:3) If you seek me with all of your heart, you will find me. (Deut. 4:29) Delight in me and I will give you the desires of your heart. (Ps. 37:4) For I am able to do far more than you ask and think. (Eph. 3:20)

I am your greatest encourager (2 Thes. 2:16-17) and I will comfort you in all your troubles. (2 Cor. 1:3-4) When you are brokenhearted, I am close to you. (Ps. 34: 18) One day I will wipe away each tear from your eyes. (Rev. 21:3-4) I’ll take away all the pain you have suffered on this earth.

(Rev. 21:3-4) I am your Father, and I love you even as I love my son, Jesus. (John 17:23) For in Jesus, my love for you is revealed. (John 17:26) He is the exact representation of my being. (Heb. 1:3) Jesus died so that you and I could be reconciled. (2 Cor. 5:18-19) If you receive the gift of my son Jesus, you receive me. (1 John 2:23)

Nothing will ever separate you from my love. (Romans 8:38-39)

Do not conform to the ways of this world, but instead be transformed by a new identity you have in me. (Romans 12:2) Do not live according to the flesh for you will die, but rather live according to the Spirit which gives you life in me. (Romans 8:13) Walk by faith in me, not by what you see in this world. (2 Cor. 5:7)

For there is freedom found in me (Gal. 5:1) I have always been Father, and I will always be Father. (Eph. 3:14-15) Love me with all your heart, soul, and mind. (Matt. 22:37) I have great plans to prosper you. (Jer. 29:11) Be still and know that I am God.(Ps. 46: 10).

Love,

Your Almighty Father.”

Whenever I get scared of what my future holds… whenever I start to lose sight of the path my Heavenly Father has set before me… I read this letter to remind me of how deeply He loves me. He has my whole life planned out. My prayer is every day that I seek first His Kingdom from when my feet hit the floor in the morning to when I lay my head down at night. I do not want to miss out on the amazing opportunities the Lord places in front of today because I am too anxious about tomorrow.

Fall in love with the Lord your God first and the rest will come.

(Written by Madison Snelling)

I never find bus rides enjoyable. A crowded vehicle swaying, lurching for long periods of time frequently leads to horrible cases of motion sickness. This is well known to my family and friends.

It will come as quite a surprise, then, that while on a sweltering bus ride to Phnom Penh’s sole water park, I submitted to my student’s chorus of pleas to sing Celine Dion’ chart topper, “My Heart Will Go On.” Microphone in one hand, passing out sick bags and eucalyptus candy with the other, I belted out tone-deaf lyrics to the best of my ability. Luckily, my adoring fans appreciated effort rather than sheer ability.

The word “water park” can only be loosely applied to the collection of too-shallow pools where the bus (and my performance) stopped.

The main attraction was a small river water-filled pool located at the end of two long slides. The twisting tube slide could’ve rust apart at any minute, and the racing slide must’ve been coated with a solvent certainly illegal in the US. I was afraid the friction from the breakneck speed down said slide would dissolve the seat of the bottom half of my “Khmer bikini” (read: pants). We stayed for over five hours, endlessly sliding and attempting to perfect the “mermaid” swim style.

I had only recently arrived, and immediately I was holding hands down slides with students who still thought my name was “Medicine.” The students are in turn kind, silly, sassy, shy, and wild.

Their energy is never-ending. It was one of the most joyous days I have ever had; it bonded me to the kids Children for Change Cambodia (CCC) serves and to its mission. Ever since our trip to the water park I have believed that CCC’s most important service is the establishment of a space in which to create childhood memories. That day is not just one I will be able to hold on to, that memory will also be there for each student when times get hard.

A chaotic, overwhelming, and often inspiring work environment exists at the end of an alleyway overflowing with trash and beat-up bicycles. Barefoot children in recycled uniforms play tag through the small neighborhood maze, rushing into the organization’s door-free entrance when staff call.

Here I found myself, also barefoot, seated on a blue plastic chair in the cramped office, surrounded by a stream of Khmer and a mountain of files. I was informed that I would be the only intern, and the only non-Khmer speaker, for the first two months.

Children for Change Cambodia (CCC) is a haven for children of sex workers, drug addicts, abusers, and the penniless.

It provides invaluable life-affirming support for those who lack the stability, financial support, and/or safety necessary to receive an education. It is the only organization serving the two worst slums of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, Trapang Chhouk and Trolouk Bek. The rickety, shoulder-grazing plank paths offer views into overcrowded homes, the meth addict’s indistinguishable from the sex workers or the gambling-addicted.

CCC offers emergency housing to students whose physical safety is in extreme danger or who have no place to go, provides them with their largest meal of the day, pays for their government school fees, emotional counseling and mentorship, offers a full range of academic classes, uniforms, and most importantly, nurtures a safe space in which to “be a kid.”

Provision of such a space allows students to create childhood memories that they will carry with them moving forward, a small treasure that is anything but insignificant.

I was hired as CCC’s Education Intern, tasked with a hefty long-tern workload and innumerable daily projects.

I was often left mentally and emotionally exhausted at the end of work. The day-to-day issues that popped up were incredibly challenging. In the States, we are not directly confronted with other people’s most serious problems, other than the occasional concerns of a family member or close friend.

We are isolated within our own issues. As a result we conceptualize others’ difficult situations in abstract ways and offer up generic solutions and words of bland sympathy. As a population, we lack the skills to deal with the serious situations of those not close to us.

At work, I was met with students’ home situations head on, in ways I never expected. Real, tangible solutions and decisions were required; sympathy and soothing words have no utility. Not only did I have to handle the situation in the moment, but I also had to develop mechanisms to deal with the emotions that stayed with me after the situation has been resolved, even to this day. I am affected by their pain, their worries, their tears, and their joy.

There is a depth to their emotions that I had never experienced before.

On the first day, a student complained of stomach pain. When he lifted his shirt, a fresh, boiling burn cut diagonally across the length of this abdomen.

I have walked through the rotting plank pathways built over a trash-filled toxic sewage pond to the homes of my students, stepping over boys comatose from meth and $0.75-an-hour prostitutes, whose vacant eyes followed me as I passed by.

A student stays up at night to sell condoms to his mother’s clients.

Neighbors, their throats slit, faces puffy, were hung in the streets outside students’ homes.

This a measly list of situations the CCC students encounter. The problems embedded within their community are multi-faceted, dynamic, and intertwined creating a complex weave of issues in which one cannot be untangled from the rest. These students experience this complexity all at once in their fight to lead the life of a child. As both they and I know, there is no simple solution to their problems.

In the last three weeks of my internship, I was informed that the director was stepping down, and that CCC did not have enough money to stay open to the end of the school year.

Serious thought is being given as to whether or not the organization can remain open, even after the extensive and harsh budget cuts made in the last week of November.

In the beginning, I never thought to worry about the organization’s permanence. I quickly learned in the last month how fluctuating financial issues can lead to a small NGO’s easy demise. Development as enacted by small organizations creates momentous, awe-inspiring individual change, but is incredibly unstable and, I now believe, almost unsupportable without the backing of a larger organization with a powerful donor network.

Money does matter, which is something I never wanted to believe before. So much hangs on the transfer of a few dollars. People are donating money to development causes at an unprecedented rate, but most of these donations are singular and go towards organizations with the capacity to market their programs well. When funding is short, it takes valuable time out of the staff’s day in order to rework the budget, finding ways to pinch pennies in an organization already operating on a shoestring. When funding is short, we have to eliminate the option of emergency housing, sending kids back to unstable environments.

Securing funding is one of the two roles in small NGOs that I now believe can be filled by a foreigner. The other role is providing services that cannot be provided by local staff, such as English language services or specialized training. Development work must be done on the ground.

Day to day changes are so great that it is nearly impossible for operators halfway around the world to respond effectively. Overseas management and policy creation is unwieldy, which is why CCC recently decided to shift most decision-making powers to on-site Khmer staff.

Having foreign staff completely dedicated to fundraising would free up local staff time and would tap into larger donor pools.

Most grants require forms to be filled out in English and are offered by Western organizations and governments. I have come to realize that this is the most effective set-up for a NGO: a locally hired staff, complete with executive directors and managers, an international board for fundraising and general reference, and internationally hired staff to provide specific training and language services. This formula maximizes program impact, and increases an organization’s stability.

I would highly encourage anyone interested in international development work to invest their time and money in organizations with local leadership, discernable local impact, and that require international interns and volunteers to have a specialized skill set (and who are not required to pay for their stay).

The ramifications of closing the organization are catastrophic and unthinkable. Since CCC pays for the students’ government school fees on top of offering classes at the center, the end of the organization would mean the kids would have no way to go to school.

They would lose their safe place, forcing them to spend extended time around abusive family members, gang members, drug dealers, and sex workers, greatly increasing their chance of emulating any of the above. Not finding a way to keep CCC open would haunt me for the rest of my life.

My experience was invaluable, as I was truly a contributing member to CCC’s work.

I offered skills that were not held by current staff and ran programs that would have otherwise stagnated. It was difficult, confronting, and every emotion in between. It is bone-shakingly disturbing that I am leaving without firm knowledge of my student’s, and CCC’s, future. My experience reaffirmed my belief in the power of people with passion, and in the value of small, dynamic NGOs.