What a week to be a woman

We are coming up to Mothers day so I’m raw about that already and then the rest of this week has happened!

Monday was international women's day, and I heard a woman when wished a happy IWD say “I don’t know why we need that” and I don’t know what you say to that.

Wednesday evening I was inexplicably drawn to twitter, the heartbreaking allure of women sharing what feels like it should be horror stories, but are actually just the day to day life of women. It seems strange to want to share the stories twitter reminded me of; the person who kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye at a workplace, the awkward moments I’ve had at train stations, on trains, in cities I don’t know. When I have had to quickly work out who I can trust for a lift home and whether someone when asking me where I live is just passing time or might want to stalk me. Some of it feels like particularly sexual harassment, some of it just harassment and some of it gets put down to unfortunately sitting next to someone high on drugs on a train. All of it wrong and not the world we would want to create. And that is just the stories I’ve remembered from the top of my head and am willing to share.

The solidarity of women sharing stories, knowing we aren’t alone in our fear was really powerful but incredibly sad. I’m also reminded how grateful I am for the people I can call when I’m walking so I don’t have to experience the fear of walking in the dark alone.

It’s Thursday night and I’m working with a group of my peers on a Mothers day runaways service. Tonight I’ve shared my why I hate mother’s day testimony. This is the story I’ve told this evening.

“This is the dress I was wearing when a church member came up to me to ask if I had any news. I’d nearly been married for 5 years so it was about time really. That question hurts because how do you say, no, that’s the one piece of news I’ve longed for for years, that I fear everyone is expecting me to share when I ring up people to tell them anything else. When I go to a baby shower and someone says “it’ll be you next” without knowing the truth that probably it won’t be, maybe it never will be. So you joke about the great roast dinner you’ve just eaten, try to tell them that wasn’t an appropriate question in the first place, and remember not to wear this dress again. But you are the God who sees me”

As a group we’ve discussed what makes it difficult the different sides we all come from, I talked of how much I hate flowers on Mothering Sunday, the let me give you something to remind you you aren’t a mother – cos all women have to have them. I am incredibly grateful for this group (of mostly but not exclusively women) sharing their pain and stories just like the night before. The creative response was to put food colouring in the water for some flower and leave white flowers in it, knowing that our lives colour the world as we see it and in a very small way redeeming those flowers for me.

Thursday afternoon I was in a lecture and we had to share our favourite hymn as the ice breaker I was reminded of For everyone born which I have sung often with Methodist Women in Britain and the chorus goes - 

God will delight, when we are creators of justice and joy.

What a week to be a woman, where women are celebrated and murdered, in danger yet loved.

We have to keep going, not just by walking in the dark to not let the criminals keep us in our homes but keeping being the caring nurturing types to create a world of justice and joy and share our stories.