HOUR of SEHAR

My middle name, Seda, means Echo in Turkish; it was created from the first initials of the names of my mother and the man I believed was my father: Seval and David. For most of my life, that name felt like a symbol of who I was, an echo of other people's choices, secrets, and silences.

David raised me. He fought for me. He promised to love me as his own. And for a long time, I believed that promise meant something simple: that I belonged to him. That I came from him. That my story began with his name.

But truth, like an echo, has a way of finding its way back.

At twenty-five, I learned that my biological father was someone else, a man named Hardy. I spoke to him only twice. Both times, he denied me completely.

In the late seventies, Army Specialist David Jackson was stationed in Istanbul, Turkey — far from his hometown of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. The culture, the language, the smells of unfamiliar spices in the air all made the distance feel greater. He and his friend Bob tried to combat homesickness however they could, and for David, that meant spinning records as a DJ at the downtown Officers' Club.

It was there, surrounded by the glow of neon lights and the hum of a foreign city, that he saw her.

Desperation clouds reason. Fear drowns out love. Shame builds walls where there should have been bridges.

You were never too much. Never a problem to fix. You were loud because you were silenced at home. You made people laugh because you were aching to be noticed. You filled rooms with energy because you were searching for a place to belong. You weren't a troublemaker; you were simply misunderstood.

And now, to the woman standing in the light: Put down the shame that was never yours to carry. Step out from behind the walls you built to survive. You are a daughter of the Most High God — forgiven, restored, redeemed.

Walk boldly into the hour of your Sehar. Your new beginning starts here.