the zen of egg washing

i was just washing eggs.  fresh local eggs.  they come dirty and sticky and sometimes they even have feathers stuck to them.  so you wash them, not rinse, wash, and carefully so they don't break. 

i've never really thought about eggs before, but as i washed them and held them and paid attention, i saw their beauty.  each one differently shaped and colored with unique freckles.  and i realized it was a moment given to me because i had stopped, the busy of life, to just wash 24 eggs by hand.  i thought about how eggs must be washed in some giant factory system most of the time.  efficiently.  rapidly.  saving all this time- but missing the simple pleasure that comes from just hand washing eggs. 

sometimes the simple things, the work of our hands, really-our hands, connects us to the earth and to each other.  it humbles us and it makes us slow down and it gives a boundary that modern life steals.  no you can't obsess about x,y, and z because you have to stop and wash those eggs, or rake that yard.  no you can't run out to buy, x,y, and z, because vegetables need to be planted and weeds need to be pulled, and water carried.  lifes work gives us structure. lifes work reigns us in.

i remember last year the joy i found in the exhausting work of raking my yard. i was outside for hours, smelling those fall leaves and the dirt and the wetness that gathered under them. i wore out my arms and got dirt under my fingernails, and my cheeks turned red and my nose was cold and i felt alive. and i remember my childhood and my mother with her rake and her corduroys and vest in the new england fall. 

but it can take a lot for me to rake and wash eggs.  i'll be honest.  i didn't look at that bag of dirty eggs and get excited.  i looked at it and got annoyed- 'rats, now i have to wash all these eggs!' same with the yard full of leaves.  but.  in these moments.  in the mundane.  the tasks.  the boring parts.  the work. the non-glamorous parts- the shoveling of snow, we experience the world as it always was and has been and will be.

africa is much closer to this than most of the US.  life here has more dirt and more work to get things clean and less technology to help get it done.  we were watching 'the nativity story' about the birth of Jesus and i noticed how much of life back then, way back then, looks like life here.  small farming, milking the goats, gathering eggs, going for water. 

i so quickly forget the importance of the boring parts.  i like making cakes with the eggs- not washing them.  i like the exciting stuff- the drama and the glory.  most of life- where ever we find ourselves - is filled with the small things.  the small but essential. 

in a few hours- we begin again.  a new year.
i hope in this next one, i can find myself washing more eggs.  i hope i can be present in those moments, that i can be satisfied in the small parts. that life- just as it is-where ever it is- will be enough.

last poem of the year

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you life in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

pablo neruda

for elizabeth who i get..

the last day of the year. i'm outside enjoying this early morning light and near quiet and time to think over this year, to think about being here- really being here-and what that means.  the other day i saw a picture of my nephews on facebook. they were at the airport going from their grandmas house back home to chicago.  i couldn't see their faces but just the tops of their heads was enough, for me to feel very far away.  i had a pang of homesick.  i had that longing for family.  i had that sadness that is part of my reality- we live deep in the heart of africa- my kids will not grow up with their cousins- they are a minority- a few blonde tops in the middle of black and brown- it's not a quick flight anywhere.

i have a modern world friend, a woman i've connected with online through mutual friends, who is living a parallel life in malawi.  she's a doctor and a mama and a writer and moved to africa about the same time as i did. http://voyagetoafrica.blogspot.com/2011/12/bearing-witness.html?spref=fb  today she'd written some stories that needed to come out- that needed to be shared- that needed to be told- because what else do you do with them?  what else do you do when you can't fix it?  sometimes all you can do is tell the story, raise awareness of the disparity, the poverty, the injustice that is life here.  but sitting in it, choosing to be here, to work here, to serve here- brings up for me the ideas of sustainability and capacity and consumption.  what is our capacity?  how do we avoid being consumed?  how do we maintain sustainability?

for me, i sit under the wing of God.  i lean on this.  this promise. this old hymn by annie flint-

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

this song we used to sing in church and i would cry as i sang because my life at home, in atlanta, where people were healthy and injustice is more hidden, even there my stores were empty as i struggled with zoe, even there i felt the weight of my burden.  and i would cry and beg, beg for some more strength and some peace. so this i hold on to here too.

and i think of writers who remind me of a God who is present in suffering.  buechner (alphabet of grace), annie dillard (holy the firm) anne lamott (traveling mercies)- writers who aren't afraid of reminding God of the ugly in the world and not afraid to ask why.  because there is a lot of ugly.  there is a lot of unfair and uneven and not right and never going to be right.


the promise is not to be consumed.  the promise is a God who gets it, who provides the grace.  and, even, the joy.  a God whose heart breaks with you elizabeth as you watch the dying child, whose heart breaks even more with the mom who watches her child die, and who opens his arms to embrace all three of you.


it's hard.  really very hard when you chose to sit in the yuck of life.  when you go to the ends of the earth where you don't have to be; to be and to try.

so we will try.  stay.  choose. lean. pray. rest.
don't forget to rest.  allow the sabbath in your life.
rest so you can be the hands of God here- in the corners where not everyone will go or even ever see.

“I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them...”
― Annie Dillard

close the door

today is that sad day when the Christmas tree comes down.  when we put things in a box that won't be opened until next year.  it's a day of endings.  even Christmas music doesn't sound right anymore- but i did listen to the messiah one last time- in that sort of painful way- like listening to the song you slow-danced to after you break up with someone. and i started thinking about closure.

the act or process of bringing an end to something. 

this has always been an important concept to me.  when i was growing up, even in 4th and 5th grade, after school on  the last day, i would climb a tree, sit alone and reflect on the year for a while.  i would pause and think about what i'd learned and how we were all growing up and that time was moving and nothing i could do would stop that.  i guess it's just in me.  so endings are hard and i feel nostalgia and melancholy and quiet.

that's where i am today. 
the sunny late afternoon of late december on the equator just doesn't feel right.   i need snow or cold or bare branches, a fire crackling, those things that help me close the year. i have seasonal jetlag.

so i did the best i could.  i went for a run- short and i wouldn't say sweet- but needed.  i organized shelves, and put away stockings and ornaments.  i baked gluten-free bread from scratch because someone sent xanthum gum.  i did laundry and thought about planting things in our yard.  i stripped beds and  settled disputes about the fair distribution of lego men and reminded zoe 100 times to complete her waking up routine. it rained for a while- a good hard rain- like a little gift of almost winter. 

we find ourselves in the mundane things.  who we really are, is who we are when we pick up our lives and make meals for our family and separate legos and remind kids to close the door for the 1,000,000th time. 

last summer in atlanta i felt like a broken record stuck on , "SHUT the door!!" because of the air-conditioning.   and here it's the same thing- but because of the bugs.  i think i should attach a tape recorder to the door  that is triggered when the door opens and just says it for me.  but these are the pieces of  life, and there is no closure- it just go on and on.  raising children is just like this.  you say things hundreds of times and suddenly they reach an age where they begin to shut the door. (and i bet it would be reached at the same time if i never said 'shut the door' again). 

raising a non-neurotypical kid is even more like this.  you say it, say it again, say it louder, and again, until you feel like you're being scrapped on a human size cheese grater. this week we were lamenting about how long the basic learning takes.  sometimes it helps to remember that some skills have been 'mastered' or at least greatly improved upon, but sometimes it doesn't help, sometimes it's looking your life square in the face and thinking about the cheese grater.  mike did some quick calculations based on her learning to effectively wash her own hair and figured out it took about 100 times longer to teach her than another kid.  granted that is possibly the mac-daddy of tasks for her.  it integrates, strength, motor planning, will, sensory issues, motivation, task completion, multiple ordered steps, and keeping arms above the head for a while which is hard with a malformed shoulder. but she's doing it- doing it independently, effectively and usually with out using the entire hot water tank. 

the evening is here, the monkeys are on the roof, the sky is pale and the trees have become black silhouettes.  the air is cool and feeling slightly more like december.   the house lights are on, a soft glow of home.
the day is ending.  i will hold this closure, and enjoy it and appreciate it.  i will let go of the long seasons i'm used to, and be thankful for the short ones of each day.  they're more my speed anyway, more manageable, more forgiving. what is in a moment? what is in a day?

what is in a year?

it's that in between time.  that week between Christmas and New Years.  the middle of the week that finishes one year and starts another.  i'm stuck between reflection and planning.  review and agenda, looking back and looking ahead.

what is in a year?

this was a big year on the outside.
i live here now.  these are the images of my days.

my boys with some other boys

drive home in the rain

the babies home

drying clothes on the lawn

side of the road fruit market

tea fields on route to jinja

so different than the year before.  wonderfully different.  wonderful in different ways.

but what about on the inside?
has there been any transformation? 
is my clackity clack the same?  where are my feet taking me?  what do i dream about?  am i loving better? caring more? being generous, and present, and still?  do i laugh more? am i dancing with my kids and singing in the car and spreading joy? am i letting things go that should be forgotten?  am i clinging to those things that i know are treasures?

what is in a year?  or a week? or a day?
what is in a moment?
good night.

the well oiled machine

i must pause to reflect on the good old U S of A.

here in kampala and the surrounding area, we are back to the no gas situation.  i mean, they now have diesel at the stations, but no propane tanks for the kitchen stove.  so i have spent 3 weeks driving around with an empty propane tank in my car, and have become friendly with the guys at pretty much all the shell and total stations with in 20 miles of where i live- as in we're friends on facebook.  no.  kidding, but i have their cell numbers and they have mine.

our empty propane tank

meanwhile, there have been a few things i've had to deal with back at home in america and i'm amazed at how generally well oiled that machine is.  okay.  today, technically a holiday week, i got an email  from an actual person at the atlanta water company, in response to my email (sent on Christmas day) about a bill that we received for water a month after we'd sold the house.  this lady sends a timely and kind note apologizing for the mistake and confirming that it has been taken care of. i sent a quick note of thanks and acknowledgement and received an immediate lovely reply with well wishings for the new year.

last week, i had forgotten the password for an online typing program i'd purchased for zoe 2 years ago.  i emailed some address on the box and with in a day, had a thoughtful response with an attached copy of my original purchase paperwork with the username and password, and a thanks for choosing 'type 2 learn'.

i don't know.  there is just something that feels so different about how things run when i compare these places.  in kampala, not only is there no gas, but no one, not even my 'friends' at the gas station, have any clue when the gas is coming, and they don't put up a sign when it comes - so the only way to know, is to drive in, and ask.  i'm not railing on uganda- i love it here, i do.  but i am amazed that i EVER took for granted that i didn't have to run around looking for cooking gas, and that i complained OFTEN about the prohibitive bureaucracy of large companies. because in general, and compared to many other parts of the world, it's a well oiled machine.  and it doesn't usually run out of oil.

maybe one of these days i'll post a poem i wrote- but not today

another pablo neruda......

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

happy Christmas!

the anticipation is over.  the waiting.  the searching.  advent is over.  it's Christmas morning! and it's a beautiful morning.  we woke early to the children's excited greetings of 'merry Christmas!'.  we turned on the tree lights, the music of robert shaw's 'many moods of Christmas' that i grew up listening to, made coffee and hot chocolate and the kids began sorting through the presents.  after the opening of gifts and cards, we headed down for church, because it's Christmas and it's sunday.  the church we went to is the university church, and so with the exception of maybe 10 other people, everyone was ugandan.

the service seemed really long, and it was over 2 hours, but felt especially long because it was Christmas morning, and the kids were dying to get back and play with their gifts, but it was really good.  we sang many Christmas hymns, heard the sermon, and had communion.  there was also a teen choir that sang Christmas songs with an african flavor.  and as i listened, i thought about this place were we live now, these people who we live with, and this day that we are celebrating.

the reverend had asked us what Christmas means to us.  i thought about the birth of Jesus, and the images that come to mind of mary and joseph and the donkey and the night sky and the glowing manger and the animals and about how my entire life i've been told that story.  i thought about all the Christmas eve services i've been to, where the preacher emphasizes what a big deal it is that there was no room in the inn, that Jesus was born in a manger.  for so many years people have recounted the images trying to break into the wealthy western mind what that would be like- old straw, smelly animals, cool air coming through the cracks in the walls, no lights, no water.  then i watched as the teen choir sang a version of 'away in a manger'.  i watched their faces, and their joy and their look of awe and appreciation.  and it occurred to me that they must get it in a way that i can't. i began to wonder if it might mean more to people who have experienced poverty, who know what it's like when you can't afford the inn, when any roof is better than nothing, people who live closely with animals,  that their God entered not just the world but their world. 

sometimes Jesus seems really old, far away and hard to relate to.  a guy with a beard and sorrowful but loving eyes, wearing a white tunic or robe and sandals, walking around healing leprosy and confusing people with his stories. 

sometimes i forget that 2011 years ago, God put on skin and traveled through a birth canal and landed in some straw to be raised and live among the ordinary and hang out with the poor, the sick- not the wealthy, not the royalty. 


sometimes when i've traveled to poor communities in the developing world, i've been amazed that people can have such faith when they live with so little.  i've been humbled by people who will worship and praise a God who allows them to remain poor and experience a lack of basic needs.  but maybe their Jesus is more real to them, more tangible.

one of our advent readings this year began with a poem by oscar romero, an el salvadorian bishop who was martyred.

No one can celebrate
a genuine Christmas
without being truly poor.
The self-sufficient, the proud, 
those who, because they have
everything, look down on others,
those who have no need 
even of God- for them there 
will be no Christmas.
Only the poor, the hungry,
those who need someone 
to come on their behalf, 
will have that someone.
That someone is God.
Emmanuel.  God-with-us.
Without poverty of spirit
there can be no abundance of God.

it makes sense to me because the times i've experienced the abundance of God, have been those times when my spirit was poor and suffering.

so this Christmas, in east africa, does feel different.  not just on the outside- where life is in full bloom and warm and sunny- but on the inside as well. i'm realizing, maybe for the first time, that while our advent season ends, our longing for God, our searching to find him, to see him, to experience his abundance, doesn't end.  that is what lifetimes are for.

christmas eve in bullet points

- bryn thinks this is my birthday week- which technically it is- so he keeps creating little things for me.  yesterday he made a sculpture and a card- 'it's bells mommy!'  such a creative giving soul!

-last night went out for the evening with good friends- a perfect start at an art gallery/ coffee shop/ tapas place, sitting outside on couches on a lush lawn, followed by the best meal i've had here yet- outside with little white lights and a band- magical

-woke to jude in our bed saying 'tomorrow is Christmas!!!' in that exuberant way that can only be from the mouth of a child

-went into kampala to get more wrapping paper and some last minute gifts- including a few stocking stuffers for meh.

-on the way home, saw so many people all dressed up, suitcase in hand, waiting for a taxi to take them to the village.  i love this.  everyone here has a village- where they go home too. it was such a slice of life here.

-saw a boda boda (motocycle) carrying a family of five- impressive.

-saw several other peddlers peddling anything and incredibly creatively- a guy on the bicycle peddling large baskets who must have had 30 of them tied on the back and sides, like bubbles, like he was going to float away.  the man with the makeshift wheelbarrow, carrying several rows of neatly spaced shirts hanging on a contraption attached to the wheelbarrow, the guy with a 6 foot tall board, loaded with chotskies, attached like a backpack walking down the street.

-passed by several threadbare cows

-had a moment of noticing that everyone here is black - but i'm not, and looking down at my pale arm feeling underdone- like i should have baked longer.

-managed to not get pulled over despite the high number of traffic police on the road.  my strategy? no eye contact

- came home and heard jude say: i don't believe in that rumor about santa claus.
me:  what rumor?
jude: you know, the one some kids say, that parents put out the toys, not santa....
bryn: yeah! some people think santa's not real!

-finished wrapping all the gifts (you know the ones that santa isn't bringing)

-about to head off to a friends house to watch the famous 'a charlie brown christmas'

-remembering the pure joy of anticipation. how it's almost better than what you're waiting for.  remembering that Christmas eve is almost as good as Christmas day, or maybe even better.

a saturday poem-again

i carry your heart with me 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e.e. cummings 

candy, candy corn, candy canes, and syrup

it's cool and cloudy and the giant mpewere tree at my friends house has lost it's leaves. i'm listening to 'swingin' christmas,' the old good stuff.
and for the moment, it's beginning to feel like Christmas.

last night we watched Elf.  hysterical.  and it totally reminded us of our zoe.
will ferrel plays a human who was raised by santa's elves and returns to new york city to find his real father who is not a nice guy.  'buddy' the elf is pure and innocent and full of hope and love and kindness and simplicity.  he is so literal, always assuming the best of people; so full of goodness but misrepresenting himself right and left.

sometimes you turn around and life has happened.

that is how i feel these days looking at zoe. over the past 4 months here she's changed.  she's growing up.  she has become slightly less of a squeaky wheel needing constant attention, she has had a huge decrease in 'sticky thoughts', she seems less a victim of her own brain.  as usual, i relish this, i thank God for this, and as usual, i quickly forget where we were and increase my expectations.  this is hard.  i mean you can always find things to correct in your kids, but sometimes that needs a sabbath, sometimes you just need to praise them for what they're doing well and let it be.

but.

we knew growing up would be hard for zoe.  that it would be a long season of age appropriate hormones and the immaturity that comes with her type of learning disability and that combination would be tricky.  and it is.  she wants to wear make up, but has to be reminded to wear deodorant.  she talks about finding true love, but needs help finding her toothbrush. 

maybe hearing the growing up parts shines a brighter light on the parts that are behind. the contrast is greater.
i try to remind myself that we're on a different path.  that not being able to open the ketchup bottle doesn't negate the desire to be treated more like a 12 year old and less like a six year old. i need to remember that she is complex, even her parts that seem simple are complex.

she's begun to talk about 'liking boys' and while that is totally normal and age appropriate, she lacks the ability to know who to share this with, and when.  in her innocence, she shares her feelings, and i mean whatever feeling she my have at that moment, with whoever is around.  and this results in embarrassing the 'boy she likes' and making other children and adults uncomfortable.  which results in me hearing about it from several concerned adults, and mike and i talking to her again.

the hard part is we are dealing with a deficit in her understanding, and we are dealing with trying to teach her not just hard and fast rules, but how to grasp the subtleties, to not feel badly about her feelings as she matures, but how to not share them with everyone. often we do end up giving very firm boundaries, setting up hard and fast rules, while we work on the understanding part.

the hardest thing about having a child with autism spectrum issues is trying to teach the things that most people figure out on there own, trying to teach things that normally don't need to be taught.  the 'gut' feelings.  how to hear what has been said with out words.  it's. so. hard.  and it takes so long, and we go over it, and over it, and over it.

i hope as she grows up we can help guide her with out stifling her, that we can teach her those things that seem unteachable,  that she won't lose the beauty of who she is as she finds her way in the world.

le chatlier's principle

there is a principle in chemistry that has always resonated with me personally.  it's called le chatelier's principle.  it describes how if a system in equilibrium experiences a change in the environment, it will readjust to counteract the change and reach equilibrium again.  i discovered my personal connection with this idea 20 years ago in boston when i realized that if i'm walking and find that where i'm going is actually on the other side of the street, i respond by immediately crossing the street, to the correct side.  i'm incapable of waiting until the crosswalk or a better place to cross, it's almost magnetic (or perhaps OCD).

small pick up truck with 1 story of mattress pads on top- wobbling in the wind

i wonder where my application of this principle fits in here, where life itself feels unbalanced, but especially compared to my prior equilibrium.  my situation has changed.  what has to readjust in order to equilibrate?  what is my response to this system change? and what exactly has changed?
 
the light on the trees at the sunset?
the absence of old friends who know the histories of me?
the minute to minute awareness of how much more we have than the rest of the world?
and what is the counter action to these things?

 

yesterday our family went to the orphanage where zoe and i spend our fridays.  we decided that this Christmas we want to focus on others, and share some of what we have.  so we came with this Christmas tree, (charlie brown would be proud), diapers, home-baked Christmas cookies, an art project to do with the kids and a movie to watch with them.

unfortunately, this is the only picture i took of the entire day.  i have no pictures of those beautiful kids, and their happy faces, or the cookies with red and yellow sprinkles, or the workers who were thrilled.

and i missed photographing the morning of preparation.  i missed capturing on film my few moments of glory.  doing the mommy thing- the making and decorating of the Christmas cookies with my children.  this is an important distinction.  i wouldn't get any points for just making the cookies- it's the process of directing the spreading of flour, the rolling of the dough, the cutting of the shapes (not just in the middle! but the sides, to maximize the rolled dough), the application of the sprinkles (on the cookies not all over the tray!) that is the hard part- that is what gets points. because a simple and fun filled activity like making Christmas cookies with my kids, can be an ordeal for those of us who follow le chatlier's principle.  when our equilibrium is thrown by the flour all over the floor and the kids licking their fingers and then poking them into the dough, and there being more sprinkles on the tray than the cookies.  for me, unfortunately, i have to try really hard to just 'let it go', to not cross the metaphorical street,  to wait on my counter action.  to enjoy the activity and not be stressed out about the mess, about the momentary imbalance.  and it was great, we did have fun. 

my kids were so excited to bring these things and play, and all of it was well received.  i wish i had pictures of all those kids wolfing down their cookies and giggling at 'the grinch who stole Christmas'- because people are just people. cookies taste good in any country, even and perhaps especially if you eat them on a straw mat.  cartoons are funny even if the language is different.  we're not so far apart.

i hope especially this year, in this place of change in so many areas, my children will know that what matters most is that they're loved, not how many presents are under the tree.   i hope this year, our response to our 'system disruption' will not be an opposing reaction, but an embracing and engaging response.  i hope as we find our new equilibrium here, we will share the love and the peace brought by that baby in the manger who came in response to the brokenness and disruption in all our lives.  and i hope i'll remember to take pictures!

others say it better- another poem

Mindful- Mary Oliver

 Every day
     I see or hear
          something
               that more or less

kills me
     with delight,
          that leaves me
               like a needle

in the haystack
     of light.
          It was what I was born for -
               to look, to listen,

to lose myself
     inside this soft world -
          to instruct myself
               over and over

in joy,
     and acclamation.
          Nor am I talking
               about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
     the very extravagant -
          but of the ordinary,
               the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
     Oh, good scholar,
          I say to myself,
               how can you help

but grow wise
     with such teachings
          as these -
               the untrimmable light

of the world,
     the ocean's shine,
          the prayers that are made
               out of grass?

a moment

i'm accidentally homesick.
we started looking at old photos and videos of home.  i sat sandwiched on the couch between my boys and we laughed and giggled about their little voices on video a few years back.  we remembered old shirts and toys and places we'd gone, and friends, and our dog.  we remembered the things we'd left behind. 

then it was late and time for pajamas and teeth brushing. 
while i was pouring the clean water on his toothbrush, bryn looking sad said, "i wish we could go back and live in america."
"why honey?"
"i liked our old house better.  it was bigger and nicer and it had stairs."

for the first time i really saw it from his eyes, instead of my eyes looking at him. i could tell that looking back was hard.  his whole life had been in that one house, with his grandparents near by, and lots of nice things.  he didn't have to navigate his place in another culture.  he didn't need to speak 'ugandan english' or drive by poverty every day.  there was less that needed making sense of at age 4. 

i had a moment. 

i felt badly for him.  i felt guilty for pulling him from normal and plunking him down here.  i thought about what i could say to him, 'honey, i know it's hard, but mommy and daddy feel like this is a place with a great need that we can help with.' but that doesn't matter to a kid, and it really doesn't matter when you're feeling homesick.  'babe, think of all the fun things here! we've got monkeys in the trees!' the cheer up pep talk doesn't work either.  he needs to be allowed to miss it, he needs to be allowed to not like it here sometimes, he needs to be allowed to be mad that he's been plunked down here.

"honey it was hard to look at the pictures of our old house and our friends wasn't it?"
"yes"
"i know, it's hard for me too sometimes.  i miss it too."
"can you read us a story tonight mommy?"
"yes- that i can do."

sometimes you just need to acknowledge the feeling.  you just need to be okay with hearing the unhappy. but it surprised me like bumping into a bruise i didn't know i had. i felt that twanging of my heart strings.  so i allowed myself to indulge.

i envisioned my life last december.  i felt the cold of my front porch with the little white icicle lights.  i could smell the pine of the wreath on the door.  i could see the black scraping branches poking at the far away pale sky. i allowed myself to walk through my old house, into the rooms that i haven't thought about in months, to hear the creaking of the floor.  then i walked in my mind, down the street with the cracked octagonal stones, up to the main street and i could see the stores, with christmas decorations and people i knew from school, or work, or just from the neighborhood. 
i remembered how easy it all was.  and just when i was about to stop myself, about to keep it there, to not think about having dinner with my friends, to not imagine my mom stopping by, i ruined it by looking at facebook and seeing a Christmas picture of my friend erin and her family, and it broke me.

so from the other side of the world, i'm teary and missing you all.

thank you yael and brian

“Whenever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God's speaking from the whirlwind, nature's old song, and dance...”
-annie dillard

out on the porch with the sound of the lawn mower in the distance and the faint smell of its diesel fumes.  
i'm thinking about provision again, and life being full of moments that are not surprises, but orchestrations, and people responding to that still small voice.  and how in that response we meet each others needs.

today our first care package arrived.  it was so full.  full of provision and promise and encouragement.  
it came with kids toothpaste- on the day that we had completely run out of kids toothpaste.
it came with a pill box for Pius, the boy from clinic, when i haven't been able to find one.
it came with headlamps for the kids, when we're about to loose the generator.
it came with gluten-free everything.
it came as a reminder of why listening in the stillness is so important.  God hears the needs we scream out to him and he whispers them into the ears of other people. it reminded me of the need to pay attention, and the need to respond.  we are his hands and feet on earth.

it's not that i cried out to God about toothpaste or xanthum gum.  those things themselves don't matter much.  but knowing that someone read some words i'd written about things i miss from home, and chose to say- i can do that- and then did it- that matters. that the package arrived a month and two days after leaving new york, on the very day that my kids were crying about not having anymore toothpaste,  that's provision, and Gods sense of humor.  it's not that my kids need spongebob to brush- but it's a lesson to them- that God is in the details- beauty and grace are everywhere.

“The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” 
-annie dillard

it somehow reminds me of the paper bead bracelets that i usually have pictured on the side.

i love this colorful ugandan paper bead jewelry.
they come in blue and red and pink and rainbow, in all different colors and shapes.

each bead is unique, made from recycled paper, made by hands that have worked so hard.
left over scraps, spun by the hands of the poor, and turned into beauty.
each bead itself might not be much. but put together they are beautiful.

my oldest and most favorite

they symbolize hope, and redemption, and grace.  and they remind me that we each have purpose and value, and that we are connected and in need of each other. that we are required to show up for each other to make the world better.  that what you see is different than what i see; that what speaks to me, might not be spoken to you.  so it matters- what we see and hear and do.  we are part of the grace and beauty.

Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.
- Robert Bresson

there is power in that.

the sabbath of life

the nile is a powerful river and the light on it is amazing.  there are parts where it is still, so still like glass and then immediate turbulence- rapids, white water.  we are at the juncture, where still part meets the crazy.  i can hear the constant 'shshshshshchchchchch' from it's mouth, it never stops, it just keeps going. it's like being near the ocean, you can feel your smallness, and the constancy of the moving world around us.  it helps me remember my place in the world.  one piece. one small piece.

the sun set and birds and bats came out- and 41 began with lots of relaxing.

and good food and then lots of bugs. and a favorite Christmas movie, (love actually).
then today we had a delicious breakfast, with the "shschchchch" of the river in front of us and a lot of conversation.

and we talked about the sabbath of our life.  the seasons of rest and patience.
this came up because we are very different.

we have a different idea of when rest is needed and for how long.

i'm the fast twitch muscle - he's the slow.  i run hot, but can burn out quick, he's slow to start, but paces himself. this makes for a good combination, but often a long conversation.  we balance each other. but i have the easier job.  i'm the inspiration, he's the perspiration.  i usually dream it, he reigns it in.  i run headlong into something, he tells me to wait. 

we've learned over these years- that both parts are needed, and both parts are in each of us, but we default to our more comfortable zones.  mine is 'go' - his is 'wait'.  but today he talked about the importance of the sabbath- not in a 'sit-still-and-don't-do-work-because-it's-sunday' way, but the importance of having seasons in life, of rest.  collectively, he and i aren't very good at that.  culturally, americans aren't very good at that.  but i agree that it's important.  it's what i mean when i talk about my endless search for stillness.

i looked out over the nile, this immense, ancient river who touches 10 african countries as she flows north. 

this river who gave life to early people with her fertile banks, who is used today for energy and food, and bathing and washing, and sports and fun, and pure beauty.

i thought about the loud rushing rapids and the soft, glass-like stillness and how their contrast was moving and real and necessary.

this year, i want to be like this river.  i want to have seasons of quiet rest and stillness, followed by crazy churning motion.  and then retreat into the seasons of rest again, the seasons of sabbath.

satisfaction

i went for a run today.  my favorite kind of run, under a low gray sky, a cool blowing breeze, with leaves falling, and ending in rain.  at first i closed the eyes of my mind and imagined running down the snowy dirt roads in the north carolina mountains, where i was last Christmas.  then i opened them and ran beneath the wild tropical plants and vines and trees of here, and i thought about the banana tree, actually they are plants, so i thought about banana plants.

these plants are everywhere here and provide the main food source for uganda- matoke- a mashed up cooked starch.  i don't really like the look of these plants with their giant shabby, peely stems and their leaves all frayed like some kid got up there with a pair of scissors.  but then i thought about their humanness, and i changed my mind about the banana plant. 















they bear life giving fruit and they bear it humanly.  it begins as an out of proportion banana heart which hangs like the fruit of loins- weighted down in humility- like it's bowing- aware of where it comes from, but aspiring to be something else.  from this comes the bunch of bananas.  then that banana plant dies and other stems shoots up out of the base.  it comes alive, produces fruit and dies.  out of a bedraggled exterior comes a beautiful, tasty and sustaining food.

so i thought about food, and sustenance, and sufficiency and satisfaction and then title of the last post 'enough'.  how all these things are related.  occasionally when i run i hear God and i did today. i heard him asking me- 'isn't it enough?'

and this challenged me.

because while i feel very content with my life,  i tend to be always ahead of myself.  i tend to always be thinking what's next. i like planning, i like expanding my capacity, i like taking on more.  life feels so big and exciting, i'm waiting for the next chapter- i'm looking for the next ball to throw in and juggle, i'm searching for experience and fullness.

today God was asking me why?
'aren't I enough?'
'isn't what i've given you enough? isn't your life enough?'
'why not embrace, no really embrace, what i've given you' 
'turn around and Be. Here. Now.'
'I have promised you life to the fullest- stop trying to fill it up yourself.'
'be still.  wait in me.  trust me.'

the other day i began a post about the importance of teaching my children about satisfaction.  about how learning to be satisfied is essential for true happiness.  today i began to wonder what kind of an example i'm setting for them.  i'm very satisfied materially, but am i satisfied in my spirit?  do i live in this? do i exude contentment? or is my expectancy modeling restlessness?

it began to rain on my third lap around the track.  and i answered back in my heart, "yes, You are enough."  "thank you for what You've given- all these 40 things i'm thankful for and so much more."
and then i added my usual plea for assistance. "help me to live in this place of satisfaction.  help me be. here. now. help me to be still.  help me to wait.  help me to trust."

so i have my goal for 41.  living each day as enough.

enough

today is my last day of 40.
it has been an incredible year.  i'm so thankful.  here is my top 40.  the 40 things i'm most thankful for.

1.  to have moved to uganda
2.  to be an american- only after moving and living away in a more permanent sense, do i appreciate my country for all that it is
3. zoe- for her love and kindness and faith
4. jude-for his curiosity and desire to understand the world, and be independent
5. bryn- for his exuberance and affection
6. my husband- who after 22 years is still my favorite person to be with
7. that he's taking me away tomorrow for my birthday
8. for good books to read, and good films to watch, and so many fun things to do
9. for Christmas
10. for good music which makes life and especially driving, better
11. for such inspiring and amazing friends from all chapters in life
12. for my parents who's gifts of time and emotional investment continue to bless me
13. for my brother and sister who are two of my very best friends
14. for the hope that comes from #13 when i look at my own children and realize that even if they fight and name call and smack one another, someday, they too will go to the ends of the earth for each other
15.  for health
16. for my God, who promises and delivers peace over fear, forgiveness over judgement, presence over absence, and fullness of life
17.  to be in a transportable profession that helps people live healthier and better lives
18.  for the beauty of the earth and the night sky
19.  for the amazing flowers that grow up in the cracks and brokenness of poverty and life- unafraid and bringing hope
20.  that i was able to find a  live Christmas tree here
21.  for the internet that enables connection with people even when so far away
22. for the ocean
23. for coffee in the morning
24. that everyone's life is a story, with meaning
25. that art is universal- people in every culture create things, and express themselves and communicate through art
26. that i have food and shelter and access to clean water
27. for the invention of the camera that helps us remember our lives
28. for possibility
29. for all the little white lights in the world
30.  for a bathtub
31. for the written word
32. for almost a month on the generator so we have power most of the time (although it's soon to go :(
33. for indoor plumbing instead of a pit latrine (especially when taking a bryn potty in the middle of last night)
34. for redemption
35. for old films that still speak (like the soon to be watched 'it's a wonderful life' i've been saving it like a treasure this year)
36. for history- both individual and the worlds- that we can learn from
37. that each day is new and full of hope
38.  for new friends here in uganda that make my days so good
39.  for travel
40.  that there is always more to be discovered and learned and shared

so enough of 40- i welcome 41!

space

what is it with needing space?  and a space to have that space.

i'm sitting out on my porch and the kids and their friends are playing nicely inside.  currently no one is yelling, no one is even being that noisy, but i can feel them.  i can feel the potential. that while all is well now, at any moment, all could all fall apart into a chaotic, loud mess that will require my intervention.


i love my kids, i do. they're smart and interested in life and so they talk all the time, and they ask questions and then argue with each other and me about the answers.  this can get tiring- especially in the car- especially in traffic.  in the last two days, i've spent 5 hours in the car with them driving in traffic.
i try really hard to be that fully engaged mom who calmly answers their questions by reflecting them back, "well what do you think the cow is doing in the middle of the road?" or to engage them in their environment, but after sitting in that traffic, being passed by matatu after matatu in their own created lane,  i inevitably end up telling everyone to please be quiet so we can just listen to music and drive!
except sometimes i forget the please.

the saving grace is that i'm usually in the car with my kids and their friend - so i have to behave slightly better than if he weren't there.  (note today after we dropped him up the dirt road- i couldn't even make it the 1/4 mile home with out telling my kids to 'please shut up!'- at least i said please?)

this is the hard part about being a parent.  you get tired, or crabby, but you're still on display.  you're still surrounded by little minds tape recording the words and the tone of voice. these little people are always watching, and then mimicking what they see.  and then perhaps the hardest part of being a parent,  is hearing  them sound like the part of yourself that you're trying so desperately to reign in, to contain, to change.

i once read this quote about parenting that terrified me.
"Don't worry that children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you." ~Robert Fulghum
it reminded me of how i'm always setting an example of something.  i can get all bent out of shape about them not listening to me, but what am i modeling for them?  

having 'space' is like having a grown up time out. i need this time.  to regroup, reset the clock, step back, get some perspective and prepare to re-engage and do it well, do it lovingly, kindly, patiently, and in a way that i would want them to repeat.

in atlanta i had an easier time getting space. i had my back porch. it was on the second floor, up high enough that i was in the trees, but the best part was the isolation.  i couldn't see people.  just leaves, or bark if the leaves were gone.  and if i shut the door, i couldn't hear people.

in uganda, there are more people in and around my house.  there are people raking, and mowing,  or doing dishes or laundry and while these things are helpful and good, and i value the people doing them,  they are also in my space.  that is the trade off.

today florence went home early, and the yard is done being raked, so i've found 30 minutes of space.  right now, the kids have gone outside.  i can hear them stomping back this way, but that's okay, the time out is over, i've regrouped enough, i'm ready to begin again. but i do miss that porch!

                       zoe reading to jude and bryn on the porch

kirabo (gift)

there is something about an african sky. 
i went out again tonight walking at twilight

it was like being inside a poem.  a few stars out, a different color sky in each direction, the giant trees with their wide covering leaves, making patterns of negative space as beautiful as the light between.

kirabo means 'gift' in luganda.  one of our advent reading today was about gifts, how sometimes it can be easier to give then to receive, how receiving requires humility.  i see this, but i love both parts.  i love to give gifts, but i also love to receive them.  there was one part of the reading that stuck with me.

"This is often the way God loves us: with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we don't necessarily want to be."

the first think that came to mind was those gifts in life that are associated with suffering.  i thought about zoe.  she's such a gift- in all the good ways a child is.  but there are parts of her life, her struggles, her disabilities that i definitely didn't think i needed nor did i want.  and i became a member of a group i didn't really want to belong to. i never planned to be in.  same with our early years with jude.  i didn't need the 'gift' of being told my pregnancy would likely result in a severely handicapped child.  i didn't need the 'gift' of hearing over the phone that he had a bad brain tumor.  i didn't think i'd belong to that group of parents who make regular visits to specialty doctors, and have thick medical files on their kids.

but those were gifts.   the kids, of course- that part is obvious.
but the suffering parts- those too, were gifts.

it's strange to think of God expressing love by allowing us to experience suffering, but as a parent, i get this.  even in little silly ways. take immunizations.  my child looks at me with horror as i'm holding him down and the nurse is sticking him four times.  but it's because i love him, that i not just allow it, but drive him there, pay for it, and then hold him down, to receive these pains that will prevent worse pain in the future.  but my small child doesn't understand this.  he just see's mommy allowing this awful nurse to inflict pain on him.
we see through the glass dimly, we see to the end of the street, but not around the corner.

some of our gifts appeared wrapped in old bags, gifts disguised,  sheep in wolves clothes.  gifts that on first view we'd return to sender.  but.  they were gifts that we did need to become who we were meant to be.  gifts that brought real transformation. 

i would change the end of that quote.  i would change it to "with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we didn't necessarily want to be." 

because this is who i want to be.  i'm better for having gone there.  better for experiencing these gifts even though i've shed many tears because of them. because i want to know the things i've learned from going through these times. because i understand life differently now, i value people differently now, i can relate to people who i never would have understood before, i've felt God differently.

“You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.”  annie dillard.

the camel and the night sky

the moon held on today, still bright in the morning sky, not ready to leave the night behind.
i was glad. 
last night the sky was so beautiful. so stable. so consistent.  a reminder that your day can be hard or bad, but it's just a day.  that wide open night sky makes me feel small in a good way, it expands my perspective.  there was one star last night that was so bright and so big and high up- it called me back to bethlehem.  it reminded me of Christmas. 

right now i'm sick of sick.  everyone at clinic is sick, my family is sick, my friends and neighbors are sick and even i'm a little sick. today was full of sad stories and lots of remembering to compartmentalize.  to do the best i could for each person i saw. 

the 15 year old girl with AIDS, on second line therapy with a CD4 count of 37, missing an eye and a cheek from cancer.
"when did that happen?"
"the year my parents died, when i was five."
"did you know you had HIV then?"
"yes"
 imagine loosing your parents, your sight, your hope; and gaining a deformity and a place in your aunts house as the only one with HIV, when you're only five.
it's not right is it?  it's not fair.

the 30 year old man with AIDS, fever, cough and shortness of breath, on exam and chest x-ray a lung full of fluid or pus, lying on a mat, shallow rapid breaths and heart rate, refusing a ride to the hospital saying he'd wait until tomorrow when his brother would take him.  me wondering if he'll even go tomorrow and wondering what good it will do anyway.  will they read the referral? will they tap his lung and culture the fluid and make a diagnosis? or will they just slap some antibiotics on him and hope for the best.  me wondering if 'doing the best i could do for him' included driving him to the hospital emergency room, waiting with him, talking to the doctor on his behalf, making sure they did what needed to be done.  but fearing that i'd be so mad or so sad that it might do more harm than good.  me wondering where the boundaries are and where the line is between making a difference and achieving sustainability. because i don't want to burn out.  i don't want to become bitter or hopeless.  today i just wasn't ready to see mulago (the big city hospital).

on the way, i was given another reminder of that starry night in bethlehem.  drawing me back to Christmas time. 

a camel walking down the side of the road. and i stopped in the middle of traffic and took this picture.  if i hadn't given a friend a ride i wouldn't have seen it. subtle orchestration not an accident.  it was saying: don't forget. drawing me back to this season of hope.  reminding me of redemption.  telling me to hold on.  to be patient. to be gentle in my thoughts and my fears and with my expectations.  to choose to be joyful.

so i'm remembering the joy and the peace,  the hope and the redemption, the love and the gentleness.

omusujja

one of the hardest things about being a doctor is having to say to your kids "mommy has to go to work now to take care of sick people."  and have them look confused and say,  "but I'M sick today!"
yes, that was today.  i had to leave two boys with bad coughs and fevers and go see many more patients with bad coughs and fevers who also had HIV and poverty to deal with.

it's also hard to be a doctor and have sick kids because i just can't think logically about my own children. i tend to under do it or over do it.  today before i left i examined them, gave them some symptom medications and told them to drink fluid and try to sleep. then i came home to find jude moaning on the couch with 103 degrees of fever, 30 minutes after taking ibuprofen.  and i started convincing myself he had malaria (ps he's on malaria prophylaxis, has no mosquito bites, sleeps under a net, and has a horrible cough and mild tachypnea- if it looks like a horse, acts like a horse, it's probably a horse, not a zebra)  and i love his super mature, 6 year old going on 25 year old med student, response, "mom! i don't have malaria! this doesn't feel any like malaria would!" (as if he's ever had it- but his gut reaction was correct- it's highly unlikely to be malaria).  apparently i've been in uganda too long. 

being a doctor here is different.  there are so few tests, and if they are available, no one can pay for them.  if they do have the medicine no one can pay for it.  and everyone thinks they need medicine for everything, preferably in the form of antibiotics.  it's not there fault this is what doctors give them.

i saw a man last week with the symptoms of a stroke who treated  antibiotics at the local clinic.
every 3 day history of cough is treated with antibiotics, as is every patient with epigastric pain. 
because of language and culture, it's hard to explain that they don't need antibiotics for their one day of symptoms.  part of the problem is the language issue.  the word omusujja means fever.  it also means malaria, they are interchangeable.  this is a problem.

i'm remembering how much of doctoring is about relationship and communication and how hard it is to connect with people when english is their second or third language and their beliefs are so different.  someone told me today that she'd was sure she was sick because in the village last week her brother was murdered outside the hut in a dispute,  either that or she 'd been poisoned by her husbands second wife in the village which resulted in her oral ulcers, but either way, could i please give her some flagyl.  i so badly want to communicate better, to understand and speak the language, to know the background on the beliefs. 

a lot of times it can feel like a drop in the bucket.  i'm left wondering why i'm leaving my sick kids at home, to volunteer in a medical clinic/culture where many people are mistreated because of bad practice or limited resources. but i have to go back to the individual.  did i do the right thing today for the people that i saw? if yes, than i've made a difference, small, but still a difference.  maybe mpola mpola, slowly by slowly,  those drops will collect into a cup of water, a cup of clean drinking water.  and hopefully in the meantime my children will rid themselves of their omusujja :)

pictures of life these days