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
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.
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
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