leap year day

i have to write today because it only comes around every 4 years. it's leap year day.  what a strange day- snuck in to adjust the calendar- but it could be kind of magical. traditionally, it's the day when a woman is 'allowed' to propose to a man.  since that ship has sailed- i think i should come up with another type of tradition.  and why don't we have leap year day parties?  we should- big parties- because it is only every 4 years- and things that are rare, are valuable and special. 

zoe and i went into the 'garment district' of kampala today with my new friend simone.  it was awesome.  after 40 minutes in line with the matatus by the old taxi park, she got out to help direct traffic, which surprisingly worked and we parked and went in.  it was a building with many stalls all selling different fabrics.  zoe of course, gravitated toward the silky polyester cloth and i toward the cotton wax-print clothes.   there were so many to choose from, all hanging together, and piled on top of each other, the snippets of color and patterns were overwhelmingly beautiful.  so overwhelming that i couldn't make a decision.  i would pull one out, but by itself, it just didn't look as good, it looked better with the others.  the group effect.  each cloth was colorful and unique, but their individuality stood out more when next to others. so i couldn't just buy one- it was impossible- i had to maintain their togetherness.  this is what i came home with. 

we are rare, each of us, which is remarkable when you think about it.  each person on this planet is completely unique, hand-made, one of a kind.  we are all valuable.  we are all special. we are beautiful in our individuality- we are perfectly beautiful when we stand alone.   and like the fabric, we also shine in unity.

this afternoon, i walked up to big hill behind our house- my version of the tea fields.  i walked through the campus to the side gate, and i passed by the back of the campus kitchen.  there was beauty in unity, in action.  beside the giant steaming pots, the kitchen staff stood swaying and singing together an echo-y african hallelujah song. it was a magnificent gift.  an example of the sweetness of standing with each other- of joining one another. 

remember there is only one you.  and you are precious.  so let your beauty shine- alone or together.

a cup of tea

now that it's the rainy season again, i'm beginning to get it.  there are patterns here, little seasons, they're just different.  i will be able to find a rhythm. 

yesterday an old woman came to the door selling baskets.  she speaks not a drop of english and goes on and on speaking lugandan with out a care in the world that we don't understand each other.  this is the third time she's come and every time i buy something from her.  because she makes beautiful things and i like her and she's just trekked her old self up to my house with her goods so how can i not buy her mats and baskets. 

when she came i was drinking a coffee and the kids were running around and mike was there and i was trying to figure out dinner- but i had a nudging- a stirring- to ask her to come in for a cup of tea.  it wasn't a full thought- just that gentle inner suggestion- and i'm ashamed to say- i ignored it.  i motioned with her about the basket and the price and needed to call florence to help me understand and i paid her and she left.  i think the other unformed thoughts that were floating around inside me were about how i couldn't sit and talk with her anyway and how i wouldn't be able to conclude our visit so it might just go on and on.

that night our lenten reading was about hospitality.  not in the tea party and crumpets way, but in the way of meeting each others needs- of generous reception.  because so much of loving your neighbor is about this- welcoming, caring, receiving each other.

i love to entertain- to have dinner parties, to get to know people better, to share a meal, to enjoy good food and drink and conversation- but that's one small, tiny, easy part of hospitality.  the heart of hospitality is about welcoming in the stranger, not the friend.  it's about receiving the one with less, with need, who might be hungry, or thirsty or alone.  it's about caring more for another person, than worrying about our stuff (because we don't fully trust them) or our time, or our agenda.  it's about giving freely our ourselves, it's about generosity and invitation and peacemaking.  

doh!

again, i should have listened to the stirring, the soft voice inside saying 'welcome her in'. because in the sharing of our lives with each other, gifts are given.  those little gifts of story, or smile. when we sit together we are not alone, even if we don't speak the same language. we are two people having tea, two people trying, to people practicing gentleness, two people caring more about unity than our selves. 

thankfully, i'm sure she'll be back with more beautiful treasures next month.  and i will ask her to come and sit and have a cup of tea.

it was a very hairy lemon

this weekend we took the kids to the 'hairy lemon' - an island in the nile river.  it was fantastic for many reasons- here is the weekend top ten.

10.  we figured out that the kids are now old enough to play cards with out help or intervention- a key thing to know- as cards are highly portable and most restaurants here require endless patience

9.  we spent a lot of time just hanging around- lying on rocks- playing in water and not knowing what time it was

8.  the boys found several playmates and were off for hours- loving their island independence

7.  while i was enjoying my island independence and hanging out with a new friend, i suddenly realized that zoe, who had been tooling around in a rubber raft on a semi-enclosed area of the river was no longer visible.  i took off running toward the water and my friend took off running around to the next part of the river.  zoe was long gone from my view- had been swept out, under a small bridge that we'd thought she'd grab onto- and was heading out to the great wide rapidy nile! thankfully, my friends husband shed his clothes and dove in, rescuing the damsel in distress, who thought the whole thing was hysterical.

6.  we attempted to split the family up for sleeping due to our typical late reservation making ("hi, do you have any availability tomorrow?" which i thought was a step up from tonight ).  the kids were going to sleep in a banda and we were going to be next to them in a tent.  we should have known better. but after a long sleepless night for the tent dwellers (which became jude and i) due to a rain storm, migraine, and his inability to sleep in the pitch black, we enjoyed a quiet morning together on the beach at sunrise.

5.   everybody having a great time!

4.  no internet or phone service or computers-

3.  several really great conversations interspersed with a lot of laughing

2.  zoe making friends with other kids (and a dog and some chickens) despite her desire to not come with us, saying she'd rather stay home with her friends.

1.  connecting with new friends, who we'll hope to stay in touch with, even if they are moving to thailand in three weeks!

it's saturday- a little poem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Song of the Builders

On a summer morning

I sat down

on a hillside

to think about God -

a worthy pastime.

Near me, I saw

a single cricket;

it was moving the grains of the hillside

this way and that way.

How great was its energy,

how humble its effort.

Let us hope

it will always be like this,

each of us going on

in our inexplicable ways

building the universe.

Mary Oliver

from Why I Wake Early (2004)

unpeel and enjoy

sometimes you have to go with second best.  that's life.  sometimes when you go with second best,  you discover that what you think you wanted, might not be exactly what you wanted.  or that what you think you wanted is just a facade for the real deal which meets the same need but might look different.

i wanted the tea fields today.  i wanted to leave my yard, walk through campus, and land in those clear, bright endless tea fields.  but there aren't any tea fields in walking distance.  so i felt badly for about 5 minutes and then put on my sneakers, grabbed some water and headed out the door.  i walked through campus and out the side gate and up 'monkey hill' or 'prayer hill' - i'm not sure which it's really named, but both fit as i saw lots of monkeys and did lots of walking and talking with God. 

i missed the tea fields because i was longing for alone time.  i wanted an hour of solitude.  i wanted to walk for a long while with few people and think about the day- i wanted to feel the outside on my arms, to feel my body moving on the earth- because that is the way i settle my brain.  i didn't need the tea for that- i just needed a path and some quiet.  so i walked and i listened and many of the sounds were the same and what i was hearing pretty clearly was 'isn't this enough?'  'am I enough?' 'is what i've given you enough?'

yes.  it is enough.  but i sometimes forget that.  i have grand ideas or memories or desires and i forget the gracious provision i live.

the tea fields were just one example.  a reminder to stop looking for what i think i want or need- to allow the pieces of my life, or my backyard, to be enough.  to keep it simple, just go for a walk, there doesn't need to be any 'missing'.  the things we need are usually all around us- so let's un-peel them and enjoy!

being in it- lent day 2

it's one of those beautiful nights.  the sun is setting wide across the sky- stretching out her arms.  the air is still warm.  it's one of the times you want to push pause and just be here. every little piece is magnificent. 

the kids are on a 'mini-break' from school, and instead of the long promised safari, i took them horseback riding- which actually was ponyback riding, but just as fun.

last night i went to a women's fellowship/ ash wednesday service.  before it started a bunch of us were talking about what we were giving up for lent.  the topic of technology came up- of giving up facebook- and i think someone asked me about giving up the blog. 

i had a moment of panic.  because lent is about finding sacred spaces and for me, this is one of them.  so what if it involves a glowing computer screen, it's still a place where i often discover God as i process the day or the week or a season.  but i did report that one of the things i'm trying, is to be more intentional, to give myself the opportunity to make good choices with my time.  because if i categorically give up the computer, it takes the choice out of it, and for me, the choosing is important.

yesterday, i chose to play cards with jude.  it was awesome.  bryn joined in and after a few rounds of 'go fish' and 'gin rummy', i taught them 'scumbag' and they did great.  it somehow made it more valuable that it was a choice and not me attempting to do 'something' because i couldn't be on the computer.

today jude and i hung out and made computer art faces. 

its one of my boys favorite things to do- and it's on the computer. 

i get it, i do.  the importance of setting boundaries during this season, of changing the routine, the pace, of looking up. but i think it's important to be active in it. 

so i'm looking up now, in the darkness of it, with the first pinpoint stars shining down.  and i'm so thankful that there is never a time in the day or the night, of complete darkness.  there is always some sort of light from above.  little symbols of non-abandonment- an awareness of His presence- the sacred is not so far.

what i can do

it's a pouring pelting cold rain and a beautiful tumultuous sky- loud and dark and pocketed with brightness and light.  the earth has given way.  the silence of the dry season- the quiet cracked ground-is filled with the sense of more now.  it is good.

today is ash wednesday.  the beginning of lent- that 40 day journey to the cross- to understanding or trying to, the love of a God that led to such sacrifice.  40 days of pilgrimage- of walking in the wilderness- of experiencing God.

it's timed well- this rain. cool air and change bringing reflection- marking beginnings.  this season for me isn't going to be about giving up chocolate or alcohol or starting to run.  in this season i'm going to attempt lots of things- but i'm going to do one thing.  i'm going to try to be intentionally simple. and  instead of trying to create moments to enjoy, i'm going to try to just enjoy the moments.  i'm going to try to be more thoughtful about what i do and say and write.

but what i'm going to do, is to start each morning, when my feet hit the ground, by asking God to walk with me, to bear with me, maybe to hold me some of the time. because this is about all i've got and the really great thing is that it's all i need.  i just need to show up.  i just need to ask for help on the path- guidance on the journey- companionship on the pilgrimage.

trying doesn't get me very far- relying does.  i know i'll fail- to be intentional- to be simple- to just enjoy- to be thoughtful.  but these days aren't about me succeeding in being a better version of me- they are about me experiencing the extraordinary- about discovering the sacred- about me delving into the unknown with God. 

so each morning i'm going to ask him to take my broken pieces and be gentle as we walk through the day.  i''ll warn Him that he might get cut if he bumps into me, but He won't care. and i'm going to warn him that i will be trying, but i usually mess it up, but He already knows that.  i'm going to remind him that i often lose my temper, and get easily frustrated, am highly impatient, and often eat chocolate for breakfast when my kids aren't looking, but He will say that's fine. and then He'll probably remind me of my good parts, and whisper that so far i'm not being simple, and i'll say 'oh right!' and well go have breakfast (i'm hoping He likes chocolate!).  

"Jesus may we follow you on the pilgrim way of Lent,
May we journey with you into the wilderness,
Willing to move beyond the ordinary,
So that we can discover your unexpected sacred places. 
Jesus may we wash our hands and purify our hearts,
Learning to thirst after righteousness and hunger after justice,
May we humble ourselves before you,
Expecting to see you revealed in a new light.
Jesus may we walk with you no matter how challenging the path,
Learning to be patient with darkness and growth,
Willing to live with not knowing, 
Until your mustard seeds take root and sprout into life."  
                     a lenten prayer from Godspace

little gifts

i love little gifts.

these are the things that don't take much effort at all on the part of the giver, but mean the world to the one receiving.  they aren't even known to be gifts, or meant to be gifts, but they are.  it's all those little things we do for each other out of kindness or love or friendship or just because it's the right thing to do or because we wish someone would do it for us.  those little things that make the other person feel good, less alone, less far away, feel hopeful, cared for, encouraged, connected. 

yesterday it was my friend and excellent oncologist, who responded to an email about a case i'm dealing with.  he got back to me with in a few hours, with all the answers and extended his availability to answer further questions.  that was a gift. 

my friend brought me grapes the other day from the market.  it's just grapes- but what a gift!

the words we speak and how we speak them, pausing to look someone in the eye, to really listen, these are gifts.

the sweet sound of my kids at night shouting from bed one last time, "mama! i love you!" gifts.

each day we can give a lot of little gifts.  we can send the note or the text.  we can do the dishes.  we can give a hug, spend 20 minutes, we can share a story.  we can smile.  it doesn't take much.  it's the little things.   

15 minutes of fame

"In the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes."  andy warhol

i'm not sure about 15 whole minutes.  but maybe if you added them all together and multiplied by some number- i would be close.

it began for me at birth.  yes, my adorable baby picture was book worthy.  but not a book of anne geddes photographs.  not a picture of me tenderly swathed in a plant or popping out of an egg.

 no. rather my new born picture, lying sprawled out, cord still attached, with goopy anti-gonorrheal eye ointment smeared on my face (which all babies got, at least in the '70's), landed in a lovely book by my moms obstetrician: VD: the ABC's (page 48).   yes, my life of fame started with some good times.

 i think my next debut was probably age 6 in the Weston Town Crier when pictured in a girl scout parade.  followed by my age 7 win of the 'Kelloggs Stick Up For Breakfast' contest when i won a bike for my drawing of tony the tiger eating breakfast outside a tent, beside a stream, with a giant-out-of-proportion thumb, indicating 'they're GRREEAAAT!!'  i'm sure either the drawing or me or both, were pictured somewhere. 

then i think there must have been a long dry spell.  i don't remember anything that could be construed as anywhere close to 'fame' for a long time. 

as a premed student/ research assistant- our study on smoking cessation bore the fruit of about 4 papers that were accepted to medical journals and so somewhere in the list of authors my name is buried- but it's there! in print. 

in medical school i had a small art show at a coffee house, now that was cool.  i also had a poem 'published' in an emory university quarterly writing anthology.  these were highlights,  my right brain was so desperate to triumph during those years.

after fellowship, i had my own first author paper published in a very small and not widely circulated medical journal.  and honestly, i didn't care.  i wished i'd painted a picture instead- or written another poem- or drawn tony the tiger again and won a new bike.

but now, my most recent addition- to my probably 10 minutes of fame - sits in between art and print- it's an article in Modern Ink magazine about my life now- here- in africa. the magazine is a pretty fabulous new online magazine that comes out every two months.  they recently changed the format to provide more 'bite sized' pieces for their readers digestion, so they have 60 pieces or days.

appropriately i'm day 48.  my life in bookends- from page 48 to day 48.  but i hope it doesn't end here!

community

i'm missing the tea fields- the space of them- the time- the quiet.

in kenya, i realized that something is missing.  

i'm missing a like minded medical community in the big sense of the word community.  i didn't notice this, because in uganda, i have a community and i have a medical job.  but when i came to the conference and saw groups of physicians and nurses practicing and working and living together in community with the same goal- to care wholly for people- body and soul- to collaborate and support each other medically and spiritually- to be the hands and feet of our God- i longed for it.  because sometimes i feel alone in the work part, and overwhelmed slightly and not sure where to begin.

when i  listened to their stories and saw their pictures, their hospitals and clinics and training programs, and their lives woven in, it made sense to me that when people are sent out to the ends of the earth they are sent out together- they are sent in groups or pairs- they are not alone- they are in community and then together, integrate into the new community of the people they are serving.

so i began to think about community.  it's hard to define isn't it?  it can be simple- a unified group of individuals, or it can be more complicated- a group of people with specific shared interests or values and culture, living within a larger group.  i really value community, especially when it involves connection on a deeper level. 


one of the most intense communal experiences i can think of is medical training, especially residency.  living in the hospital (almost), eating all meals together, making major decisions that can result in a patient living longer or not, all those hours, all that sleep deprivation, all that stress and learning and growing and wondering sometimes why, and missing those at home, and grieving the loss of time with them, and grieving the fact that we are mortal, that people get sick and die and sometimes we can't do anything to stop it.  all of that  bound us together in community.

i was remembering zoe in those days- and how much i longed for her, hated leaving her after she and mike would bring me dinner at the hospital.  how i dreaded watching her little face cry and her little arms waving goodbye over mikes shoulder as he'd turned to go back home. i remember running to pick her from day care after those 40 hour shifts- the smell of graham crackers and wax crayons and wood chips - how that smelled like life to me. 

several times during internship when zoe was about two, we got together with our best friends and   her 'best' friend lily, who lived across the country.  the first time the girls saw each other, they got down and crawled around the room exploring it together , even though they could both walk. it was their shared experience.  their vocabulary was still limited, so this was their way of reconnecting- of remembering where they'd left off-it was their shared identity,  their little community. after a few minutes- zoe (who was a much later walker) got up to show lily that she could now walk- and then lily stood up and joined her.  together they moved to the next level and toddled around the house exploring.

 it spoke to me about the importance of really relating to each other- about remembering our histories and our commonalities- and about the importance of shared experience in community.

in kenya i began to dream of being a part of a wholistic (i spelled it that way on purpose) medical community that incorporates the physical, social and spiritual needs of a local community.  a clinic that thinks outside of the box-where people are taught health education and sustainable farming, where food is grown and people learn nutrition, and how to make their own 'plumpy nut' for malnutrition, and ORS for dehydration- and in doing so, become empowered and less dependent. where shared experience is shared, and valued.  where a community can begin to problem solve together, to work together for each other, for water to be cleaner, and nets to be used, and helmets to be worn (i'm getting carried away).  but really, this is the way God cares for us- wholly- not in parts.  because all the parts matter.

i love my community here, and i love my job at clinic.  i'm thankful for them.  but i hope that i'll find or grow a truly connected medical community too- one with shared vision and values, shared hope and commitment and location and wholeness.  that i will find people to practice with who just want to be hands and feet with me.

the tea field process

"Tea is the taste of my land: it is bitter and warm, strong,and sharp with memory. It tastes of longing. It tastes of the distance between where you are and where you come from. Also it vanishes-the taste of it vanishes from your tongue while your lips are still hot from the cup. It disappears,like plantations stretching up into the mist."  Little Bee, Chris Cleave


i'm home and it's good.  i arrived to mikes arms at the airport and several hours later to the soft sleeping heads of my little ones. life resumed quickly as i headed into kampala early friday morning.  the car was full of kids and the road full of traffic- but it felt different- i felt different- not in a huge way- but small small. and i think i know why.

i spent each afternoon in kenya walking those tea fields.

i had come to the conference with a question.  what am i supposed to do in uganda?  i meant it specifically.  but pretty quickly the answer i got was that i was asking the wrong question.  what i'm to do is secondary.  it comes after, who i'm to be.  so i'd walk and walk and run a little and pray a lot.  i felt this blockade inside me that i couldn't get my head around- which probably should have made it obvious and clear that i needed to get my heart around it instead.  i felt something tethering me- some restriction- a pulling- an unidentified weight.  i asked for revelation.  i asked for illumination and transformation and all the other 'tions' i could think of.

the day before we left i walked the farthest. i wanted to walk until i'd reached clarity and conclusion, but i just heard the leaves moving.  i stretched out my arms to feel as much of the wind as i could, to be open, and i waited. but it was just the soft feeling of cool air and i was hungry so i headed back for dinner.

that night we had our last service- it was just songs and communion and we sat in groups by country.  there were about 10 of us in the uganda group- half ugandans and half expats.  one of the ugandan women asked us to each share our prayer requests. now usually i have a long laundry list of requests- usually i'm embarrassed by how much help i need and try hard to whittle the list down to one or two like everyone else.  but this night i couldn't think of any so when it came to my turn, i just said what i felt, "tonight i'm just thankful".  i don't really know where it came from- but there it was.

after we'd had communion, the ugandan self appointed leader of our group asked us to pray quietly for our requests, so i did.  i began to pray a prayer of thanks.  and that is when the clarity came.  because out of somewhere deep inside me i spoke words that i never thought i needed to speak- words i'd certainly never felt, words that snapped the cords and brought release- words of revelation, and transformation.

somewhere inside of me i thanked God for the suffering of having a child with disabilities.  i thanked God for the deep darkness of the days that she would hide under her desk at school until i came to get her.  thanked Him for the days of fear in not knowing how to help her- of wondering if she'd ever feel better- if her brain would settle.  thanked Him for allowing me to feel the pain of it, to go through years of living exposed and outside of 'normal'.  and then i cried.

because after i'd said 'thank you'- i realized that i completely meant it.  i was thankful because so much of life is learned in those hard hard spots.  because painful things shape us and change us and help us know each other better.  because you can't just eat the cake and cookies in life- you need the vegetables and proteins.  because it's all part of a process- you need cloudy rainy days for the flowers to bloom, not just sun.

i cried because 'thank you' is different than acceptance.

with zoe, i've spend years working on the accepting part.  i've had some therapy and tired the ears of many friends, in getting to a place of acquiescence.  i've spent a lot of time praying about zoe and for zoe and about me with zoe, mostly in the well known form of begging, of crying out 'help!' and mumbling, 'you'd better show up because i didn't ask for this!'   and i did reach acceptance and i did get help and God has shown up for me, over and over.

but this was different.  in those tea fields, unbeknownst to me, God was showing up in a different way.  He was softening me- letting me feel the tethering- waiting for me to be ready to move from 'break through' to 'break out'.   it never occurred to me during the week that i needed to give thanks for suffering.  it was never asked of me in a message or a sermon.  but somehow in those fields it surfaced and pushed its way out.

i'm sure this sounds like a whole lot of crazy to many of you.  you're thinking, 'now she's gone over the top - this whole missionary thing- giving thanks for painful stuff- what??'  and in truth it didn't used to make any sense to me either.  but it's about trust.  it's about full immersion in the trust.  when i can embrace the life that God has given me fully, in all the ugly of it as well as the pretty parts, when i can leave acceptance and offer thanks, then i'm trusting fully, then i can be useful on a deeper level, then i can begin to know the answer to what should i do? then i'm ready to take risks. then i'm ready to be in my life, then i'm not afraid, then there is freedom.

there was transformation.  but like most things- it's the beginning- it's a process that has started and it needs to be continued in the days of my life.  it needs to start each morning when my feet hit the ground.  i will try.  i will ask for help.  i will take whatever broken pieces i've got and i will begin with 'thank you'. 

light on the inside

i'm wondering if one thing most missionaries have in common is humility. (i'm not including myself in that group yet- although aspiring).  as i've looked around this week, and listened, and been awed and inspired by those people around me who do things and live places that make my big move to uganda look like a weekend at the ritz- i'm astounded at the theme of humility- of giving away credit when success is reached- of pointing up instead of to oneself. it's lived humility, it's an awareness of the essentiality of modesty in achievement.  the correct sense of ones place in the world, knowing our little areas of influence are small, we do our best, we show up, we are obedient. what has been most impressive is that it's real real.

what has spoken to me is the absolute backwardness of my thinking, of how my eyes mislead me- over and over again- of how the beauty that is inside perhaps the most beautiful people, isn't obvious, in fact it's often hidden, it's often missed.  there are people here in all shapes and sizes, with all different styles of dress, but i've noted a direct correlation of the sweetness of souls with the higher the knee socks are pulled- the more outdated the haircut- the more likely the outfit came from a missionary bin and not a european boutique.   i know, i'm making massive generalizations - again.  but i'm astounded at how quickly i'll write someone off- not seek someone out, only to find a complete source of wisdom, a treasure, a depth of knowledge.  when i finally shut up, and close my eyes- when i stop looking and start listening- i'm blow away by the person inside.

i'm not saying that cool people aren't sweet or that style doesn't matter - i'm just saying that we're missing a lot if we think it really does matter.  we see so dimly.  we don't go very deep. we waste our time trying to hard.  we care about things that don't hold much value- and we lose a richness in life that people who are less concerned with their outards enjoy and spread.

i love little white lights in almost any form- stars, christmas trees, on a porch- on the naked branches of winter trees- but i love them when they are turned on- when they are against the darkness, when there is contrast.  there is so much darkness- and we are to be light.  we are to bring hope and joy and peace and love.  we are to point up.  to remember the source.  the God who made us and loves us. 

the greatness of lives lived well, that greatness comes only in the humility- only in pointing up- only in caring more about being a light that looking like one. 

there is a woman at the conference who is blind. she has the most beautiful smile always.  she walks slowly with her cane in one hand an on the arm of someone else to guide her.  she has accepted her need, she is aware of certain limitations, she is freed from the error of our eyes.  she is free to listen to peoples hearts with out the bias that our dominant sense attaches.  there is a humility to her- a joyful, and beautiful light- and it shines.  how much she really sees.  it's so much more than me.

 

sometimes you just need to climb a tree

sometimes i forget how much i love and need alone time.  i forget because i really enjoy people.  after a morning and afternoon of lectures i had to run out to the tea fields again because it's just so beautiful and alone, i can hear the quiet.

i also forget that i always love and connect with people who wear clogs (outside of the hospital) - it has never failed, so basically, when i go to new places- i should look at peoples feet to find my friends.

this time has been rich with experiences and information, but i'm ready to go home. lying in the dry grass, on another perfect day, there is much to think about. we've talked about raising trans-cultural kids, and about the big issues of health and change and poverty and response.  i've been in awe of those who have sacrificed so so much for so so long- i'm just a baby in this world.

and here i am under a great big tree, looking up at a blue blue sky and watching the leaves dance as i have so many times before in other places, at other times when i was younger and thought different things- or about the same things but with different ideas. 

there are some people playing frisbee on the lawn in front of me.  i looked up just when the frisbee got stuck in a tree and i ran to it- desperate to climb- and free it- but i was too late- someone else was in the tree.

some days i so badly want to climb a tree, to be a kid again, not 41. that's one of the great things about having kids - they let you play again.  they require it.  because sometimes you just need to smell grass and feel bark and maybe today is one of those days.

uphill and down

there might be nothing better than to go to bed after a day of complete physical exhaustion. that pure physical fatigue, full of sore muscles and dirt, and a free mind. that when-you-close-your-eyes-for-a-second-you-fall-asleep kind of tired. that was last night and my sleep was so sweet.

yesterday we hiked up a volcano.  it was about 5 km straight up to 9000 ft elevation and a few km around the rim, then 5 km back down.  it was totally worth it and beautiful.

part of the group at the end

we left our shady tea field home and drove down into the great rift valley.  which is hard to describe and hard to see in pictures- but is vast and wide and expansive and humbling.

the great rift valley

the hike was hard.  hot afternoon sun, no shade, slippery sand and straight up in thin air.  i wished i could have climbed up backwards because the view behind us was spectacular and ahead, foreboding.  but this is why i love hiking.  you work, and push, and sometimes you want to give up and some times your legs burn, but each step you are closer and when you turn around you see how far you've come.  it's again, like life.  and it speaks to the importance of the 30,000 foot view.  a lot of times we are stuck in our feet. we are looking down at the dirt, we are feeling our pain, we are short of breath and thirsty, we are wanting to be anywhere but where we are at that moment. we don't see much except our feet slipping around stones and we forget. we forget where we are going, or where we've been.  we forget why and all we think is how.  how will we get on? how will we finish? how will this end?  will it be worth it?

but what we learn in that uphill climb, achy and straight up and sweaty, we learn endurance.  we learn to withstand hardship and stress.  sometimes we pause and drink water and breath heavy and then we turn around.

half way up

and then we see the view.  if we can stop for a moment of stillness, and pull our eyes from the trail, we are given the gift of perspective- we are given the 30,000 foot view.   beauty along the way.  our place in the universe. we see that our moments may hurt but they aren't bad- they are part of us- part of who we are becoming- part of the process- our evolution.

then there is the top. the summit.  the rim of the volcano. 

tineshi and moses, at the top

and some seasons in life are this- they are reached and appreciated and restful and spectacular. but you can only be there for a little while- life is never lived on the rim, at the peak.  it just isn't.

so we descend into another season of life- which often feels like reflection. on the way down, i'm wanting to watch the view, but if i don't look down, i'll slide.  i need to be present in the down hill- i need to be with my feet.  i want to skip and run the whole time, but there are steep parts that require hands and feet and eyes.  i remember the way up and thank God it's over.  i remember the top, and that i was ready to leave it.  reaching the bottom is another type of peak- it's returning- it's reality- it's restful in a new way.

we bumped along roads, through lots of traffic, and drove back through that great rift valley at sun set.  and even with an altitude migraine- it spoke to my heart. because it probably would for anyone- but for me it spoke of beginnings. 

rift valley at sunset

it's complicated

i've done it- i've found a spot outside where the wireless works.  because i just need to be outside as much as possible- so i can breath. especially on days that look and feel like today- which is, perfection.
a hot sun, cool wind, some quiet birds (not those loud mocky ones around my house) the perfect temperature and hundreds of white butterflies.  sometimes i feel like maria in 'the sound of music' running to the hills and missing the abbey call- i get that.

so, i have a secret.

i'm in love.  again.  but it's complicated.  it's complicated for many reasons- outside ones and inside ones.

about 8 months ago i wrote about the snip snip. about being done making babies, about the procedural permanence of this and the process of arriving here after years of living to be pregnant again.
but i also wrote that we weren't 'done' having kids- that i'm still stuck on four or five- i wrote that i can't wait to meet them.

and i think now, i might have met one of them.

she is little and brown and has stolen my heart slowly over the last 6 months.  but it's complicated.
the process of adoption is long, confusing, layered and wrought with opportunities for injustice.  some people want control, some people want money, some people want what's best for the child.  and there are legitimate issues around her history, whether she is truly an orphan, whether she even needs to be adopted, and most importantly- what's best for her- who should adopt her.  which gets to the most complicated part of it all.

see, i can deal with the mess of the legal stuff, and the bureaucracy, and the waiting- because i really believe that God is all over that- He's got it, and if she is meant to be with us- then she will be- whenever that may be.

the messy part is that i have issues with the whole adoption scene in uganda.  it's a group that i don't want to belong to.  and at the risk of stepping on toes or offending ears- it kind of makes me sick. 
now that i've opened a can of worms, let me explain, or try to. basically i think the idea of wealthy white american christians 'saving' little black african babies is wrong. because they don't need to be saved- because they have a rich culture and a heritage and sometimes families.  because every time i'm in kampala and see a couple of american parents toting around a little ugandan child they just look 'smug'.  like they've both won a prize and deserve a prize.  and i can't help but think how many people are saying how wonderful they are because they've done their part and now  there is one less child running shoeless around the world.

now i realize that i'm a complete jerk.  that this is horrible of me.  that in saying and thinking that, i'm being horribly judgmental, and not loving and perhaps i am the worse of the evils.

but.

i have to ask the question- is american adoption of african children really the answer? which begs, what is the question?  i think the only time it's the answer, is when it's for the american person/ family doing the adoption- that it should be a 'selfish' endeavor- that it is only the answer to that pure deep desire to have and love a child.  i firmly believe it's not the answer to the african orphan epidemic. i just don't think the answer to poverty is to pick one child out of it at a time.  that the answer to wanting to help the world, is to remove a child from their culture.   i mean there has got to be a better way.  are we sure there is something wrong with shoeless? 

if we really care about the plight of africa and african children, why are we not rallying together to help stabilize families in african countries? to not exploit a continent with big business? why are we not supporting entire communities? striving to keep them together, to assist with resources, education, financial stability? 

some american christians have written books and blogs about the great need in africa and that if every american christian adopted one african orphan we'd 'solve' the problem.  really?  and what problems would come from that?  what if every american christian, adopted one older child out of the overwhelmed US foster system?  what if every church rallied around those families to support them raising a child who hasn't known a stable home for 15 years?  why isn't that our 'call'?


this is why it's complicated for me. 

because i selfishly, love this girl.  i'm in love with her like i was with my other three kids when i got to know them. because i know if we lived in the US we'd be adopting there - but we don't we live here.  and i wonder how it would feel to be her in our family- deeply loved but always standing out.  i wonder if her desire would be to not have muzungu parents?  i wonder if any of it really matters as we're all different anyway.  i wonder if color might matter to her? even if it doesn't matter to me.  we spend lifetimes understanding our identity- it is essential to us- even when our identity is in our faith.

so what do i do with all this?  i pray.  i pray to be more gentle and less judgmental and more forgiving, and less assuming and more loving.  i pray for the orphans of uganda and the US and for those that care for them. i pray for those who desperately want a child no matter where they are from, and for those parents raising children from another country or culture- that as their african child becomes more american, they will in turn, become more african. i pray for honesty and openness and the allowance of expression and the acknowledgement and acceptance of the challenges that will come.

this is where i am- forgive me.

kenya photos- just a few, 'cause the internet is so slow!

did anyone see the rising moon last night?
an amazing giant golden ball ascending.
i'm so thankful for these nights of light.

i have a new camera- my dad brought it- it is our christmas gift.  woo hoo!
so i took a walk.  and here are the tea fields.

beautiful.

and some children. they wanted water and anything else i had, to touch my hair, and to sing in swahili while i took pictures.

and the wind was in the trees- speaking.

and there was stillness.

tonight i'll try to take a picture of that magnificent moon.

what's really going on here

so this is day 2 of the conference- which is 10 days long. and i'm doing what i do best- or did best in college - playing hooky.  actually, it's not really playing hooky- it's a well planned tactic about maximal absorption.  something i became aware of too late in life- but i hold on to tightly. i have a limited attention span.  i can sit still and listen, or read, and absorb information for about 3 hours and then i'm done.  i might after a very long break be able to take in a little more, but not much, and usually not at all.  in fact, after 3 and a half hours- i will actually start forgetting what i've learned- which explains a lot of my trouble in the first 2 years of medical school.  anyway- this is my break- and fortunately this afternoon i'm giving the talk so i don't need to enter any new information. 

i came to this conference for several reasons: to
a) get CME credit
b) see my dad
c) return to kenya
d) actually learn something about practicing medicine in africa
e) gain some discernment about what i'm supposed to DO exactly in africa as a doctor
f) escape listening to whining and doing dishes for 10 days.

my biggest goal was (e)- discernment. i hoped that by listening to people who have been doctors in africa for years and years- i'd sort out how i can make the biggest impact- what i can do that will really help - how i can use my gifts better to serve people- what will make me happy- have job satisfaction and not burn out.

but.
i'm beginning to see how completely inside out that is.  because what i'm learning isn't about DOing- it's about BEing.  i'm learning that it isn't about MY impact, or My help, or My gifts, or My happiness.  at.  all. 

i'm bad at beating around the bush- so here is what's really going on- and yes- it's about God.  in fact- it's all about God and only about God.  what i'm learning, or being reminded of, is how off track i am.  these two days have been about refocusing the lens with which i see the world and myself and the relationship between me and the world.  i'll try to explain-  you might want to listen, just in case you do the same things.

in addition to playing hooky, i'm also really good at worrying, obsessing, exaggerating, stressing and sometimes, panicking.  i can go from zero to eleven - quickly.  the thing is, most of those verbs ending in  'ing' are all about me- about me failing.  failing as a parent and destroying my children, failing as a doctor and causing blindness or death, failing as a missionary doctor and disappointing my senders- people who have sacrificed for me to be here to help people.  what do all these things have in common?  it all boils down to fear and self focus- neither of which are good- they're not enjoyable nor are they healthy, nor are they beneficial.  fear and self focus actually get in the way of being effective and happy. 

my new years resolution was/ is lowering the expectations- and that means of even myself. many of us are raised in a culture that asks us to aim high- to reach for more- to strive- to push- to achieve.  these things are good- really- they are.  but.  here are some things i'm learning or remembering, they are simple, but true.

God loves everybody.  God loves everybody the same.  even if they mess up and never meet their expectations or goals.  even if they can't sit still, or forget information after 4 hours.  even if they are really poor, or really rich, or gay, or straight and judging people who aren't.  even people who believe differently, even if they do the things we hate, even if they don't say sorry.  God loves everybody. the. same.  wow.  that changes things. 

God also cares deeply about everybody.  Her heart breaks for all the sadness that we have, for the loneliness, for the meanness and the selfishness and the fear. and i don't know why bad things happen.  i don't know why there is pain, and sickness, and abuse and violence.  but i know that God feels that sorrow even more than we do.

and thankfully, God chooses messes- well, people who are messes.  i think because when we are broken- badly broken- we are no longer trying to DO everything ourselves- or FIX things.  when we are broken, we are humbled- we are soft and mushy and open and not so sure of ourselves anymore.  when you're all stripped down- or when you lose everything, or the person who means the most to you; or the way you thought your life would be isn't the way it is, then you begin to let go- to begin again.  then you are open.  then it becomes not about you- and you sometimes find you're not even afraid anymore and that is when the soil is fertile.  God reaches down, there is grace.  out of that mess can come pure beauty.  out of that broken comes truth, honesty, transparency, vulnerability- and out of those things is connection.  and connection is the heart of God.

what i'm learning from these doctors who have been doing medicine in africa for years and years- is that i'm not that special, or unique, that it's not about me, it's about God.  a great God who loves me and the world and wants me to know Her, to be patient and gentle with Her creation, and that includes even me.   i'm learning that i do know how to think about medicine and sickness - i do know what to do, or where to go if i don't- so i don't need to fear these things.  i don't need to worry and obsess about my effectiveness as a parent or a doctor or a volunteer.  i need to let go of the 'ings' and embrace the 'tions'- connection, redemption, and perhaps most importantly transformation.  i need to stay soft and open and humble and even a bit broken.  then the world might begin to shake a little- then a difference might be made.


this week is about, again, stillness and grace. 

"man is born broken, he lives by mending, the Grace of God is the glue.' - eugene o'neill

the tea fields

the sky is growing dark, i'm drinking my milk tea and waiting for the moon.  today i walked the brown snaky paths between the dotted green hills of tea and i felt exuberant, alive and full of joy and promise.  the sky was so big and the tree border so tall and the green so green and the tin roofed houses down in the gardened valley shown in that perfect light of the late afternoon.  i was so full of the beauty that i almost wanted to squeal or to run just to feel it all more.  to run out of thanks for the freedom to be alive and the privilege of living in the place that i love, and for health and strength and a sound mind and for hope.  for the fact that we all have such gifts to give each other- that our lives have such purpose- that it all matters- that we can make a difference in how this great world spins.  

so i might move to kenya someday just to hike those tea field hills daily which hold the light perfectly and somehow smell of coffee.


You and I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues, 
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:
because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand, 
we make the only permanent tenderness
- There Where the Waves Shatter, Pablo Neruda

the sky is now dark blue, i will go and find the moon.

full moon

so i'm here-in kenya- under a spectacular full moon.  it's full in  a huge way- full and promising and close and encouraging.  it's lighting up the clouds in the sky like they are the platform holding her up.  her perfect roundness and glow.  so night isn't so so dark and scary.  it's like the night has a secret- that it's opening up.

it's funny that to be here feels foreign to me- even though i live so close, even though it's east africa, even though there is red dirt and dry air and beautiful flowering trees and more white butterflies than i've ever seen- -it's not uganda- it's different. 

this conference is for medical missionaries from all over the world (but i think mostly africa) to come and learn how to better care for the people they work with- how to improve techniques, how to practice evidence based medicine, to learn the updates from the west, to learn how to adapt them to resource poor places.  it's also a place to connect with other people who have decided to pluck up their normal lives and live somewhere else and not get paid and serve the poor, because that is what we should do.  well, taking care of sick people in the developing world is only one  way to this- it just happens to be the way i feel i'm supposed to do this. but we should all care for each other, gently.  we should love each other kindly, we should treat each other with justice and mercy and grace.  

so i'm here for a while.  away from home and alone but in community.  i'm in a place of wondering and waiting. of contemplation and curiosity- because this life is full of surprises- and listening to the still small voice of God is powerful and so full of goodness.  our first six months have been full of settling in - adjusting kids, building community, exploring possibilities (and there are many) and beginning work in some areas.  sometimes as we look around we get confused.  we wonder what we're doing, or why, or how we'll do it.  we get overwhelmed.  we feel small facing big problems.  we feel young facing old troubles.  we feel simple surrounded by complex- or we feel complex surrounded by simple.  and we can spin and spin and fret and worry and wonder and waste our energy.

but.  then there is that still small voice calling us to be still. reminding us that we are small- but God isn't.  reminding us that the suffering around us isn't with in our capacity to fix or even to bear, but it's with in His capacity. that what we do- we do with God's grace.  we are asked to be willing, we are asked to try, we are asked to lean, we are asked to trust Him and allow that to be enough.

what is more important than getting an old lady to an eye specialist, is to care for her gently.  what's more important than our agenda of getting a building built with in a certain amount of time, is to treat people fairly, and with forgiveness if it's needed, and always with love.  always with grace.  always with kindness.

and those things we can all do- all of us, under this great sheltering night sky- all of us- as we share this same moon.

top 10 list

1. best recycled t-shirt worn by a ugandan:  "Europeans Love Bush"

2.  best TIA (this is africa !?!) moment of the week:

"i'd like a dry white wine."
"okay" as she scribbles something on her palm.
out comes a glass of red wine.
"no, i asked for a dry white wine."
"well, our bar man isn't hear yet."
what!?! to help you distinguish between red and white?

3.  best kid moment- we're in the car on the way home from school.

jude, "mommy! on friday we're supposed to dress up because it's career day!"
bryn, "yeah! i'm going to be an architect!"
me,"that's great bryn! what are you going to be jude?"
jude, "a vampire magician!"
me, "but jude, isn't it career day? not halloween?"
jude, "yes mommy! i want to be a vampire magician! why are you laughing?"

4. sweetest moment-  mike asked the kids what they'll miss most about mommy when she's away in kenya for the week- i got- snuggling, reading with me, and her laugh

5. best food experience: aubergine, pumpkin, feta, sundried tomato stack at the gately in entebbe tonight- delicious

6. funniest food experience while at the gately:
"can we have african tea?"
"yes.  with spice?"
"no spice, just tea."
out comes the pot.  
"mike is it me, or is this just milk and spice? but no tea?"
"yes.  in fact, there is no tea in the tea, but there is spice."

7. best medical moment of the week- having dr. jean of 'save the mothers' available to perform a stat c-section for a friends ugandan nanny 

8.  worst medical moment of the week- pulling 100s of little poison caterpillar hairs from zoe's foot that i only noticed after putting on my glasses and looking with a head lamp.


9. best quote of the week- "know thy self" socrates (followed by zoe listing 10 qualities about herself - i was happy that there 8 likes, and only 2 dislikes!


10. best face of the week- 

24

the taste of this milky african tea is bringing me right back to kenya.  to being 17. to where i will be soon.  to that great drop off into the rift valley, golden and dotted with those thin fanned acacia trees. to expanse and wild and extreme and foreign.  to the voice of a place that landed me here- and i wonder why i now feel so complete- completely complete.   i'm thinking about how perfect it is to be going back for the first time with my dad who brought me there and in whose footsteps i've walked.

but it wasn't always that way.  at 17 i was a senior in high school, waiting for college acceptance letters and dating a boy my parents hated. a boy who i loved, but knew was temporary, who had long hair and smoked cigarettes and had been kicked out of private school and landed in a rehab, then landed in our small town where he went to AA meetings, listened to the grateful dead and made tie-dyed t-shirts that said 'make love, not war.'  in fairness, they didn't hate him, that hated that he was dating their daughter. 

right before i'd left for africa, he'd been expelled from our school for swearing loudly at the prinicpal, in front of several classrooms who'd come out to see the commotion which had begun with him swearing at me.  it was icky, we'd broken up, but were still somehow, probably pathologically, friends.  in africa while my dad was teaching, i wandered the tea fields and dreamed about the person who would really hold my heart, and wrote my journal to that boy at home, knowing it wasn't him. 

thank God we didn't have blogging back then- it would have been an disaster! really.  i still have all my old journals. but we did have cameras. 

i wore clothes that i loved but my parents hated.  thrift store clothes, skirts that had bells, sparkly gauzy jeannie pants, moccasins with fringe but only leather soles, and beads or lapis lazuli jewelry. instead of perfume, i wore an oil called 'rain', hung tapestries on my wall and burned incense. i  my favorite thing was a borrowed pair of my friends mothers madras shorts from when she was in college (20 years old with holes to prove it), and a cut off navy blue t-shirt that had been her dads.  vintage with some meaning.  this outfit particularly drove my dad crazy as he couldn't understand why, when he was a surgeon making enough money to dress his children well, i insisted on going about town in the used clothes of his college presidential running opponents wife.

all of this of course made no sense to me at 17.  at. all.  i mean why weren't they happy that i was recycling? or that i wasn't running around in ripped black nylons and shredded t-shirts held together with safety pins and sporting a mohawk, listening to the dead kennedys.  why weren't they happy that i was dating the one boy in high school who didn't drink or do drugs?  this was the source of many arguments, discussions, and shared annoyance and quite probably prolonged a relationship that might have ended sooner.  i could explain his 'good behavior' until the cows came home- but they kept talking about that "look in his eye".
"what look in his eye?"
"that look that lets me know he's seen a lot more of this world than you have."
at which point i'd roll my eyes and say,"i don't know what you're talking about."
but i did. 
i knew exactly what they were talking about. 
he had seen a lot more of the world- seen it, tasted it, smelled it and felt it.  you could see it in his eyes. 

our trip to kenya was a month long.  i was the longest time i'd ever spent with my dad- especially alone- and perhaps matched the combined time we'd spent together over the four years earlier.  so we had some territory to cover. the first 2 or 3 days- which mostly involved airplanes and sleeping off jetlag- was intermixed with arguing over the above mentioned issues.  and typical of late teens, and quite honestly my personality,  i extrapolated our disconnect over attire and appearances to an existential level about our grand differences in approach to people and life.  but my father is a very wise man, and thankfully, we moved on, agreed that we loved each other and must have come to some resolution/compromise about how i was to dress on this trip because in photos i'm usually wearing a polo shirt (his taste), but with the infamous madras shorts. 

so in a few days, i'll stand with my dad, where he was at my age- teaching medicine in africa together.  but it also would seem appropriate for us to give a talk on parents and children and time.  on 24 years.  on trusting the process. 

on that trip i found out i'd been accepted to college- the college where the owner of the cut off blue t-shirt would be president, with his wife, the original owner of those madras shorts. the college where i would meet the man i dreamed about in those tea fields.  the man who had walked those kenyan tea fields a few years before me, wondering who would hold his heart. the man who still holds mine, and who embraces my drama and extrapolations (as evidenced by most famous mike quote, "but mountains are so much more beautiful than molehills!) the man who loved the smell of 'rain' but hated the grateful dead, who listened to the clash, and had long hair, but a different look in his eye.  a man my parents loved too. a man i would return to africa with, after years together of tapestry covered walls and graduate schools, and medical residency and babies. 

24 years.
trust the process.