endurance

i've been thinking about endurance.  about how hard it is- how long it takes-how never ending it can seem. and how much i don't like it.

endurance- bearing with hardship, pushing on, continuing existance- even when it hurts like heck.

i think these days many of us have become intolerant of endurance. 
we much prefer avoidance, or if unavoidable then overcoming- but the idea of enduring- we don't like it, in fact we hate it.  i'm in that group.  when i find myself sitting with something really tough or painful, the last thing i want to do is endure it. i want to fix it.  so i begin to problem solve, make lists,  do research,  investigate and then implement. 

it's only after failing, after many attempts to go back to the drawing board and try the other avenues and then failing again, after getting really mad, and obsessing and perseverating, and usually after several other unrelated categories in my life have broken- their fragments added to the heap i'm dealing with- only then do i stop.  only then do i take pause and think about endurance. only then do i consider that maybe 'the something' i'm trying so desperately (and yes that is an appropriate adverb) to overcome, is something to be endured.  maybe this is something that will not go away.  maybe it's not to be overcome. maybe it just is and i might never know why. so maybe my energy needs to be spent differently. instead of fighting it, learning to exist with it- problem solving about how to press on- building community and support to sustain my endurance.

today, after writing most of this post, i was acutely reminded of what requires tremendous endurance- zoe.  i wanted to wring her neck.  i wanted to not hear her voice, to not see her, to not have to spend another minute discussing her getting 'another chance' about whatever. 

raising children requires endurance.  raising children with special needs- who demand a lot of time and attention- who technically qualify as at least 2 children- that requires even more endurance. 

this evening, while trying to get out of the house to meet some visitors from the US, i was followed around by jude who wanted to calculate the exact amount of time that his parents would be out- bryn who wanted more food- rose who wants to tell me the names of everything because she's so excited to know more english- and zoe who was behaving in a way that required time and attention- doing things that she knew would make the time revolve around her. 

comparatively it wasn't that bad. but.  after a full day with her- giving her lots of time and attention- spent working on helping her regulate- hiking with her- playing- being incredibly patient with her multiple times- and basically feeling like i deserved a medal for my excellent behavior and parenting skills- i was just done.  i was so tired of having every interaction need so much support.  i was mad that she was taking time away from the other kids again. that she was the squeaky wheel, again.

surprisingly i didn't explode on the outside (for which i do deserve snaps) but on the inside i was furious.  because while she didn't know it, my patience tank was on empty.  there was nothing left. i was out of gas.

when mike and i got in the car- i kind of exploded- or vented loudly with a few *&%^&$ exclamations about how 'done' i was.  and as we bumped along the road and sat in a bunch of traffic, i remembered what i'd been writing about. endurance.

oh yeah, that.

that is exactly what i need to work on.  how to endure. how to live with this. how to even bloom in this. because she will always be the squeaky wheel- the child who takes more time- that is not going away.

i have several friends who are dealing with things that are so very hard that any of my trials, my bad zoe moments,  seem tiny and really insignificant.  they are living with things i wouldn't want to endure.  they are enduring cancers, some that are cured and some that aren't, and amputations, or medical problems that are unsolved and causing tremendous pain and stress, or children that demand much more time and energy than mine, or poverty. 

there is nothing wrong with trying to fix anything, and everything.  when it's fixable. but somethings aren't.

so i pray into this.  that i will learn to endure and churn my hardships into some sort of beauty.  that my energy will be learning how to endure, leaning on my God, sometimes crawling to the cross, and sometimes singing hallelujah.

full circle

it is beginning. 
the last family with young kids has left.  the campus feels empty.  my children are crawling the walls bored and sad and the worst part is tomorrow there is no school.  which means they will be driving me crazy. all. day. 

we had a plan. it involved an hour drive, and a pool, and sunshine.  but.  right after our friends drove away, it began to pour.  it rained so loudly that we couldn't hear each other.  it rained our plans right out the window.  so we ate lunch and baked a cake, because chocolate cake always makes us feel better.  then the power went out so we sat in the gloomy dark house and played monopoly, and felt like real missionaries.  no lights, no friends around, playing board games with the family.

because it was dark and i was kind of bored and sad that people are gone, and everyone was feeling crabby, and i had another migraine, i indulged in feeling sorry for myself.  i allowed myself to miss everyone and everything. i wanted to go to the fernbank and dr. bombays underwater tea house and eat rainbow ice cream.  i wanted to feel the heat of georgia and swim at the emory pool and see people that look like me and know me.  i wanted to go to target to buy a sparkly tank top and stop by the king-of-pops and have a mexican chocolate popsicle and eat it on the curb of the gas station parking lot in a race before it melts and wins.  i wanted to go to yeah burger and eat the bacon sauce.  i wanted to walk to john howell park and watch the sky through the leaves of all the trees while the kids run and play.  i wanted to have a TV and turn on 'noggin' for them when we get home and then i wanted my friends to come over and sit on the porch and drink cold white wine and eat potato chips in our mosquito free yard (thanks to 'junior' who would have just sprayed us free of them). 

i miss the ease, and the familiar, and yes, sometimes i even miss the consumption.  i miss the normal of it, and the options- the endless options of things to do, rain or shine.  the options of so many friends and family to be with, to talk to, to share life with. 

then i indulged further - online people magazine- in an attempt to feel normal and american again.  but. as usual it sends me back here- where i belong. because seeing pages of sunglassed- made up hollywood stars reminds me that i don't need a sparkly tank top, or bacon sauce or popsicles to feel good or be happy. 

i have all that i need.  i even have all that i want.
i'm just a little lonely and wanting some sun.
so it comes full circle.
and here comes the sun.
but i still miss you all.
 

extra complicated but still beautiful

the range of emotions i've felt today has been impressive, but i bet it doesn't compare with the range of emotions our little rosie felt.

today was the day to visit with her birth mom.  it was the day when we were supposed to get her 'birth card' and find out her full name and birthday so we can proceed with getting her passport.  it was the day to discuss our trip to the village where we will meet with the clan, to make decisions about who will be who in rose's life.

today her birth mom put down her infant and scooped rose up in her arms and rose complied.  she sat on her lap, mother and child.  they look alike, same beautiful mouth, same little nose, different eyes, very different eyes. eyes that have seen very different things even just in these weeks.  different feet, little painted toenails and feet that have walked bare for miles, feet worn by a life lived on them, feet aged by that life.

rose watched us with her searching brown eyes, as she sat engulfed in those arms that bore her. there was love there- we could see it.  confusion and bewilderment, but some love and connection too.

for a moment, i wanted to just walk away. to leave the scene.  to not interrupt the natural born order of things.  to let my heart break a little bit so that they can be together.

the translator began the meeting.
no one could find the birth card. 
when could we go to the village.

wait.

i looked over again at my little girl.  who is really not mine.  ownership didn't matter.  what does 'mine' mean anyway?

i had to ask, so i did.
does she want her child back?
because how could she not? because it looked like she might.  as she examined her childs teeth and felt her scars, the same scars she had, two dashes on the hands and arms and feet and chest.  i could feel my paleness- my lack of scar-ness- my blue eyes.  i could feel the difference.

but my question fell into the air and returned unanswered because we don't just speak with different tongues, we live different paradigms.

'what is in her heart?' i begged the translator to inquire, to tell me.  but how can she answer that if her heart is just one part of a heart that beats as a community, if her heart doesn't stand alone.  if her heart doesn't have a voice.

'she will be with you, and we need to go to the village.' was the answer. what part of this are they not understanding? she must have thought. we are a clan.  we work as a group.  rose is the child of my people, not me. why do they keep asking me what i want?

for a moment i had fear.  fear that was real and confusing- fear that this woman didn't have a voice and we were taking her child, and fear that we might lose rose who we love dearly too. fear that the village might want to keep her, take off her second hand H+M outfit, hand her a large yellow jerry can, and send her for water and firewood.  and my mind wandered to strange places with fears that were ridiculous. that we would be killed and cooked over that firewood and eaten with the rice and beans that we'd brought for the village. because it all felt so weird and surreal anyway.

the infant cried.  my mind returned. rose was handed to mike.  the birth mom nursed the baby.
rose was happy to be with him again. she watched that new baby suckle at her mom's breast. it was confusing.  it was a lot to take in.  she was so brave- so big on the inside as she sat with so many people who have loved her, betrayed her, returned to her,  and i think love her still, beside the people who feed her and hug her and tell her how much they love her and tuck her into a warm bed each night with a belly full of food.  there was trust and distrust and love and anger and guilt and fear swimming around in that room and in the hearts and minds of everyone.  but the greatest of these was love.

we come from other worlds really- their clan, our nuclear family. we speak legal language, about citizenship and health insurance and college education - they know tribal law, cattle raiding, witch doctors and maybe finding a primary school under a mango tree. we want the same thing- what is best for rose- to be loved, known, educated, fed well, cared for- but the 'hows' and 'where's' of this, the 'when's' and 'what's' of this- are sort of unknown- and spoken of differently-understood differently-with very different cultural meaning attached.

so i settled on hope.  that somehow this crazy, potential mess of a situation would be okay- would even be blessed- would be full of life and become life giving. because things that are exquisitely beautiful are complex- the inside of an orchid- the sounds of a symphony- the miracle of how the ear works.  complicated doesn't have to be bad.  complicated can be extraordinary. and God loves to clean up messes- to make pure gold with dirty bricks - to bring forth spectacular from disaster.  

rose looked scared as her birth mom took her from my arms and carried her up the stairs to our car.  we said good bye in swahili and buckled her into the seat.  relief washed over her face- her smile re-appeared.

"rosies seat!" she confirmed pointing to her carseat.

'yes rosie's seat. lets go home!'

"mama, tata- i yuve eww!"

'we love you too rosie! you are so so loved by so many!'

this beautiful story will continue. next month we will travel to a far away place and we will sit and listen and experience something that most people never will.  we will become joined in some way with this clan who shares the marks and skin of our little rosie.  and we will embark on this complicated, messy, shared journey together.

sunrise, sunset

today i drove the boys into school.

we wake up in the dark and leave really early and the only good thing about that is the sunrise.  but it's a very good thing. it's so beautiful.  a little gift for people who drag themselves up as day begins.
 
i was thinking in that early morning light about how amazing it is that each sunrise is different and how maybe that is one of the ways God reminds us that he's around, that he cares about the details, that he is paying attention.  because they don't all have to be different, but they are.

we wouldn't even have noticed if the world was made to have the same sunrise and sunset everyday- it would still be beautiful.  but, each day, the color, the light, the shape, the spread of the sky in transition, is new.  unique.  full of promise and surprise. as is each day.  there is newness. a beginning. 















it speaks to me. it tells me that God is an artist, and artists love to communicate, to share themselves, to make things that are beautiful or things that make us stop and think and see differently.

that is what the sunrise does if i'm awake to enjoy it.  i stop.  i think.  i see differently.  i appreciate life and love, i feel smaller than i did in the dark, but larger too. and the best part is that it happens twice a day!  this blessing of an open, vulnerable sky.  the arrival and the leaving of the sun, the heat and the light, the cool and the night.

it's not a mistake.  it's not random.
it's too powerful to be an accident. 
it is spectacular.
we are not alone.

what is going on

this morning an almond croissant magically appeared on my doorstep in a box from my favorite kampala cafe.  a little gift fallen from heaven.  of course it's the day after i was given the recommendation to go gluten-free to rid myself of migraines. after i'd psyched myself up to embark on that sad breadless path that zoe walks.  the day after i realized that anything is better than a migraine.  well, except not having a divinely provided almond croissant.  i mean how can i turn that down?  gluten-free experiment might need to  start next week. 

last night mike and i decided to use our babysitter time to have a logistics meeting instead of a date night.  not sure that was a good idea.  i mean talking about the budget and our schedule and about meeting with rose's birth mom again on friday, might be best in the distraction of our usual chaos- not during the precious childless hours.  i'm mean maybe lumping all the challenge together is the way to go- keep the alone together time pure.  ooops.

i was kind of awful.  or at least a little bit.  i picked fights, i assumed i was being challenged, i didn't even know why? finally when i was lying in bed wondering what was really going on here- all sorts of stuff came out.  finally when i let my guard down- it wasn't about mixing budget talk and tilapia.

it was about people leaving- for good and for the summer- it was about the loss, and the being left and it was about how much we have to be for each other over here.

i need to process my life out loud (and preferably with a very understanding girlfriend).  talking through problems, or issues, or questions, or decisions is the way i roll- it helps keep the crazy down, it helps tie down the kite strings.  talking through being zoe's mom, and adding rose, and what about the boys, and being a missionary in africa, and how to begin to wrap my mind around my life as a whole, that it might not be lived in short sprints as i've been attempting- that it might be long distance.  that it is long distance- especially with zoe. or maybe it's less like long distance and more like running repetitive 300 yard sprints- over and over again.

in high school i ran track.  i'll be honest.  i did this because it seemed the easiest way to "letter".  to get that jacket that only came with a sewn on symbol of what extracurricular activity you did well.  turns out i could sprint- so i did. the 40, 50, 100, 200, and 300 yard races, depending on if it were winter or spring.   the three hundred yard was the killer for me- it was a straight out sprint that went on and on. it was painful.  maybe that is like life with special kids.  so you have to build in breaks.  you have to learn to stop and drink a lot of water (or something) before you go on to the next one.

so living wholly and balanced and patiently remains the challenging theme of my life.  talking logistics somehow shines the light on this.  i was feeling unbalanced and confused and made up of disjointed parts.  i was missing people who are far away and who are about to be far away. i was feeling the absence and the void and the extra demands that living culturally isolated puts on our relationship.

late at night under that mosquito net, i figured this out.  it became less confusing and complicated and really very simple.  i like my friends. i miss them when they are away. they help bring wholeness and balance to my life.  they remind me of patience, they model kindness and love.  they tell me that even though i feel like i'm in the same spot all the time, i'm actually moving in a spiral- slowly going up- slowly evolving- i just circle back to the same spot and don't see the motion.  

so we didn't make the perfect schedule or resolve the budget, but i felt thankful for the people in my life, and for mike who gets me, knows me and likes me anyway.  especially thankful for the grace that helps us  be for each other all the things we need to be here.

our days, our choices

what is in our days? 

we sit with time, in it, around it, pushing it, fitting it, squeezing what we can from it.  time goes on with or with out us, ignoring what we do or don't do with it, whether it's packed and busy or empty or appreciated or not.  so it's up to us to make it be beautiful.  we have a choice- each moment is a choice.  i don't mean that in an overwhelming way, or a burdensome way, but in a way that we should remember.

i've been having a lot of migraines this year.  i've spent a bunch of time trying to figure out why- what the triggers are- what foods, drinks, smells, weather patterns, sleep patterns, stress levels- predict a headache, what is causal, what ingredients go into to my small version of suffering.  so far i'm kind of stuck, i don't know what causes them, and i'm so very sick of thinking about it, talking about it, expending any energy trying to understand, that i've given in- i'm realizing that i might not know- it might be random- i may have very little control.   and i still have my days, my children, my work, my life.  those things don't change if i have a migraine or not. so i have a choice.  i always have a choice. 

this week i've had about 4, thankfully only one was really bad. it's discouraging, annoying, and obviously uncomfortable but i would never have called it suffering.  when i was in kenya i was talking with someone who said his wife "also suffers from migraines".  i remember saying, "well, i don't know if i'd describe it as suffering."  and he thought i was a little bit crazy and wondered if i actually do get migraines or know what one is because clearly you'd describe it as suffering.

i think he's right.  there is suffering.  my head hurts, my body hurts, i'm often off balance, my head is foggy, sounds and light and smells bother me and my mood is bad.  there is enduring pain and distress and knowing that it will return.  but my question has changed from what is the cause of this suffering, to what can i do with it?  what choices can i make with this thorn in my side?


i can choose to not let it stop me.  i can choose to get up and get on with my life and make dinner and bathe people even when i'm feeling poorly. i can choose to feel fabulous and be so, so very thankful for days like today when i'm headache free.  but i can also choose to be more gentle, to be patient, to be more kind to myself, and to be forgiving.  i can use it to remember that life doesn't need to run at a neck breaking pace all the time, that slowing it down can be good, that life is harder when you feel out of whack. 

maybe this thorn is revelation.  maybe it's to stop me in my tracks and force me to see life for zoe in a way that i couldn't have with out migraines. to know a part of her world- sometimes off balance, sounds too loud, lights too bright, clothes too tight. now i can understand her better.  so maybe i can accept the quirks, and love her ability to be happy most of the time despite feeling off.  maybe i can learn from watching her choices, learn from her choice to power through a life that feels out of whack. maybe these migraines will help me to be more tolerant of her slowing down, more forgiving of her oversensitivity and more in awe of her endurance. 

"Suffering carves space in our heart to be more accepting, loving & forgiving." phileena heuertz

maybe that's why it hurts.  it's the carving.  but inside is a gift, inside there can be space. and accepting, loving and forgiving? i want to be these things.

so i will breathe deep and enjoy today and be softer to zoe, and softer to others, because we all suffer in some small unacknowledged way.  breathe.

line of hope

this morning the sun made a path straight across the middle of the trees. a beautiful line of light.  a stripe of brightness.  above and below the sky still held the shadows of early morning.  it was a stripe i needed to see.  the arm of God reaching and reminding me of His love, of transcendence, of redemption.

the people around us are either gone or packing, some for the summer, some for good.  it's hard when people leave, it's hard to be left.  it's hard to adjust to absence and silence.

today's readings were again about God's silence and about the human condition being full of suffering -that it's a guarantee- it's given that hardships will befall us.  there was a prayer from eli weisel, jewish author, nobel peace prize laureate and holocaust survivor, saying to God that no matter how silent God is, and no matter how much trouble he must endure, and no matter how much it seems that God is pushing him away, trying to be denied, he will stand in his faith, he will persevere and he will not allow the circumstances or silence to change his faith.  there was such conviction.  such respect and humility.  this man knew deep darkness and pain.  this man had been through hell when he prayed that, when he chose to not let go of God, even though he felt God may have been letting go of him. wow.

i have a lot of friends right now who are experiencing the darkness and the silence.  these are the hardest times.  the days and seasons when we can't seem to experience the divine.  when we need the grace to pour down, to feel the arms of our creator holding us, when we need to be convinced of the love and the non-abandon. 

i don't know why, but sometimes all we get is this stripe of light poking through.  no more, but no less.  we focus on the 'no more', and because it's so small, or so short, we ignore that it's also 'no less', that it's something, a sliver but present. 

i hope that even just the tiny pieces can be enough for us.  that we will see a narrow, but unmistakeable line of hope. that we will cling to it, embrace it, savor it, remember it, and share it.  that we can become that light for each other.  that we can help each other remember, and spread a slice of peace and maybe even joy.
 

they are all growing up

it's happening- they are all growing up in their own special ways. i mean they've always been doing this, but sometimes you just notice it.  i'll look down at judes foot and see that it's almost as big as mine.  or zoe will try on my shirt and it fits her.  or bryn will say, "actually, i'm not a big fan of chocolate." and rose? you can almost see this girl grow.

rosie has grown 2 inches in the past 5 weeks with us. i didn't think it was possible, and it definitely makes me question my boys 'growing pains'- because if anyone should have them it should be her.   she is learning english and feeling more understood, more a part of things, and she is very happy.

poor bryn has asthma, which i only realized after ignoring his night time cough for the past 2 months, until it started waking him up, crying, coughing, hard to breath. i finally listened to his lungs.  poor little wheezy guy.   but thankfully we were able to get what we need here and he's sleeping well now.

jude is seven going on 17.  he is the self appointed expert on everything, including topics that he's never heard of; and whether or not our rules are worth following. while we value his independence and confidence and tell him this often, he is seven, and needs to respect his mama.  this week has brought him several sweet-less evenings, time in his room- and the opportunity to say, " it doesn't teach me anything!".  oh jude, we hear you. but what will teach you something?

zoe is loosing her best friend who is moving back to america next week. this is hard.  it's especially hard when real, true friends haven't been easy to come by, when she also lived next door, and when you have the hormones of someone who is almost 13.

let me say that suddenly, i am cold oatmeal.  almost overnight- i have become that annoying person who doesn't understand her. just look at the difference in her picture with her friend and then her picture with me.

she's even more excited by the tortoises.

yes, those are tortoises.  now our pet tortoises.  we inherited them, or somehow took them over- zoe's work.  but the kids have been very busy building them habitats and 'restaurants' for the past three days, which already makes them worth it.

people are changing by the day- sometimes the minute.  they are all so funny and different and i'm thankful for each one and their unique blessings.

where we are and where we will be

sometimes we go to dark places so we can see light differently. so we can notice that we need very little to see.  that a small candle goes very far.  that things are even prettier in that shadowy flickering light.  but none of us want to be in darkness. 

sometimes in dark spots we are in places to hear things differently too.  we listen more when sight is diminished.  we pay attention in a new way.  and somehow in these times, other people respond to their still small voices and bless us with a flame or a word.

yesterday my friend said that she wished i could just allow myself to let go of working for a while.  now that we have rose, and as we settle everyone in to school in the fall, and zoe being zoe.  she wanted to encourage me to be in this season, to accept it as a mothering place and not obsess about when i can get back to 'reach out' clinic and when i should start teaching, and how i can get the 'action for  the needy' clinic up and going in luweero. 


i heard her. 

kind of. 

but that is my stress reliever.  figuring out my work life stuff, distracts me for the day to day challenges of still having to guide zoe through washing her hair, or helping people to the potty. it gives me a mental 'out' - it puts an end in sight.



then i had last night with zoe and when i was debriefing on the phone with mike, i realized that i was making some big assumptions again, i was beginning to expand my expectations.  i was putting too many eggs in my ambrosoli basket.  i could see that part of why i was so irritated with zoe and her outburst during bedtime last night, was because it was threatening my plans.  it was waving that flag "don't forget i have challenges!"  it was calling me to remember that learning differences don't go away when people stop homeschooling.  that her getting into school for next year is not any sort of a guarantee that she'll stay in school next year. i could see that i was mentally beginning to go about my life as if suddenly things were 'normal'.  but they are not normal and they won't ever be normal- at least not what i thought normal would be.


in the conversation i heard myself blurt out,  "but what if next year, i'm back at work full-time and she can't handle school?  what if the rug gets pulled out from under us again?  how am i supposed to get on with my life, with zoe?"


oops.


but my life is with zoe.  intricately woven with zoe- on the days that i like it, and the days when i don't.  this fact will not change no matter what i think or try or where school happens.  this is my life. it will be my life probably forever.


and in that dark space, i thought about what my friend said about being in this season.  and i realized that this season is much longer than having a 2 or 3 year old again.  this season is having a child with special needs.  in fact this isn't just a season- this is my new normal.


today i had daydreams about being back on the wards of moffit long hospital in san francisco.  the weird thing was they were good day dreams.  i have never missed residency, but i was thinking fondly about early morning rounds and reading ekgs and making plans, and discussing the case with the team, and speaking with the patient and family.  i was remembering and longing for feeling in control of my life- or someone elses life- or really anything- because life with zoe can feel so out of my control.


i pulled out the book that i'd read years ago- dana buchman's 'a special education'.  it's a memoir about a self-proclaimed type A, new york fashion designer with a daughter who has zoe-esque learning differences.  it was time to re-read it. again.  it was time to remember that other people have been here and survived, even thrived.  that when her daughter was 9 and 10, 11, and 12 dana buchman had similar fears and doubts and moments of utter inability to understand the mind of her child.


then i opened an email from my dad with an attached short article by joni eareckson tada- a quadriplegic and of the big advocates for people and families of people with special needs.  he wrote that it might be helpful as i raise zoe.  he listened to that still small voice.  he took the time to send it.  he was right. 


joni wrote about how God uses people who are weak, or suffering, or afflicted, to accomplish great things- to move mountains- to be leaders.  the bible is full of examples- the old and new testaments.  God picks people who stutter to give speeches, shepherds to become kings, an old man and woman to birth a nation.  Jesus picks people in the low brow professions to be in his posse, people with shady pasts to hang out with him.  but we see through the glass dimly.  we don't see that most people actually don't have it completely together.  that we are all broken.  that God turns broken into even better than new. 

i have not idea what zoe will do, or really what i, with my challenges, will do, or when i will do them.  we are part of a giant puzzle trying to do our small piece to make things fit together.  we get so mad when they don't fit.  sometimes we need to wait.  sometimes longer than we wanted. sometimes we feel like we are stuck in that movie 'ground hog day'- reliving the same frustrations again, and again, but we're not.  we are slowly learning, growing, moving, being shaped and pushed into a better version- into more whole than before.  even zoe.  even me.


so i sit with those two bits of light given by a friend and a father. 
'be in your life.'
'know that God loves broken- uses broken- enables the differently-abled."


words of hope.  light in darkness.
accept it. embrace your life.
hold it- because it is full.  life is full.  and there is goodness.

is this really where we are in life?

i can't wait.  my mom is coming to visit in one month.  we are so excited that we are fixing up the once garage, now home school and table saw storage room, for her.

when she comes she likes to know what to bring and she likes to know in advance.  she's ready for "the list"- she's ready to start hunting for the random items that we are either unable to get here, or cost way too much here. so i was on line looking for some things for zoe- namely a swimsuit with attached skirt, and longer shorts- when i decided to look for some things for me- just to look.

i was on ebay, wondering why none of the shoes in my search looked very good, why most of them looked like what my grandmother wore, when i realized that i was on page four, of 64 pages  of my ebay search for, and i quote, "comfortable womens sandals". 

oh dear.

is that where we are in life? did i really search for comfortable womens sandals?

no.

i refuse.

i changed the search to 'sexy womens sandals'. and i got 64 pages of  neck-breaking stilettos. and i realized that while much cuter, i just can't walk in the 4.5 inch heels, and i'd be taller than mike.

so i changed the search again, to 'comfortable sexy womens sandals'.

yep.  i got the "we're sorry, but there are no matches to that search".  zero.  zilch. no such thing.  of course. it all sort of sums up being a woman. the dichotomy between comfort and sexy.

well i wish that was the only 'is this really where we are in life?' moment.  but it was the minor one.

mike is out of town and it was my first night with four kids alone.  let me pause to say that i effectively have five kids, as zoe counts for at least two children.  things were going fine- dinner was done and i actually cooked it (although cereal was a very tempting option)-but zoe was being overly silly, annoying, and difficult.  after dinner i could tell we were headed for trouble so i took her to her room and asked her about 'her engine', where she thought it was.
"high!" she said.
"yes.  and how can i tell that it is high?"
"by my smile? and my laughing?"
"yes.  and by your inability to focus and your constant moving."

then i had a brilliant idea.  it was really fool proof. i put her in the bath, washed her hair for her, laid out her pajamas and her toothbrush and a book and lit some candles in case the power went out.  this would be perfect!  she's become relaxed and calm and i can read to the other three kids and put them to bed.  all i asked was that she be quiet and not call to me.

so it began and after about 30 minutes i was almost done.  rose was almost asleep and i was feeling very pleased with myself and my magnificent plan.  i was envisioning picking out a good teen dance movie and snuggling in bed with zoe and watching it.  i was envisioning some good mother daughter time, staying up later and bonding.  just as rose has nodded off, my daydream was disrupted by a very loud explicative "GGGRRRRHHHHHH!!!!" from the bathroom, which translates to, "i'm trying to do something and failing and i'm sooooo frustrated that everyone needs to know it!"

i felt all the little hairs on my arms stand on end.  rosie rolled over, i held my breath.  please DON'T do that again. but i knew it was coming.
"GGGRRRHHHHHHHH!!!OHHHH!!!!"

that was it. i knew where we were headed so i hedged my bets and sneaked out of the room.  she was still in the bath, there was  a lot of water on the floor and she was mad because she was trying to do some silly hairstyle and couldn't get her hair to do what she wanted.  i wanted to kill her.  no.  really.
i was so mad that she wasn't able to do the ONE thing i asked- not yell.  i was so mad about what her yelling was about.  i was so mad that she'd ruined my daydream of watching 'honey' dance her way out of the hood, together.

after some not-so-good words and facial expressions, i left her to get out of the bath and i retreated to the living room to attempt to calm myself down, as my engine was on super high.

is this really where we are in life?

can my 12 year old not manage a simple, set up routine task?  i'd done all the hard stuff- how hard could it be? she almost woke up the baby, is there any executive function at all?  will she ever be aware of other people as much as she is aware of her self?  oopps.  is she even aware of herself? perhaps that is the problem.

i knew i was over reacting, but i couldn't tell how much.  so i made some milk tea and ate a lot of chocolate chips and peanut butter and thought about it.  then i did what i always do, i went and apologized for loosing it and tried to see if she could understand at all where i was coming from.  she said she could, i'm not sure i believe her, but it was nice to hear.

just then mike called.  and he listened for a long time as i said a lot of not-so-good words and told him i almost killed his oldest child, and that the worst part was that it wasn't even that bad.  i mean we've come SO FAR!

that is when he reminded me: it's the baggage.  we can't see things for what they are sometimes because they're so magnified by their baggage.  each little episode carries a ton of history and fear about the future.  maybe now more than ever because she's going to school next year.

he reminded me that we will get to a place where she won't shout "GGGRRRHHH" and we will watch teen dance movies- but instead of 12 it might be at 15.  it just takes longer.

he also said, "i know." because he does.
"it's hard." because it really is.
and "i love you." because he does. and i really needed to hear that, because yelling at special challenged children can make you feel pretty unlovable.

zoe forgave me for over reacting and throwing a towel at her (which p.s. landed in the tub instead- when it was full of water).  i forgave her for yelling and nearly waking up the other three kids.

this is where we are in life.  the GGGRRRHHH's and the frustration.  the creeping out of the rooms of sleeping children to deal with other children.  the continual attempt to accept where we are and what our life is, learning to say, 'i'm sorry' again, and again.  remembering it's the baggage, that its a long bumpy road.

i guess it's no wonder i'm looking for comfortable shoes. 

black is black and white is white

somethings about inter-racial adoption are unique and hard.  for example,  there is no denying that i didn't give birth to rose.  she is black and i am white.  when we go anywhere- our situation stands out.  it just does.  people look and wonder and assess. 

sometimes they ask. sometimes they comment. 
they say things like,
"she doesn't look like you." or
"you know she is black?"  to which i said, "she is?? how come no one told me!"
or "do you have an orphanage?" or
"is that your nannies child?" or
"where did you pick her from?"

then i get a lot of,
"thank you for caring for her." or
"how wonderful that you are helping her."

and i'm standing there looking into her soulful eyes and hating that she's hearing herself described as a need, or in need, or somehow lucky that she has me.  none of my other kids ever heard that. they never received random opinions from people in the market check out line praising me for doing my parenting job.

i know people are trying to being nice.  i know i signed up for another exposed underwear scenario.  i know these things.  they don't bother me for me, they bother me for her.  because i'm the lucky one.  i wanted another child, another daughter.  isn't it wonderful that she's helping me.  i'm actually fine with the stares and the curiosity and the remarks.  what is hard for me, is watching her in the moments when she feels the difference, when she misses the sameness that we lack, when she longs for a connection that i can't give her.  

tonight mike is with the guys in kampala.  my friend lydia stopped by and i invited her to stay for dinner.  it was the typical crazy of our house from 5:30-7:30, with the added crazy of one parent missing and the other one deciding to make gluten-free, dairy-free cinnamon rolls (from scratch, with yeast) for the first time during the crazy hours. things went fine, people were pajama-ed and brushed and read to- and i was fussing with the icing in the kitchen.  rosie walked over to lydia  and wanted her to read her ABC book.  she sat on her lap, listening to the familiar soft ugandan english accent.  she seemed to notice how their skin blended together.  there was something normal about it for her, natural, missed.  it seemed like it was what i call 'the safe feeling'. 

i thought about how i would have felt being plucked up out of an orphanage full of white kids and white caregivers who spoke english, and plopped down into an african family- where i stood out- glowed in the dark- and didn't match.  where i didn't speak their language- and if they spoke my language, it sounded different.  then a white woman comes for dinner- she is kind and something about how she talks and how she looks, makes me feel at home.  and i miss home- i miss what had been my normal.  i miss familiar.  i miss the safety of it.

when it was time for lydia to leave, and me to put everyone down for bed, rosie cried.  it was more than the cry of not wanting to go to bed- it was the cry of longing- of missing- of loss.  it is a cry that makes sense, and i would cry it too.  it's a cry that i get, that i'm thankful she allows herself to feel and voice, but this cry is hard for me, because i feel helpless.  i know i can't give her everything- i can't give her sameness- i can't look like her. 

this cry doesn't come very often- but when it does i hold her tight and say "i know. it's hard. i love you." 
because it is hard. this will always be hard in some way. mostly for her.  i know she loves us.  i know she feels safe and cared for and valued and i know she likes her life with us- she has fun- she is free.  but.  there is no denying that when we hold hands you can see the contrast.  next to each other, she is blacker and i am whiter. 

but contrast in life is also poignant and beautiful.  contrast is more interesting, it grows us and pushes us and makes us all think.  it makes things noticed, things are appreciated differently.  it can bring together.  it can balance.  it can make history look silly- when the insides aren't different- when what we focus on as different is irrelevant really. 

but history is there- it will be.  and so will peoples stares and shared observations.  and so will rosie's loss, her personal history will always be there, a void, a longing, a mild sense of displacement that is hanging out below the surface.  i'm no adoption expert, i'm not a social worker or a psychologist, but it seems that acknowledgement is essential.  letting her cry and long and know we aren't threatened by it- seems necessary.   that we share a longing to connect with her too.  that life has loss, for everyone.  that we all experience displacement.

earlier that evening bryn had been sent to his room for not eating his dinner and not staying in his chair.  when i went to talk to him, he started to cry.  i asked him what he was crying about and he said he didn't know.  but i did.  it's the same thing.  it's the displacement he feels being in africa- with out his cousins and his grandparents, because he's stared at for being white in a world of black people. it's constant.  today a kid in the supermarket petted him- she couldn't resist- she reached over and petted his hair. he didn't even notice. 

we live this displacement too.  our contrast we have in common.  she stands out- we stand out.  and these moments, like tonight, are important. they make sense.  she needs to cry it out.  to grieve.  she needs to miss the familiar.  we all do this.  we should.  so as we continue to grow as a family- a crazy, somewhat different family-  we will embrace and acknowledge our 'different'.  we will keep having the lydias over so rose can feel some home-ness, so she can be with her familar.

and we will hold each other, tightly, and say, "i know.  it is hard.  i love you."

it's mothers day

it was a perfect day.  really. 
i slept well and awoke to the youngest three in our bed telling us how much they missed us last night when we were out. 

i got some great cards:

from jude

and this one from bryn

in case you can't read it: "if you dare to open this book there will be lots of love inside"

we packed a picnic and went to the 'vision for africa' pool and played and swam in the warm sun.  then we went to 'mish mash' because they have a playground, lots of run around space, couches that are as big as beds, and today kids ate free and any mom with kids got a free glass of wine, which we all know, is well deserved. i'm just saying.

it was a great day.

the thing about being a mom is that it requires a skill set that not everyone has.  i mean, when we picked our professions, or even our jobs, we thought about our strengths and weaknesses and tried to find a match.  we all want to do something that seems to fit us, and to avoid things we aren't so good at.  i worked in a nursing home as a nursing assistant for years, but being a waitress lasted only for a few months.  i would be a terrible lawyer (i'm way too heated in an argument), or politician (no poker face), or architect (could never deal with all those books of specifications- the minutia).

but the trouble with parenting, is that if you want kids- pretty much the skill set required is the same- a tremendous amount of patience and calm and flexibility. for me at least the first two, would fall into the 'weakness' category.  and this seems kind of unfair.  i mean, some people are just wired better for raising small people who ask a zillion questions, take forever to do anything (especially when you're trying to get to school in the morning) and still burp loudly at the table while eating with their fingers (at age 12). 

so i'm one of those who muddles through.  who has to remember that the picnic isn't ruined if the drinkable yogurt is spilled all over the mat.  who has to take a time out and remember that kids are messy and that is okay,  that i was really goofy at age 12 too, that whining isn't the end of the world and that eventually they will grow up and i will miss all the spills and burps and maybe even the whining, but i doubt it. 

i love these little people who make me have to stop and remember what matters. every. day.  who make me look at the weaknesses in myself and laugh and try better the next day.  who still see beauty in car headlights and fear the lighting in the sky.  who are trying to understand what is just an expression, and what is sarcastic and when no means no.  who eat all. day. long.  and swear each morning that they were awake all night because they can't remember their dreams.  who look to us for their interpretation of the world, "we like obama right mommy?"  said jude.

today he started calling me mom. ouch.  not quite ready.  now i'm half way to loosing the mommy.  they are growing up and it won't be long before they don't want to be a "we". at. all.  until they want to be the opposite of a 'we'. soon they will all be all "me". 

so i held on to today.  i loved it.  the beautiful mess of what it was- laughing, fighting, sharing, and snuggling of it.  enjoying the ride.

happy mothers day!

rainy days and hours

it's a hard rain this morning. that beautiful cool rain that makes me wish i was in the north carolina mountains with a fire in the fireplace.  it makes me miss these people. so. much.

a rainy day is for me a God given, grown up 'time out'.  on a rainy day i allow myself to slow down, to be inside, to not feel the need to do everything.  the rain sets limits that i sometimes have a hard time setting for myself- my options are limited- i have natural boundaries.  i am also free from my bizarre  guilt of being inside when it's sunny out. 

i was thinking the other day about our hours.  that people often say- there just aren't enough hours in the day.  i think there are enough to get done what needs to get done- but not enough to get done what i want to get done.  often by 8pm the tasks are finished- kids in bed- kitchen cleaned- house somewhat straightened.  but then i know i need to be in bed in two hours and i want to read a book, watch a movie, make brownies, hang out with mike, write, send some emails, skype with a friend, take a bath, get my life slightly more organized, make a mix of music, read the news online and check the 'people' magazine website.   there are so many fun things to do. 

maybe our hours are like the rain.  they help us slow down a little.  they enforce the boundaries.  they make us have to prioritize.  they demand us to choose how we spend our time.  to differentiate between what is urgent and not-urgent, what is important and not important.  mike has been listening to the book on tape 'first things first' by stephen covey. it's a follow up to his other book 'the seven habits of highly effective people'. basically he says that we are ruled by urgency above importance.  we are good at urgent and important, and urgent and unimportant, when the things that are important but not urgent- get shelved. 

it's hard isn't it.  we answer the phone, check our email, respond to the emails instead of reading a book with our kids. we turn on the TV for them so we can do a little more work.  we clean up our house instead of building a fort with them.  but it isn't just about kids.  we prioritize most things above self-care.  what urgent things was i doing in my day that were so important that i couldn't make brownies, or take a bath, or even read a book for 20 minutes?  i think we all suffer from sort of guilt theme- whether it's the notorious jewish or catholic guilt or protestant work ethic guilt or some 'you-must-enjoy-all-sunny-weather-days-outside' guilt- it keeps us away from the important but non-urgent stuff that only becomes urgent when we are so worn down we can't function in other quadrants.  and this is sad. 

we should live more gently.  more balanced.  in less of a hurry.  in a way that helps us to breath and have less headaches.  what if we allowed ourselves to put yoga and baths and running and reading to our kids or ourselves into the urgent catagory?  what if we urgently cared for ourselves?  would our world fall apart?  would nothing get done? would life as we know it, stop?

it actually might, but that could be a very good thing.  because when life is suddenly shortened, when we have a loss or a potential loss, we stop and look and we regret and we want those hours back.  then we see that we've missed the main point, we've been duped, we've wasted the hours we were given. 

so lets breath and be kind to ourselves and each other and allow time to stop and listen to that still small voice.  lets live our hours today in places that build us, grow our relationships and bring joy- whether it's rainy or sunny.

1 month

one month ago we brought rosie home. number 4. bringing a lot of joy and a fast reminder that there is a big difference between 5 years old and 2 years old.

people have settled.  roles have changed. toys have been shared, and food and water bottles and bathtubs.  hands have been held and people have helped each other.  it works.

bryn has become a really great big brother- i knew it was in him.
this is bryn's drawing of 'art dog'

he's very proud- it's pretty fabulous. i love it. i love him.

jude has become an even older seven year old than he was last month.
he even learned to ride a bike this month.

 

zoe, she has returned. 
she is so very excited about joining her brothers at ambrosoli international school.  she is so very done with home schooling.

and rosie- she's pretty fabulous too.  she's learned a lot of english.  she's learned to stop shrugging her shoulders when she's upset.  she's now eating green vegetables (in small doses) and she rocks out to 'sly and the family stone'.
we love her.

what a great month of blessing!  we are walking in thanks. we are appreciating the joys.  and we are praying daily for those who are in the darker places, because we've been there too.  the goodness is more vivid after having seasons of great challenge, even the colors of 'normal' are brighter, so hang in- it will come- really- it will come.

the chickens have hatched

if you had told me 5 years ago when we were leaving san francisco- that our move to atlanta would be temporary- that  the special education schools for zoe wouldn't actually work out- that her anxiety would peak and she'd need to be home schooled, that i'd be barely working to do this, that we would then sell our home, leave our jobs and move to africa as missionaries, i would have had a hard time believing it.  if 3 years ago, you'd have told me that this child, who i struggled to teach even with much support, would thrive in africa, make good friends and be accepted at a typical school- i would have laughed. out. loud. 

but this is how God works.  this is how he rolls.  he sits back and says, "watch this!" 

just like my dream when i was pregnant with jude- he holds us when we cry- he tells us we have no idea what we can handle-he says, "i know" when we are screaming about how much we hate our current situation.  "i know" in a loving way- in a "i'm feeling it with you" way- "you are not alone."

when we moved to uganda, we basically assumed that we'd be homeschooling zoe for at least as long as we were here.  period.  we'd done some research- there weren't any special education schools in uganda and getting into a typical school was not on the table. 

when the boys started at their international elementary school zoe was jealous.  she said she wanted to go to school- i think it was her kind way of saying - i'm getting too old to have you guys as my teachers. as the school year progressed it became clear to me that i was done.  that i had reached my limit of whatever patience God had granted me to teach her- that this season was ending.  i felt guilty about this until i realized that it was a reasonable thing to want to just be her mom- and to do that really well-because no one else can fill this role, but there are other people who can teach her.  thankfully, it soon became apparent that the reason that i was done, was because she was done too.  and that is most important. 

so we prayed and prayed and trusted, and looked frantically for a tutor, which we thankfully found.  zoe was still begging to go to the boys school on friday for their weekly assembly- she wanted to see her friends - some of the girls she'd met at school functions, and the teachers, and other parents.  she was thirsty for more social interaction.  and my heart panged a few times, i just wanted semi-normal.

if any of you have kids who are differently-abled, kids who aren't the norm, who struggle with things that most people in the world don't have to struggle with- you know those heart pangs.  you want so desperately for you child to feel the deep joy of relationships that you've felt- you want your child to not have to experience constant failure and rejection from their peers.  you know that 'normal' isn't an option- you've become okay with that, but you want peace, smiles, growth, for both of you.  basically you would cut off both your own arms and probably your legs- for your child to be happy- in whatever form that happy is.  yes.  i would give my limbs for her - as i know most of you would.

then i heard that the boys school was starting a special education class.  they had found a teacher- and were going to be enrolling for the next year.  wow- i thought- that is GREAT!  and i was so proud that this school of my boys was embarking on a tough but needed adventure.  it didn't occur to me that zoe could go.  but i know she loves working with children like herself- that she is gifted at connecting with other differently-abled kids.  i mentioned that maybe zoe could come in once a week to be a 'helper' for the new class.  we are trying to build on her strengths- to encourage growth in the area's that she excels in.

about a month ago- the same day we found out that rose could come be with us, the school said they might be able to take zoe.  wow. what? wow.  i hadn't asked for that.  i hadn't even prayed for that- in fact all i was saying was 'thanks for the tutor for next year' and 'help- no really help me until she comes!"  zoe was invited to come for an interview.  so we gathered her massive packet of diagnostic and IEP papers, thankfully scanned and emailed by her last school in atlanta, and headed to meet with the school.  she would need to take some tests, math, reading, and writing.   oh dear. 

so i lowered the expectations even further.  i figured now this will be it.  prepare yourself, i thought, prepare them.  i told them to expect that she might leave the math paper blank or instead of writing draw characters from a preschool show in the margins.  but she did fine- not stellar- but fine.

yesterday i got the call. my heart sank when i heard the head teacher on the phone.  i was expecting an email so i figured she called to deliver the bad news, to let me down gently.  but. 

they were happy to take her- it was a unanimous decision- she had a space in the year six class- with some support from their special education teachers- with an IEP- with agreed upon expectations- with a lot of communication.   people want to make this work- people want her to be there- people are willing to take a risk. wow. wow.

it's hard to describe the feeling of pure joy and excitement i had.  it's hard to describe what this feels like when your life was turned upside down for a few years. when something you really didn't imagine possible, happens.  it was beautiful.  it is beautiful.

we'll have to see how it goes. 
i've learned there are no guarantees- that the floor falls out from beneath us often- to expect the unexpected- to be flexible or you'll break.  i've learned that we need plan b, and c, and usually d.  but hiding in all our lives- in all those paths from a- d and in between- there is such surprise and beauty waiting.  there is always something to learn, to experience, to grow us, to hold on to.  so we'll try- we'll be thankful and hopeful and eager and nervous and trusting and still. 

yes we will try to be still and know that he is God- who loves to surprise us.

dependence

the other night there was a 'super moon'.  that is actually what it's called when the moon is closer to the earth and appears bigger and brighter than usual. it doesn't happen very often and it deserves its name.
it was gigantic and full and magnificent.

photo of oregon coast by rockaway beach chamber of commerce

i was driving home as it climbed from just above the trees to the top of the sky. i was driving home from a day doing clinic in a village in luweero as the sun set on one end and this awesome moon rose on the other and i felt full of sky and life and thanks.

sometimes writing is like cooking. it can take a long time to simmer, it can be left on the back burner when other things take priority while it stews- it can grow in strength and flavor as it sits doing its own thing, waiting to be stirred. writing also feels like eating- it needs to be done. thinking about my day in luweero has taken some time but now i'm hungry.

i spent the day as the doctor for a mobile clinic caring for HIV+ people in a village 25 km down a dirt road from a town that was 70km outside of kampala.  the day started early- i left at 7am to pick up the members of the community based organization 'action for the needy' which began this endeavor to bring health care to a poor village of subsistence farming families about four years ago.  it started because one woman, jane, from the village, moved to kampala, tested positive for HIV, got on meds, and wanted to identify and support others in her village with HIV. she wanted to send a message of hope that you can live well with HIV.  she wanted to de-stigmatize the disease, she wanted to improve the health and livelihood of her people, to educate them and do for them, what 'reach out' clinic had done for her- so she did.

jane and henry

we stopped at her brothers house to have tea when we arrived in the village.

jane with her family

it was african tea- sweet, spice and milk- delicious.
then we went to see the land they've procured for a school and clinic.  a beautiful five acres in a farming community.  they need to turn the mobile clinic into a permanent clinic- if they want the government to provide antiretroviral drugs.

the local children came out to welcome us with a song.

and then in perfect uganda style there was a ceremony of sorts.  the chairman of the village gave a speech, there were introductions and i was the special guest of honor.  he spoke luganda, he said they were so thankful i was there and that anything i could do to help them was most welcome. i was most welcome.  it was unexpected and honoring and wonderful.

the clinic was held in a small church in the center of the village.  we arrived to a room full of people- some waiting to be tested, most with HIV waiting to see the doctor, all decked out in their best dresses.

the clinic was busy and we did the best we could with the few medicines we had with us.  i was able to see both the great need and the incredible success of this small organization.  the high point was being a part of something so very real and compassionate.  this clinic was started and maintained with out a funding base, with out a doctor, without any payment to anyone- pure desire to care for those in need.  wow.  the low point was having a woman initially refuse a gyn exam because she thought i was a man.  yes.  a man.  that is what the translator said.  so i promptly unleashed my hair from it's functional bun, and pointed to my chest and said, "i am a woman!"  the woman said,  "well you're a doctor and you're wearing pants, and you walk too fast to be a woman."  oh.  i see.  that is how we distinguish! (note to self- next time where a skirt, slow down and catwalk.)

but it was like being in a time machine, even more than i already feel in my life near kampala.  i was back to before Reach out clinic had a building, or computers, before we had antiretrovirals- because we didn't. this clinic has no building, no lab, no way to even measure CD4 counts to see if clients should be on ARVs.  

on the way home i had a lot of time to think as the conversations in the car were in lugandan.  i felt inspired, somewhat overwhelmed and also sad that this is where uganda is- people in rural areas with out access to testing and treatment.  i began to think about all the things to do, to help, to reach out to them, to connect with this village, to get the clinic going- but going well.  to make it self sustaining, to assist with development and some economic growth- because poverty, again, is the problem.

there is a clinic 25 kms down the dirt road- but there is almost no transportation, and what there is, is prohibitively expensive for a community with no income,  to walk would take about 5 hours each way.  i thought about roads and infrastructure- mike said it would cost about 5 million dollars to pave that road. i thought about what the chairman had said to me in his speech- about need and the tremendous gratitude for help.  i thought about the continued dependence i see here- that has come to be so abundant and ingrained and well, depended on.  and i thought about our being here as missionaries- and something clicked.  i realized something foundational.

there are many ways to land in uganda as western professionals.  there are many hospitals here where i could get a job- perhaps mike could open an architecture firm.  we could make enough money to live- so why on earth did we come here as missionaries?  why did we come here on other peoples dimes?  why did we raise support to be here?

the most obvious reason is that we came here to serve God by working with people and places that couldn't afford to pay us- we wanted to work with the poor.

i've never been poor- i mean poor, poor.  i've had seasons of having "no money"- of watching what we we spend- of not eating out, not buying meat, not doing the extras, but i've never been with out food, i've never not brought my kids to the doctor, or pulled them out of school because of school fees- i've never been with out a home.  so i don't know what poor feels like.  but i do understand dependence.

and that is something we share with those in need.  we have dependence in common. by coming here as missionaries, as volunteers, we are completely dependent on our senders, really ultimately we are dependent on God.  there is no- 'oh i'll just moonlight." or "pick up some extra shifts" - we depend on others for everything. if our funds run out- we have to come home.  we are also accountable to other people for how we spend our money- our resources.  this is incredibly humbling and teaches us much about life for most of the world.

as western professionals, we aren't used to "needing" other people.  we aren't accustomed to depending on anyone but ourselves.  this experience gives us a small window of insight into how the people that we are serving, spend life and for that i'm incredibly thankful to God and to those who support us, who enable us to be here in a way that helps us to both do our work and understand those in a way that we couldn't without this level of dependence.

of course it also helps us remember the truth about life for everyone.  ultimately, like it or not, much of it is out of our control- here we feel that more acutely.  but it's true and scary and we all fight it most of the time and then act surprised when life feels out of control.  faith helps- actually, faith cures the fear of being out of control in an ultimate way- i still struggle with the minutes.

we do what we can.  for each other, for the world, for ourselves.

as that moon rose- i was thankful that i am supported but such amazing, generous, loving people who believe that the world isn't so big.  who believe that we can make a difference - that we can make things better and bring hope and care and medicines and empowerment and love and connection and joy to parts of the world that live the reality of dependence- at least for now.

thank you!!