i didn't sign up for goodbye

it was a day of hellos and goodbyes.
the arrival of my dad.  and the boys last day of school. 

it was also a day when mike and i said out loud what we both feel quietly inside- that our life these days can seem overwhelming.  that the ambiguity around rosie's exact place in our lives is tremendously stressful, that it's hard on all six of us to live in the limbo of who we all are to each other.  are we preparing to be real true forever siblings, parents and child, family of six? or are we forever fostering someone? the up-in-the-air-ness, the unknown-ness is an added complication that we didn't expect could be so hard.

it was a day when i was called by the woman who took care of her at the orphanage for 7 months, then i turned around and bumped into our lawyer in the coffee shop, a day when we realized that for all involved we need some resolve- we need clearer boundaries- we need cultural sensitivity to go both ways- we need respect and also decision. it was a day when the thought of deeper hello's or some form of goodbyes - felt needed but also enormous and scary.

i wasn't prepared for a life of goodbyes.  i'm bad at them.  don't like them.  i avoid them- internally and externally.  when we moved to uganda- we had a lot of goodbyes.  i geared up, toughened up, faced the music and did the best i could- but i still said a lot of cushiony things like- "oh, i'll see you soon!" or even, "i'm sure i'll see you one more time before we go." when i usually didn't.

once we got on that plane- i figured i was done with goodbyes.  that i'd moved into a season of 'hello's'.  how wrong i was.  the life of the expat is full of loss, and leaving, and being left and saying goodbye.  but i didn't sign up for goodbye.  and it sneaks up on you.

after our long morning of coffee and intense life discussions, with the ironic near constant interruptions by rose and zoe, we went to the end of the year assembly at the boys international school.

let me just say i was not prepared.  i was expecting light and breezy and i got heavy and torrential. because they all get it.  they know the importance of goodbye.  of ceremony.  of saying it out loud, processing it, acknowledging it,  and hugging that elephant in the room- of endings- grieving- bidding farewell.

it started with a song and it ended with a song.
it started with 'one more step' by sydney carter.

One more step along the world I go,
one more step along the world I go;
from the old things to the new
keep me traveling along with you
 
Give me courage when the world is rough,
keep me loving though the world is tough;
leap and sing in all I do,
keep me traveling along with you





oh dear.
i could feel that full and painful feeling of mounting tears. because the world felt rough and tough and i needed courage.  i wanted to keep loving and leaping and singing and traveling. i wanted to be full and not broken by it all.  all the life of life.  all the 'hellos' and 'goodbyes'.  with all the clarity and confusion and subtext.
i sat listening to it- holding rosie on my lap- surrounded by my 11 month old community- and my 3 month new sort of child, while zoe, who will be joining this group in a few months, who i've known for lifetimes, sat in the bunny pen on the other side of the wall, playing with her furry friends, knowing in her heart that this was about more goodbyes, as last days always are, and knowing she's had enough of that. 

i bit my lip.


but then came the last song- the song that undid me.  the song called 'sing' by gary barlow and andrew lloyd webber.  and even though i'm not leaving, even though my kids will be back in a few months, it was the sum total of all the goodbyes that i never expected here- it was ongoing sense of homelessness- and the transience of life.

Some words they can’t be spoken only sung.

So hear a thousand voices shouting loud

There’s a place, there is time in this life

When you sing what you are feeling

Find your feet

Stand your ground

Don’t you see right now the world is listening to what we say.

Sing it louder and sing it clearer

Knowing everyone will hear you

Make some noise,

 find your voice tonight

Sing it stronger,

Sing together,

Make this moment last forever, old and young shouting out tonight

 

We’ve had a lifetime to wait

And see a thousand faces stand afraid

You are hope

You are light

Know it wasn’t always easy

Stood your ground

Kept your faith

Don't you see right now the world is listening to what we say

Sing it louder and sing it clearer

Knowing everyone will hear you

Make some noise,

 find your voice tonight

Sing it stronger,

Sing together,

Make this moment last forever, old and young shouting out tonight

Some words  can not be spoken only sung.

To hear a thousand voices shouting out.

And on and on.

Just sing

Just sing

Just sing

and i wanted to sing, to just sing.  but i couldn't because i couldn't stop crying- and neither could this new community around me- all of us, those staying, those going, those who've been saying many more goodbyes for many more years than i have, all of us undone.  because it's hard and poignant and deep, as soul stuff always is. 

because some words are too hard to speak, or too hard to speak over and over.  sometimes they are just said better when they aren't just words- but when they are strengthened by notes, and tones, and the sounds that speak more, that reach deeper, that the limits of our words. 

some things need to be sung.  things that hold both the beauty and the sorrow in life- the hellos and goodbyes of life.

today needed to be sung.

karamoja pictures with t.s. eliot

In my beginning is my end. 

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music 
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire 

Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn.

Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons

 

The time of the seasons and the constellations 

The time of milking and the time of harvest 

The time of the coupling of man and woman 

And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling. 

Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

 
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

 To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not, 
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. 
In order to arrive at what you do not know 
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.

 

  In order to possess what you do not possess 

You must go by the way of dispossession. 

In order to arrive at what you are not 

You must go through the way in which you are not. 

And what you do not know is the only thing you know 

And what you own is what you do not own 

And where you are is where you are not.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment 
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. 
 

There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion 
  

In my end is my beginning. 

let them eat cake

when i arrived in the kitchen this morning, blurry eyed and in need of coffee, to begin a day full with the things it's full of, hoping to carve out some time to be still, i found a mass of ants. there were so many ants that i thought the counter was moving.  hundreds of ants, tiny ants everywhere, working so hard together, in constant motion, busily finding and licking and hauling whatever they could scavenge from the counter.  i think today it was mostly licking because i couldn't see any crumbs.  perhaps those had already been removed, but they were eagerly devouring the left-over spilled chicken broth, which had already been wiped up the night before. i watched for a minute, spilled some water on the counter and watched them quickly disperse. it was impressive.

the first foreign missions experience i had was in pucalpa peru when i was 15.  i remember one afternoon we went to the home of some missionaries who had been kind enough to loan out all the mans t-shirts and boxer shorts for the 17 of us kids to wear, as our luggage had been lost en route. we must have been quite a site- visions in plaid underwear and white t-shirts. 

when we arrived at their house, the wife had made a chocolate cake for us.  it was perfectly propped up on  several overturned cups that lay in a larger pan, filled with an inch of water.  that was for ant protection.  then several toothpicks had been placed in the cake and a cloth dishtowel was draped over the cake.  that was fly protection. the woman seemed thrilled with her contraption.  it was her masterpiece. her victory over the pests of her life in the tropics.  man vs. wild. 

most of my memories of those three weeks were of impressive poverty.  the filth of it, the stench of it, trash and dirt and ripped t-shirts over protruding bellies, and bare feet. or the intense relational issues that arose between our group of 14 teenage boys and 3 teenage girls- dealing with hormones and internal conflict over true disparity.  but this memory of the cake stuck with me as well. i think because as i tried to process the incredible differences of my american upper-middle class teenage life, and the level of poverty in rural peru in 1986, it was surprising to me that something as irrelevant as a cake, could matter so much to this woman. that her victory was over insects.  there was so much there to fight against- to strive for.  there were so many big things to put energy into- why take the time to bake a cake and protect it so thoroughly?



but i kind of get it now.  not just because of this mornings ant fiasco, or because of my sincere love of chocolate cake.  i get it because sometimes life is best lived in the small things, maybe always.  i get it because the big victories, the 'solving' of the worlds problems, the issues that scream at us, the injustice and the wrongness and the disparity, - achieving those things and fighting those things are what lifetimes are made of- sometimes even many lifetimes. many generations.  improving health, educating people, building self-efficacy, sharing the love of God in spite of the distrust religion has created,  connecting with a very different culture-  those things take much time.  those things can suck energy- can bring seasons of great discouragement- or, in their success, can bring pride and arrogance.


but cake is cake.  it takes less than an hour, and it tastes good.  it revives.  for her, it was 'home'.  her making it and protecting it was living out hospitality, and generosity, and teaching us that it's okay to have small victories.  it showed her acceptance of her reality- there will always be ants and flies- but we do what we can.  there will always be poverty and injustice too, but we do what we can. 


i saw one sliver of her life.  one afternoon.  i'm sure she didn't bake cakes every day- or draft plans for their protection.  i'm sure most of her days were out in that filth and stench.

maybe she didn't even like cake- maybe she is not a baker- maybe she just listened to a still small voice that told her that morning to get up and bake a cake for a bunch of impressionable teenagers.

maybe she fought it for a while. maybe she argued with it and said she should show us instead all the big things she was doing. maybe she thought she'd even be judged for being a missionary who eats chocolate cake when there are more important things to be doing. but maybe she was obedient and baked a cake anyway because her years of big things had taught her to listen to that voice, even when it made no sense. 


maybe she made that cake because twenty five years later one of those impressionable teenagers would be living across the globe in the tropics too- with ants and poverty- with small annoyances and big tragedies,  and would need to know that sometimes, you need to bake a cake.  that sometimes the lessons come in the baking of it, or the eating of it, or the protecting of it, or even in the ants themselves. that sometimes it's about obedience, or tasting sweetness, or accepting our realities, or innovating, or learning from our challenges- even the very small ones. that sometimes big things happen because of the small things. that life is lived in our little moments.


a few months after arriving in uganda, a college student group came through lead by my second cousin, and they wanted to meet with us and learn about our life here- about what we did and thought as missionaries.  i knew they would come with lots of questions, and i thought of what we should say- about what would be most important to share.  but instead of preparing, i baked chocolate chip cookies.

i wanted them to enjoy their hour with us, to feel revived and cared for as we talked about the big issues.  i wanted them to know it's okay to be surrounded by poverty- and allow yourself to still taste sweetness. that life here should be lived in the gray- not in black or white- not in stark contrast to life in the US, when you'd never think twice about baking a cake.  i wanted them to know that there are times for fasting and times for dessert.  that Jesus cared for the poor, but allowed perfume to be poured on his feet.  that our years are made of our days and our hours, great movement requires stillness, action requires rest. 

i wonder if that missionary lady in peru is still alive.  if she's still there- fighting the big and the small things.  i wonder what she did in her life, what she's most proud of and most humbled by. and i wonder if she knows the value of her chocolate cake, baked that august in 1986.

amazing poem

this poem, shared yesterday by a friend, says it so well (thank you AEH).

all the things we should stay open to, and search for, and allow. how we should try to respond. to live simply, to value all that comes to us, learn from what is in our path, move toward and not away.  experience, experience, experience.  seek to tread lightly, to speak more softly, yet boldly, to venture and return.


Please Bring Strange Things


Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
And the ways you go be the lines of your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
And your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well-loved one,
Walk mindfully, well-loved one,
Walk fearlessly, well-loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
Be always coming home.

- Ursula K. Le Guin

karamoja part 2

it began here.  and most of it happened here. in the car.  hours and hours in the car- for a short morning meeting, in a very far away place.  a place from another time- another world- a parallel universe.

notice not just the adorable child, but the car seat, the new dress (thanks katie!),  the car,  the automatic windows.  this is just the beginning of the differences - the time machine like differences we were all about to experience. 

it was a 10 hour trip, mostly on dirt roads. not your john denver-ish country dirt roads, but massively pot-holed, thick mud in active rain, stuck immobilized truck- get out and spend 20 minutes assessing which path off road to take, washed out bridges with naked men bathing in the overflowing river- type dirt roads.  i tried to capture it on film- but you can't really appreciate it.

there was much in these hours besides bumps.  the people were rich in color - the same dark black of the earth they worked- like they had emerged from it- like they were part of it- in a real and lasting way.  they were draped with large colorful robes.  they were barefoot, but they walked with their heads held up so tall and high and straight that they didn't need shoes.

my mind was full.  what is poverty?  is it shoelessness? is it carrying sticks on your head and going miles for water? or is it how you feel inside? is it growing up being stared at and asked over and over why you have a white mother?

and we were stared at. everywhere. by everyone.
at first i felt like a movie star.  i thought my hair must have looked great:). but then we were asked in native tongue, what we were doing carrying a karamojong child.

when we finally got to matany the closest town to the village, we gathered crowds.  everyone had  heard the story- that muzungus were coming to the village.

unfortunately there was no advanced booking, and the main inn in town was full, so we stayed in 'God's grace' guest house.

the courtyard

rosie checking out the couryard

"mom, go home now?" she asked.
not yet rosie.  we are off to the village- to find out.  to find out from a tribe you've never met- but who you share your genes with- where home will be- what home will be- what will become of you.
so we ate peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast with cold instant coffee and got back on the road.

this road/ path- our car filled with the village elders guiding us through the fields.  it all felt so biblical and ancient.  dusty roads, cattle with yokes, wells, washing down in the river- and then the meeting with rosies grandmother- was like the prodigal son coming home. she ran out to meet us, fell on her knees, raised up her hands and prayed loudly thanking God that she was seeing her grand daughter again. this child who was lost, thought to be dead, was now standing before her.

i wanted to cry as i knelt there, holding her elbow and her grandbaby and not understanding a word of her speech but feeling what was in it and behind it- thanks and love.
we followed her down the path to her encampment- rosie looking mildly terrified and clinging for reassurance as people tried to pluck her from my arms.

 













inside the hut, mike, rose and i sat on the guest of honor cowhide with a full audience of eager listeners outside the door.  the village elders and the translator sat on stools and the grand mother sat beside me on the floor.  they all began to speak.  it was surreal.

i had a moment. 
this is your life i thought, one of the good parts. soak it in. BE in it.  don't freak. don't cry.  live this national geographic moment. smell the cowhide you're sitting on, feel the rough walls of mud, look at the light coming from the edge of the thatching. hear the sounds of this slurry foreign language. don't let it go. remain open. choose this. this is what is being brought to you. 


in the hour we sat in that hut, that home that was so removed from cars seats and plumbing and nickelodeon and juice boxes and books, i felt the world grow small.  i thought of all the missionary films i'd seen, the national geographic pictures i'd studied, the things i'd read in college on culture- and it all seemed funny.  yes i could see the differences- more in how we think than how we live- but i could also see the similarities in how we feel, and love, and remember. and i wondered what was best? i wondered if i'd ever know.  

we came hoping for resolution and a plan for rose and for our family.  we came with our western ideas of time and planning and preparedness and 'what if's' and possible scenarios.  we were met with a desire for relationship, with a lack of concern about the future, with a sense of 'be here now' because that is how life is lived.

was there a conclusion?
i think this is it.

for now. 
we are their very pale, far away clan members to whom they've entrusted their child.  it's the openest of all open adoptions.  we will bring her to our village- the one in mukono and the one in america, and we will bring her back to their village too.  she will continue to become a part of our family- and we will become a part of their tribe.  and over time and visits, trust will grow. we will wait and they will wait and we will be patient and build relationships and have faith and try to become a little more african in our thinking as hopefully they become a bit more western in theirs.  rose might never be an african american- but she will always, in someway be a muzungu- karamajong.

'yes rosie, we can go home.'

karamoja part 1 - (or really the never-ending story of zoe)

from my bathtub this morning, i could look out my window and see a branch of bright pink bougainvillea poking through a group of large green leaves. it seemed to be reaching to me, offering its perfectly bloomed arm as an example of the goodness.  i needed that.

i needed that because the trip to karamoja was so long and bumpy and more tiring than i realized.  i needed that because i came home to my life again, as if i wouldn't have, as if the people left at home would magically know that it was a lot of time in a car, on dirt roads that challenged the word 'road'. that they (being zoe) would know these things and act gently instead of aggressively- tread lightly instead of stamping- speak quietly instead of shouting.  but no, i came home to my life- which these days has some aggression, stamping and shouting.

i came home and instead of being filled with the emotion of what we'd seen and experienced and entered into, instead of processing the extremeness of that trip, i felt the same old crap i always feel- the pure exhaustion of the predictability of the inconsistency of our days.  i felt the dread of that ironic feeling of being stuck in 'ground hog' day- but the ground hog day being the unreliability of how zoe will feel and respond to life. of being trapped in the web of not being able to count on 'arriving'- of never sighing in relief, of never reaching a new plateau, of never reaching 'normal'.

here it was again.  our lives, all of our lives, revolving around her.  another post, revolving around her.  at a time when it really shouldn't be about her- it should be about rose.  it should be about the fusion of two cultures.  it should be anthropologic and sociologic and full of emotion and story and picture- (that will come but i had to say some things first).

soon after walking up, and making everyone breakfast, the crazy began because "why hadn't i shown zoe these pictures before?"  yes, the pictures that i had just downloaded off my camera the night before when she was asleep and didn't know we were home.  after losing my temper- trying to regain my calm, understanding, i'm sure this is so hard for you- voice, and after remember to beg God to please walk with me through this day- i knew i needed to begin that walk, up monkey hill- so i grabbed my sneakers and ran out the door.

it was cool and cloudy and beautiful outside.  i walked fast swinging my water bottle and told God that i was ready to listen but i got to go first because i'm younger- like in cards. i told him that this trip was hard, that no great conclusions had been reached and that i was pretty angry that zoe had such a hard time while we were gone.  angry mostly at Him- because he can take it.  angry because it would have been so nice to come home to her in a good day- and i knew that he could have arranged that. angry because i'm tired of her being the sun and the rest of us being planets that revolve around her at varying distances.   angry because all i wanted to do was shout at her that she's eating all our steaks and ruining everybodies lives- like napoleon dynamites uncle. angry that another thing has to be difficult- and complicated and so far away on such stinky roads. 

i was pretty sure he was getting the picture so i stopped talking.  i decided to listen.  because that is what you do in a relationship- or cards- you take turns.

patience, patience, patience- is what the sea teaches.  (it's what i want to teach you). Patience and faith.  One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach- waiting for a gift from the sea.

the situation with rose- it will not be decided quickly.  it will not be resolved in a meeting- it will take patience.
life with zoe requires, demands, screams for patience- it will not be 'resolved' - it will be lived with, grown through.  it will be seasoned with higher amplitude sorrows and joys- deeper valleys and higher mountains- but it will take patience- years and seconds of patience.

so yes, i get it.  i've figured it out- this is the lesson of my life.

keep asking me to walk with you

do i have a choice? i clearly can't do it alone.

i will give you what you need

okay- right- patience and faith.

pray the serenity prayer. 

'grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

but can i find serenity? really? can i accept this that i cannot change? this child with all her challenge? the never-endingness of it?
i thought it was strength i needed, but it's courage.  what can i change?  what should i change?
oh please, give me wisdom. please give me patience, and serentiy and courage and wisdom.  i was beginning to feel like all the characters in the wizard of oz lumped together.

i was almost up the hill when it began to make some sense.  maybe this is another opportunity to be still, in the unresolve of my life, to sit and ask (or beg) each morning, out of the brokenness of my pieces - for these things that life has demanded of me and that do not come naturally to me.  maybe the ambiguity with rose is another friendly reminder from above that my life will not be about simple answers, or quick fixes.  that my season of sprinting was short and sweet and is now over.  that we've moved on to the emotional iron man level.

in my heart, i heard the U2 song 40.

I waited patiently for the Lord
He inclined and heard my cry.
He brought me right out of the pit,
out of my miry clay.
I will sing a new song,
How long to sing this song?

wait patiently.
this is what is asked of me.
what are my options? 
not a lot.
i think i'll be singing it for a very long time- life times.

He set my feet upon a rock,
and made my footsteps heard.
Many will see,
Many will see and fear.
I will sing, sing a new song.
How long to sing this song? 

my feet were climbing up rock- i could hear my footsteps crunch the gravel.  i reached that beautiful view - mist covering the hills, the far off lake to the left,  and i sat breathing in the stillness of the cool morning.
breathing in acceptance. breathing out patience.  breathing in faith. breathing out courage. 
somewhere singing this old song of mine- about once again, trying to wait patiently.

the gift

i already have a problem with doing too many things at the same time.  this is especially true with books.  this is what sits on my bedside table.  this is what i'm currently in the middle of: 'someone knows my name' a novel about the life of a slave in the 1700s; 'the immortal life of henrietta lacks' a true story of the african american woman who's cervical cancer cells have been grown and used multiple times over for the betterment of medical science but with out full permission; 'half the sky' about the oppression of women worldwide; 'till the sun grows cold' a memoir of a woman married to an sudanese warlord; 'parenting with love and logic' name says it all; 'a special education' a memoir about parenting special needs kids (my 5th reading); 'compassion' by henri nouwen;  'how deep is this pothole' about being a doctor in uganda; and, of course, my bible.  this list is excluding several poetry books, and a few that i've started but put on the back on the shelf for later, and the stack of my 'can't wait to read next' pile.

then my mom showed up with a freshly stocked kindle and now i'm really in trouble!  now i have a traveling library, so i've added to the list a rather bizarre group.  i'm re-reading 'holy the firm' a book on spirituality; '50 shades of gray' a top selling, trash novel, and 'gift from the sea' another non-fiction on life and reflection and waiting,

oh dear.

but this kind of sums me up. there is so much to do and read and enjoy! there aren't enough hours in the day! so i skip around.  but even for me, this is too much.

today i had the kindle with me when we were in kampala awaiting the doling out of funds for rose's birthmom's bus trip north.  i was reading the anne morrow lindbergh book- 'gift from the sea'.  i was beginning at the beginning, i was reading the introduction written by her son, and she quickly became another hero- mother of five, first american woman to earn a glider pilot license, first woman ever to win the national geographic society's hubbard medal for aviation and exploration adventures, and an award winning author- wow.  a life well lived- a life that was full and curious and pushing limits and boundaries- stretching and growing- and reflecting and sharing as she went out into her days, as she climbed her mountains and volcanoes at 75. 

but the gift she gives us, her son says, is "the freedom that comes from choosing to remain open..to life itself, whatever it may bring: joys, sorrows, triumphs, failures, suffering, comfort and certainly, always, change. (she reflected) upon her own experience, in trying to live from a core of inner stillness while actively responding, as we all must do, to the "here and the now," she set herself free into her own life and into all life."

she begins by speaking of patience. this accomplished woman- worlds ahead of her time, speaks of waiting.  being still, being patient these are perhaps my greatest struggle- my repetitive challenge- my own albatross.

'The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient.  To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches.  Patience and faith.  One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach- waiting for a gift from the sea."

i want these things.  to be free into my own life.  into all life. to remain open. always.  to the good and the bad- and to the change.  finding that core of inner stillness.  trying.  actively responding. choosing. those are the things i strive for- the things i want to practice slowly each day. 

maybe in that stillness, she found the freedom to birth and raise, to fly and explore, to climb and to reflect.  and oh, to write.  to write it out, to speak through her words, to share what she saw from way up high and from falling down. 


but i'll have to finish the book to find out:).

time and light and rose

time and light and rosie on the porch playing.

these things amaze me. 

the light right now is so perfectly beautiful- everywhere i look it's slightly different. some parts ambient,  some direct and reflected, some parts patterned with light that has fallen through from above.  there are leaves illuminated, some transparent- some just deep green in the shadows.

time changes things.  things like light- and skin- and circumstances. 
she has been with us now for more than two months.  grown more than two inches. eaten more than two new green vegetables. she has embedded herself in our hearts and lives as we knew she would.

in two days we will take this time and the light of our day and this little girl, far up north to a village she's never seen, we've never seen- to meet with people who none of us know, who will make decisions about her time and her days.

what will the light look like up there?  what will time feel like? will it be frozen as i imagine and will the light be as alive as i think it will be? will the colors be bright? and the skin dark and the smiles white and the dirt dusty and the hills thirsty? and what of rose? our little light even in a short time. 

we will wait and see.  we will sit in these days and hours and try to be still.  we will watch this light become night and day again and night again and early in the dusky light of saturday we will go north in eager anticipation.

three avocados and a long walk

humbled again.  and ashamed of my assumptions. i have a story to share.

i've written before about the constant need that surrounds us and the pendulum swing of my response.  we are asked often and by all types of people, from neighbors to strangers, for money or food or assistance.  we are told many stories of hardship and loss and desperation and hopelessness- that all demand a response- usually while looking into the eyes of the one experiencing the trouble.  i vacillate between a broken and a hardened heart.  there are times when i can't believe how blessed and lucky i am and how easy i've had it compared with most of the world and i cry right along with the person sitting on my porch and reach into my wallet and cupboard and pray with them and as i watch them walk away i hope that their story is true, that i haven't been taken advantage of - which is kind of absurd because even if their story is made up i still have way more then most of the people here (so can i even say 'taken advantage of''?)

other times i am really resentful of the requests, the assumptions that my white skin means money, as if i should fill in the gaps of history and make right all the wrongs. 

and then sometimes i sit in the middle and try to be soft hearted, and think of the 30,000 foot view.  i think about what will really make a difference- which is really why we are here- in a long and lasting way- which involves relationship and mentoring and living together in community and following up and not just sticking fingers into holes made by someone else- because we only have 10 fingers and there are just too many holes.

on sunday a friend of zoe's came over to talk with me.  i have mixed feelings about this friend.  my gut tells me that i like her- but i've been warned that she steals- that she's not trustworthy.  she came this day to see me, not zoe,  'auntie- can i speak with you?'

she began to cry big tears about how sick her sister was- how they needed money- how her sister has low sugar.  i'm embarrassed to say that the pendulum was stuck way over in 'annoyed by being asked' again.  i didn't feel badly for her at all- i was angry that i was being called upon to give more hand outs.  but i listened- gave her a large bag of food from our kitchen and told her as a doctor i'd be happy to see her sister.  i wondered what she'd do with the food- she wasn't very happy or grateful.

the next day her mom and sister arrived at my doorstep with a pile of medical bills and reports.  i greeted them, impressed that they'd come, and reviewed the material and listened.  it was the typical story of many bouts of "malaria"- usually with no parasites seen on blood smear, versus "hysteria" aka- not a medical problem.  i probed some more.

the girl is "visited in the night by a woman dressed in black who says she is going to kill her"- she fears all night and becomes sick with headaches- and "malaria".  it started the year after her father died- (of malaria) she was first visited by snakes, now it's the woman in black.  there was no family history of mental illness, and i couldn't illicit any obvious clinical depression, there were no loose associations, no manic behavior- and i wasn't convinced that this 'visitor' was an auditory/ visual hallucination, and not just a bad dream, or even, a spirit- because here, witchcraft is very real.

whatever was going on, i was pretty  sure i was out of my league.  that she needed a psychiatrist and a priest- not an internist- but turns out i needed to be both.  on the medical side we discussed mosquito nets- and preventive measures to avoid getting malaria- and i gave her a net, nsaids and panadol and my cell phone number and suggested they call me next time she is sick.  i questioned her about trauma, about abuse, or rape, but she denied anything other than her father dying of malaria which is pretty typical.  so i promised a house call the next time she was sick, and i prayed with her and her family- for safety and freedom from these nightmares, and for protection and peace.

today i got called.

i knew it! i thought.  only 2 days later!

she was sick- "collapsed" and was "unresponsive".  so i told the mom if she would come get me, i would go with her to the house, but i really didn't want to go.  i wanted to make a chocolate meringue pie and hang out with my mom.  i wanted to organize closets and make systems.  i so badly wished i was Jesus and could say "go and be healed" over the cell phone without leaving my porch- but i'm not and i doubt that he would have done that very much because first of all, he would have been smart enough to not give out his cell phone number!  but today i wasn't called into pie making or sorting piles. and i'm so glad. 

we walked about 3 miles to her house.  i mean it was far, far.  farther than i'd expected.  we arrived to see the girl sitting calmly just outside her door.  we went inside- i examined her fully, no temperature, no abnormalities, normal neuro exam, normal blood sugar.  i told them she was healthy, that she needed to get up and eat and i called her pastor and asked if he could send someone for counseling and prayer. then i prayed with them again and i reassured them that she was physically fine, but clearly struggling in her spirit- that this would take time- and counseling and more visits- by me and others. that this would take a relationship to get better. i hugged them both and they walked me to the road, thanked me and handed me a bag with three avocados.

i wasn't expecting this.  at. all. 

i was expecting them to ask me for money- i was anticipating a "hysterical" girl - a lot of acting- i was expecting tears and begging for help.  i was expecting this so much, that i hadn't brought a single cent with me.  and instead, i got avocados. 

i love avocados.

on the long walk home it was dusty and thankfully cloudy and i walked gratefully down the path beside the road.  i was so happy to be in my life.  that this unexpected visit had become my day.  that i'd been given the gift of being wrong.  i was so grateful that i had strong legs to walk home, and that i hadn't brought any money so i had to walk and could think and process. i was so grateful for the opportunity to be doing house calls again, to be able to reassure them she didn't have malaria, to be privileged to see their home, check their nets (which were hung improperly), and to be walking that dusty road in such a beautiful country, to have a home to go back to, and then to be given avocados.

"what is the word for avocado in lugandan?" i asked as i reached the road before saying goodbye.

"it's the same" they said, "avocado." 

"of course it is."

star and sky

last night in the city with mike, trees hanging with little white lights and lanterns, listening to live jazz-funk, my lip gloss tasting like italy 15 years ago, i looked up and saw 5 small stars poking through the darkness.  when i looked harder there were 10- but even more.  yesterday i saw a rainbow- perfect arching thing over the city- when i stopped and looked- there were two.  a pair- stretching together proudly, promisingly over our heads.

the first quick look wasn't enough.  i missed those other stars, i missed that other rainbow. how many times this happens when we are distracted by the louder things- the urgencies-the clock- the busy.  the parts that importantly make up our days- that need to be balanced by looking up and looking hard.

this morning is quiet and cool and early.  the world hasn't started yet.  here the first sunlight sits only on the top of the night clouds- waking them to move away- dressing them in yellow and i am reminded to stop and look.  that here is God in this stillness- holding out Her arms in another morning- being found in our moments when we open our eyes.

i'm trying to be quiet and listen to Her fullness.  here.  now.  allowing it to be enough.  to bring renewal. to enliven me for this day of heat and unknown. this day blessed with my mom and my daughters.  this day when i plan to make a chocolate meringue crusted pie and clean out closets- but have no idea what will really come my way- what will be  needed of me- required- what i will be called upon to face, or embrace, or bear.

that is why i need to hold these times- to cling to the stillness- to search for those less easily found stars- to find that fainter rainbow.

'when i look to the sky, the work of Your fingers,
the moon and stars, which You have set in place,
oh what am i that you are mindful of me?
that you care for me?'   (psalm 8)

i am loved.  known. desired. more than those stars and that sky.  so i can rest in this.  be in this. listen to it- i can wait for this day to begin, in it's mystery- it's easy and it's hard parts, with it's joys and sorrows.  this day, this life, to unfold before me with out fear, but with promise.

don't close your eyes

a few summers ago when i was beginning to wrap my mind around the changes that were happening in our family, when i was contemplating home schooling zoe, when i was spending my days overwhelmed by her overwhelm, i heard her belt out from the way way back of our car the words to the switchfoot song that was playing on the cd player,  

"this is your life, are you who you want to be! 
this is your life, is it everything you dreamed that it would be when the world was  younger, 
and you had everything to lose.

don't close your eyes
don't close your eyes..."

at the time, it was a moment of glory for me.  she may have had no idea what those words meant, she may have just liked the tune- but i interpreted it in full- as if she were asking herself the question- as if she had insight and motivation and the possibility of influencing her own life.

today we were in the car again, listening to this switchfoot song.  zoe said, "what do they mean 'don't close your eyes?'"  and i realized she hadn't grasped the depth of meaning back then- or even now.  now in another season when i fear her giving up- her stubbornness taking over-  when i feel her closing her eyes. 

the last month has been hard- lots of change- loss and gain- resulting in regression- steps backwards- returning to places i was glad we'd left.  this last month, we've spent a lot of time talking with zoe about her role in her own life.  about choice- that she has one.  about empowerment- that she can do things.  about her life being her very own, and about growing up, and decisions the good ones and the bad ones.  because she is growing up and it is her life.

she has this way of acting helpless and then wanting assistance and refusing it- or worse, accepting it but then regretting it and becoming furious. i'm sure it's all a symbol of her internal conflict about growing up- wanting to be independent and fearing independence, on top of an already conflicted self image, on top of trying to process her legitimate challenges, and trying to identify which to try to overcome and which to accept as who she is. so lately she gives up- gives in- doesn't try. the cobweb of it all is messy and sticky and not neatly spun and it's easy for me to become entangled - it's easy to become ensnared.

i've been trying to be calm.  to be a patient, listening mom- instead of the path of least resistance raving mad mom.  i've been trying to remember that her spin-y web is even more tangled for her- that it is harder to be her in this, that this needs to be supported through and not screamed away.  i've been trying to remember that she'll get there- we'll get there again. 

stories help because everyone likes stories.  we've recalled helen keller - who overcame great challenge- who had to chose- who made herself who she wanted to be with what she had- who opened her eyes- even thought they were blind. 

then yesterday i saw on facebook that my first friend ever- my original bff- just won a prestigious medical teaching award from Tufts University school of medicine.  and i remembered her story. 

erica was an amazing student, an avid reader- always hard working and naturally smart.  she was also incredibly kind and fun and sweet and thoughtful.  when she was zoe's age she got very sick and nearly died.  she experienced a miracle. she had a level of sickness that most people do not ever recover from- they never regain the cognitive ability they had before becoming sick.  for months after she regained consciousness she struggled to regain control of her body and her mind.  she did physical and occupational therapy- she work to walk again, and to see again, and mostly, to remember.  the coma she was in had stolen her short term memory- she could remember all of us- but not what we told her the minute before, not if we'd visited the day before.  it was hard and tiring and frustrating, but true to her character- she never gave up.  never.  she never uttered a discouraging word, she never said 'poor poor me', she never took her life- the life re-given her- for granted.

it took not just days, or weeks, or months- but years for her memory to return.  and it didn't just show up one day- every correctly firing neuron fired because of her blood, sweat and tears.  at first she learned to compensate- to lead the conversation in a way that would give her clues to what had happened or been discussed before. then she learned that writing everything down was essential- and that repetition was her friend and so she posted note cards everywhere.  she knew that she needed her memory to be sharp and focused and reliable- because she'd decided to become a doctor.  over the years i watched those note cards displaced around her house change.  at first beside her toothbrush was the krebs cycle, then the aminoglycosides, then the pathophysiology of kidney failure.  over and over- she'd read, she'd prepare, and over time- she began to remember.  slowly the cards began to fall off her walls, as the information she'd diligently and repetitively put into her mind, began to stick. her heart, her being, was meant to be a doctor.  she is exactly the doctor i want to care for me- smart, kind, loyal, hard working- and someone who knows first hand what it's like to make the choice to believe in yourself- and to do the work of recovery. she didn't close her eyes, or give up.  she knew exactly who she wanted to be- she knew exactly who's life she was living. she is a hero. she is my hero. 

i don't expect or want zoe to become a doctor.  i don't even care if she goes to college. but i do want her to believe in herself- to love who she is- and to try. i want her to overcome things- even if they are small things- because that builds confidence.  i want her to put up her own 'reminder notes', to care enough to retrain her brain- i want her to sing loudly from the back seat that this is her life- i want her to be who she wants to be.  i want her to never give up- to never close her eyes.

we are beloved

the other day i saw a snippet of what is wrong with the world.  driving down a street i drive down everyday, a street full of people and dirt and ramshackle and broken down trucks and no trees or space to breath, i saw a grungy wild dog going to the bathroom beside the road, wearing that mildly embarrassed, ashamed face that dogs wear when they sit in that known position relieving themselves with no cover.  she was there- exposed and vulnerable in her place in life- always fending for herself - eating from trash piles- finding shelter and bathrooms where she can.  no sooner had she squatted than a male equally mangy dog mounted her.  she let out a moan of fatigue and frustration and deflated anger and deep longing for something other than this life of hers.  a groan of sad desperation- of helplessness- of sorrow.  her bark cry of 'where is the peace?', of 'get off', of 'no more', of 'can i just do what nature calls me to do without you having to do what your natures tells you to do to me?'  it worked and he retreated, ran off over the railroad tracks and she finished her business in exposed peace. there was something in that sound she made- that ache- that disturbed me- that spoke to me of humanity- of the conflict- the disconnect- the dissatisfaction that sits in our days.  all this in a flash as i drove by.

yesterday was fathers day- a day when i think of my beautiful dad and my beautiful husband and how they love their kids and how they point up- how they center their lives on the One who is love- how they point to the Father- who calls us all His beloved.

Abba, who wants us to walk with him.  he tries to make it simple and easy, but we spend our lives making it complex and rule-y.  we like to boil it down, to hold the truths of the universe- but in tying down the infinite we lose the intricacy, and the mystery.  we lose the process, we miss the growth of the days- the hours-we miss the search and the seeking.  our sticky little hands trying to understand, push the One who is Love and can not be contained- into spaces that we think make sense- at least to most of us- but He can not be made small.  it doesn't work- He doesn't fit.

can today i let go? can today i let Him be big and glorious and uncontained?   can i stand in awe and feel both my smallness and my grandeur (because this father seeks to know me)?  can i live in days that are bigger than i imagine? into places that are unknown but full of mystery and promise?

the Goodness waits for us when we embrace the openness- when we allow ourselves to sit with uncertainty- to be still and only sometimes know one thing- "that I am God" that I AM is enough.  that those words hold in themselves the nature- the massive and mysterious nature of our creator.

love the Lord your God with ALL your mind, All your soul, All your strength.  Love your neighbor.  whoever they are- whatever they look like- whatever they do- or don't do.  Love your self. even on the days when you fail- when you can't even try.  because you are loved, and so is your neighbor.

where is the containment in that? that is huge and encompassing and total and constant.
ALL. not part.
ALLways- not sometimes.

And the greatest of these is LOVE.

we spend our seventy years trying to make sense of this- to find love- to be loved- to be loving. to love what we do- who we are- who we live with- and birth- and share life with.  like zoe we don't want 'help', we want control.  we don't like our need, we like success.  we don't want to seek, we only want to find.

my first boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic.  i had a huge amount of respect for his humility and awareness of our limitations- and our brokenness. i went to meetings with him- i met rooms full of people who had been down so low-who had known that desperation - that depravity- like that dog on the street- so well that they had no choice but to utter the serenity prayer when they open their eyes each morning- and many times in the day- and with others who've been on that same road- and at night when they shut their eyes again. 

'Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

because there are things we cannot change (but we try so endlessly to change them).
there are things we can (but don't, or won't).
can we ask the One who knows- to bestow that to us?  to admit our powerlessness? our struggle? our need?

i sit with these things.  i ask myself, can i accept that i am His beloved? can i be still with the mystery? can i let it remain as big as it is and not shove it into small places?  can i be okay with my limits? my need? my inability and dependence?  can i love out of that love?  that massive, permanent, encompassing love that answers the moan and the cry.  can i ask for serenity, and courage and wisdom? can i call Him father?

evening on lake victoria

the breeze here is delicious in a way that it can only be when near the water.there is something about water- especially large bodies of water, that makes me feel peaceful and small and contained and part of something larger- something that moves with the moon.
i'm looking out over lake victoria.  zoe and i are here together to pick up my mom who flies in tonight.  its our girls night out. 

a little biplane just flew overhead- reminding me of denys finchatten - the unwilling to be committed lover of karen blixen- who was in love with her and africa and himself.  i wonder what the world here looked like back then from a biplane?  looking down on this lake, and the mountains and fields and feeling the breeze of that africa from way up in a windowless plane.  those images were the africa that i first loved- before i had smelled the spicy burning myself.  those pictures, and songs and stories were so full of mystery, so far away.

below us, the smoke is rising above a mango tree, it's reaching us, blurring the view, but making the view, so complete and earthy and real.

most of life is lived with things burning in our yards and not from a biplane.  most of our days are not beside the lakes and oceans of the world.  most of our days are full of the routines and repetition that we both dread and want escape from, but are the first things we'd crave and cry for if they were gone.

zoe and i can hear the squawk of birds and the chirping of children and the softness of norah jones. the sun has gone, the earth grows blue, people are moving down paths on their feet. and far off in the distance, we can hear a plane. 

friday afternoon poem

Here I Love You

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.

Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

Pablo Neruda

the song today

i spend a lot of time in the car, driving on potholed roads shared with trucks that are stacked too high, motorcycles with too many passengers and helmet-less drivers, cattle, wild dogs, and a lot of pedestrians.  i'm used to it, and i'm even comfortable with it, but it may be why i get so many migraines. 

today in the car, i was listening to praise music, which was miraculously keeping my boys quiet. i like to sing in the car and i like to pray in the car, so praise music is kind of both those things mixed together.  the first song was 'blessed be your name'- a song i used to cry through each time i heard it, a song that spoke to me, that i felt my soul singing 7 years ago when i was pregnant with jude, birthing him, nursing him, and waiting and waiting some more. 

Blessed be Your name
When the sun's shining down on me
When the world's 'all as it should be'
Blessed be Your name

most of my life i'd had sun shiny days.  i'd had years of things being as they should be. in these times, it is easy to love God. there is not a lot of questioning, not a lot of doubting, because things feel good and life is put together. in these times, of course God is love- what else would she be? 

Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name

then i had zoe- what a blessing. even the hard parts, the delays, all the wondering in those early years- it was difficult but i wouldn't have called it suffering.  but the years of infertility before i had jude were marked with suffering.  i wrestled a lot with God. i questioned, i was not gracious, i cried all the time, i threw a baguette across the house when i found out my friend was pregnant.  i was angry and bitter. i couldn't say 'blessed be your name'- well at least not in my heart.

Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be your name
 
but suffering is relative, it's a continuous variable, it's not dichotomous.  it was finding out at my 20 week ultrasound that this kicking life that was finally growing inside me was marred with defect, was likely to not to have his mind, that is when the darkness closed in.   it was the suffocating news of utter tragedy.  it took me to the place of no return.  down in that darkness- i had to ask myself- i had to ask God- was he good- despite this? i had to ask myself if i could say 'blessed be your name'? if i could turn this into praise?  was my sorrow going to negate his goodness?  a goodness i'd always known- a goodness i could see around me everywhere- even in all the ugly of the world.  was i going to turn away because the ugly of the world was sitting too close?

i spent a lot of time holding my womb and weeping and lying on the floor and begging God to show up- to help me see the goodness again- to have hope- to keep me from dissolving into a pile of nothing- to keep me doing the simple task of breathing, which no longer seemed simple. 

and He did show up, quietly beside me on the floor, and out loud in my dreams.  He showed up with no words of a promised miracle- but of faithful non-abandonment.  He showed up simply to sit with me in the MRI scanner and spread peace.  He showed up in the open arms of our friends and family who embraced us, cried with us, brought food to us, prayed for us, and loved us. 

the sunday after i'd had that ultrasound, we went to church.  i heard the beginning of this song and i began to weep.  i knew in that moment i had to make a choice.  was i going to sing to my God in this darkness?  was i going to bless his name on this road marked with suffering?  in that moment my heart broke.  it broke open, and i knew in a way that was life changing that God loved me- and my pain wasn't going to change that.

You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name

today as i sang that song out loud, i looked into the rear view mirror and saw my boy- that boy- that boy who's life that taught my heart to sing even when my eyes were stinging with tears- the one who unpeeled suffering- and whose existence revealed the nature of God- the one who loves us so deeply, so individually, so passionately that He breaks with us- suffers with us- abides with us in the dark parts.

Blessed Be Your Name
In the land that is plentiful
Where Your streams of abundance flow
Blessed be Your name

Blessed Be Your name
When I'm found in the desert place
Though I walk through the wilderness
Blessed Be Your name

there in the backseat- that blonde head, those deep steel blue eyes-  i watched him sing out those words- without knowing the poignancy they hold for me, they hold for him- my heart sang with his- in this land that is plentiful.  i sang knowing full well there will be more desert places- and darker spaces- and many more walks through much greater wilderness.  i sang knowing that things will be given, and taken away.  i sang knowing now what my heart will choose to say.