'good night i love you'

i wanted to start with this- the amazing sky.  that ball of bright hot pink, the paleness of the surrounding sky, the dark edges of the leaf silhouettes.  it called me outside to stop and remember a bigger place than my noisy living room at 6:35.  it spoke of the huge world- the millions of people who look at that same ball in the sky- from their rooms where ever they are.  it spoke of the stillness and consistency of God.

that hour, that time, the end of a long day- even a great day, can be crazy.  kids are hungry and tired, parents are too, and dinner is being cooked and tables set and hands are asked to be washed.  then there are vegetables to be eaten by people who don't like vegetables, and meat by people who don't like meat.  there are napkins to be put in laps, and mouthfuls to be finished before questions like, "why are parents so bossy?" can be asked.  there is milk to be spilled and interruptions to be managed and dessert to be lost for being mean to siblings.  there are tables to be cleared and dishes done, baths drawn, teeth brushed, stories read, inhalers inhaled, and pampers put on (because last night somone wet the bed).  there are songs to be sung, and prayers prayed, and snuggles always, and 'goodnight i love you's' to be said- because that is really it.

after those crazy, spinney two hours of the sprint parenting- 'good night i love you'- and i really mean it even if i raised my voice or brushed your teeth too hard- is what matters.  'good night i love you'- even if you can never remember to lift the toilet seat before you pee (although there is now a sign).  'good night i love you'  - even if you're almost 13 and sometimes you really don't like me and i don't even know why. 

'good night i love you' and i always will- you can't out run it, out interrupt it, out sticky thought it, out spill it- i always will no matter what.  just like that sun set, it's still and constant and always.  some nights it might look different, or sound different- but no matter what- that is really it.

tonight God said it too with that sky.
'good night i love you'- and i always will.

extremes

it's thundering so loudly that i think God might be coming.  the last bolt sent me flying inside- but i'm back again, in the rain, on the porch amazed by the drama of it- the power- the intensity- it's shouting out and pouring down the extremes.


as best i can tell, my original nuclear family- the one that started me out, are all together in the mountains of north carolina.  i can see the fog rising off the lake, people reading on couches, the leaves full and lush.  i can smell barbeque chicken on the grill and butter melting over corn on the cob.  i can hear my nephews laughing, a distant motor boat, a catching-up conversation.  i can feel that hot southern summer sun, the air noisily rushing by us as the boat jumps on the lake, and the cool leather of the sofa as everyone is gathered watching the olympics together. i can see the people that i love so so much all in one small space- and i begin to feel that deep longing.

this is when i feel far away. and homesick and achy.  this is when that question, that must live somewhere inside most of us who choose to live abroad, rides up to the surface-
'wait, what are we doing here?'


this, while i'm living with ebola killing 14 as the news headline.  while i'm receiving emails from the embassy about possible terrorist plots in the next few weeks. 

there is irony in the timing of these extremes- the safety and joy of being surrounded by family in the beauty of that mountain house- the unsettling possibility of deadly hemorrhagic fevers and bombs.

it's these times when those usually easily ignored questions reappear - 
'why did we move?  why did we deviate from normal? what was wrong with good jobs and safe shopping malls and free good public schools and living in the same town as family?'

and when the africa-ness of africa rears her head- the other questions come flooding out too- 
'why do you live somewhere that most people are trying to leave?  why, where there are black mambas in your yard, and horrid infections that they make movies about?  why live in a place were there is no blood in the blood bank, and no gloves in the clinics, or doctors for that matter, or MRI machines or medicines and even when you can buy medications, they are often no good?  why do you live in a place with bad water, malaria, bilharzia, and broken down roads or no roads? why did you leave well working for broken? beautiful and trimmed for dirty, mangy and trash covered?'

be still.
be still and know.
be still and know that I AM.


i am in north carolina with the people that you and i love.  i am in africa where you are with the other people that you and i love. you don't see the world as i do- don't be fooled by tidy and trimmed- everywhere there is broken.  don't fear ebola, fear not being where you should be.  fear missing out on the transformation into beautiful. don't run from dirty, run from the possibility of missing out on the adventures i have for you.  

right.  yes.  true.  because this is where we are supposed to be right now.  because asking those tucked away questions is okay.  because missing people who you love is so normal, as is missing systems that work well, and good roads, as is not wanting to relive the movie outbreak.

so. the storm has stopped. i can hear the last rain falling, i can smell the earth, i can see the other people who i love so much, the ones who are starting out with me, here. i can hear their laughter. there is power and intensity and the one who made it all walks here too. we are here- in one small space, and i have that deep joy.



 

anothers poem

Mameen

Be infinitessimal under that sky, a creature
even the sailing hawk misses, a wraith
among the rocks where the mist parts slowly.
Recall the way mere mortals are overwhelmed
by circumstance, how great reputations
dissolve with infirmity and how you,
in particular, live a hairsbreadth from losing
everyone you hold dear.
Then, look back down the path as if seeing
your past and then south over the hazy blue
coast as if present to a wide future.
Remember the way you are all possibilities
you can see and how you live best
as an appreciator of horizons,
whether you reach them or not.
Admit that once you have got up
from your chair and opened the door,
once you have walked out into the clean air
toward that edge and taken the path up high
beyond the ordinary, you have become
the privileged and the pilgrim,
the one who will tell the story
and the one, coming back
from the mountain,
who helped to make it.

  -- David Whyte
      from River Flow

entropy, expectations and monkey poop

i should have know where this day was headed, because i had only been awake for about 10 minutes and was meeting my friend for a walk, when i was pooped on by a monkey. a big monkey in a very big tree. i stood under this great tree and actually heard it coming- like a whistling sound- thank God i didn't look up- but the whistle ended in a splat- which actually hurt.   this was the introduction to the day.

expectations are what we think should or will happen


this was unexpected.
my friend suggested that i'd gotten all the 'crap' of the day over with at once- literally. i wasn't so sure.


because i was away all day yesterday learning how to be a farmer, i felt i should spend a day focusing on the kids, so i cancelled a meeting, and the kids and i decided on the pool.  i corralled the 4 of them into the car, with water bottles, towels, snacks, toys, sunblock and water wings.  i was having visions of my idyllic day with my four lovely children.  with the monkey poop behind me, i was ready. bring it.


we arrived at 11- and people were excited- for about 10 minutes - and then began the choir of "i'm huuunnngry!" but i was prepared and pulled out the crackers. two people were satisfied, one chimed in with "is that all you brought?" which promptly resulted him losing the privilege of  snacks, probably forever.  to preempt the second grumbling of hungry stomachs, i flagged someone down to order lunch.  everyone was excited by the prospect of food for about 10 minutes- until the cacophony began again, "this is taking forever!!  when is the food going to get here?"

as if i know.  as if we made this outing to eat here, instead of swim. as if they hadn't had breakfast and snacks.

i tried to be patient with them- to find humor in it.

but i wanted to wring someones neck.
i reminded them that we were at the pool so why didn't they jump in and swim, and that we live in africa where things always take longer but really it had only been 10 minutes since we put the order in. i also wanted to read the end of the most addictive and inappropriate book i've read in years.  i especially wanted to read it then- to instantly retreat to a completely other reality- one that really couldn't be more different than mine- especially with my 4 kids in the middle of summer vacation.

this summer vacation i realized that we needed some order: places for things, closets to be cleaned out, broken toy parts to be discarded, and too small clothes to be given away.  so periodically i've attacked a room and created a satisfactory level of order.  which i've noticed lasts for about 12 hours.  then entropy takes over. 

entropy- a gradual decline into disorder, the steady deterioration of a system, a measure of the disorder or randomness of a closed system 

As a physical system becomes more disordered, and its energy becomes more evenly distributed, that energy becomes less able to do work. 
this is the way of the world and certainly the way of my house.  as it becomes more chaotic, as the scraps and caps and snippets climb out of their ordered place and evenly distribute themselves across the floors of my house, those people who those things belongs to, become less able to do work. those people become like beanbag chairs- distributing themselves around the house evenly- also on the floor, often in some upside down fashion- able to do not much more than complain. 

so given that entropy is actually a thermodynamic property, why am i surprised by it? why do i expect the opposite?  why am i disappointed when items are magically sprinkled about the day after i gave them a proper place on a shelf?  why am i perplexed by the bean-bag-ness of my children?


today at the pool, it was more than the random distribution of things, but the disorder of the system at large, that seemed to astound me.

finally the food arrived.  again, people were happy for about 5 minutes during the chaos of 'pass the salt' and 'she took my lemon!' and ' i want to sit at that table'.  then entropy took over further.

"my fish sticks smell like a cow!" jude said.
"mine too!" said bryn.
"rose fish sticks?" said rose.
"no, honey, you have an egg sandwich." i pointed out.
"i wish i had an egg sandwich." said jude.
"yeah- not these disgusting fish sticks!" bryn said.


i wanted to tell them what  they could to do with their fish sticks,  but really i just wanted to read. i just wanted people to be thankful and enjoy the pool.  i wanted the system at large to run smoothly for once and not fall into full chaos.  i wanted what i'd envisioned, what i'd expected- i did not want entropy.


but

i did have to laugh now.  because i remembered that we've had times when i would have given all my limbs to have "normal" entropy.  when zoe was so much the center of any outing- when entropy was such a given- when we fell to bits all day most days- when i wouldn't have dreamed of bringing a book to a pool, when i would have over heard the conversations about cow smelling fishsticks with great envy. i remembered.  how quickly i forget.  how dare i forget? how fortunate i am to be in place where forgetting is possible.

entropy in what ever form, is to be expected and i'm the crazy one for thinking anything else is even possible, let alone probable!

the reading this morning, was about finding the joy in life by letting go of our control, by accepting God's control.  it was about remembering that our well orchestrated plans are easily thwarted by a phone call, or the unexpected- so we should be more flexible and chill and be open to discovering what has been prepared for us in our day.

i'm not sure why mine started with monkey poop.  maybe it was a literal and metaphoric heads up. an early reminder to respect entropy and let go of expectations. will i be able to do this? can i accept the promise of change, movement, disintegration?  can i allow the natural disorder of life to re-equilibrate me? the beauty of entropy is that often the thermodynamic goal is to move toward unity- to bring two systems to balance - with the initial cost of disruption - and that is beautiful.


i can live with that theoretically- sacrifice order for unity - can i live it out in my entropic home?
i think i can, i think i can.

what to remember when waking

 

In that first
hardly noticed
moment
to which you wake,
coming back
to this life
from the other
more secret,
moveable
and frighteningly
honest
world
where everything
began,
there is a small
opening
into the new day
which closes
the moment
you begin
your plans.

What you can plan
is too small
for you to live.

What you can live
wholeheartedly
will make plans
enough
for the vitality
hidden in your sleep.

To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.

To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance.

You are not
a troubled guest
on this earth,
you are not
an accident
amidst other accidents
you were invited
from another and greater
night
than the one
from which
you have just emerged.

Now, looking through
the slanting light
of the morning
window toward
the mountain
presence
of everything
that can be,
what urgency
calls you to your
one love?  What shape
waits in the seed
of you to grow
and spread
its branches
against a future sky?

Is it waiting
in the fertile sea?
In the trees
beyond the house?
In the life
you can imagine
for yourself?
In the open
and lovely
white page
on the waiting desk?

- David Whyte

pictures of luweero clinic, and a special poem

*this is a special poem because it was written by the late Dr. John Stone- a mentor and friend- who carried the heart of a physician and a writer and a teacher of both. it's about his experience in africa.


rebirth

 I came
To see
To feel
To be
For a while
Part of Africa



 










To be nourished by the roots of humankind
To feel the earth beneath my feet
The soil between my toes
To taste the air
I came to listen to the voice of Africa
For the African sun to warm my soul

I leave
Re-affirmed
Not only is Africa my home
But so is everywhere else
A universal spirit
Is part of me
And I of it


 











The nature of Africa is in my nature
The nature of Gaia is in my nature
The nature of the spheres is in my nature
I belong
In the Universe

lovey (or the tea field process continued)

in february, when i was in kenya i had one of those life moments. those times that stand out- with out the aid of pictures or words- because the moment itself was big enough and important enough to be remembered.  it was the moment when i thanked God for giving me zoe - all of her - sticky thoughts and learning differences and all.  i felt thankful in a real and true way- a new way - a way that i hadn't even figured out was important before.  i used to thank God for zoe, but, could He now transform her into normal.  it was more of a conditional thanks.

in those long quiet walks in the tea fields- when i asked God to show up and walk with me - when i asked to be given clarity in my work and our life in africa- i got a lot of wind and rustling leaves and then i got this- an awareness of how truly thankful i am that zoe- as she is- is my daughter.  i didn't realize until i'd said it out loud, that it was life changing.  that it was a beginning- that it was  necessary for my growth in all areas - that it was about trust most of all.  did i trust that God is good despite suffering?  did i trust that the small part of my life, and the world that i can see- is only a small part?

when i was a girl, to the great disappointment of my parents, i didn't like to read.  at. all.  and what i did read was kind of weird- i read books about kids with special needs.  the one that stands out is lovey by mary maccraken.  it was a true story about a teacher and the 4 special needs children she taught.  but she did more than teach them- she loved them, she brought them out of themselves, she gave them a safe place- she made a space for them to bloom.  and they bloomed. i was moved by this- entranced by this- fascinated- somewhere inside me was a deep sense that i needed to pay attention.

today we tried a new church because the one we go to is very loud and overwhelming for zoe.  i know new things are hard for her, but it meets at the boys school, so i figured it wouldn't be totally new, and zoe and i had accidentally met the pastor of this church in entebbe, another point of connection.  unfortunately it had been temporarily relocated because of construction, but the pastor recognized her, it was small, the singing was soft, and the sunday school class was manageable. off the kids went.

half way into the service zoe came in, quietly.  she sat down and explained not as quietly that they were doing a crossword puzzle and she couldn't do it and felt badly.  it was understandable.  i rubbed her arm and asked if she could wait until we finished praying and we could talk about it.

'no mom- i want to back to class.'
'oh you think you can? you want to?'
'yup'

and off she went again.
i felt nothing but a sweetness, and a thanks.
i thought about kenya- about my moment of awakening- about knowing it was a beginning, a peeling of layers that i'd build around me in seasons when trust was hard to come by and i was busy protecting myself.

the speaker today had talked about the challenge of understanding God's allowance of suffering in our lives. but also how we only see a small portion of a great big picture; a peak over the edge, we can't fully get the 30,000 foot view, at least not all the time.  trust, in the midst of our limited scope, is a choice. but a defining choice. 

i thought about my childhood reading. i thought about lovey. and i realized that somewhere inside of me is a deep desire to wholly love and care for zoe; to understand her, to reach her, to know her, to be patient with her, to appreciate her differences, to be a part of her growth, and let her be a part of mine.  somehow i was meant to do this.  i was in fact made for this.  i am, with grace, able to do this.

so what has been blocking my access? 

i think it's once again, my grubby little paws.  it's my want to have control over my life, to own the better plan, to be angry about not having it easy, to ignore, 'who has known the mind of the Lord?'
i think it's in my forgetting that, 'from him and through him and to him are all things'.

the accessibility began in those tea fields, and it continues.  it began with my saying 'thank you' with no 'buts'. it was the beginning of letting go, of shedding the covers of protection i'd been wearing. it was the first time i understood, i mean really understood the words of Jesus - 'come to me you who are weary and i will give you rest. for my yoke is easy and my burden is light '.  at least i understood that his way is easier, his burden is lighter than mine.  because in saying that 'thank you' and meaning it, it was the first time since about 4 years ago when zoe fell to bits, that i'd felt free.

today my girl walked in quietly- knowing where to go for help- even though she only needed a little. today, i was given the grace to feel nothing but sweet love for that girl, and the God who gave her to me, who holds us both in a great embrace, promising such beauty and peace and freedom, when we can shed the layers and trust.
today the tea field process continues for me and my own lovey.

time is always time

last night was the global celebration of our friend laura's life.  all 6 of the inhabited continents were represented, with people on each one, remembering her, honoring her life, and being thankful that we were part of it.  it's pretty amazing - to be loved across the world.  it reflected her love of travel - and her ability to connection with different people.

in the afternoon i was trying to prepare for this as best i could, which was hard because i was interrupted a billion times, and i left my box of bits from my past in the attic of my parents house. i left my box of notes that had been passed, letters saved, rose petals gathered (seriously), yearbooks, and other collected items that bring me back to places and times that are special.  but i did bring a bag of pictures- a literal plastic ziplock bag of pictures.

this is typical of me.  i aspire to be a maker of scrapbooks, or at least picture albums.  i keep meaning to settle down and sort- to organize and write captions and record the place and time and date.  but. i don't.  instead i have bags and boxes filled with random pictures- and the thing is- i like it. 

yesterday, i fumbled through my life- in its disorder.  i went from zoe in san francisco at preschool- to me taking my first steps- to me and mike when we started dating - to my visit to rift valley academy in kenya when i was 17.  there were pictures of zoe nursing, then me going to the prom, then my best friend in peru at 14, then my grandmother. snippets of my time.

somehow, jumping around the years like this, felt more special- like i was finding little treasures- because each photo was a surprise.  life seemed full and rich.

i'm savoring the book 'gift from the sea' by anne morrow lindbergh. today i was reading about love and memory.  about the deep desire we have to freeze our love relationships in the first stages.  how we want to keep the initial passion, the first intense connection- and we don't accept the natural changes that happen as our relationship grows and matures.  we fear the loss of our beginnings, sometimes at the cost of missing the beauty in our depth.

looking through that bag of pictures- it's pretty obvious that change happens.  i have aged.  people have died. hair has grown and been cut; or fallen out for some. people have married, others divorced.  homes have been sold or moved from, trees have grown. babies have been born. jobs started. places have been visited.  the world has been traveled. change is constant- it's dependable- it's guaranteed.

there is so much beauty in the transience. each of those pictures, each holds a memory of a true and valid moment, as real as the moment of me sitting now on this porch, writing these words. there is nothing lost in the fact that it has past, that time has moved us, that change has happened.  maybe it's even become richer as it's antiqued.  maybe the value has deepened because it was and no longer is as it was.   her book reminds us of t.s. eliots words from his ash wednesday poem:

because i know that time is always time
and place is always and only place and
what is actual is actual only for one time and
only for one place, 
i rejoice in that things are as they are.

and really, that is what we are left with.
rejoicing in that things are as they are. now.  here. in this day before us.
that we make it real and vibrant and life giving- and worthy of remembering.
that we hold those we love who are gone, close; and those who we love, who have changed as we have, closer still.

let it come

this morning the walk up monkey hill was cool and sunless.  it was that beautiful coldish air that comes with a gray sky and at the top- everything was white.  the hills were covered, the city blocked, the view whited out - like snow.  beautiful like i was looking out into a snowy sky. a sky that is blanketed, that brings quiet- that some days- you need. and today i needed that external boundary to bring internal stillness.

i always wonder, when i walk up places to get perspective and solitude, what will come. 

and that is what came. that was the lesson that descended from that white sky. let it come.

what if life, as it is, when it is, is just what is need. what if i trusted enough in the orchestration of things, that whatever befalls me in the day, is what should come.  what if instead of telling the universe what i can and can't handle this week, i could flip it around, and believe that what comes my way this week, or morning, or minute- is exactly what i need- what i can bear- what i should experience? 

it's easy here to become bogged down in the amount of stuff one could do or be involved with.  it's easy for my walks up monkey hill to be full left brain exercises in planning how to do many things- or the order in which to do them- or even to brainstorm solutions that will solve all the worlds problems (haha).  but.  we can't do all that.  i can't do all that.

but i can do what is in front of me.  i can help the one in my path, the one knocking on my door at 8pm at night, the one asking for some money.

it's easy for me to be annoyed by the people and the things that seem to get in the way of my big plans. 

oops. that defeats the purpose.  that really makes no sense.  that is definitely not what Jesus did.

it's in the small things that are brought before us- it is those whose lives touch ours- it is what comes to us- that is where our opportunity to serve happens- to do- to influence; and more importantly to be influenced ourselves. 

in our days, lay hiding, treasures of opportunity.  people and places, and sounds and the colors of the sky- that will speak if we listen- that will meet us just where we are- just where we should be.

if we can just let it come.

farm love

i can't grow green things.  really.  well, at least not inside.

my sister once gave me an amaryllis bulb for my birthday- complete with a pot, the right type of dirt- and instructions- from a cute gardening store.  i had that mildly panicked feeling when i opened it.  because it was dummy-proof and i wanted to do right by it- by her- to have in the center of my table a spectacular amaryllis flower- beaming for all to see, but knowing in all likelihood, it would reflect my horticultural failure- again.  the year before my friend gave me a small indoor garden of succulents.  again, the right depth of pot, the correct soil combination, the seeds- and of course- instructions.  i think i gave it away out of guilt for those poor undeserving seeds that had fallen into my flesh colored thumbs.  i have been known to kill a cactus, a spider plant, and orchids- well- those aren't meant to survive inside are they?


i haven't tried much outside- except a lemon tree - when we lived in san francisco.  i wasn't just trying for lemons- i wanted to experience the growth of life. i was trying to bring forth.  i was trying to lay out a fleece of hope- to prove to myself that i had it in me to be a part of creating something organic- as my womb wasn't cooperating.  my lemon tree experiment served as some sort of a test.

i had a beautiful blue pot that sat on my small side outdoor stairwell. i bought the plant when it already had leaves- just no lemons.  i watered it, and put it in the sun sometimes and i waited.

i would like to say that i sang to it, talked to it, petted it, groomed it.  or that i read about growing lemons, or at least a book on citrus trees, and that i had enough faith to gather recipes for lemon curd or lemon meringue pie. i'd love to say that this plant blossomed into a tree and that somewhere in a courtyard, behind a san francisco apartment building on fell street,  is a beautiful lemon tree that blooms constantly and now allows small children to climb in her branches and provides bountiful lemonade.


but.

i didn't do those things.  i put that small plant into a pretty blue ceramic pot, and several months later she bore fruit. kind of. one lemon.  that was it.  one lemon and she was done.

i struggled with how to interpret this.
at the time, i had zoe and about 3 years worth of failed fertility treatments.  was zoe my lemon?  would there be another one? WHAT DID THIS MEAN??

at the time i was crushed.  it was a confirmation that i was somehow, desperately broken.  i wasn't just infertile, i was incapable.  i was perhaps a murderer of things alive.  never mind that i was working 80+  hours a week as a resident in a hospital full of very sick people, keeping them alive, helping them get better.  no- the lemon tree somehow meant more.


but years later, i would laugh and see that it actually meant a whole lot of nothing.  i think it was a great big lesson in 'be careful with fleeces', be careful with comparisons, stop trying to predict your life, stop trying to figure it out with a test case- and just trust me. a few months after i plucked that lemon, the fertility treatments worked and i became pregnant with jude.  a few years after that, along came brynjar- drug free.  God smiled and said- 'hey lemon tree girl- watch this!'

now i live in uganda, on the equator, in a land flowing with milk and honey.  a land with plenty of rain and good soil and a people who are mostly subsistence farmers. what they know is their land- but it doesn't seem to work well enough to feed them well, or to make a profit.


in luweero, the district of our mobile clinic; where the hiv rates are higher than most and the education rates are lower; where poverty and food insecurity are the norm- little miss non-green thumbs is trying to become a farmer. little miss 'can't grow a pre-potted lemon tree or a prepared amaryllis with instructions' wants to help these farmers farm better.


what?



perhaps it all started with the dirty life.  a book about farming and love- and all the combinations that can go with that- loving farming and farming love. finding things- selves and each other- and the land.  growing things- selves and others - and vegetables and animals and fruits.  digging and planting and harvesting- feeling the earth- knowing the seasons- understanding the power of weather- the need for rain and sun, light and dark- the rhythms and the patterns of nature that are so easy to forget or to ignore in our busy and electrified life.

perhaps it continued with echo. the organization where we did our missions training- where we began to learn about the importance of sustainable farming - the feasibility of growing more with less- of partnering plants and animals- and listening to what those plants and animals need to make more of themselves.

and it further continues with farming God's way .  a way to do all this- by listening to the guy who made the stuff in the first place.  mother nature, mother earth.


so i'm going to get my life a new kind of messy. dirty messy, because as kristen kimball found out in her upper state new york farming life- it's all linked. for me, here, medicine is linked to health, which is linked to food and hunger and poverty, which here, is linked to the land, to farming it.


so that is why i'm trying to learn a thing or two about growing things. i'm trying to listen to all i can about planting and tending, and growing and not plowing.  i'm trying to understand manure, and chicken coops and acreage and symbiosis.  it's trying to turn these thumbs green- but it will need to start with dirt under my nails- and some more freckles on my face.


maybe this way, maybe with out the perfect pot, and the correct pre-packaged soil, and the cute gardening store; maybe with out the pressure of symbolism in the fruit production; maybe now- by giving it up- by doing it purely because some people are hungry and in need- maybe i'll finally start to grow green things.

from martha to mary

today was lovely.

it was internally and externally lovely.

i went to bed too late,  so 8am when i finally dragged myself up, felt too early.  we had friends from the boys school coming over so i'd told florence she didn't need to come today- knowing that it would be hard for her to get much done in a house full of kids.  but i was also curious about how it feel to have my house to myself.  by the time i'd slightly woken up and had a cup of coffee, i had about an hour to clean up and get cleaned up myself, with 4 kids trying to do the opposite.  but what was so great, what was so remarkable, is that i was calm, and happy, and relaxed.

this is probably absurd to most of you.  but i tend to have these goals that must be met, i tend to want things to be perfect- to have the house looking like it belongs in the african version of Dwell magazine- to have food prepared- to have my kids rooms cleaned and to have them behaving calmly - not chasing each other around the house screaming and shooting each other, wearing too short sweatpants, and too long hair, looking like true missionary kids.  i tend to like myself to be clean and showered before i have company, and preferably wearing something cute.


but my life is so. not. that.
my life is messy.
and loud.
and mismatched.

i suffer from the martha syndrome. not martha stewart, martha the friend of Jesus.  she was the one who frantically ran around the house cleaning and cooking and preparing things, while mary sat and listened to Jesus.  she was the one who missed out big time on talking to someone who would change her world.  she was that one who got angry that she was doing all the work.  but she was the one with her priorities out of whack. she was the one with the wrong stuff on the back burners of her life stove, the one putting self-proclaimed 'urgent' ahead of really important.

that is me most of the time. i hate my martha-ness.  i want to be chill mary- just rolling with it. i want to be so focused on the right stuff that i don't even notice the dust piles or the dishes.  i want to know when it's time to sit and listen- to let myself not miss out on true beauty because i've decided that tablecloths matter.

somehow today i got it right. i swept the floors and i put on a tablecloth- but i didn't yell at people for their lego messes. i didn't have time to straighten out bookcases, or make zoe clean up her room, or even take a shower- but i didn't care. i had a great morning just being in my life- doing what i could, but stopping to listen to the little, but more important voices.

right now there is a pack of kids drenched and running around the yard with a hose, muddy feet and legs and faces. there are wet clothes strewn all over the porch, with legos and light sabers and baby dolls and lids and blankies and necklace pieces.

right now kids are smiling and laughing and playing and having fun.
right now things are in their right places in life.
right now i'm sitting in the peace of mary.

whatever a sun will always sing

last nights sunset

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

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

ee cummings

belated grief- thank you avett brothers

it's not been a good day, and i didn't know why until about 5 minutes ago.  well, three hours of it were fine.  the three hours when rose was attempting to take a nap, and the other kids were watching a movie with mike.  the three hours when i had time to myself- maybe it was one of those days when somehow, solitude was required but not much of an option- save for three hours.

the other hours were filled with the typical things. the things in life that can feel like the opposite of solitude: getting children food and drinks (every hour it seems); and answering questions like- would entebbe be destroyed by a hydrogen bomb in mukono?; and watching people spider climb up the door frames; and settling disputes; and listening to tattling; and the most lovely of all, cleaning poop out of the bathtub.

then while googling the range of hydrogen bombs for jude, i accidentally heard the avett brothers song- the beaches,

"Don't say it's over
Cause that's the worst news I
could hear I swear that I will
Do my best to be here "

and i began to cry- the ugly cry.  the full on cry of grieving my friend who i've dreamed about every night since her passing just a week ago, the cry that's been sitting in me like a big ball of ache for too many hours, trapped by perhaps, distance, and a lack of solitude.

she loved that song. i'd had it on the side of the blog when i lived in the US could use 'playlists'.  she's heard it and she'd loved it.  i love it too.

solitude- it's so hard to find.
loosing friends, is just so hard.

we'd lost a friend together before- 25 years before. our first death of a peer, but it was more than a peer, it was a friend, and a boyfriend.  it was more than a death-  it was an accident, there was a car, some injuries, a death and a driver- a driver who would never be the same. a driver who would die at 41- but who would say she'd already had more time on earth than she deserved.

ouch.

the things we carry around with us.  the things that we hold on to, that haunt our solitude. 
it broke my heart to hear those words, to know that had been sitting inside for. so. long.

"If I could go back
That's the first thing I would do
I swear that I would
Do my best to follow through
Come up with a master plan
A home-run hit, a winning stand
A guarantee and not a promise"

the things we never forgive ourselves for- i think that breaks Gods heart.  She must just cry and say please don't hold that- please let it go- please know you're loved and only one small piece of a great big painting. She must want to wrap giant arms around us and give us peace.

"If it's the beaches
If it's the beaches' sands you want
Then you will have them
If it's the mountains' bending rivers
Then you will have them
If it's the wish to run away
Then I will grant it
Take whatever you think of "

laura lived a lot.  she's felt the sands of many beaches, and climbed many mountains and put her feet in many rivers, and loved an amazing man and her family very deeply. she'd traveled the shores of many seas.

i know these things. i also know she was at peace- because she told me last month. but it's still hard, and i miss her, and i wish i'd been there to say goodbye in person- to tell her how loved she is, and to remember together.  i wish been on the same side of the sea - especially this last week.

so i'll hold on to what i can hold on to.  i'll try to find some solitude daily - so that i can process the aches of life before they eat me.  i'll try to not carry the pain- i'll try to receive the open arms and hold the peace, and be kinder in the typical acts that most days are made of. and i'll remember to look for the mountains bending rivers- to walk as many sandy beaches as i can.

freedom behind the boundary

the other day zoe was perched on her bed, in the nicest and largest room in the house that is now her own bedroom.  the one separated from the rest of us- by the living room and kitchen. she had just lost her computer for watching youtube homemade videos of kids playing LPSs (littlest pet shop pets).  i just find homemade videos online creepy- or potentially creepy or at least difficult to closely monitor, so that's my rule. and i've told her a thousand times- no youtube homemade videos!

this was her response
"ugghhh mom! i have NO FREEDOM!!!"

as if.

as if i hadn't just given her her own room.

as if i hadn't spent the last two hours picking through large baskets filled with silly bands and hair elastics and miniscule lego pieces and tires of small toy cars and felt-board characters and coins. sorting which parts of things should be kept, because they will be requested at some point soon (moms always know which random broken items have become treasures), and which can be thrown or given away.

as if i hadn't then lugged everything into the new room and found places for all the random treasures.  that is true love.  that was done FOR YOUR FREEDOM!! i wanted to yell back.

but.

you are almost 13.  i'm annoying.
you couldn't resist watching the videos.  you don't like consequences. you don't like punishments.
i don't get you- you say.  you're right. i often don't get you.
but girly- i'm trying to give you some freedom.  and space. and independence.
i want so badly for you to know these things- to be your own- to separate- to make your own choices- ones that won't hurt you. 

freedom: the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint. (google def.)

is there such a thing? without hindrance? with out any restraint?

i don't think so.

i grew up with a brother and a sister and i understood my freedom in the context of my family.  i heard my mom clarifying the definition of freedom a lot - "your freedom ends where his nose begins".  it was really in the safety of the boundary that we found our freedom.  when the venn diagrams of our lives overlap- the rules of freedom change in that shaded area.


boundary- something that indicates the farthest limit of an area. (google def)
boundary- the edges, the clarity, the perimeter, what hems us in behind and before, the limit that creates the space for full freedom and also gives safety- protection- care.

with out the rules, the edges, the limits, we can become unwound. overwhelmed. unfocused. 
today i read psalm 16- "the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places".  i love this. that they are there- those boundary lines- because they provide direction and guidance and i need to be hemmed in.  i choose containment- because i trust the one who sets my boundary. 

the thing is, sometimes those lines aren't pleasant, they feel constricting and we feel claustrophobic and stuck and they are leading us straight up a high mountain pass.  sometimes we feel tired and we long for a giant open space- a flat field.  but we don't live on those hard trails forever. we do come to places where the stones roll back and the fences spread out and we can shed our packs and our heavy shoes and we can dance barefoot- and in that dancing our freedom explodes.  as we feel the grass under our feet, we can look back and see what we learned along the way- that now we are able to dance out of a deeper level of graditude, with more passion than we ever had before- that He who lead us up that winding road- has turned our brokenness to fullness- our wailing into our dancing- our bondage into freedom.

i want this for my children.  i want them to understand where their freedom lies.  i want them to live life fully- to embrace guidance but to make their own choices- to transition to the natural consequences of their decisions.  i want them to be prepared. to have the word in their heart- to know the one who guides them-to accept that boundaries are good, to trust them, to learn to set them for themselves sometimes.  to act and think and speak in ways that bring freedom to many, not just themselves. 

and oh, i so badly want them to dance.

3 months with rosie

this is our second family picture since rose joined us, 3 months ago today.  it seems like a lot longer. in a good way.  now she's met some of the grandparents.  she has her own room.  she eats pizza and nutella, but still loves rice and beans.  she goes to sunday school with the big kids, she knows all the objects in her ABC book- she likes to say "mom- come 'eah" and "i'm comin'!" in this sweet little almost boston accent- that cracks us up. 

bascially we can't imagine our life with out her.

we are kind of in love.

complicated or not- we love her- another little beastly ham.

good apples

“Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won't either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.”
― Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum LP


we said goodbye to my parents today after a 3 week visit.
it was hard!
they are good apples.
they are full of sweetness.

  

















they were here during important times. our trip to karamoja, and my loss of a friend they knew as well. time with grandchildren they helped raise, and a new one they were just meeting- all loved just the same.

they were good at living life with us. eating toast for breakfast and doing dinner dishes and having endless conversations with zoe about her kindergarten nemesis.  they read books and played cards and "littlest pet shop pets".  they did clinic with me, walked the campus and admired the library, sat in traffic and did the grocery shopping with me.  they shared stories that were funny and stories that made us cry, and think and learn, and be inspired.  they listened well and commented supportively- when they could have said a whole lot of things about our crazy. and when things were crazy and four kids were whining at once or smacking each other, they didn't criticize or roll their eyes.  instead they winked and told us they now have a better understanding of how to pray for us.

we were sad to say goodbye, but so very thankful that saying goodbye is hard and not easy.  thankful that we'll miss them so much, that we have them, that they're not so far away, that we'll see them in 4 months. thankful for the love.

reframe it with out a frame

it's only tuesday but if feels like it could be friday. i think it's just one of those timeless weeks.  those weeks when schedule and dates and time is replaced by the ticking of fans, the awareness of our tires on the road, the feeling of the cool air on our arms - when again, the cards have been shuffled and our emotional response to life has surpassed our intellectual response to it.  when our right brain takes over as our left brain is befuddled.  yes- that is what this week is.

there has been exposure.  goodbyes, with out getting to say goodbye. processing. which always leads to more processing- because once the left brain is allowed to rest- lots of things move to the front- and our senses enliven and we begin to feel more, to pay attention differently, to pause, to breath, to remember.

sometimes in these timeless times i indulge the sadness.

when i arrived home on saturday after that long day , i told zoe that my friend had died. she gave me a big hug and told me that i should go and watch some sad parts of movies to "feel better".  i think she meant to "feel", to access my emotions- so then i might feel better.  i get this and i'm glad she does now too.  and i did this sort of- not by watching sad movies, but by reading other peoples lives and connecting over things that are similar and hard- so that the timelessness and the exposure feel less alone.

whenever i indulge and process, i inevitably end up re-grieving some of the past harder seasons in life- and often land on feeling very sorry for myself for the hardness of the never-passing-ness of a season.  life with a child with special needs.

in my indulgence and processing i read two beautiful stories about children and down syndrome. the first was about a woman who had been told during her pregnancy that her son had down syndrome and when he was born- he did not.  the second story was about a woman who had been expecting a "normal" daughter, and when the baby was born, she had down syndrome.  both stories were about the shock of not having what your were expecting.  not getting what you'd planned for, and the disappointment that comes with that- the grieving of not having "normal" and the grieving of not having the child with the syndrome.  it was fascinating to read them and see the similarities in the process given the extreme opposite of the outcome.  but they were both grieving the loss of what they'd expected and prepared for.  and both were able to embrace their new babies and love them as they are.

talking about loss and grief is complicated- because while it's universal- it's also competitive.  it can unite us or divide us. we can feel totally alone, misunderstood, that we are holding the shortest end of the stick, that everyone else has it better- or we can feel unworthy of pity, guilty for grieving because it could always be worse, someone else is really suffering- so who are we to complain?  mostly we vacillate between the two or worse, feel both types of negative feelings at the same time.

i say that because- i've sometimes been envious of people who have children with down syndrome. that was in a whisper voice- as i don't want to upset or offend or confuse- let me try to explain.

in having and raising and teaching and living with zoe, i've so often longed for clarity.  i've longed for a diagnostic code, a chromosome that i could blame things on (so i could stop blaming myself). i've wished for an understanding of how, and what to do now, and a large body of literature and studies and known-ness about what could or would or should happen with my child.  i've longed for a large support network- a community of kids who share at least some known similarities.  i've longed for a way to put edges on our life together, a way to package it- to make some sense of it for myself and everyone else.

i've even longed for the sweetness, and joy and caring that the children i've known who have down syndrome exude. and i've longed for life with out the anxiety and depression and obsessiveness that can come with having only 2 copies of chromosome 21- but some non-genetic, non-imagable brain differences that make navigating and managing life, very difficult.  i've even longed for a visual cue that she is different. a way that people would know ahead of time- to tread lightly- to be gentle.  but mostly so that when i look at her, i would remember that she is different and special and that it will take her longer and that more is required of me.  because i look at her and i forget.  and i hate that i forget because my forgetting hurts her.

i've longed for it to stop unfolding so i can catch up with processing it.  i've wished that i could stop being duped.  that i could have avoided the years of denial- the seasons when my mind worked so hard to convince my heart that things were normal and fine.  that i hadn't missed those years when my heart could have been working on teaching my mind that there is nothing so great about 'normal', and what is normal anyway- and that neither have anything to do with being "fine". 

being "fine" is about the response of both of the women in those other stories- being fine is what i strive for and need to create space for in my days and my minutes.  being fine is in thanking God for life as it is.  thanking God for the child you've been given no matter how many chromosomes it has, no matter what it's brain looks like.

being "fine" comes with thanking God for the mystery of zoe- for the constant unknownness- for the opportunity to live an unexpected life.  it comes with being thankful for the gift of not being bound by a frame.

instead of being "fine"- we parents of kids with special needs- whether they wear their special on the outside or not,  have volumes written about them or not, are neatly categorized or not- we have the chance to be way more than fine.  if we can let ourselves, if we can sit with the mystery, we get growth and depth and a perspective that is transformational.  we get real real.  we get the raw, bare, truth of what it means to be human- in all the child-like mess of it- the simple beauty and the ugly of it.  we get adventure and change.  we get 'new york super fudge chunk' instead of vanilla.  we get a rainbow.

and our kids?  they do too.  if we can remember that maybe we won the lottery even though we never bought a ticket.  if we can live in the LOVE that we have for them, instead of the whys and what ifs, and buts.

after i finished reading those stories on line, zoe came in from brushing her teeth.

"mom can we watch 'mirror, mirror'?"

 it was 9 pm and i was tired, but.

"yes! lets watch a movie! that is a great idea."

i looked at her as we sat on the couch together, ready to pop i loved her so much. i answered all her questions about the confusing parts of the movie. and i rubbed her arm as she tried hard to resist flapping her hands during the exciting parts.

it was a moment when i remembered.  when i was so thankful for this whack, flavorful adventure, and that this was the girl on it with me.

in parallel

yesterday was so long and there was so much there, and i was so tired and had so much to say, but no idea where to begin- that when we finally reached home, i kissed the kids who were still awake- ate too much peanut butter with too many chocolate chips, drank milk tea and tried to watch 'pride and prejudice' (chosen so that i could be totally removed to another place and time).

but right after that great exchange between mr. darcy and elizabeth bennet,

mr. darcy: So what do you recommend to encourage affection?
ms. bennet: Dancing. Even if one's partner is barely tolerable. 

i fell asleep. 

yesterday my dad and i spent the day in the village in luweero.  it was a long day at the clinic, after a long drive to get there, with too many people in the car, and a long drive back.  but really, there is nothing in the physicality of the drive or the talking through a translator to the 60 patients we saw, it's in the constant reminder of the state of affairs.  it's the problem solving of how to remove so many barriers, all day, with almost each case- that gets exhausting.  it's feeling like you're not able to do anything for people.  it's like being a doctor during early 19th century england when mr. darcy was falling in love with elizabeth bennet.

but we are not in the early 19th century. and i trained to be a doctor in big cities in america, in places where we did not just do anything, but everything for our patients.  where one life- really mattered.  where it was hard to not see the idea of death as a failure.  where deaths in the hospital are the rarity not the norm.  where hospitals don't turn away really sick people.  where the individual trumps the group- where saving a life- trumps time and cost and inconvenience.

but this is africa. this was a rural village.  this was a child in a family, in a tribe- not the same idea as we have of an individual.  and this was a sick child.  a sick child just diagnosed a few minutes before with HIV.  a child with deep festering sores all over him- armpits draining pus- neck and back denuded- all of them covered in flies- flies that wouldn't leave. this child was sick and tired and whimpering and hot and floppy.  he needed to go to the hospital- to start HIV meds, to get a correct diagnosis of the skin lesions and IV treatment for his infection, some hydration, some wound care.

we told the family that because there was no pediatrics in the local hospital,  we would refer him to mulago, the national referral hospital in kampala. dhundhundhun. yikes.  they were not thrilled. 

they have no money- how will they get there? how will they pay for the treatment?  they dig for yams everyday.  i'm sure they wondered why we were so worried about a 2 year old AIDS baby in a village? this is life.  life has death.  things happen. we usually have no control. 

we looked at their somewhat blank and seemingly over accepting faces of the cards they'd been dealt. 'but your baby could die soon!' we said.

i'm sure they knew that.  i'm sure they were surprised that we used the word could and not will.

after they agreed, i called a wonderful professor of pediatric HIV who works there and she told me how to get him seen.  i wrote the referral- gave money for transport- told them we'd follow up and help get them what they needed at the hospital.  we sent them off- it was the best we could do.  but.  i had a dark feeling in me- that things wouldn't work out- that i knew better- that they knew better.  that we all knew that the system doesn't work as it should or could.

at the end of clinic as we packed things and people in my car i became aware of a massive swarm of flies in the back seat. there was the child, in his moms arms- everyone now covered in flies. 

there had been confusion- they would need help navigating the big city hospital- so we opened the windows drove down the 25 km dirt road to meet the next car that had people who spoke lugandan and could take them. but i gave it a 50-50 chance that they'd actually go.

when we finally got into a town where i could access internet service on the phone- i found out my friend, who had been sick and in the hospital back home, had passed.  i knew she was dying- i knew she had end-stage cancer.  i had been thinking about her constantly.  it was not a surprise, it was in fact a relief that she'd gone comfortably,  but i just wanted to be alone, to drive and cry-(about a lot of things). not in a car with flies and people speaking loudly in another language.  i didn't want to think about that child's gross wounds and the hopelessness of the healthcare here, or the absurdity of how some people are surrounded by cleanliness and pain meds and beautiful music at the end - and others can't pay for a crowed taxi to attempt to get their kid life saving care.  i wanted to think about my friend and her life, and our memories, and the unfairness of her death at 41- after everything had been done. but how could i when i was riding in my own car, with the unfairness of likely death at 2- from something treatable??

that night i slept hard, but woke a few times with the peace of my friend smiling at me, reassuring me that she is now well, alternating with the disruption of that inner voice saying "you shouldn't have sent them to mulago".  i know better than to listen to most things in the middle of the night- but i trusted the first and feared the second were true. 

and i was awoken with a phone call from on of our workers saying mulago had brushed them off- not admitted him- the boy was given a prescription for an ointment.

an ointment.

in the places i've trained in and worked at in america this would be: admission, infectious disease consult, blood cultures, wound culture or biopsy, TB test, CD4 count, CBC, electrolytes, likely initiation of antiretrovirals, rehydration, IV broad spectrum antibiotics.  the parents would be told that the baby would likely be okay- that we'd figure it out- that a doctor would be there all night, nurses would be there all night.  the child would be fed, put into a safe, comfortable and clean bed. gloves would be used, needles would be thrown away in an osha approved needle waste container, hands would be washed, universal precautions would be taken. communication would happen. 

it's just hard.  death, no matter when, or how, or why.
it's hard to be far away from a friends dying.  hard to practice medicine in a place where death is accepted when it seems it shouldn't be.  it was hard to practice medicine in a place where death wasn't accepted when it seemed it should have been.  unstoppable cancer.  treatable infections.  western top end city hospitals.  small villages in africa with no real access to care. 

is it unfair? yes.  did both things break my heart. absolutely. do both things break God's heart?  i'm sure they do.

what is our response?

do we shut it down?  pack it up? close off? become bitter? sarcastic? resentful? angry at the God who gave us life in the first place? so angry that we don't believe in God's existence? we can.

or we can choose to cry, and miss her, and support her family, and pray for them, and each other. 

we can apologize for sending the baby all the way to a hospital that turned them away-and thank them for trusting us- hope they trust us again- get them the best medicines we can give as an outpatient, clean the wounds ourselves, and pray for them.  we can pray for encouragement in the midst of discouraging times and in discouraging places.  we can pray for the strength to try, to do our best, to tell the people we love that we love them- often- because who knows what our days hold.  we can pray for the courage to go back to the village, to work in a broken system, to slowly chip away at improving it. 

we can remember our best days, learn from our bad days, hold on to our laughter but also our tears- and thank God for all of it.  yes.  all of it.  thank God that it breaks her heart too.  and we can do our best to love each other.

finding and accepting

week one of summer vacation has come to an end.  seven more to go.  i feel kind of terrible that i just said that- but it points to my, of course, lack of planning.

i try.  i try to be that mom. the mom with the schedule- the already researched art projects, the every thursday swimming afternoon, planned meals, always a plethora of healthy snacks.

but.  i have to admit, i'm just not that mom. i'm the other mom.  the one with a list of summer ideas scribbled on the white board, along side of other things i'm afraid i'll forget if i don't write them down like "buy new whiteboard markers" because i can barely see my list.

summer vacation, with out the schedule of school, shines a nasty light on my other-mom-ness.  it brings it screamingly out into the open for all of us to experience- and suffer the consequences of.  every morning begins with this comment from the peanut gallery:  "mooommmmm, what are we going to do today?" 

me: "umm, i don't know but maybe i can have a cup of coffee first."
them: "it says on the board, horseback riding today"
me: "no it doesn't- that's just a list, it's just things we could do sometime."
them: "no mom, it's fifth down on the list and today is friday, so we should be doing it today."
me: "it's not a schedule! it's suggestions!"
them: "but we haven't done anything yet!"
me: "summer is a long time. if we do that list this week- we'll be all done! we need to stretch it out."

but i looked at their little bored, desperate eyes and thought of my day at home with them- batting each other with whatever stick they could find, the revolving kitchen door in search of food every 15 minutes, and thought maybe today would be a good day to ride because today had started off badly for me.

i didn't want to get up because i was afraid to check my email and hear bad news about my very sick friend. i wanted to hole up under the covers and just not have to deal- because "not having anything to do" seemed like a pretty pathetic complaint compared to me losing a dear friend on the other side of the world.  today i didn't really feel like being a mom and having to plan and entertain, i just wanted wanted to be taken care of.

i don't think i even realized how deeply i was carrying the sadness of this far away potential loss until i snapped at the ugandan version of a metermaid for asking me to pay (what mike pointed out was 8 cents) for leaving my car for 2 minutes to go to a bank machine.  i literally argued by the side of the road and did the math- explaining that i really owed him only 10 ugandan shillings, not the 200 he claimed.  he refused my crazy 1/2 penny offering and i drove away-having to explain to the four kids why he wasn't a jerk for asking for money- that actually i was. oops.

the stable was great- the three older kids rode- rosie was too scared to even pet the horses- but it was a good time.

but then we went for lunch at a local ugandan roadside place- and it was more of the meter maid scene. 
i was having a rough time. things that shouldn't have set me off, did set me off.  instead of listening to my inner voice, i ignored her.  i chose the paths of most resistance- i actually asked them how it's possible to run out chapatis? not a good moment.

i surely set the tone for that meal- no surprise it didn't go so smoothly.

but what i found so amazing was that i'd started that day asking God to walk with me.  even though i got out of bed cautiously, i'd read my bible, i'd prayed, i'd asked God to hold those i love and to help me through this day.  so just imagine if i hadn't? it would have been a full disaster!

the night before i'd read something, from somewhere about a jesuit priest who was writing about our constant search for Gods' will in our life- and how we need to realize that Gods will for our lives is found in what happens to us every day.  the here and now of our days is the living will of God.  so it's what we do with our moments- the ones in front of us- that matter.  not our big plans, our grand ideas, the exciting stuff.  God's will is there too, but mostly it's hiding in the conversations with meter-maids and waitresses who run out of chapatis.

doh.

reflection is so good, and humbling and hopefully realigning- and often, for me, embarrassing- but that's okay.

i'm off to bed. tomorrow i get to return to luweero - to our mobile village clinic- to hopefully allow the will of God to be in the doctoring small places. to let the day be what it will be. and to keep accepting it when i get home to four small children who wonder what on earth we'll do tomorrow.

listen

i love this picture taken by my dear old lisa coris- friend for life- travel-mate, creative soul and good listener!

there is a reason why God gave us two ears and only one mouth.
we should listen twice as much as we speak.
i'm. so. bad. at. this.
there is so much we should listen to, so much we can learn.
we should hear what people are saying.  we should listen for what is behind their words.

we should listen to those we are guiding- as we guide.
the small ones who we raise- have big things to say. things that need to be heard.

we should listen to our inner voice- the one we love to ignore.  that one that guides us, knows us, knows the right path.  we should listen to that still small voice that wants so badly to help us be still and know, that wants our peace and joy. 

we should listen to our world around us, intentionally.  we should remember to stop, and listen.  listen to the rooster outside in my yard clucking like he's gone mad.  to the sound of bats tinkering around in my porch roof.   to the monkeys jump from one tree- the silence as they fly through the air- then the loud swoosh as they land in the next tree. or just the sound of quiet- like the picture, just the wind.

listen to the quiet of the house now, and soft breathing of my children and the night frogs and the distant town.