hallelujah

"Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah"
                 - rufus wainwright

i love this song.  i love his voice.  i love the truth in it- i know that often all i can mutter is a broken hallelujah.  it's that bittersweetness- that is felt most when our limits push up against the eternal.  time- you feel it, you watch it- moving pencil lines up the wall as your children grow.  you know it in the fact that life hurts and is indescribably beautiful - at. the. same. time. you know it when something touches that core spot inside you that you can only know as your soul.

did i ever think i would be sitting on my porch at sunset watching monkeys jungle-gym through the trees? did i ever think that zoe would re-enter a typical school?  did i ever think she would do this in africa at an international school?  at age 13, one of the hardest ages to re-enter the social world?

no i didn't.

there are so many things i never imagined that have happened.  so many things i thought would happen than never will.

i have cried many hallelujahs.  i have fallen to bits many times.  i have cried out in joy and brokenness- hallelujah.

today my hallelujah was pure joy. 
today my hallelujah was out of deep thanks for just a kind of normal school day- a day with a few blips- but smoother than the day before.
today my hallelujah is on bended knees- in awe of this.


we come with what we have- open our hands and give it up - behold.

plink plank plunk

i just had a moment.  one of those achingly bittersweet moments.  when you feel your heart and it hurts a little bit, but feels warm and swollen too.  that twinge of beautiful agony- that ache that comes sometimes from loving someone so deeply that you feel their life in your life.

we had returned from the second day of school and it had been a hard day.  zoe was in her adapted tagless, seamless school uniform, wearing pigtails, glasses on, shoulder up, running through the kitchen to go find her neighborhood friends.

it was the pigtails. and watching the back of her head, her bare neck- revealing her elevated left shoulder. my mind played back all the times i've watched her running away.  watched her through the years as her white blonde pigtails have darkened, watched her gait steady slightly, watched and wondered and worried and prayed.

i love this girl. so. much.  this zoe. all of her.  the almost 13 years of her.  the challenges she never asked for.

today when  i picked her up, unlike yesterday her teacher said she had a hard time- at line up, in math, and french and pe- but the afternoon was better.  zoe seemed okay.

part of me didn't care, part of me expected that, part of me was crushed, part of me was annoyed that someone tried to test her math skills on the second day, part of me was scared about what direction we may be going. 

but as she dashed through the kitchen in her typical zoe form- i felt all those years like a giant ball in my throat and mostly what i felt was proud. because even if the morning was hard, she still invited almost everyone we passed on the way out of school, to her birthday party.  because she wasn't in bits.  because i know she can multiply even if she wasn't willing to count for her teacher today.  because a new school, being the only new kid in the class, in a class of 22 typical kids, who have all had french before, is a lot- with out being evaluated in math.  because we've come so far.  because cricket is really hard when you haven't played before. because even if she didn't try in math, she is trying in life.

and that is what matters.  trying in some form.  trying to navigate a much more complex world than i have to navigate. it will come slowly by slowly. she is not broken- she is whole- she is love.

as she dashed by me in the kitchen, i felt it all- our past, this day, where we've been, where we are going, all the unknown of it - but the known parts too - "zoe can i have a hug?"
"no mom!" she said smiling. "i want to go play!"
"oh come on, please?"
"okay fine! one."

i held her tight for a moment. her hair now at my chin level, her glasses still pressing awkwardly into my chest.  this girl has come so far. mustard seed faith. mountains will move.

plink plank plunk

first days

today began with mike jumping out of bed and announcing that he'd forgot to set the alarm. doh!
but we chose calm over crazy rush.  we chose trust over panic. and it worked.  we even got them there early.

bryn woke up in tears, mostly because he was tired i think, but the drama of being in year one, having two friends move away over the summer, and worrying that his teacher was too serious- got the best of him.

jude was fine. he's that guy who once he knows a place, and the routine, he is set.  last year was a different story, when it was new and he was new, the world was scarey and he let us know for about two weeks. but going into year 3, at the same school, piece of cake.

zoe had verbalized last night at dinner (while everyone was fighting over who got the finish the broccoli.....i know right?) that she was both excited and nervous.  totally natural, totally appropriate.  today the slowest girl in the world, managed her time and her excitement/ nervous combo- perfectly.  i was amazed.  but not really because the peace i was feeling was also clearly not of this world.  i could feel the prayers, those arms, that sheltering, the mountain inching.

rosie was quite honestly, being a brat- because for once- she was not getting the attention she likes.  she isn't starting school yet, so other people had issues today and needed to be held or their tears to be dried.  but she's three so it's allowed.

at breakfast they wanted to know about how i felt on the 'first days' of my life.  i was shy; my mom and i had a mix up my first day of 1st grade, and i thought she was picking me up at school, she meant the bus stop- that was scarey; but in general- i like new beginnings.

this is a new beginning.  today. wednesday. august 29th, 2012.

 at the equator, we don't have the seasonality that shaped my childhood years.  i miss it, and crave it, because it was another external boundary providing internal guidance.   so school starting  feels like that first cool autumn dry wind, bringing change, the leaving of something, the beginning of another. a seasons when i am not a home-schooler, i'm no longer zoe's teacher, i am free to be only her mom and all the beauty and responsibility and privilege that comes with that.


i don't know what this will hold.  i don't even know how long it was last.  maybe my phone will ring today - maybe there will be desk hiding and falling to bits.  or maybe it won't and these hours will become mine again- to work on our mobile medical clinic- to start the farming- and the poultry project- to write- to teach- to prepare to pick up at the end of the day and be just a mom to these guys, to be the support, the back up, the ears they need, the arms they need, as they navigate their worlds with out me.

i just finished gifts from the sea.  anne morrow lindbergh writes a postlogue 20 years after the book was first published.  it was fascinating.  the book is about the stages of life for a woman, as a mother, a worker, a thinker and writer.  she writes using different shells as analogies for each stage.  in the epilogue she writes that she'd missed a stage - the stage of the empty shell.  the quiet, lonely season that happens after the children have gone, before the exciting, re-self discovery, definition phase.  a season she didn't anticipate- but would have been very helpful to have thought of  - during the crazy, busy, time-less, days and hours of child rearing.  it's so easy to be tired.  it's so understandable to want a break, to jump for joy when school starts, to roll our eyes at the whistling, or the whining, fighting, and yelling.  it makes sense that we are sick of stepping on legos and looking for tiny lego guys hats late at night, and changing wet beds, and reminding people to wear deodorant.  but.

how quickly it goes!  how soon we will miss the very things that drive us nuts.  we will long to wake up to the sounds of their feet on the floor - to hear someone ask "what do hives look like?" and "what does confluent mean?" and "are those good questions?"

i've enjoyed this silent cup of coffee and uninterrupted time outside on the porch.  but already it seems too quiet, already i'm missing their voices and  laughter.  already i'm wondering how their day is going, what questions they are asking, how they feel about their desk placement and if they like their snacks.

and that is love, i think.  loving being with them, and loving letting them go.  enjoying alone time, but eagarly anticipating reunion.  yin and yang.  there is balance there.  i want to hold it- the awareness of the empty shell in my future.  so i can treasure the fullness of today. 

mustard seed

that little thing is a mustard seed

Jesus said that faith the size of a mustard seed, can move a mountain.  have you seen a mustard seed?  they are tiny, and mountains, well, they are huge.  sometimes i think that Jesus said that, and matthew wrote it down, just for me.

i used to think that faith was like patience- either you have or you don't- either you spend your life working on it, or you've been blessed. i have not been given the gift of patience- i struggle with it daily, okay hourly- but faith, i've always thought i was pretty solid on that. but. i'm finding that faith is more like love. love is something that everyone has for someone or something - in varying degrees, for varying situations, and people and seasons.  faith is like this- well for me.  maybe there are people who have it more universally- but for me, it changes in strength and size and amplitude with each different circumstance.

with zoe- it's only the size of a mustard seed- on a good day. 

school starts in two days.  i can feel it shrinking.  this morning poor mike got back from his run and was faced with my fine coffee ground size faith.

"mike she is never going to make it in school. we are CRAZY. we ARE crazy. WE are crazy." 

i recounted her educational history- her IEPs- her work- her attention- the issues- the recommendations- the challenges at special schools where the zoe's of the world are their raison d'etre. i worried that i hadn't done enough prep work with her, or the school.  that everybody's expectations wouldn't be met.  that everyone would be disappointed.  (maybe mostly me).  because it feels like the more times something fails, the greater the let down- there is more riding on the hope of it working.  

i know all of this banter is pointless.  she's going to school in two days even if that means all of my greatest fears coming true- desk hiding, ear covering, screaming out in frustration or the sight of a vacuum, speaking in whatever foreign language seems appropriate based on the way someone looks to her, whistling through her day, flapping and force laughing at a funny joke, announcing in class that she's having a hard time because she has a "non--ver-bal--learn-ing-dis-ord-er" or because she's "turning 13 soon and is growing... you know...." while pointing to her chest. 

oh. dear.

"i mean i do have faith.  it's there.  somewhere."  i said finally, but i'm not sure it brought much relief to either of us.

this does feel like a mountain. one i've been looking at for a long time.  one i've been climbing up, trying to understand: why it's so high, and bald in some places and forest like in others. why it's so steep, why there are desert parts even.  why i don't have the right equipment, why no one told me i needed crampons and an ice pick.

but what is "working" anyway? what does "making it" look like?  and is this even about her? is it perhaps about me letting her go? releasing her to the one who told me i only need a tiny speck of faith for big things to happen, for the world to shake, for change, for the impossible to become possible.

so i grabbed my mustard seed and my girl and we headed out to face the music- to have a day together and to go see her teacher and her classroom.  it was delicious.  our mountain hasn't moved- but i felt  a tremble. 

we started at the salon, because i had an appointment. zoe was her charming self and they offered to wash and style her hair for fun (and for free). 

"yeah right!" i thought. she has sensory issues. she hates getting her hair washed and brushed and dried. 
but no- she wanted to- and. she. was. fine.

and then she was thrilled. so thrilled that she danced around the salon to the club music, looking in every  mirror she passed. then we went for our lunch date. sushi. like old times. she tried to speak japanese to the tagalog speaking sushi chef, thankfully the japanese branch of the UN were dinning there too so zoe was able to both salute and impress them with her greetings.

girls day out

 

then we stopped by school, she saw her new classroom, and her teacher, and the desks and book nook, stuffed frog, and other fun items.  she saw her cubby, and asked some questions. 

there was no magic and it wasn't a 'perfect day'- there was a quick shriek at the hair salon when she couldn't get something to work, some mild frustration as she attempted to use chopsticks, and some ear covering when she heard a drill at school. but it was delicious because of the words quick, mild and some.  it was delicious because this day reminded me that Jesus never tells us how the mountain will be moved or who is doing the moving, or when it will be moved.  maybe the mountain moving process matches our faith.  for me, with zoe, at this place in life, it might be moved one pinch of dirt at a time.

part of my mustard seed faith is knowing this, and being okay with this, and trusting that what i have faith about -will happen.  our mountain will move- but most likely by a means that i never dreamed of, in a time period that i will find frustrating, with help that i never thought would come my way.

i have faith that zoe will be happy and not afraid (most of the time).  i have faith that zoe will know and love God and other people.  i have faith that zoe will love herself as. she. is.  i have faith that zoe  will someday leave my house, for her house.  these are the things that i want for her.  but i have no idea what any of that looks like.  all i know is that it probably looks nothing like my happy, my not afraid, my leaving, or my house- and that is okay.

mustard tree

so i will plant my small mustard seed.  and this giant tree will grow.  and the mountain will move- somehow, someday - and i will smile and get my hands dirty and wait to be surprised.

being inside someone else's moment

last night was date night.  we were on a roof top patio eating spring rolls in a mostly expat crowd, when someone who appeared to be celebrating her birthday, got a phone call. a phone call that would change her world forever.  in slow motion, we watched this older woman unravel, and then her older daughter too.  there was "no! no!" and a lot of gasping and crying then questions,  "when did this happen?" and "are your sure?"  then more "no!" and falling to the ground or into restraining arms of husbands- as the daughter quickly caught on that her brother was dead.  that her mother had just lost her son in a car accident. 

it was awful. there was no where to go.  there was nothing to do.  it was like watching someones insides fall out- hearts breaking- years and words spinning- anger, denial, agony- on a beautiful evening that was meant for a celebration- a rooftop at sunset- it was out of context- it didn't belong there.


the patio stopped- froze.  time stood still, as we were stuck in someone else's life changing moment, witnessing something awful, something that didn't belong to us, but is such a universal part of life.

i have been at the bedside of many dying patients.  i have held many hands of daughters losing parents, or sisters losing brothers.  i have been the one on the other end of that phone or in the waiting room- giving that horrible news- knowing that in those few seconds, worlds change. 

'he's gone.'
'you have cancer.'
'it's HIV'

wishing i could wait, buy someone an ice cream sundae, let them go see a movie and laugh hard- before they fall to bits. before i share something that will brand that date forever in their mind, before sounds they had never noticed - the ticking of a fan- become forever linked with their diagnosis, or the second they lost their son.



saturday night is necessary.  it's the highlight of the week on many levels, mostly because it's set aside to give each other focused attention and processing time, and there is more to process here, living in another culture, away from what has always been home- we need to be more for each other here. last night in those eternal minutes of forced exposure, at the uninvited viewing of another family's extreme vulnerability- i began to cry too as it unfolded. 


because we all know those calls- those seconds -  when life as we knew it, is no more.  we all have our ticking clocks and tommy bahama ties and the smell of OR gas, or the song that was playing.  we all know loss, or can imagine it, and fear it, and hold our loved ones tighter when we think of it.


even though it felt like forever- the call was only a few minutes.  soon the mother and father, the sister and her husband got their bags and began to leave. people were quiet, as the family walked to their cars and drove away.  and then the world started up again.


the people on the patio drank their beer and laughed and shouted about the soccer game.  the scene had ended.  they were strangers. it's saturday night.


this added to our need for alone time- this added to the list of things to be processed.  thankfully i'm married to a guy who gets this, and me, so we quickly paid our bill and went for dinner. in the car we prayed for the family, whoever they are, where ever they are from, and for the one they lost.


the sushi restaurant was quiet, the sun had set, and the evening was cool.  it was windy where we sat outside- mike said we could have been anywhere.  he said when you move up on a hill or a mountain or into the sky- it becomes progressively windier.  the world from up there, from the blowing sky, looks smaller- and more the same. that view smooths over our differences that can scream loudly at ground level.


what does it matter that i know God? or try to? does it change those frozen, life changing moments?

yes and no.  they are there, and always will be.  but the perspective is different- the understanding of time is different, and purpose, and meaning.  those minutes and the news that makes them so awful and gut-wrenching,  are still just as painful- but there is also, an undeniable, and unfathomable peace that follows at some point.  that sits beside the sorrow- not removing it, but providing that breeze of promise- you will breathe again, you will even smile again, you are not alone.

it's hard for me to imagine those moments with out the context of a God who loves us- with out that peace that quietly whispers.  the darkness must be much darker, the agony even deeper. so i pray it for them- that for this family, who i accidentally witnessed hearing the worst news a mother or sister can hear,  somehow a light will shine, they will feel the everlasting arms,  the warmth of a sheltering sky, and the breeze of promise.

finite

from my porch right now, life feels exquisite. the morning light, the breeze, the clarity of dry air, the promise of another day. another week.  the week of transition.  the end of the summer, the beginning of a new school year. another meeting about rose- zoe in a classroom.  a lot to could happen this week- or nothing- and things i have no idea about will unfold, or begin, or end.

yesterday bryn asked when God was born.  i had a moment.  one of the moments when you try to wrap your mind around something outside of your mind- when you try to imagine infinity- when you try to remove the bounds of time and step out of this dimension. 

'God wasn't born bryn, he just was, always.'

he looked appropriately puzzled, but it registered as very possible.  because when you are five- you can still engage in the mystery.

how can something not begin? and not end? starting and finishing is all we know.  time is. it moves. again i felt my smallness- that there is so much we don't know, or understand, or even have the capacity to grasp.  i guess that is why we so often choose not to believe. belief is risky. admitting we don't know is threatening. keeping our system closed - keeping things in this world- limiting them to our understanding- that maintains our sense of control, kind of.

but then we let go of the mystery. we lose embracing possibility and space and timelessness. so i choose to hold my smallness, to be okay with my limitedness, to trust that deep knowing that whispers inside: there is more. 

here we are.  today we live in this time, in these bodies, and we still must ask the question- what will we do with our one wild and precious life?  with this wild and precious day?


The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
- mary oliver

traversing mars

right now, somewhere very far away in space, a vehicle is traversing mars.  it's searching the ground, the landscape, and the rocks,  for signs of life.  i'm not a fan of sci-fi, or being high off the ground- so while i can appreciate it - it's not that exciting for me- besides i'm too concerned with traversing my own mars- life with zoe.

in a few hours i'm meeting with her teacher, because school starts next week, and well, we kind of need some sort of a plan.  so i've "prepared" a list of topics to discuss.  they are mostly in the form of questions.  questions that i don't have an answer for.

- uniforms? yes? no? depends on the day? will my specially ordered "SOFT" clothes be okay if in school colors? because we have sensory issues.  tags or seems or something too tight, or too loose, can send her to the moon- it can distract her (and therefore everyone else)- it can unravel her.

- homework?  i know there is homework in 6th grade.  but please don't torture me!! won't 6 hours of school be enough? but what about fitting in to the class? perception? participation? do we just do less of it?

-scheduled breaks? we are talking the attention span of a goldfish.  will breaks help? will they cause more distraction in the breaking and re-entering?

-'engine helpers' ?  she likes to fiddle, to hold small toys in her hands. this helps her feel less anxious.  but what if she starts talking to junior asparagus? or what if she throws him in frustration because she didn't get the answer right?

- tests?  oh dear.  what happens there? is she timed? does she get help?

as we were making this list- i began to panic.  i began to think that we are CRAZY.  that this plan is DOOMED.  that we are set up for DISASTER.  i began to feel sick for everyone involved- zoe, her teacher, her classmates, me.   and then i began to do what i always do after i panic- i began to grapple for control- to put up armor to protect us - to make plan b and c and d.  but.  we live in uganda where options are severely limited.  so then i did the most logical and helpful next step- i opened the flood gates of fear and regret.  what were we thinking! moving here? during teenage years? with zoe, a neuro-atypical kid? where are our supports? where is barbara mcclure? and social group? and her psychiatrist? and her sensory gym? and my mom?

suddenly life in africa began to look a lot dirtier, grimier, smellier, and eternally frustrating. on the drive in, the traffic appalled me, the trash piles revolted me, the cow walking at me in traffic really annoyed me- the potholes, the diesel fumes, the broken chin strap on the boda driver- all of it screamed of disrepair, and lack, and hopelessness.

i don't like to wallow.  i don't like to look at life that way.  so i moved on to compartmentalization. leave the zoe box for a while, leave the messy africa box, go to your work life box- open up that one- remember your purpose, your mission.  i had been called by 'reach out' clinic today asking what my plans were, i'm due for a meeting with 'action for the needy' and we go to luweero for mobile clinic in a few weeks, i need to find some land to get farming, i need to sign up for the medical boards re-certification exam. 

but then i remembered that compartmentalizing your life with a special needs child is (like everything else) - different. the work box, depends on the zoe box, because zoe touches everything. there is no 'arriving', no guarantees, no non-pull-able rugs.  and. this. is. hard. it's hard hard.

so i closed my eyes and indulged the wallow for a minute.  in my mind i sat in my leather seated pilot with the steering wheel on the normal side of the car and listened to the functional car stereo.  i drove down smooth roads, and i took myself to starbucks and ordered a hot, to-go latte and organic horizon vanilla milk for the kids  from my car window- just because i could.  then i drove with the windows down, because the cars have intact exhaust systems, and smelled fresh air.  there wasn't even any traffic, so i drove to wholefoods. oh. my. word.  they had gluten-dairy-free everything!! they had normally priced peanut butter and nutella, and the lights were on in the store so i could see! they weren't out of milk! they had free samples! and it was air-conditioned.  then we went to the emory pool, where there was no broken glass at the bottom of the deep end, and there were life guards, and enough seats for everyone, and of course we ran into our friends- because we always do.  i called my sister, because we're on the same network and it's free even though she lives across the country.  we went to sensations therafun- a special sensory 'gym' for kids like zoe and everyone else, and we connected with other families who have kids that don't like tags and vacuums.  then i drove to my friends house, and our kids played, then watched a tevo-ed happy, educational cartoon on noggin, while we sat outside and drank cold white wine on her porch and laughed and didn't even appreciate how easy and nice life is.  i got a moquito bite- but with no risk of malaria. zoe was super well regulated because she just finished a few weeks with learning on the log- a summer program for kids like her- one of many programs, that become available only after you have enough food to feed your country, and medical care that keeps most children alive past age 5.

STOP. that is not my life right now.

am i enough for you?
do you trust me?
i will give you joy- to the fullest.
you don't need to compartmentalize- you need to take baby steps.  
you need to take- today.  to take this hour.  to just go to that one meeting with her teacher. that is all.
you don't need to extrapolate your fear into regret of where you are.  don't let this be about road conditions and unlit supermarkets. 
let this just be what it is, where it is, right now.
breathe. 

"now to Him, who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think.."

i need exceedingly.
i need abundantly.
i need above all.

that is a lot of promise.

then i remembered the last 40 years.  i remembered especially the last 13 years. i remembered darker days, and months, and seasons.  i remembered that it's true. sometimes i can't even see- but i can still walk. by faith. empola, empola. slowly by slowly. just into today.  just to that meeting. then back home- past cattle and red dirt and broken.  i get to walk back into the steadying arms of mike; to jude who's very life screams of the truth in that promise; to bryn's toothless smile; to beautiful muzungu-karamajong rose- born on these dirty streets; and to that blossoming girl of almost 13, who despite making me feel like we are traversing mars- is true to her name- zoe- life to the fullest.

and that is a lot of promise too.

writing out the bones

sometimes i feel very very small.  sometimes it's small in a good way- like when you stand on a mountain or at the edge of the ocean.  and sometimes it's small in a not so good way, like when i look at the statistics associated with this blog.  the number of "hits", the number of "followers".  it's especially bad if i look at other peoples numbers, or hear of other peoples success stories or publications, or book deals, blog awards, and tv appearances. then i shrink down to that tiny place, that 'why bother' place.  that feeling of 'who cares', and 'other people say it better (obviously)'. and then i become pretty sure that all this writing is doing is taking time away from other more important things- like making better dinners, or teaching people without a clue, to play 'clue', or taking care of more sick people.

but i have realized that if i don't come here and write- i will go crazy.  that if i don't put "it"down on paper (whatever "it" is)  i won't be able to cook, or play, or doctor.  i've also come to see that it's not just the writing it down that matters, it's pushing that orange button at the bottom of this page- "publish post".

so here i am.

the other day i'd written a very personal post about rose and our family and my process.  because of the topic and the choice of time in writing (namely during the afternoon, at home, with the 4 kids, while also making dinner)- it had taken me about 5 hours to finally finish.  i decided to read it to mike because i was having computer trouble and couldn't preview what i'd written.  he told me that it was too personal- out of his comfort zone- that he'd rather i don't publish it.

this was fine in theory.  i mean, he's allowed.  it's his life too.  there are times when our comfort zones are different, and his discomfort should trump my comfort. but in the course of discussion, he said something that gave me pause.   he asked me who i was writing for?

"me.  i'm writing for myself." i said quickly.

"well, you've already written it. you've processed what you needed to process, so why do you feel the need to push "publish"?

hun?

but it was a good question.  who am i writing for really? why do i want to push that orange tab? why do i care if people are reading this or not?

i'm not fishing for compliments, nor am i wrestling with low self-esteem, but honestly, will never be momastery or grady doc, or whatever, or rage against the minivan.  i am not a mommy blogger or a doctor blogger, or a feel good hip cool crafty photographer blogger, or an adoption blogger, or even a missionary blogger.  my lack of those titles, is so typical of me.  i'm just small and often confused with many sides.  i'm just struggling through my life, dealing with some common and some less common challenges.  i'm someone who seems to need to learn the same things over and over again. and i happen to love to write.

but.


as annie dillard says:
"This writing that you do, that so thrills you, that so rocks and exhilarates you, as if you were dancing next to the band, is barely audible to anyone else.”


i think its these things that thrill and rock and exhilarate, that we feel shy or comparative in, that we are meant to do.  we are compelled, we feel alive and real. 

i have years of journals.  i have written down much of my life- for me only. now, it is different. here, it is different.  i write for myself- but also- for community- for connection- for expression- for unity.  i write to remember- and share- and learn.  it began that day three years ago when zoe ate 3 earthworms- "just 'cuz".  when i felt alone with her and our challenges, when i felt like i was the only one living life with my underwear showing. all. the. time. most of what i read about having children with special needs, made me feel like a horrible person.  everyone else seemed to embrace the best in their child only, to see the blessings with out the struggle, everyone else seemed evolved, everyone else thought it was going to holland instead of italy- where i felt having zoe was like going to mars. so when i started writing here- i decided to be honest- even when it was painful, even if it bothered family members who felt family life shouldn't be exposed, even if i outed myself as the truly broken individual that i am.  the one who starts the day with 'help!' and ends it with 'i'm sorry.'  the one who spends a lot of time crawling to the cross- leaning on everlasting arms, and trying to be still.

and something magical happened.  really.  as i wrote it out- and shared it- i began to breath.  something about pushing that orange button, something about sharing it- the mess of it, and the beauty- helped me to feel more real and honest and okay.

my answer to mike was true.  i do write for myself, but putting it out there is part of it. i want other people to know they are not alone- whether their child is eating earthworms or not.  whether they live in snellville or africa.  whether they drive a minivan or don't have a car; or work outside the home or not; whether they are a doctor, or take care of people in other ways (because we all do that); whether they believe in a God who loves them, or not.

i want people to know they are loved, life is hard- and that's okay- because it's also so beautiful. some days we get it, some days we don't, but we try, we get up and do it again, we grow and learn and lean and hold and begin to let go- to be still, who ever we are, where ever we are, or were, or are going.

thanks for reading, for helping me not feel alone.

the great escape

it's 2 pm.  only.  and i have escaped. 
i didn't even think i needed to escape, but it turns out i did. 

so i'm here at the colline- the closest place i could go and sit comfortably and write, with electricity,  and i'll be honest, a gin and tonic. (no judgement! unless you have a 12 year old with special needs who whistles constantly except when talking, and ironically demands to be treated like a teenager and stay up until 10pm, after not wanting to take a shower because she was too busy playing with her pre-school veggies tales 'junior asparagus' character, and begging for someone to help her brush her teeth.  WHAT??)

it always starts out well.  it's always about expectations. yesterday mike had told me that he thought i needed a day. that he could stay home, and i could go, and write, or work or whatever was needed to get some space.  i loved his thought, his caring, his generosity- but i said i was doing okay- and as usual we didn't make a plan. this morning, when i got back from my walk with a friend- he was dressed, shaven and shorn, briefcase bag in hand. i think i missed my window.

i have this memory of having a scratch and sniff book when i was a kid.  i recall a "scratch and sniff daddy's martini" or gin and tonic- is that possible? maybe it was written in the sixties- or maybe i've been watching too much mad men.  i mean i have been craving a little nightgown bathrobe set and thought about changing 'brynie' to 'bobby'.


we are on season two- and i'm not sure why- other than the great outfits and office furniture.  i can't think of anything worse than being married to don draper.  the lack of dynamic anything in their relationship is scarey. she is overwhelmed by the lack.  the boredom.  the absence. the disappointment that comes when the dream feels nothing like what was promised. 


i understand the overwhelm and i understand disappointment. we all do.


sometimes i look at my life and wonder why i get overwhelmed? why i'm putting rosie down for a nap- putting in a movie for the kids, doing an impromptu medical visit for a neighbor, and then running for the door.  i look at other peoples lives, other peoples complicated, and realize that comparatively, i have it very good.   then i reach the conclusion that i'm pretty darn sure someone else could do all this much better- that i must be the wrong girl for the task.

yet i know that's not true.  i know in my heart that i am exactly the right girl- or will be someday- or am becoming. i know that i'm seeing through the glass dimly.  there is fog and a long path and someone is repetitively poking me- but this is somehow orchestrated- somehow exactly as it is meant to be.

God in her infinite wisdom, knew that i would go out of my mind if i were a 1960s suburban housewife with two normal children and a very distant husband. that i may in fact, do better with the crazy.  that if it wasn't built in, i might go looking for it.

so here i am.  feeling somehow weak that i needed a few hours with out the constancy of questions, the perpetual whistling of zoe, the forever stepping on of lego parts, the eternal quest for more food, and juice, and ways to annoy your siblings. feeling badly that i've briefly fled the coop. 

but. 

we do what we can.  we do the best we can. 

lately when i put bryn to bed, he asks me to sing, 'that rain song'.  it's a song that i made up a few months ago, with an old sounding gospel tune.  the words go like this:

oh sweet grace
won't you rain 
rain down on me?
oh sweet grace,
won't you rain 
rain down on me.

early in the morning when i rise
won't you rain?
rain down on me?

in the afternoon when i am tired,
won't you rain,
rain down on me?

late at night when i close my eyes,
won't you rain 
rain down on me?

and when the darkness it disturbs,
won't you rain, 
rain down on me?

oh sweet grace,
won't you rain,
rain down on me.
 

sometimes that grace just comes.  sometimes it's there all day, or it's hidden in the bible words i read in quiet of the morning, or in someone coming over for tea.  or sometimes it's in the great escape- across a busy street in a small african town, in the heat of the afternoon sun.

won't you rain,
rain down on me.

one year

a year ago tonight we landed here- east africa - with 20 bags, after midnight.

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

here we are now- tonight- bigger, happy, settled. we ate cake to celebrate.

 this poem, the opening of the eyes, it reminds me of the things i've learned and continue to learn.

That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.

It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold.
It is the heart after years
of secret conversing
speaking out loud in the clear air.

It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes
as if to enter heaven
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
  -- David Whyte

intermittency

tomorrow is our one year anniversary of living in uganda. we spent the weekend at the hairy lemon with our community- our neighbors and friends- the people who we mostly live life with, and it was great.  this time we camped, this time zoe went down the rapids 'accidentally' with out a boat, this time we stayed two nights- but as usual, it was so incredibly relaxing. 

there is an absence of the things that distract us, and the presence of things that draw us close.  there is no phone service, no internet, no lights, no tv; instead is the constant sound of the rushing nile river, the hard, short, noon rains, roosters and birds, and the great full night sky- the smudge of the milky way- an arm of our galaxy.

stillness was easy to find, even with the chaos of 10 children, tents, constantly missing crocs, wet swim suits and the pull of the current on small bodies.  we read and talked and played american football and cards.  it felt together, but also with time to be alone. 

i was reading my book, gift from the sea, which i'm purposely reading slowly and fully treasuring.  the book by anne morrow lindbergh was written in the '60's, but is timeless.  she writes from a solitary beach retreat, where she reflects on the things that make up our life- our inner and outer worlds- and how those things connect or don't. she uses the things she finds in the sand- the shells, or the tide, or the beach itself to reflect on her relationships- on all the parts of her life.  being a writer, a mother, a wife, an adventurer, a searcher of inner things.

the chapter i was reading was about love and ultimate connection.  that ideally, real, true love is two complete people coming together and giving themselves to each other- not two halves- making a whole, two wholes giving fully to the other.  it is not the jerry mcguire "you complete me", it's not the idea of 'together we are one'- it's that we've done our work- we've explored our life and ourselves- we've reached and found our jungian animus and anima selves, and now complete- we are in a place to fully give.  we become (and she quotes rilke)  "world to oneself for another's sake."  it's not that we are ever fully complete, but at least we are each on the path of discovery- not grabbing at each other to get our needs met.  she, leaning heavily on rilke, writes about accepting our inability to ever completely share in someone elses experience- but in that accepting, we can even embrace and love the inevitable distance - to see the other person 'whole and against a wide sky'.

we are in the middle of our life.  our selves are tethered by so many things- mostly the things we love. we as partners, as parents, as workers, we are busy and life takes up our life.  we wonder sometimes if we are complete? if we complete each other?  we hold on to things- we fear- the life in our head, our spirit, gets swallowed by our days.

there is a word- intermittency- occurring at irregular intervals- that is essential to our lives.   i love remembering this.  how i long for permanence- of place- of being- of intimacy- of certain seasons. but. this is not real.  the things in our life that mean the most are inherently intermittent.  we have moments- of depth- or solitude- or perfection.  moments of, well, bliss.  when the sky is blue and grey- but hidden behind the clouds is a screaming orange sun.  when we look into the eyes of the one we've loved for so long and we see that look that freezes time.  when our child tells us that we are his world.  when no one talks in the car for an hour and you needed that hour of silence.  when a song sings just for you. 

all of our life- all of our moments- the mundane and the dull and the monotous- they are all valid.  but so is the passion.  so are the times when we are in community, looking at the milky way, playing football at sunset.  so are the times when we are who we want to be for each other- and the times we see each other whole and against the great wide sheltering sky. 

try

When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Tears stream down on your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down on your face
And I...

Tears stream down on your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down on your face
And I...

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you        
                                   coldplay


i love the olympics.  i love them.  i love it on a global and individual level.  the world comes together- the playing field is leveled- all are welcomed.  athletes and teams have worked for years for this- for their moment in history- for the chance to be known- to be recognized- for the world to see.  for three weeks- there is unity even in the competition.  for three weeks, it doesn't matter what the literacy rate is in african countries, it only matters who is the fastest, who throws the farthest. for three weeks our differences take a backseat to our similarities.  our eyes are on the athletes, and we listen for our anthem, for our flag to raise above the rest, their moment in glory, our nations pride.  

this was the first time in my life that i missed out on the olympics. we didn't have a TV, then we got one, but with out reception.  so i was able to read about it, and see some snippets of things on others television's.  one of my favorite things about the olympics is the stories. 


one of the stories i saw was the derek redmond story.  barcelona olympics 1992.  400 meter sprint.  half way through he injures his  hamstring- falls to the ground. his moment- gone. taken. lost.  all those years of training- the hours-the sweat- the denial of other things- the focus. gone.


can you imagine what must have gone through his head as he feels the wind from those passing him rush by? holding his thigh, kneeling on that track he knows so well, left behind.  but.  he gets up.  pushes away the trainers.  he starts to walk, and hop, and run, and hop.  he has his eyes on that finish- his eyes that have held that finish line in sight for so long.  it's blurry from his tears, from his pain and his broken heart.  you can see his agony- his effort- his struggle.


then, out of the crowd, comes an older man in a baseball hat.  he pushes through the trainers too and runs to derek.  his boy.  his son.  the boy he watched take his first steps, the boy who used to chase after him on wobbly toddler legs, the boy who grew and became so fast that he's representing his country in the olympics.  he puts his arm around him, and helps his son hop to the finish line. together.


i watched it and i wept.  those seconds spoke so much more and so much louder than had he won.  it wasn't about him being the fastest man anymore- it was about his character- it was still his moment- all eyes were on him- and broken as he was, he finished what he'd started. there was victory.  different than expected- but pow-er-ful! 

and he wasn't alone. 


those seconds were a divine moment.  that was a glimmer of our God.  the father who doesn't abandon, who is not far, not watching, but holding us, giving us enough support that we can shine even in our darkest moments. 

the story of derek redmond has inspired more lives then he ever would have if he'd simply won.  his story is about way more than trying, or even overcoming, it's about love, and faithfulness, and togetherness and relationship. 

most of our lives are not as glorious as dereks.  most of us never stand in the spotlight and have a chance to succeed or fail with the world watching us. but all of us have moments.  all of us have choices.  sometimes we are the injured sprinter deciding whether or not to get up, or whether or not to accept someones shoulder, whether or not to embrace companionship in our suffering. other times we are the one holding him up and running softly beside- trying to fix things as best we can- knowing we can't, but being brave enough to join in and hold and hop and cry too.

these are our defining moments. 

restlessness

maybe it's because zoe is about to turn 13. maybe it's because i've been listening to old springsteen, maybe it's because now when i look in the mirror i see sun spots and find myself pulling my hair into tight pigtails to remember when my face had no lines. maybe it's because social networking allows me to "be friends" with so many people from my past. maybe because i just lost a very important friend during those years. but lately, i've been thinking about the '80s, i've been thinking about what it was like to be a teenager.

what i remember is the incredible feeling of newness. the feeling of the world coming into color or focus or maybe 3-D. you grow (eventually) into a body that works like an adult, but you still want to sleep with a stuffed animal. you crave independence but don't love the responsibility that comes with it. you have all these intense emotions- love and jealousy and insecurity and a sense of being invincible. there are intense decisions to be made about friendship and time and commitment; and what to wear, and listen to, and pierce; and almost all of it revolves around understanding who you are, who you are not, and who you want to be.

there is a sense of urgency that adds to the drama. but it's really just the beginning of a long road with many paths and routes and chances to turn around. maybe it feels dramatic because it's new, or because the people ahead of you look so settled or established or decided that you assume you are on your way to an arrival of sorts.

but.

not true. thankfully not true.

those established older people? they still ask the same questions- who am i? who have i become? why am i here? where am i going?

but add in, did i do the right thing? make the right choices?

and, it's not just 'you' anymore. it's also how have my answers to those questions impacted my partner and my children.

that restlessness is part of being here. part of being alive is not being able to rest or be still. it's about the searching- the continued desire to know and be known- and to understand. we are made in the image of a God who searches, and who knows and desires to be known, but who embodies stillness, and permanence- not restless.

i know my incompleteness- i feel my waiting- my searching. i did when i was 16, and i still do now. it is a process- with many ways to try, and go, and be- thankfully, there are many chances. it's an unfolding, a continual discovery, an evolution. 

maybe the difference is, when you get older and have sun spots and wrinkles and wobbly bits, you accept the unsettled feeling. you enjoy the adventure, the process, the opening.  you begin to love and embrace the fact that you don't arrive. instead, you search for still moments in the chaos, for clarity, for a glimmer of the divine presence.

a small stone

this morning on the way up monkey hill, i stopped to pick up a smooth stone.  it was a perfect sand colored circle stone, firm and smooth, and noticed because it was unlike the cragity crumbly red pebbles that make up most of the path.  i fingered it for a while as i reached the top, enjoying it's worn surface, appreciating it's uniqueness.  on the way down, i realized that my hand was empty- i'd left it behind.  i felt disappointed. i would have liked to keep it, to show the kids that we find little treasures in unexpected places.  in that moment of feeling a little bit of loss, i thought about how much life is like this.  things float in and out of our lives.  people come and go.  time is shared for a week- then gone.

there is a great pebble layer.  she knows when we need to pick up stones, to have a certain conversation in an elevator, to see a sunrise, or a full moon, or feel a perfect breeze, or hear a song, or walk a tea field.  the great orchestrator of our pebbles.  they are placed for us, there and then, for a reason.  so that we can see something or feel something or have an experience that is needed- special because it is in that moment in time- and then it's gone.  we hold it for a while, in our hand or our heart, it gives us something- but not everything. we are made up of these stones, these moments.

but who do we have to be to notice them?  where do we need to be to listen? to stop and pick? to wait, to not rush off?  often for me, it is in times of brokenness, when the world has stopped, or the day, and the channel of life i was on- was changed.  in those moments- when i feel my smallness- when i wish i could climb into someones great big shirt pocket- when i know how little control i really have- that is when i look down while walking and see that smooth stone.  that is when i feel the world around me differently. when i get out and walk the hill, and the field, with my eyes wide open, my ears stretching to hear him - the one who places the stones on our paths. 

returning

i just got back from three days of learning how to grow green things, and one heavenly night with my husband of 19 years today. 














i returned after 4 days away from my kids and i was thirsty for them.

it was hard to get everyone in the same shot- or even on the porch together.  because that is our life.

time away is good for me- i remember to cherish things.

mike picked me up at the end of a dirty day on the farm.  i had learned about digging, planting, covering, making compost and lining things up and measuring- by doing.  i had darker skin and dirt under my nails and a starwars baseball hat that i'd borrowed from jude, and fake channel sun glasses that i bought on the side of the road for $1.75.  i was a sight.  but.  when we saw each other after 3 days apart, we had that look.  that goofy- i- can't- stop- smiling- because-i -won- the- prize, look on our faces. that look we give each other even after spending the morning apart. we grow old, but our reaction to one another doesn't.  it's. the. same. decades later.  that is love.

19 years- time goes fast- the moments are small and slow- they hold the fullness.  they grow the richness. we aren't just two anymore. 

but it started here.  the story continues.....

life is beautiful

life is weird and good and big. profound, i know. but really- it is all those things and more.

i'm in nansana learning how to be a farmer- which is weird because i'm a doctor-but not that weird because if people don't eat or don't eat well, they get sick and die. i'm at this lovely little cheap motel that somehow reminds me of europe (well the way europe looked for the budget traveler 16 years ago).  the bathroom and the fixtures and the small size and the random left over christmas decor in the tiny reception area. i even looked at the makeshift newly built rock paved paths and envisioned ancient cobble stoned streets.  i think it all says more about me and where i'm at, than the little hotel- either way- it's nice.

yesterday started with a story in farming class and ended in a batman movie and a mid-life moment.  since life is lived forwards but only understood backwards (kierkegaard)- i'll go backward.

the batman movie was fantastic.  this is possibly true because it's been well over a year since i've gone to the movies (with the exception of "happy feet 2" in a very moldy theater with the kids).  let me first say that i don't like batman movies or any superhero movies for that matter.  but batman is particularly bad for me because they always take place at night in the dark so i feel like i can't really see half of the time.  but also, i'm inevitably confused.  who is the bad guy? why is catwoman in this movie? doesn't she have her own? does the dark night mean he was good but turned bad? and because i am never able to stay awake during the previous batman movie- i never know the plot or who's who- and i definitely never read the comics. that said- i loved it. there was love and redemption. self- discovery and good choices. and that inspirational cat-woman in her fabulous catsuit.

but the last scene made me suddenly homesick.  it was the reflective scene- the wrap up- the endings and the planting of seeds of beginnings.  i missed streets with tall strong buildings and bridges and cold leafless weather and snow and faces that hold so many ethnicities. i missed that american we-can-conquer-all attitude, i missed heros and tributes and history.  i missed the flavor.

from batman we went to mishmash.  it was open mike night, competing with large screen olympics. i found out one of the guys we were out with was 22.  as in, years old.  yeah.  weird right? i'm celebrating my 19th wedding anniversary in two days.  i'm almost old enough to be his mother.

while i listened to the live music, i remembered the days when this was a more regular activity- when i felt untethered and had time to feel it -and think it- and imagine the possibilities.  when i painted pictures, or tried to play the guitar- full of time and with a huge lack of others needing me.

it made me remember what my mom always said about growing older- you - your spirit and soul parts- don't feel the age your body looks and feels. the self- is in many ways the same as it was at 22- the age when i was married- the age i was 22 years ago right now.

it all freaked me out a bit- the longing and the remembering.  the home-sickness and the year-sickness.  there was no regret at all- it was just an awareness- of passage and place.

then i remembered where my day had started.  in nansana uganda, at age 41, as a blooming farmer, a doctor and wife and mother of four.  my day had started with a story. it was a story about humility and transformation- about a man who began again.  about a successful, wealthy tobacco farmer, convicted by his child to not grow something that kills people, who stopped farming tobacco because it was the right thing to do. and it cost him everything. he lost his money, and his farm. people asked him to return to tobacco- to not be stupid- to do what he did well, but he'd made a promise to his daughter and his God. 

two years later, after failing while farming another persons farm, he walked through a forest and cried out to God- those famous cries that i know so well - 'help!' and 'why' and 'show me'.  i'm sure he felt totally jipped. he'd made the choice to do a good thing- he'd risked everything to do what was right, and failed.  how many times have i felt jipped? have i felt undeserved pain or suffering? 

but.

as he put his face on the floor of the forest- this farmer grabbed a handful of earth- and had a revelation.  the soil there was rich and moist and dark- the forest was growing steadily- constantly- abundantly with out much tending.  he realized he was asking for help in farming, from the original farmer- and that the answers were all around him.  the soil was moist and healthy because it was covered in mulch- it didn't need to be tilled and plowed.  he realized he had what he needed to grow things well- he just needed to transform the way he was doing it. and he realized that farming doesn't need to cost a lot of money- there are ways to farm the land conservatively and to protect and care for the earth instead of hurting it. that he could honor his promise, and his God- by transforming his methods- and learning from the first farmer.

his breakdown, lead to breakthrough which led to break out.  his personal transformation- led to an awareness of the need for transformation in farming- a need to revive and transform the land. his breakdown led to a movement that has blessed and changed subsistence farming in africa.  wow.  it wasn't easy- it looked bleak- i'm sure he doubted his choice.

in those valley- in the break down - i'm not usually given the answer to why.  help, yes.  shown, yes. but not the reason. 

last night, looking back over years and hearing cover songs that brought me back to perhaps less complicated days- days spent in cities in my own home country, and recalling that morning story of brokenness and redemption, it all swam together, and life felt big and strange and hard, but mostly beautiful and good.

almost

it's 'almost' lots of things.

almost the one year anniversary of our move here.
almost the 19th anniversary of our wedding day.
almost time for school to start (okay already time, but it will come soon).
almost have rose's birth certificate.

and these things, these almost's, bring reflection.  what have we done with this year?  what have we done with these 19 years? when will these children go back to school? will we ever get roses paperwork together and be able to get home for christmas?

reflection is good and sometimes bad and always different for different people. mike and i are reflectively different.  i have high frequency and amplitude and he has low.  i have quicker peaks and valleys and steeper and deeper ones- he is steadier- more gradual - basically less manic. 

we've come to realize that both ways have their strengths and weaknesses and thank God we balance each other out- we compliment each other. 

my reflections are quick and change quickly- his are thought out, held on to and reprocesses- i'm like ping pong, he's more like cricket.  so in the season of almosts- he's reflecting in his way- and the stretched-out-ness of it, makes it seem big and encompassing. 

today i went into kampala with the 4 kids to meet a friend and do the grocery shopping.  i had spent the first few hours of the day hearing about mikes reflections and then walking with a friend and hearing her reflections and when i got in the car for the hour long drive, i just wanted to think and process all of it- while listening to music of my choice- but with no kid talk.

"mommy?"
"yes bryn."
"why can't you tickle yourself?"

"mommy?"
"yes jude."
"do you think a car could run over a giant turtle?"
"i don't know maybe."
"what about 17 giant turtles?"

oh. dear. Lord.

"mom!"
"yes zoe."
"how exactly do our noses smell things?"
"ummm..."
"mom, you're a doctor! you should know that!"

do i really have to go there? can't we just listen to the soothing voice of adele?

so i called upon divine intervention.
and this time i didn't say 'help'.  this time i was specific.

"God? if you can shut the mouths of hungry lions and protect daniel- surely you can shut the mouths of my children for the next hour, and protect me, or them from me. please??"

and if you ever thought God doesn't care about the small stuff? you are wrong.  because for the next hour, nobody said a word, and they weren't sleeping. nobody spoke. at. all. and i hadn't even told them to be quiet.  they just were.  not even to request for a different song- or to repeat a song, or to complaint, or to ask if i had any food.  they were silent. 

it was unheard of.  it was delicious.
it was surely a miracle- an early august almost anniversary miracle.

amen.

something magical

i remember the day that i felt rose was part of me.  she was at the orphanage, eating a mango.  there was no magic in that day or that moment, but it was magical.  there was a knowing that this child and i were connected.  it's been almost four months since we brought her home- not knowing what that would mean, but feeling like it was somehow the right thing to do.

i remember when we brought her home, i spoke with my friend who was living here and a former adoption social worker.  she talked about some things we could expect- most of which made sense but one surprised me- she said i would go through a period of mourning the loss of her early years.  that i would feel a sadness around not being there for her birth, not nursing her, not having seen her first steps, not having been the first 'mama' that she meant when she said 'mama'.

she was right- i have had moments of wishing and longing for that with rose.  but because of all the 'complicated' and the lack of clarity, it's been muddled slightly- confusing. 

we have been planning to go home for the holidays this year.  our first trip back to the US.  i know we will all be ready to eat turkey and stuffing and watch american football and mostly to hug lots of friends and relatives and feel ourselves in an old and familiar way.  but.  rose needs a passport and a visa.  before that, she needs a birth certificate, before that we needed to know her exact name, and birth date and place of birth.  and.  we live in uganda, so everything takes ten times longer even when things like names and birthdays are known, every thing needs to be very formal and by the book (whatever book that is) which is especially complex when the things the book says you need- don't exist- like a hospital birth record (because you were born at home); like any record of anything at all- which is kind of hard when you were found on the street; and when your mom,when she's found, doesn't know the name of your dad; or her own birthday- when you're marginalized and live on the street and don't exactly keep track of things.

today i got in the car, drove to kampala and collected my posse to begin the process.  i picked michael the karamajong to translate, i picked peter our incredible helper for all things legal who knew what info was needed for which form etc; and i picked monica the lawyers assistant who knew where about the birth mom stays.

we drove through town and came to an area literally around the corner from the orphanage.  it was like a scene from little lord fauntleroy.  we walked for a while down some railroad tracks, crossed some garbage piles, jumped over a dirty stream, ducked under a broken wire fence and began to look for someone familiar.  people were picking through beans, children wore no shoes and had infected looking toes and noses, there were lots of flies and dirt and scraps of things.  there we found magdalene. the woman who birthed and nursed rosie, who first heard 'mama'.

suddenly my logistics only, fact finding mission, felt like a lot more.  this was the place where rose had stayed- with these people.  that baby on the breast was the one who kicked rose from inside the belly of the mother who left her.  the logistics were not there anyway- the facts were not so easy to find.  the birth card had been lost- the baptism was somewhere in kampala, not sure where exactly- she was maybe somewhere around 4ish years old- born sometime between april and may- her full birth name?  'it's her name', she said pointing at me- 'christen'.

i don't know why that was her name- but yes i do. 

somewhere that april,  3 and a half years ago, in some non-health center shelter, under the great sheltering sky- something magical happened. this woman birthed my little rosie, and called her my name. the stars spoke, the earth turned and God smiled.

her puzzle slowly takes shape.  i get one small piece at a time.
today- i remembered her name is my name- we are connected.

what it was, and is and will be

how quickly we can go back to places we've been.  how amazing the mind is. 

i'll be honest.  school starts in 3 weeks and deep inside me lies that beast named anxiety with one eye open.  he's pretending to be asleep, but i know he's faking.  see, it's been three years since zoe's been in a classroom.  it's been three years of my own struggles to teach her, help her without helping her, and watch and hope and wait and pray and cross my fingers and take steps forward and then a leap backwards.  it's been our own little dance- and it's been hard and good and fun and filled and i'm glad and ready for it to end- but it's been our own.

in three weeks that changes.  in three weeks it goes back to public- to her life lived out loud.  it goes back to all the possibilities, but the two that always scream the loudest are success and ....failure. i've gotten much more used to failure.  i've learned to not hold my breath, to lower the expectations, to stand on firm and rug-less grounds.  but just because those protective measures are in place- doesn't mean the beast is gone or even asleep.

i'm beginning to notice that my days with her are numbered.  she turns 13 soon.  i'm beginning to notice that our days now are lived with the awareness of this- and the encroaching school start date.

last week she did a two day tye-dye workshop.  the second day when i went to pick her up- she was sitting on a tarp, holding her wadded and tied, yet undyed t-shirts and was monopolizing an adult helper who was listening to her rant about how upset she was that she didn't know the game they were playing a few minutes before.  as soon as she saw me- it blossomed- it bloomed- it expanded into full exaggerated drama. 

'mom this is just the way i am!'
'i'll never get over this!'
'i'll just have to live alone and be mean and awful always!'

trying my best to be calm - to be 'that' mom - that super understanding, zen, mom of a special kid- mom; i said,  "zoe, it's not that big of a deal! it sounds like you just didn't like one game, that 's okay! now lets go get your shirts done!"

but while those words were coming out of my mouth, and while i was wondering how can she possibly be so dramatic,  the giant hairy anxiety beast had already opened his other eye and was blinking at me and maybe even shaking his head- like he knew it all along.  she is never going to make it at that school, he said. see, you are crazy for thinking it will work, he said.  maybe you should move- somewhere that has a special school.  maybe you'd better get ready to home school again, he said.

inside i felt the same level of drama that zoe did- the very same overwhelm. her drama was specific- i hated that game because it was new and i felt uncomfortable- so basically i'm going to have a miserable life! 

to me, her drama looked absurd. but i had the same reaction to her! she hated the game, she's upset, she can't handle social situations, she can't learn in a group, this feels awful and uncomfortable, she's never going to make it in school, we are going to have a miserable life!

when i got home i realized that we both have ptsd.  we both suffer from the trauma we've experienced surrounding her learning disabilities and school and her social struggles. we are both scared of the vacuum cleaners that we will run into- we are both scared of her reaction to the sounds and the sensations- we both fear her fear of feeling out of control- we both feel out of control. 

it helped to see it for what it was- for what it is- for what it will be.
all of it, and only it.


it will be moments of new games that cause stress and frustration and sadness- and then she'll move on.  it will be first days when uniforms are scratchy and sitting down in a chair with out asking questions constantly, will feel too much.  there will be melt downs and children snickering and the world will feel like it's about to tip right over.

but it won't. 

the dance will continue- our dance- her dance.  there will be new music and new partners and the non-static newness will be scary and try as i may, i'll accidentally hold my breath and sometimes pass out.  but i'll get up.  so will zoe. 

i will try to remember that small moments can just be small, even when they feel huge- they don't need to mean everything.  i will prepare for jumps forward and days that are so far backward i won't believe it.  i will see her grow and learn and i will too.  the future is unknown, maybe more unknown for her, but that is known. 

we will enter this new season with our heads held high- with faith and thanks.  we will walk slowly, tread lightly, breathe steadily and deeply, and we will laugh and know that we're in it together.

tonight

i just sang my sweet boys to sleep. all the way to sleep.  to softly snoring.  i watched them fall into that other world of physical rest and mental processing and adventure. what a privilege. their beautiful generous selves getting full attention. those two bookend-ed by two high maintenance sisters. 

i began with jude.  i love my time with him in the evening.  he is my most basal.  he eats when he's hungry (which is most of the time) and he sleeps when he is tired- which is pretty early in the evening.  he's not complicated- he spends himself wisely- saving complicated for things to do and learn.  he is low maintenance- he doesn't ask, but he receives love and welcomes it.  i want him to know how special he his- how thankful i am for him- how wanted and appreciated he is.  tonight after  praying with him and singing switchfoot and talking for a while i told him that i loved him so so very much and that he was so very special.

"why?" he said. "because i'm smart?" which i'd just told him he was.
"no.  just because you're jude."
"just because i'm jude." he confirmed with a smile.
"yup.  that is all."

i climbed from the bottom bunk , up to bryn.  this guy is a ball of muscle and constant motion. so different from jude- so complimentary.  he is also kind and understanding of the flanking sisters- the squeaky wheels.  he also needs to know how special he is, and wanted, and cared for.  but this guy- he asks for it- he needs to hear it and he's not afraid to set himself up for a compliment- which i'm happy to give out. he got a medley from old gospel to james taylor to squeeze.  and as i played with his fuzzy hair and sang, i coursed through my own memories.  i sang through my years.

and what i saw was how incredibly, undeniably blessed i have been.  i sang through my childhood and highschool and missions trips when my eyes were wide open to the world.  i sang through college and my early years with mike.  i sang through loss, and death, and infertility and special education. i sang through san francisco and residency and beaches and bridges and marin headlands hikes and deep friendships.  i sang through birthing babies and hydrocephalus and choosing joy and non- abandonment.  i sang through churches, and bible studies, through dinner parties and front porches late at night with wine and little white lights.  i sang it all out and was filled with such thanks for the goodness i've seen, the hardness i've felt, the beauty i've known, the people that broaden me and stretch me, the God that has been faithful.

i was moved in a way that makes you want to run or paint or shout or sing a whole lot louder- so i sang out a little bit louder (which i could because by now they were both snoring)

ah la la la la day
ah la la la day
ooooo ooo ooo oooo ooo
she's still running 
still running 
still running
to stand still

queen of my domain

i know i should be so grateful for house help. i know i should be thrilled to have someone everyday to do dishes and laundry and wash floors and watch the kids if i need to run out.  and part of me is thankful.

but.

these days when i am the queen of my own domain again, i LOVE it!!!

i wake up and feel free!! i wake up knowing that there is not another adult in my space- doing things that when i'm home, i feel like i should be doing.  i can be in the small kitchen with out constantly saying 'excuse me' as i reach for a coffee cup.  i can parent my kids without being watched.  there is one less adult for my children to call out to- 'florence...blah blah blah...'

i basically feel like i can breath, and think, and BE in my own home.

i know there are others much more gracious than i, more tolerant, more able to roll with it. i know there are people who would love to have help at home, who do love to have help at home- and that is fine and good because it works for them.  these are people who are much more organized that i am, who have figured it out- the system- the timing- when to be home, when not to be- when to get their coffee cup so they don't always have to ask someone to move over.  but.  i just can't.

i can't stand reading a book on the couch when someone older than me is washing windows.  i can't stand being on the computer when she is folding my underware.  but most of all- it's the energy.  it's not florence- i know this- it's anybody who i'm not related too.  the energy changes. i'm not a mom home with her kids- i'm a mom home with her kids and a full time helper doing things. 

for some reason this je ne sais quoi takes over my mental space- it clouds my mind- interferes with my ability to do work, to parent, to plan meals- to do most things.

now having house help in uganda is normal-  ugandans have house help- even not super wealthy ugandans.  it would be culturally weird for me to not have house help- not to mention- i'm employing someone who needs employment.  and like i said, it's not her, it's me.

the process of settling in cross-culturally takes a while.  we're going on a year here and i'm just now beginning to be okay with having a voice. a voice that might be different. with realizing that different isn't rude or unacceptable, it's just different.  if having florence come only 2 days a week - two of the days when i'm not at home - works, that is okay.  i am still in the process of finding myself here, in this place, this very different place.

it's been a good morning. a morning filled with space.  i've been in the kitchen alone- i've  put in a load of laundry, prepped the salad for dinner, unfrozen the chicken, found the veggies and potatoes and will soon bake something with the kids. we've read daniel and the lions den and talked about jealousy.  we've watched shark tales and are playing lego's.

now i'm going to get a cup of coffee, and i'm going to savor not saying 'excuse me'.  i might even make myself a little domestic crown- as today- i am queen of my domain.