being known and anonymous

last night we went to a dinner in kampala with several other missionaries and a couple visiting from the US who set up short term missions.  it was lovely.  one of the question asked was,  "what do you miss most from the US?"

everyone said "well aside from my friends and my family....." and then filled in various things like 'fast food' or 'good transportation' or 'reliable supermarkets' or 'less noise'. 

i thought and thought.  it seemed like a question that i should automatically have an answer for- like what's my favorite color? but i didn't.

what do i miss "well aside from my friends and family..."?

i miss random things, randomly.  once in a while i'll miss a watermelon basil king of pops popsicle.  or a dunkin' donuts chocolate cruller. or good toilet paper. or not having to worry about if my kids fever could be malaria.  but i really don't miss anything consistently or daily.

except. 

i do miss two things that seem contradictory but make perfect sense to me.  i miss being known and being unknown.  i miss being with people who have known me long and still love me, people who have held my years with me, those who there is no fooling, those who can always tell.  i miss them.  i miss that.

but i also miss being completely unknown and unnoticed. i miss fading into a crowd.  i miss being anonymous.  i miss walking into a town or a mall and being invisible.  because here i stand out. everywhere. here i am stared at, touched, called out to, here i feel like i'm caught somewhere between a movie star and a circus act. 

the reason why they both make sense is that they both result in the same feeling.  isolation.  lacking a history with people can make you feel isolated- as can standing out in the crowd.  i am new. i am different. if i go somewhere, everyone knows if i am there, or if i'm not there.  the funny thing is that i forget this.  some days i can't figure out why everyone is looking at me.  sometimes i forget that i'm white in a black crowd.  i forget that i don't look like my neighbors and then i long for it. i long to look like everyone else, i'm envious of their beautiful, rich, dark un-sun-damaged skin.  i long to be part of their culture and to understand their language and be a part of uganda in a way that i know i never fully will be.

last night, we all had the same conclusion.  we all said that what we gain from living in uganda, outweighs the things we miss in the US, which is, i guess, why we're all still here.  we all feel lucky to be living, working, and serving, equatorially- in this climate, with these people, with the adventure that comes with less convenience and other risks.   

and the bottom line is i am happy.  i am really happy here and thankful to be here and while i miss my people and my blendability- i am finding new people who know me too- and some days i guess it's fun to feel like a movie star.  and maybe the reason that i sometimes forget my paleness is that maybe i'm blending in on the inside.

all

last week i had a very interesting conversation with the guy who brought me my tonic water.  i can't exactly remember how i ended up having an hour long discussion with my waiter about politics and religion, but i did.  what was interesting was that despite his conversion to moromism, and despite his two year missionary service spreading their message, he was still wrestling with some fundamental core issues about the nature of God.  the same issues that most of us deal with if we allow ourselves to- why do bad things happen?  if they happen how can God really be about love? why can't we hear him? this guy was craving more than philosophical answers- he was craving relationship- he was craving being loved and heard by his God and he was craving response.

my kids are now at an age where we can talk about God in a way that is interesting and engaging. this makes dinner time much more fun and challenging.  in between correcting manners and cutting peoples meat and hearing about their days, we go over the verses they are learning and let them explain what they mean.  this week they are learning some of my favorite old testament pieces of wisdom- deut 6: 5

love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength

and jer 29: 13

you will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart.

one is a command, and one is a promise, and between the two of them, that is a whole lot of "all".  that is encompassing.  that is everything. "all" leaves no room for anything else. 

one of the things i've noticed as i've been learning luganda, is that i spend a lot of time dissecting the words and seeing parts of one word inside another word and wondering why.  so i do that now with english too- it's funny that "all" is inside of "small" because that is often how we seek God.  we seek her in small ways.  we look for her when we remember, when the day is done, or it's sunday and we are supposed to.  we seek when we have time, as an add on, with our leftover energy.  we come with full minds and ringing in our ears from all the other noise, and then we get frustrated that we can't hear the stillness.

well, at least that is my problem. 

all is overwhelming. all is scary.  all is putting everything on the table. all requires trust. all is the high mark set as something to strive for- but thankfully- it's not all or nothing. it is not always or never. in fact 3 of the 4 times in my life when i have "found" God in a clear and undeniable way- i was crawling toward the cross on broken legs. i was spent and used up and worn out from failing to fix it myself.  i was calling out with my last breath, but ironically, in those moments- it was all i had- it was with all of my heart. and the promise held true- warmth and comfort and finding- came.

the more i am able to open myself, quiet my mind, create a sense of stillness and practice listening-  the more i'm able to feel loved and heard-the more i am able to hear the whisper of i am with you always. when i am open, i see the daily revelations. they are small but they are real and full and life giving. they are enough. they remind me of the promise.  

all can be in the always looking, in the paying attention to the details of our moments- to the full moon this morning at 6:30 holding her place as the sun rose- to the tiny blue butterfly on the path up the hill- to the smallness of my childs hand in mine as we walk to her school.  i am with you all-ways.

happy halloween

sometimes i need to go back and remember where we were two years ago.  sometimes i forget and i can't- i shouldn't- i mustn't. i need to never forget how hard things were for zoe and for me a few years ago, so that i fully appreciate and express the thanks for where we are now.

this weekend we were in jinja at a halloween extravaganza.  it was a lot of people, a lot of kids, many who we didn't know and a lot of newness.  costumes, foods, a pool, a playground, and most challenging, two days of free play.  basically the kids could do their own thing with their friends.  jude and bryn's best school friends were there- zoe's were not.  but.  she did great.

this was a situation that two years ago, i would have probably avoided like the plague.  and if i had been convinced to attend, i would have been a nervous wreck, unable to have a full conversation, constantly wondering where zoe was, if she was managing, or falling apart.  i would have had my eye out for how to avoid sticky thoughts and drama. but this weekend- despite plenty of opportunities, she was sticky thought free. 

she found her way, she played, she swam, she went off and trick-or-treated with new kids- kids who were new to her, but knew each other (a famous set up for trouble- 'why didn't i know him first!')
she had fun.  she had no drama.  she was engaged and friendly and kind and stayed out late watching the older kids movie.  she didn't need help or rescuing. she didn't need many long conversations that have been had before. she didn't to change because things were scratchy.  she didn't even come close to falling to bits.

at the kids movie night, she sat in the dark with her lawn chair next to a "teenage boy"(her age) who was visiting from england.  they had trick-or-treated together.  she thought he was great and she was pretty sure he thought the same thing about her.  ('how do you know?' i asked.  ' oh you could just tell by our conversation....' she said. "oh? what were you talking about?" me.  "which banda to trick-or-treat at next".  what??)

the next day after packing up, when we were walking to the car, she said, "ahh. oh well if i only knew him for one day...." as she batted her eyelashes.  "you know he had his arm on my chair mom."
"i know!" i said, "i almost said something to him." 
"oh THANK YOU for not saying anything!"
i had to laugh. i had to smile and smile because it was so normal, but with that wonderful zoe flavor- her little spin on things- her joy and appreciation for her moments. her newly acquired awareness. her growing up.

these days we are still struggling to get her out of bed in the mornings and move the pace along with the daily living activities- eating, teeth brushing, etc.  these days i still can't believe we are reminding her to not flap her arms sometimes during the funny parts of TV shows, and to please not take her 3 year old sisters toys.  but.  when i read where we were in the fall of 2010- i am reminded of a season i feared would last forever.  i remember the place i lived in- feeling so alone, so afraid, so unable to relax and breath.

so this weekend was delightful.  we could play and swim and talk and breathe- because zoe could play and swim and breathe.  hopefully, i've learned that i need to do those things no matter what- hopefully i've come to know that it will be okay even when there are sticky thoughts, even when things don't go so smoothly, even when there is some falling to bits.

but the days and the seasons when things are beautiful- i will LOVE them and treasure them and i will not forget how far we've come.

happy halloween!!

a little lesson at sunset

last night the sunset was amazing.  even more amazing than usual.  from my porch i can see part of it, somewhat obscured by trees but still, i can see.  but i wanted to see more.  i wanted to see the horizon, i wanted to watch the process and the colors change in a wide and expansive way, so i ran up the hill behind our house. but as i climbed and turned, i couldn't seem to get above the tree line.  the view became more limited. so i decided to climb a tree (which was slippery and shadowy) and at the top i still couldn't see as well as i could from my own porch.  by the time i got back home, i'd missed most of it.

sometimes i miss what is right in front of me, because i'm trying to get a better view. because i think i have a better idea. because what i have is good, but what if....there is even more?  what if, by not climbing the hill, i'm potentially missing out on an even greater view?

last night i chose to sacrifice my moment to search for a grander moment- and i lost.  i missed most of that sunset, but i did gain a valuable lesson which i quickly realized while climbing down that tree in the dark.

take what is given.
love it. cherish it. savor it. paint it. write it. share it. be still in it.
because it goes, and it goes quickly.

there are times to climb for more.  there are times to search for the better view. but i need to  be careful in the search. that i don't lose the gifts, the beauty, that's right in front of me - what is out my window, the people i live with, and their lego houses, their fish drawings, their endless games of "littlest petshop pets", their garbled english, bedtime songs.  because usually, the things, the people, the moments right in front of me are the most precious.

a blurry picture of kampala at night

last week at the equator

bryn's dolphin

“If you surrender completely to the moments as they pass, you live more richly those moments.”
― Anne Morrow Lindbergh

stillness and baked oatmeal

“Whenever we feel lost, or insane, or afraid, all we have to do is ask for His help. The help might not come in the form we expected, or even thought we desired, but it will come, and we will recognize it by how we feel. In spite of everything, we will feel at peace.”
― Marianne Williamson

today i decided to do yoga before i practiced centering prayer.  i figured i could get the practicing going, and i'd create enough open space to glide into my attempt at 10 minutes of pure, quiet stillness. i think this was a good plan, but i quickly learned that i'm able to set my breathing on the meditative words of: on inhale- 'only in You', on exhale - 'is true peace', and still think about how much i'd like to make the baked oatmeal i'd had this weekend and wonder whether i had any soymilk to substitute, and remember i only had chocolate soymilk....not so good...anyway....'is true peace'.  i only made it 5 minutes- but i'm still practicing.

now the baked oatmeal is in the oven, the kids are in school, florence went down to the market and i have more than 5 minutes of a different kind of stillness. the empty house kind. the kind i crave.

yesterday after picking up the kids and driving around with them for another 20 minutes looking for a specific bank to pay the tariff on our most recent care package-and failing- i arrived home with three annoyed kids- due to no package retrieval- one just woken up 3 year old- and a car full of melting groceries. the kids all wanted a snack, of course from the goodies which were still in the car, people had created an obstacle course with their backpacks and belongings along the exact path from the front door to the kitchen door, and zoe was refusing to let rose see her painted rocks from art class.  my phone beeped and i had a text from a friend that her child was complaining of a racing heart and chest pain- ie: not the kind of medical complaint you can just blow off or put on hold. florence was around but folding socks and not cluing into my imminent breakdown.

i had a moment.

the day had been peaceful.  it's not that i felt out of whack or that this was the straw that broke the camels back - it was just that everything in that moment was out of whack and overwhelming and i felt a little bit insane.  so i asked for help. i asked God, and i asked florence, and it wasn't long before i felt back at peace again.

mike and i've decided that we want our kids to have inside them, valuable pieces of wisdom that they can pull out when they are feeling the crazy or the fear or the isolation that comes in this world.  we want them to learn the words of God. 

last night at dinner we were reviewing this weeks verses and i think someone asked what manna looked like- as in the food from heaven given by God for the israelites as they wandered the desert.  so we read the story and talked about it.

it reminded me of the double promise.  we get the 30,000 foot view promise- global provision, non-abandonment, forgiveness, love.  and we get the 24 hour promise- right now, today, in this moment.  but there is no promise of what happens in between the global and the specific.  God doesn't map out a plan.  she doesn't give long detailed directions, she just gives one, "go to the end of the road and wait, i will tell you then what to do next." the israelites were only allowed to gather enough provision for that day( except on the sixth day when they'd gather enough for the sabbath too).  no more. it was about trust.  it was about obedience.

God could have given them a giant storehouse of grain or manna or whatever and they could have looked at it, and been satisfied and known that clearly, as evidenced by the silo, they would be fine.  but.  he said:
"i'll take care of you always, and here's enough for now."
"be satisfied."
"be obedient."
"trust me.  can you trust me?"

this is the help, but not in the way we want it- not in the way we were expecting it. we want our manna all at once, we want to see all the provision, the full resolution of a problem, the cure for the cancer, the end of the learning disabilities, financial stability.  we don't want "here is enough for today- don't worry about tomorrow." 

but that is not his nature- because he's relational. because he loves us and wants our trust and our conversation and our asking for help.

it's not easy, but it's beautiful.  it's ongoing.

i wonder how many of the israelites went to bed wondering if tomorrow there'd be manna again?  i wonder how many of them went to bed and forgot that it was even a big deal that food came down from the sky- how many took it for granted.  because even in the times when we are walking in those places of daily dependence- we STILL forget to trust, we still worry, or we forget to be thankful, we forget there is miracle. 

i wonder if the manna was like my delicious baked oatmeal that i'm eating now.  i wonder if my 5 minutes of centering prayer opened me up to remembering the miracle and the promises and the peace.

inhale "only in You"
exhale "is true peace."

quiet the fire and shine

“Until we have seen someone's darkness, we don't really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone's darkness, we don't really know what love is.”

― Marianne Williamson

it seems that sunday afternoons about every two months have become the time when mike and i find ourselves hashing out our lives. usually, rose is napping, and the other kids have either left to play of their own will or been asked to leave so we can have alone time, so the house is quiet and the things we've been sitting with for a while, come out.  this is usually a time that starts out well and good intentioned, but then deteriorates into me feeling massively overwhelmed by myself, me feeling unworthy, failure like, and hopeless (along with tired and resentful and of course, angry).  eventually, there is some resolve, or some child smooshing their face against the window begging to come back inside, and so it stops. it might be a small request from mike like, 'can you try to remember to lock the car' but i hear it as ENORMOUS. as if a massive character flaw is being pointed out.  so instead of simply saying "sure", i tend to make mountains out of molehills.  i just seem to be wired for mountains.  unfortunately yesterdays discussion moved to that being the problem. my mountainness- my extremeness. my drama.  my ability to go from zero to twenty in 5 seconds.

oh dear. 

again, i couldn't just say, "okay.  i can see how that could be overwhelming for you." no.  i had to turn it into, "if this drives you crazy about me, then how can you really love me??"  i said things like,  "if i am a pie chart- this is a huge piece of the pie!" i said, "this is what other people love about me!" (wondering as the words flew out, if that was in fact correct..and doubting it) i said, "this is who i am,  and if you knew this about me, why did you marry me?" i said, "i am passionate, i am high amplitude!"

he said it wasn't a big deal, that he was just asking me to simmer down about the negative stuff. 

i paused.  i kind of believed him. i wondered why i am so quick to over react, to dramaqueen it, to hang myself out to dry, to speak from a place of assuming that ultimately i am unlovable. 

the thing is, mike has had many opportunities to see my darkness, to really know me. and thankfully, he has forgiven my darkness too- so really, i can rest in the confidence of his love.  i can let the locking the car, lower the intensity statements, just be what they are.  and no more.

and really, it's a very reasonable request (probably a lot more reasonable then me demanding that zoe stop the whistling- and said much more calmly too). 

so i said that i do believe in betterment and trying and responding to his needs, even if it requires me working on reigning it in. even if it feels unnatural.  even if it's hard.  i told him that i certainly don't think i've "arrived"somewhere - that i want to live my life on a path of continual growth and awakening and depth and evolution. 

so i can be courageous and say, 'you are right' and try to simmer but still shine. i can trust that cooling it a bit, won't squelch the good fire inside.  because we are meant to shine.  we are meant to be the best of ourselves, to be bold and mountainy, but also peace giving and full of love. i can be passionate with out needing to be angry, i can be full of life, with out drama.

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”   ―Marianne Williamson
                   
“Always seek less turbulent skies.
Hurt. Fly above it.
Betrayal. Fly above it.
Anger. Fly above it.
You are the one who is flying the plane.”

                                  ―Marianne Williamson

pray for timothy

today i just want to cry.  it might be because i had to say good bye to another friend, or because i have my 10th migraine of the month, but probably it's because of timothy.

last week the boy i'd been treating for lymphoma called and said he felt a lump. not good.  it's back.  his remission is over. we will start radiation and we will go everyday and pray all day for a miracle that will give him a long life.  since last week, i've kept it all at arms length emotionally.  i can not get upset, i can't go down the 'what if' path, i just can't.  i can't imagine being in a place of having to tell them that radiation didn't work, that we'll do our best to fight it back, and keep him comfortable, knowing that it will eventually win.  i can't go there.

is it because i know him? and his mom is my friend?
is it because in the US he would be having a bone marrow transplant before we say 'nothing more'?
is it the disparity? the injustice in the world? or is it just because he's a kid with cancer and there is something just so very wrong about that.
is it because i've sat in that place of waiting and praying for my own son, imagining what it would be like to lose my child, knowing that the pain i was feeling while holding him, would be what i would envy and crave when he was actually gone? once you've been in that place- you never forget.

being a doctor here is hard, harder than i thought.  it feels like being a doctor in the 1800's, only completely unfair- because i actually know what i could do to make a diagnosis or treat something....if. if the test or medicines were available....if the person had money....if so many things.

his mother told me yesterday that God had sent me here to help them- that they were so thankful.  it was hard to not say, 'for what?' 

i came from one of the top hospitals in the world- where i could do almost anything to help save someone- where we often fought too hard when someone was done and needed to be let go- but we were not limited by an individuals lack.  we had homeless IV drug users with infected flailing heart valves flicking bacteria through out their bodies in the intensive care unit for months, being transferred to a private hospital for a valve replacement.  we had immigrants with heart failure from rheumatic heart disease, with hearts so big they filled their chests and pushed on their lungs - requiring mechanical ventilation for months, and dialysis as their kidneys failed from the heart failure.  and i struggle to find a strong enough oral diabetes regimen, because insulin requires refrigeration and people don't have electricity.  i struggle to find a way to make that affordable.  the barriers are so high- even for basic things.

it's not about me doing something or not doing something.  it's about the people who aren't getting. it's about watching the not enough of. it's about the exhaustion of seeing a constant lack- and knowing another version of life.  it's harder once you know other options exist across an ocean or even just a border- plane ride away.

i know we've done our best for him.  i know we've worked hard to get the chemo and the surgery and the tests and now radiation. i know a lot of people have helped and given money and prayer and time.  i know that from the beginning we knew this was a high grade lymphoma and there was no guarantee of cure.

but i also know that our God is big.  bigger than anything.  bigger than cancer.  and i've seen Him bring healing- full healing- to my son, and many other people i've loved who've been ill. but i've also seen that sometimes the answer to my begging- has been 'no'.  and i don't know why.  i just know that He can and i pray that he will- again- as i beg and try and beg some more and cry.

prayer is real. it's real and it's way better in numbers. i believe that one of the reasons that jude is alive and well today is because people all over the wide world were praying faithfully for him. 

so please. i'm begging. pray for timothy. pray for him by name.  pray for him by specific request- to be cured of his cancer.  pray for him often. commit to it.  he's a boy in africa.  one guy in a place far away from most of you.  but you can be part of something big- even if you only have a smidgin of faith- small as a mustard seed- ask for healing for him. can it hurt? only by being disappointed if the answer is no.  but  what if the answer is yes? how amazing!! what if the answer is maybe- what if the answer is- longer than we thought- longer than we'd expect- that is something.  no matter what, i know that God will show up- whether timothy has months or decades- with arms of grace for him and his family and all of us who do our part.

please.

how to really date your wife....

fo reals.

last night mike and i had date night. i know this man has mad skills- but last night,  he hit the tri-fecta. i'll paraphrase, but it went something like this....

#1. "babe you look so good, you might look too good." he said while following me up a path to the car.  i don't know what that means, but it was awesome!

#2.  "i think it's been waaay too long since the two of us were totally alone.   for a week.  in europe."   i mean any of those would have been good. reflecting on us not having as much alone time, then adding in for a week.  then adding in europe-it just got better.  i know we can't go away to europe right now, for a billion reasons.  but just the fact that he was wanting that time, that space for us- goodness.

#3.  "i've been thinking, and i'm getting older, i don't just want to wake up one day and realize that our kids are grown.  the next 10 years are so important for our family. i want to be really present with the kids.  will you tell me if i'm working too much, or not home enough?"  ummmm.... okay....what did you just read a book about what women want their husbands to say when they're in their forties? it would have been good enough to know you were thinking about your priorities, but then to add in that you want me to actually tell you if your not doing it? done.

it hit all the love languages- compliments, gifts, focused attention, service.  men- take notice- this is the stuff the ladies love, even and especially after almost 20 years. 

let me be

it's sunday morning. i can hear the singing of hymns coming up over the hill. we are doing home church because too many of the kids are coughing.  i woke up sniffling, but happy.

yesterday when i walked up monkey hill, and the sky was so bright and the air felt so good on my skin, not too warm, not too cool- i wondered how it's possible to be sad and discouraged in a place that is so beautiful- the sky seems to breathe hope.  each day feels like another chance.

and it is.

i'm so glad that the days aren't any longer- because i need that chance to wake up and try again. 

today the air is delicious. i am still and awake and alive. on this porch, in this place, under this blue and clouded sky,  i will say 'thank you'.  i will say 'help me', to stay still, and thankful, and giving to whomever crosses my path. let me not forget, let me not rush through the gift of today, let me not miss what you have for me to learn or give or grow into.  let me trust that if it hurts- i can endure and i am not alone.  let me trust that if it's good, it really is good. let me practice resting with out worry, and sitting quietly and listening. 

let me be full.
let me be peaceful. joyful. graceful. careful. thankful.

intentional

in the middle of my crazy week,  i sat outside on one of my favorite porches in uganda-lit with little white lights and some lanterns, with some of my favorite people in uganda.  we were discussing the book the glass castle by jeanette walls.

we all loved the book, but each of us were touched by different things, and reflected on different parts more than others, and carried our unique perspective on this womans life, into the dialogue.  the book is really her story- her real true tell all story about a family that looked very outwardly broken, but had a few strong bits that held them together- like- a version of love, a version of commitment, and a version of consistency- the chaos was consistent.  we talked about how this woman who grew up in in poverty, frequently homeless, usually with out enough food, with highly disorganized parents, ended up going to an ivy league school and becoming a writer in NYC?

her parents, flawed as they were, were the same crazy people day in and day out.  the chaos and disorganization was their normal. there were no mind games- no manipulation.  their dad loved them, and he was a drunk. their mom loved them, and didn't care about the 'rules of raising a family'. the tension of the opposites. they lived, as she says, at the boundary of turbulence and order.  the family was always together- the parents stayed married (depsite substance abuse and probably some mental illness), the kids were told they were special, valuable and intelligent and capable.  that was the order.

the turbulence was everything else.  the feast or famine, living in a rotting shack- but driving a cadillac won in poker,  the mom eating chocolate while the kids are starving.  being told they are loved, but no reaction to reports of molestation, owning land in texas, but living homeless in new york.  being given an inappropriate amount of trust by their parents as they were required to fend for themselves at an early age.   "sink or swim" whether it's a sulfur pool in the desert, or at a bar with your dad when he's hustling someone, or trying to find your lunch out of the trash in the school bathroom- jeanette swam- because she had to.

i think part of her success came from her feeling special.  she was her dad's favorite- even if he was drunk half the time- he was there, he returned, he made time for her, he let her know that she was important and unique. he gave her a planet for her birthday from the night sky, he showed her the world in a way she'd never have seen with out him. she belonged.

all of us discussing the book are mothers, with different styles and ways- but fairly similar versions of how we love our children: with provision, protection, priority. we strive to be the safe place, and from that safe place- help our kids manage the disorder and the chaos that comes. we strive for order- we avoid unnecessary turbulence.  because life has enough turbulence of it's own. 

before we all talked on the porch, i'd spent the afternoon with my friend at her house- being a part of her typical day.  kids, friends over, dinner preparations, dinner time, bed time.  i'd been up to the guest room where i would sleep, it was complete with fresh flowers. what i realized is that i felt safe.  because the house of my friend is so beautifully ordered- and i mean "house" in the sense of her life.  i mean she is intentional in her parenting- her listening- her responses.  she isn't reactionary, or hoping for the best- she is thoughtful and attentive and real.  she allows herself to be this way.  i mean she has consciously chosen to embrace and live into her motherhood.  there isn't a lot of debate, or anxiety around what she should or shouldn't do, she lets the clarity be what her life is. she makes really good healthy food, intentionally. she makes an amazing cup of tea because she pays attention.  she helps her kids feel special because she is with them at pick up, even if it's the third pick up of the day and she could just send the driver. her actions speak louder than her words, probably because she doesn't shout. (doh!)

i am often distracted, disordered and i'm sure full of turbulence. i wonder if i appear unbroken- but really.. fasten your seat belts. i hope to be more intentional.  i want to stand still, feel my bare feet on the ground, and let what i'm hearing and thinking be the same. i want to always be that safe place for my kids, those i've birthed and those who've come into my life and my heart. i want to be that place of returning.

because everyone needs a place. everyone wants to feel loved, and special and to belong to someone, somewhere. and everyone should. i'm realizing how easily i took for granted that i grew up in that place of safety and belonging and dependable love. that i grew up with someone in my corner- someone who was looking out for me. and i'm realizing that we can be that for each other  in how we parent, or friend, or talk, or mentor, or employ.  we can share our life with each other, we can 'spread special'. we can strive to be intentional in our living.

'because life is short-  we should forgive quickly, believe slowly, love truly, laugh loudly and not avoid something that makes us smile. we should carry a heart that never hates.'  anonymous

let life simply be enough

i remember last year when i was just here, at the beginning.  i was rootless and trying and things were new and exciting and life was being discovered again. now i have sunk in.  i am planted, and even though neighboring plants are being plucked up constantly, i am here and rooted and happy anyway.

this has been a long, full, dizzying week.  i have written almost everyday but have been unable to complete anything, which only adds to the dizzy feeling.  i think i haven't known what to think- i haven't known how to wrap things - so i've left things all undone- but that is beginning to undo me. in the middle of it all, i finally talked to my wise old little sister, who told me to begin with 'i remember' and not stop. so here i am, and i'm going to go backwards.

today i sat outside at sunset and watched the university soccer game, and tried my best to understand the luganda being spoken around me, and laughed out loud as much as i could.  i went because someone needed to be watched, and someone else needed to feel normal, and i needed to remember that it's good to be outside and watch the sky and be with people who you didn't give birth to even when it's dinner time, and enjoy the small parts.

today started with meeting kiprotich, the ugandan gold medal winner in the 2012 olympic marathon, on my way to the bathroom after the hour and a half commute to get the kids to school.  followed by a phone call from my worried friend that her son, who we'd been treating for lymphoma all year, just felt a lump.  and i had an early migraine and the traffic leaving school was horrible and while it was friday, it was only reminding me of how long the week had been.

but really, it had only been busy with the busy-ness of life.

it had been full of front porch doctor visits and home visits, and people stopping by with other needs.  it had been full of important things at unfortunate times, and unimportant things most of the time, and some wonderful new friendships and delicious moments with older new friendships.  it had been rich with lessons and things to reflect on with not enough moments to reflect.

so sometimes you just need to sit at the soccer pitch and watch.  sometimes you need to be there for a guy who was dealt a crappy hand on day one, but makes the best of it anyway.  sometimes you need to walk down and do a home visit on a friday afternoon and then help someone get off the couch and watch the game with you- because even if, God forbid their cancer is back, laughing at the other team missing the ball and forgetting about the lump you've found, is healing. sometimes you need to get out of your own head and breathe. 

while i sat in the stands, surrounded by college kids, watching the sun set and the ball get kicked around the field- i had that sense of being a kid again myself.  i remembered so many of my years that were lived in afternoons and evenings outside- with out being swallowed by the worry or banter of grown up concerns: which child is needing what or not doing what; are we accomplishing anything here, are we living out our mission; what will happen with rose; with zoe's school next year; when and how will we get home; what about fund raising.  sitting there, i just was, in my day, doing a good thing for myself and a few other people and letting that be enough. 

maybe that is what this week was about- in the busy mess of it- maybe what i learned from all the different parts, is to let life simply be enough, in whatever form is presented- in the tragedy and the humor-enjoy it as best we can, laugh as much as possible, and surround ourselves with people that help us smile.

a memory from lalibela

"When you get to the end of all the light you know and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”
― Edward Teller

i was thinking about this quote about light and darkness and faith. the darkness of the unknown.  that is one of the greatest darknesses- one of the things we fear most.  

two years ago today, i was in ethiopia with one of my best friends and favorite people of all time.  we were there to adopt her son.  while there we traveled to lalibela a beautiful old town full of ancient churches that were dug out of the earth.  they were carved down from the top, into the ground. and they are connected through passage ways.  the last two churches are connected by a long and very dark tunnel.  lisa and i had taken a tour, and been guided through the churches- at the second to last one- we were told that we should enter this small dark tunnel and walk slowly through it until we emerged into the light of the last church.  it was supposed to symbolize the rebirth we have in jesus, or death and coming into the light of heaven.  

i have had the light go out, i've stood before the unknown, i've had times of blindly walking on solid ground, and times when i've been able to fly.  and never have i been more thankful for that provided ground or the gift of temporary wings. but in that moment of actually walking into a pitch black hole, into the unknown of total darkness, and having to feel my way along dirt walls- i was terrified- i couldn't do it.  i backed out and walked in the light. 

this really bothered me.  i wondered about my faith.  i wondered what i was so afraid of, and why i couldn't participate in the metaphor of this experience.  i imagined the feeling of exiting the tunnel- of running to the sunlight- but it wasn't enough for me to enter that dark place and engage in that walk.  

perhaps that level of faith, knowing that i can trust that my foot will not slip into oblivion, comes only "at the end of all the light you know".  we are only taught to fly when there are no other options, when it is absolutely needed. 

at the time i was in the middle of a very hard season with zoe. i was broken down and exhausted. i was not about to willfully enter something else unknown. i'd had enough of the darkness and i had a choice.  i didn't need to walk only by faith- there was another path above ground- that was the one i took. 
 
our days are full of the unknown, so how do i live in my days?

i want to live them all in faith.  i want to walk through my days with one foot in front of the other trusting there will always be ground before me, with my arms outstretched in case i will need to fly. 

and if i ever return to that town in the hills, full of carved sanctuaries and catacombs, i hope i will chose to enter the story- to go willingly into the darkness, so i can be reminded and appreciate the full welcome beauty of the light.

light

                    Sudden Light
         I HAVE been here before,
         But when or how I cannot tell:
          I know the grass beyond the door,
          The sweet keen smell,
          The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
          You have been mine before,—
           How long ago I may not know:
           But just when at that swallow's soar
           Your neck turned so,
           Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
           Has this been thus before?
           And shall not thus time's eddying flight
           Still with our lives our love restore
           In death's despite,
           And day and night yield one delight once more?
                               Dante Gabriel Rossetti












there is something about light. especially as darkness comes. there is something about the contrast.
the other day i was looking at the shadows of trees on a dirt road.  the patterns were beautiful and moving and time-limited. i thought about how a shadow is just blocked light, a dark spot in the middle of bright- the opposite of a candle in darkness. 

i thought about night and day, and the earth and the sun. two sides of the world. nighttime is just the shadow of the the earth. one half experiences darkness, the world turns, there is light.

like life.  we have both. we need both.  darkness and light. they depend on each other to be. 

there are times when the night is too dark, and we are cold and lonely, and waiting for dawn.  but we can't forget that in that night shadow, we are able to see far far away into the sky.  we can see history in the light of ancient stars, the swirl of the galaxy, the face of the moon.  there is opportunity there, we can see things that we can't without the darkness, and when we can't take it anymore, we can turn on a light. 

other times, the light is too bright, too hot, and we get burned. and then it's good to find the shade, to rest in it's protection, to notice the patterns and watch them change, to appreciate the contrast. 

then there are those in between times- the transition times of morning and evening- sunrise, sunset. those hours are more beautiful than the brightest day and the darkest night, the change- the stillness of the coming or going of light. i think we are made for them- or they were made for us- to be reminded that our lives are not just black and white- not just dark and light.  or that holding both are necessary- times of shadow and times of light. 

because even our moments are sided. there is light and dark in them. and the living and learning lies in the acceptance, the looking at the stars, standing in the shadows, and the flicker of a flame, and the contrast itself.  we know greater joy, after having pain; deeper love after loss.

this season with zoe feels like the sunrise. moving from the dark into a place where i am beginning to see again. 

top 5

it's friday.  it's pouring rain.  these are the top 5 good things about the last 24 hours.

1. i did rosies hair:

why is this a big deal? the poor girl has a muzungu mama.  i've had no lessons in how to do her hair (although i'm famous for stopping people on the street and asking how they get their hair to do what it does- resulting in crazy looks like, "lady your hair will NEVER look like this!") of course she did wake up at 5 am crying for me to remove the back half so she could lie down.

2.  i went to a friends house and had a trader joes dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt candy bar:

i also saw an american sized refrigerator and freezer and stove. they were so big that i thought maybe i'd shrunk, when i went to put the milk away, there was room for it with out any rearranging.  i had a moment. then  i saw a kitchen-aid mixer, and trader joes peanut butter, and i forgot for a moment that i was in uganda, which is what the people who work for the US embassy get to forget sometimes. then i got to visit with my new friend- who i "get" because she is a doctor and a mother and an american living abroad and someone who has a differentish kid and someone who tries to know and love God. it was lovely.

3. i found my way:

i got seriously lost, on some serious dirt roads. after leaving the house that made me feel like i was in america, i was quickly reminded that i was not.  no road signs, off of 'google maps', not able to communicate with most people on the street, and trying to avoid very small children and goats- it was more of a path than a road. when the road petered out into a legitimate path, and i had to ask a boda driver where i was, he simply said- "you go that way." and motioned with his hand- eventually, i found my way.

4.it's friday:

that means movie night. all the neighbors come over and we eat pizza and the kids watch a movie and the grown ups talk and we feel good and connected and thankful. it means i get to kind of sleep in tomorrow and spend the next 2 days with my favorite people.


5. i got to see zoe in a moment of regular glory:

this can't be fully appreciated by people who don't know me, or zoe, or other kids like zoe. but if you've been sharing life with us, you will get this.

here she was, at a regular school, doing the regular class performance.

it was year 6's turn to do
the friday assembly.  they've been studying the solar system.  she wore her tie-dye skirt from kenya (that she's been wearing since age 5- i'm not kidding) because the swirls sort of look like a galaxy.  it was so perfectly beautiful in it's normalness.  there was no drama. no anxiety. no great differences. she was just a girl, at school, doing a small performance with her class. i wanted to squeal with glee.  i was bursting with joy.  three years ago, this was not in the picture.  three years ago, we were falling to bits. for the past three years, if i closed my eyes really tightly and allowed myself to dream, this would have been my dream.  to get to a place of usual, average, alright.  i didn't need extraordinary,  or above average, or star of the show, or high grades, or even age appropriate math, i just want whole, and happy, and not in pieces. this, is the goodness of God.  this is above and beyond what we can ask, or imagine.  this is fullness.  this is answered prayer. 

i .am. just. so. so. thankful. i am so happy for her.

permission

i love the ways that God shows up.  but i especially love when he shows up in the words of my mother who called me last night.  this might be the second time she's called uganda.  she's of that generation that has had to put up with a tremendous leap in technology during their lifetime.  missionaries in africa were people you sent those thin pale blue letter/ envelope combination air mails to- not people you could just call. you didn't call africa.  she spends half the time on skype remarking about how amazing it is to actually be able to see us through the computer (if she can find the button to turn on the camera). so i was thrilled when i saw "private no." show up on my phone- i knew it was the US- i was hoping it was her.

once we'd adjusted the pace of conversation to accommodate the slight international lag- it was so good to hear her voice.  there is no one like my mom.  there is no one like the one who loved you for 9 months before you were even born.  she said the things i thought she'd say- but didn't want to ask for.

restful seasons are important.
you're doing a lot.
please allow yourself to breathe.
has zoe even been in school for a month?
didn't you just adopt a child- or actually isn't it even more complicated then that?
regrouping is not just important, it's necessary.
let the dust settle.
wait.
do not over commit.

i needed to hear that from someone who has known me my whole life, and watched me burn the candle at both ends, and tended to my burns from the burn out.  i needed to hear that from someone who knows about sacrificing for others, someone who as mothered, who follows God and prays for me and mine many times a day, someone with the gift of discernment.

it was why she'd called.  she responded to that still small voice inside her, i know it's calling africa, but she needs to hear from you.  she needs your permission to breathe. a voice she has been listening to for almost 70 years. a voice she doesn't question or second guess.  a voice that has guided her.  a voice she raised me to seek and listen for and trust and obey.  it's not just her knowing me- it's her knowing the one who made me.  her words mean more.

there it was. reminding me of the kind of mother i want to be. the kind of friend i want to be. reminding me to pay attention to what i'm being called to say to others- and then to actually say it- even when it's inconvenient, or expensive, through time zones and across oceans.

we are the hands and feet of God on earth- sometimes we are also her voice. and we are not so far away.

another neruda poem

sonnet xvii: love

i don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
i love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
i love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
i love you simply, without problems or pride:
i love you in this way because i don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no i or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
                      -pablo neruda
 

it's the climb

i'm thankful for a quiet morning, for a cloudy prayerful walk up monkey hill, for some needed stillness.  because lately, my mind has been busy.  i've been doing a lot of thinking and asking and waiting and stressing and feeling guilty about what i'm doing or not doing or not doing enough of.  and it's hard to hear the quiet voice of God, underneath all the louder voices.  it's hard to decipher the one that matters most, beneath the needs of many.

so much of life as a mother is about the giving away of ourselves.  so much of life as a doctor and a missionary is the giving away of ourselves. it seems to make sense that we need to live into places of renewal- that we need to create space, find time to refill, to be gentle and tread lightly and think into our futures- all the futures that we influence. ours. our childrens. our husbands. our employers. our patients. our friends. 

what i'm left with is a question: is it wrong to have a season of stillness? is it wrong to have a season of putting things back together? of mending? of less doing and more being? is it allowed? is it selfish? or self-protective in a good way?
and what are the thresholds? how do we find them if we've not had them before?

i have friends who's lives are crazy busy, in my opinion, and then some of my friends think my life is crazy busy.  how do we know what is doing enough? how do we know what is too much?

last month i wrote this:

"it will require some good alone thinking time, praying time, asking what can-and-should-i-do time. this new season of something. my season of transitioning myself as i transition my littles. it's again about finding the balance, holding the tension of the opposites as they pull at us, maintaining the pose.  it's about helping with out burning out.  it's about remembering that my family comes first- but i don't need to hide out and wait for their possibly neediness to be revealed.

trust. be. try. give. hold. let go.  and always, savor the stillness."

what is that balance? i'm holding the tension- i'm trying- i'm trusting- i'm waiting.  i'm so bad at waiting.  when i was reading about elijah, i skipped over the part about the waiting- but it's in there. 40 days (again).  between his first being fed and sleeping, and then the revelation, there are 40 lonely, hungry days.  God fed him well before he sent him off because God knew he'd be traveling and starving for 40 days before he'd encounter God in the whisper.

i would guess the lonely silence was worse than the hunger.  not much is said between the angel telling him to eat because the journey was great, and him landing on the mountain.  i don't know if he was told to go to the mountain, or if that is were he ended up, or if it was always the place people always went to hear God.  but either way, i wonder what those 40 days and night were like.  what processing happened, what conversations he had with himself, whether he felt any presence of God during that time.  i know if it were me, i'd have risen each day wondering if today would be the day i'd figure it out, be given direction and clarity, be able to go home and eat. 

it has been 28 days of my waiting.  and i've been doing a lot of things that don't look like walking alone toward a mountain.  it's been full of what my life is made of- parenting and driving and cooking and front porch doctoring and homework and fundraising and meetings and entertaining and home doctoring visits and orchestrating schedules and learning luganda and writing and connecting with friends.  i've had several moments of peace and awareness, and others full of self doubt and noise.

i've spent my life sprinting.  running my heart out until i collapse panting on the ground and wait for my breathing to slow, so i can get up and run hard again. part of this is just who i am, and how i work and that is okay.  but i also need to learn to pace myself for the long distance run of life.  i need to keep it at sustainable- and if i can't jog, i need to be okay with the times in between when i'm panting or catching my breath.


maybe the question is: can i let all of it- the sprinting and stopping, the silence and the noise, the walking up mountains, the standing in the cave- can i let it be life-giving for me and for others?

can i forgive myself for needing to understand what it will take for me to become more of a long distance runner? can i forgive myself for the need to stop and breathe?

yes. i think so.

i'm thankful for the soon to be busy afternoon.  and i'm thankful for good friends who walk beside us on the long stretches, who know us when we seem to forget ourselves, and who love us whether we are climbing, running, panting, crying, or just standing still and trying. 

a poem

Last night the rain spoke to me
By Mary Oliver

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,

what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again

in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,

smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches

and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing

under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,

and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment

my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars

and the soft rain—
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.