looking up

today i woke up to a perfect full moon holding the entire sky.  the circle and her surrounding outline, glowing reinforcement, layers of night light, golden against the fading dark blue.  i was so happy.  i was so happy that i hadn't missed it.  that i'd happened to go outside and look up at that beauty. 

it was a moment when i realized, again, that rushing around like a headless chicken, has consequences.  consequences like missing a giant moonful morning sky and the light and the peace that were shown down on those who looked up.

what if i hadn't?
and how many times do i forget to look up? or down? or listen to the big words spoken by the little voices of my children? how often am i distracted by the routine, or the dinner plans or the emails or the list? how often do i miss the miracles and then curse the lack of them?

i need to build it into my days.  i need to practice looking up, and listening all around, and being full in my moments.

because that was an incredible moon.

retreat

i may never leave here.  i mean this exact spot where i am sitting.  on a flat bed swing under an acacia tree on a peninsula on the nile river.  and there is a breeze, i almost feel like i'm on a boat but with out the seasick feeling.  it's delicious. 

i'm on a retreat.
a process or place of withdrawal, affording peace and tranquility, a period of seclusion, a group activity for prayer or mediation.
all of the above.

this is the second february in a row that i've been given the gift of taking pause from life and learning from the wisdom of others, of listening, and remembering in a more focused way- the still small voice of Love.  last year i was in kenya.  now i'm in jinja.  last year i was with out my family, this year i'm with them. both times, february has been a needed time for regrouping, for stopping and asking God, who am i here and what am i doing and where are you in this?

i've never liked february as a month- too short- no good holidays sandwiched between two other months with out good holidays- and in the middle of winter when i was growing up- cold and dark.  but now, i'm beginning to love february.

this retreat is for our missions group's missionaries in uganda.  that was all i knew.  i figured it would be a lot of sharing about burn out and what's hard and what's easy and what surprises us and what we are learning about God.  honestly, i didn't feel like sharing.  i didn't feel like being an active participant.  i didn't want to have ice water and notebooks and name tags. but.  i was wrong.  we've been given a gift of just sitting still and listening.  the gift of hearing the stories of the two women who run this beautiful retreat centre (yes spelled that way- they are dutch).  they have shared their missionary stories of finding God themselves in Uganda as they worked with street youth. we heard their stories of working really hard to do good things and then getting really tired and recognizing that they needed exactly what the street kids needed- the unconditional, total accepting and forgiving love of God. just. because. they are.  just because they exist.  just because they were born - not because of what they did or didn't do. 

i love that they were talking to us, a group of missionaries, a group who knows this, and they were talking about it with the assumption that maybe we've also forgotten that. i wanted to jump up and hug them and shout 'thank you!!'  thank you for making it okay to forget the very thing i hope i'm showing to other people.  i am loved because i am- not for what i do. i don't need to do anything (or everything) to be valuable.  i'm actually not supposed to do everything- and it's kind of wrong of me to think i can.  they addressed 'burn out' from the back door.  not what it is and how to deal with it, but sneakily, why we get tired and worn down in the first place. genius.

i love that they made it okay to identify with and learn from the people they came to serve- the street youth- the orphans.  that we all have 'orphan issues'.  we all have fear issues and trust issues and lack issues and need issues- but none of us are orphans- we are all children of God.  our feeble attempts to 'prove ourselves' only serve to wear us out- it's not about what we do for God- it's what God has done and wants to do for us.  love.

one of the woman shared a story about getting the answer to a question that she'd been asking for years, from a 13 year street kid. the question was where is God in the african orphan situation? God promises to care for the orphaned- how?  the girl told her that one night she was chased out of her house by an angry step father- she ran to a tree to sleep- afraid, alone, unsure where her mother was.  she sat in that tree in the dark and remembered that God promised to care for her, so she asked God to show up.  He did.  the girl had a dream that a man was sitting in a chair calling her. she couldn't see his face but he held out his arms and they were the arms of Jesus, so she ran to him and he held her all night long- she felt safe and not alone and not afraid.  she was cared for- not rescued- not moved out and into a safe environment- not problem solved- but she felt loved. she felt cared for. she felt the everlasting arms and that night, it was enough. 

it was my dream when pregnant with jude.  when God showed up and i was held- i was given peace- promise was fulfilled.

it's often not what we want it to look like.  it's often not big and beautiful and sexy and 'fixed'.  it's often slow and painful and seems very broken and hopeless when God shows up.  but.  He shows up.

lately i've been tired in a deep way. i've been trying and giving but my spirit has been broken. i haven't been giving out of fullness, i haven't been giving out of overflow.  i have been scrapping the bottom of the barrel and feeling the hurt of that.  i have forgotten to rest in Him. i have forgotten that sometimes the absolute right thing to do is to say 'no'.  that sometimes my tired, succumbed 'yes' could be interfering in someone else's story- someone elses process- someone elese season.  my sacrificial 'yes', driven out of fatigue or fear, could be wrong. 

i am that little girl in the tree sometimes.  so are you. 
i have orphan-ish issues.  i am loved- unconditionally. so are you.
i need to remember the promise.  i need to daily ask God to show up.  maybe so do you.
i need to listen the still small voice.  i need to rest in it. so do you.

the wind is picking up. the air around me smells watery and lake like.  a heron is building a nest.  a small fisher boat just pulled up his net. dragonflies are everywhere.  life is full and we are here- where ever we are.  the brokenness will continue- but there is healing. there will be seasons and orphans and self-doubt and trying too hard until we realize the answer is before us.  we are so loved. so deeply and forever loved.

enough

today i have the house to myself.  thank God.  some days, i need space, i need no other energy, i need to do my own laundry and dishes and baking.  space is a luxury.  so is a magazine. 

the other day i was in line at the market and i saw an elle decor magazine that was remarkably new and the plastic wrapper was removed.  it was beautiful.  i had a moment.  the smell of that print mixed with the intermingled perfume advertizements - it was- other worldly.  i couldn't stop standing there and smelling that magazine.

i've been traveling in my head a lot lately.  i've been creating little moments that feel like being in italy or look like i could be in france, if i position myself right in my chair and try to ignore certain things- like tropical flora and fauna and things falling apart.

i am not unhappy.  things are good- in fact in many ways better than they've been or  than we'd hoped.  last night mike and i were watching glee and i looked at him and asked him if he thought it was bad that we really have no idea what exactly zoe is doing in school.  i mean we don't know if she is learning anything or not, if she's participating or not.  we don't get much info and we haven't asked for it. we've both been operating under the 'no news is good news' motto.  we've both been so thrilled with no news (for the first time in 13 years) that we don't want to ask.  because we both look at zoe and her happiness and her comfort with her life now, her enjoyment of school, her science award, her desire for a microscope for her 14th birthday, and her slow maturity- and we say- that is enough. 

this girl amazes me.  God amazes me. how far she's come amazes me.  we know she's a good reader, we know she will probably always struggle in math, we know that handwriting will be hard and messy forever, but we can hear her mind growing- her thoughts coming together more- her sense of humor evolving- her ability to clue in more socially.  this is a season about those things. this is a season about letting her breathe and adjust and regulate.  this is enough.

i've been looking at my life in general this week and saying- that it is enough.  "you have enough.  you actually have way more than enough" is what i've said, as i've looked at these little ones and felt the sun and even the rain.  it is enough.

the celtic blessing

where to begin. this day. this monday. this start of the week.  this another day of beautiful sky and warmth, another day of feeding hungry mouths and admiring lego ships and drawings and answering questions like 'how many seconds i have been alive?' another day of trying desperately to be the person i want to be for the people i love and the world around me, another day of trying, of messing it up, and trying again, and being gentle. 

these are our days. as they are. full and tiring and how we look at them matters.  am i seeing the small blessings? am i choosing to feel God's love? and i being thankful for the abundance in my life- am i being thankful for the deserts too?

today during our time of prayer, mike and i returned to the celtic book of prayer. i had missed it. i love the blessing at the end.

may the peace of the Lord go with you, where ever He may send you
may He guide your through the wilderness,
protect you through the storm,
may He bring you home rejoicing at the wonders He has shown you,
may He bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.

the internal wilderness can be real.  a place with out clear path or direction.  a place even in our homes, in our everydayness, where our hearts maybe dry or lost or confused.  a place where we need guidance and light and hand holding. 

i need those things-guidance and light and hand holding- i crave them- but i'm pretty good at forgetting that God wants to give them to me. i'm pretty good at plodding along alone.

but.

when i remember, when i stop and listen and look for the light and open my clenched fist- i can breathe.  and i can see the beauty of the desert place i'm in- even it it's just a little, even if it's just the flower of a cactus, or the sparkle of mica in the sand, even it it's just the shade of a rock from the hot sun- i can see that goodness and it can be enough.  enough to let me say thank you and then not feel alone.  enough to make me open my eyes wider, and look for other blessings where i am.  enough to have me pause longer, and listen, and maybe even hear a word that i would have missed if i'd stayed in my solitary forgetting place.

this day.  this gift of a day.  a day given to me because i am breathing and even well.  a day that holds mysteries and choices and promise.  a day that i don't enter alone- a day with peace, and guidance, and protection, and even rejoicing and wonder.

this day.

off balance

lately things have been hard for me on the inside.  lately i've been overwhelmed.  lately i've not been particularly thankful.  lately i've been feeling far far away, despite the same moon.  

mike was away again, just one night, but when you've lived more of your life with someone than without them, it feels off balance.  in fact that sums it up- lately i've been off balance, i've been limping, i've been grappling for i don't know what- but something- something i don't seem to have. 

when mike walked in the door, that keeper of my broken whole heart, and i heard myself talk, i heard all the different names that the 'something i'm reaching for' has. 
more organization.
more time.
more reserve.
more capacity.
less demands.
less needs to respond to.
less driving.

but none of them are really what i need.  getting more time or more capacity isn't going to make things easy on the inside, it isn't going to rebalance me.  what all of these things have in common is - a lack of thanksgiving for what i do have- the time, the reserve, the capacity, even the demands and the needs and the (dare i say it...) driving. (well, thanksgiving and better boundaries..)

my neighbor brought over a book yesterday called "one thousand gifts" by ann voskamp. and i've just started it, but so far she talks a lot about the limping and grappling and feeling our way around in the dark of our lives trying desperately to get away from the emptiness and hold something full and wonderous.  i get that- we all get that- it's life.  but what God wants for us is the full and the wonderous and the mystery and the wow.  God wants us to be deeply satisfied.  but.  it's not about waiting for good things to befall us. it's not about trying to manipulate our worlds to be where we think we'll find happiness.  it's about the surrender and the letting go and the openness of our hands and it's about turning around and looking at our life straight in the face and saying 'thanks'.  it's about our choice to embrace what our days are made of- even the very ugliest and hardest parts.  there is the blessing.  that is when our eyes open to the fullness.  that is when we receive the joy - the 'something'.

i often re-read my life. i look back and see where i was a year ago- i read what my days were like then.  last night i was reading back and searching for a piece of that something that i'm struggling to find these days.  this week last year i was in kenya at the CMDA conference.  i was walking in the tea fields and i was filled with joy and peace but i was still searching- i was wondering who i am here and what i'm to do.  the last day of the conference i had a revelation. after taking communion, during a time of prayer, i felt for the first time ever, thankful for zoe's differences and all the challenges we've been through with her.  i actually could pray a prayer of thanks and mean it.  it was the first time i'd looked that large part of my life in the face and been able to say 'thank you'- even though i wouldn't have chosen that path for her, or for me- even though it has been so hard- even though it isn't over- but a continual challenge.  it was a revelation because i felt whole, i felt the tethered parts untether, i felt free.

so today i walked up monkey  hill and i breathed. i started to say 'thank you' for some very small things, like the butterfly in front of me, and the path that i walk on that leads to an amazing view.  i said thank you for neighbors who bring good books and thank you for the written words of others that bring renewal.  and thank you for that email from my dear dad, and the voice of my dear old friend across the phone and the ocean, and i said thank you for second chances, and third and fourth chances and that everyday is new.  and the more i walked and the more i thanked - the blessing grew -and the 'something' i was grasping for began to fade,  and my feet felt the ground solidly and i began to re-balance.

you have been lost

there is an expression here that i love.

when ever people haven't seen you in a while, people who are used to seeing you around, in life, they say, "you have been lost!" or if it's been a really long time, they might say, "you have been so lost!"  like many things, this used to annoy me, but has become endearing.  i used to feel judged.  i used to think 'lost' implied that i was somehow misguided, when actually i knew exactly where i was.  but i think, most of the time, i have been lost.

i'm sitting here alone at the colline hotel restaurant where i've escaped. i'm looking out at the mukono sky, past a giant prickly cactus, the same prickly cactus i sat and looked past 3 and a half years ago when we were deciding that we should begin the process of moving here. 

if life were a washing machine, i'm in the spin cycle. things are moving fast and attempting to dry, but going around and around and around- quickly. life feels spinney. things go by quickly, weeks become months, and i wonder where i am and where have i been?  have i been lost?

this week i watched casablanca again. i LOVE that movie and i love it more each time i see it.  'who are you and who were you before that?'.....exactly.

this week on tuesday, we spent 9 hours in our lawyers office waiting for and then interacting with rose's birth mom as we went over again what are everyone's goals and desires for rose- in three languages. 

it was all emotions.  it was beautiful and painful and achey and stretching and growth producing and right and fighting-back-the-tears-hard.  it was the full spectrum of feelings- from 'walk away and let her be with her birth mother' to 'grab her and run' to finally landing on 'sit here with this and be in this hard place because this is her story and it's the right thing to do'.

rose ran and jumped in magdalenes arms and sat there for an hour- connecting with her- watching her- checking her out- and looking at me for the 'it's okay' look- which i tried to give with my no-poker face.  rose ran between us, calling us both 'mom' as we looked at each other, unable to speak and understand each other, smiling and thankful for the other- but wondering what this was going to look like for the next few decades.  the woman who birthed her, left her; and the woman who found her, and wants to keep her, but keep her knowing the woman who birthed her too.

mike and i both wondered who we are and who were we before? we wondered why we've entered in to this, what we were thinking, why we always seem to get 'hard' and even to chose 'hard' when we have a say?

the day dragged on. and on.  spin cycle like.  finally mike had to leave and go get the other kids from school- rose and i remained.  he returned with the three blonde heads in uniform, and a lot of meat samosas. and there it was. this crazy broken mixed up family.  everyone met everyone.  everyone hugged or shook hands, zoe attempted to sign language her way through the history of rose and her landing with us. jude showed his toy animals he'd found in the car and shared the words in english and learned the words in karmajong with rose's birthmom's husband.  bryn shared his bread roll and rose clarifed to zoe that magadalene was her mom- not zoe's mom. pictures were shared, pictures were taken and in it's full confusion and full of unknownness and lack of full conclusion- it was beautiful- because rose felt loved.  so loved.  because many people had come together.  because each of those kids, blonde or brown, will have their own story of this life we've created together. and it's messy and awkward and painful and hard and truly beautiful too- beautiful in a way that it couldn't be if it were tidy and neat and tucked in.

in the middle of the day, i reminded mike that mountains are much more beautiful than molehills.  but they are much harder to climb- he replied.  but think of the view- i responded.

this week was ash wednesday.  the beginning of lent.  the season of reflection and repentance and renewal and redemption. all these "r"s are important. i don't even know where i am in this.  somewhere at the beginning. somewhere in reflection- thankful i have 6 weeks- to slow down the spin cycle.  to reflect on where i have been? on who i am and who i've become and who i was was before that? to reflect on if i've been lost- or so lost.  and so thankful for the shepherd who finds me where ever i am.

so i will take this week, almost over, in it's bigness and smallness, and it's hardness and it's challenge, and all the pieces in between that i'm either too tired to share or have forgotten.  i will remember that i need to stop the spin cycle and rest- i need to turn off the phone and reflect- i need to ask the questions and wait on the answers- i need to be thankful that papers were signed- decisions were made- rose will continue with us- and we will continue to be in her life- to know her as she is now, and who she was before that. 

in these places, in these years, in these meetings whether lawyers offices or northern village huts- this is our story now- we are not lost.

sunday morning poem

you will remember

 

You will remember that leaping stream

where sweet aromas rose and trembled,

and sometimes a bird, wearing water

and slowness, its winter feathers.

You will remember those gifts from the earth:

indelible scents, gold clay,

weeds in the thicket and crazy roots,

magical thorns like swords.

You'll remember the bouquet you picked,

shadows and silent water,

bouquet like a foam-covered stone.

That time was like never, and like always.

So we go there, where nothing is waiting;

we find everything waiting there.

                          

                            pablo neruda

wow

today has been so beautiful in it's plainness. it's ordinary day-ness.  just another saturday.  a day with an extra hour of sleep because of no driving to school. a day to drink coffee slowly, watch the brady bunch with the kids, walk up monkey hill, have a slow conversation. read a little, write a little.

today mike and i had time to talk a bit about the usual- life here- what has been hard and good in this week- what we've learned or what we are stuck on.  sometimes i get stuck on how small change can be, or on how little i seem to get done when i see how big the needs are.  mike does big things.  he is that guy.  i am not that guy.  i am small change, small time.  i seem to be one person at a time, i seem to be few but deep, and i think i need to tell more stories- so that i remember that each person, every single person who breathes on this earth is so valuable- as they are- alone- just them- just one.

this week begins lent.

the season that i didn't practice as a child, but have as an adult.  a season of reflection and repentance- a time to reconnect with God's grace and mercy.

when i stop and let myself peek into the mystery of God's grace and mercy- really- all i can say is wow.

wow to what i see all around me, wow to the miracles that exists and are coming, and wow to what could have happened and didn't.

"when we are stunned to the place beyond words, we're finally starting to get somewhere.  its so much more comfortable to think that we know what it all means, what to expect and how it all hangs together. when we are stunned to the place beyond words, when an aspect of life takes us away from being able to chip away at something until it's down to a manageable size and then to file it nicely away, when all we can in response is "wow", that's a prayer."  (help, thanks, wow-- anne lamott)

this can be s a season of wow. a season of being stunned at the grace and mercy- beyond words- because despite all the smallness and the mess ups and the little- despite the plainness- despite the mundane and the repetition of our days and our selves- we are so loved. we are so valued- we can receive that grace and that mercy.

wow.

 . 

kijja kubeera bulungi

it will be fine.

but will it?

i used to hate that expression.  it will be fine- is said often here and about anything- with no reason or explanation as to why it would be fine or how someone knows it will be fine.  but i somehow now get it.  it sort of sums up life.  it will be fine- meaning at some point in the future- no one ever knows how long- and it will because something always works out eventually- and fine because it's not going to be great necessarily, or horrid- but some tepid place in the middle- fine. it can describe lots of things.

for example.

the situation with rose. 

so again i took her to kampala to see her birth mom, and the crazy-often-drunk-"translator"-and-local- chairperson-for-their-squatting-community, and the lawyer. i even brought my own translator who traveled with us to karamoja and knows the situation and her extended family.  after about an hour wait- again- like last week- i called the translator who said "tomorrow.  today will not work out". of course.  so here we are again- waiting. 

"it will be fine".

and that is really how i feel.  i don't know how, and i don't know when, and it's very non-western of me, but i think, eventually, in some matter of speaking, it will be fine.

fine can look like lots of things.  fine can be found in our days- our every day mundane days.  fine is in the beauty of putting the kids to bed and lingering longer to smell their head and rub their little back. fine is found in having an hour in the house alone to read and drink coffee on a friday afternoon.  fine is connecting with a new friend or hearing from your sister or looking forward to dinner tonight from gathered farmers market products.  fine is going on about life in all it's shades of gray and blue and green.

i recently found the card i gave to mike on his last birthday, a print by Chang Dai-chien. 

i chose it because it was messy and the blue is leaking and smeared, but there are pieces of clarity scattered here and there and it's beautiful in all it's layers.  there are parts that are dark blue like the night sky and green parts like the ocean and mountains- it reminds me of the layers of life and love, the seasons and the flavors and the confusion and the passion.

sometimes we can feel the passion. sometimes all we can smell is the goodness of life.  and other times and perhaps always, it is fine. 

it will be fine.
kijja kubeera bulungi.

six words

i'm reading a great novel called 'the book of why', written by a friend of mine.  at one point the main character talks about summing up your life in six words.  what if you could only use 6 words to describe your life? and not a list of six descriptors, but a six word sentence.  what immediately jumps to my mind is:

tried, failed, tried, failed, still trying.

or better yet,

broken, trying, thank God for Grace.

alternatively,  i only don't like green beans. 

one of those could work (except i forgot that i also hate cumquats, but those are rarely an issue).

i've been quiet lately but there are lots of things to write about- because there is a lot going on.

i could write about rose and the challenges of living in this gray place of unknown- a waiting place- a place of 'is she going to be our daughter officially? or not.', a place of 'are we going to go home and visit this summer? and if so, who and for how long? or not.'  i could write about how hard this is and how i can sometimes feel it creeping into my parenting with her- how invested do i get? what if there is loss? constantly breaking down the little walls that can start.

i could write about zoe becoming a teenager more and more each day and what that is like.  she's all beautiful and long haired and pimply and goofy but surprisingly mature at moments.  she's gaining more insight into herself and others and i can see her in a way that i couldn't in years before.  i can see her being okay now.  i can see her finding a place in the world that is unique and beautiful and giving and that makes me so happy (even if i still need to help her put on the toothpaste somedays).

i could write about the haircuts i gave the boys last night- about 2 months overdue- to help them not look like missionary kids from the '70s - and how i accidentally carved a bald strip in the back of judes hair because i wasn't sure how to use the new clippers and how he just laughed and didn't care at all.

i could write about bryn deciding to pick and add the name david to his name because he felt badly that he didn't have 'a bible name, and jude had two!'  i love the name david, which would have been my name if i'd been a boy i've been told.  i love it because of david in the bible who like my 6 word sentence- tried and failed and was very thankful for the grace of God. he was a passionate man who loved God deeply and was full of expression- and messed up all the time. he was so aware of his brokenness and his joys and his need of God and his thankfulness for God showing up over and over again in his life.

i get this.

i get this today when i wake up with a headache and can't stop being crabby with the kids in the car on the way to school.  i get this when i have no poker face and the police man asks me how my day is after he just heard that my car was hit and the guilty party drove away (am totally fine- no injuries) and i say, "how do you think i am? this wouldn't happen in MY country- people STOP after hitting someone".  not so nice of me, not so necessary.  i get this when i go to bed each night and say 'sorry for not putting other people first', 'sorry for not always listening for that still small voice', and 'sorry for not always obeying the still small voice when i do hear it', and i have to say the same thing night after night. i get tired of myself!  amazingly, God is not tired of me.  amazingly i am loved despite my broken-record-ness.  amazingly i am forgiven my crabby, and my not so nice, and my lack, and my selfishness, and my ignorance.  amazing.

so my 6 words should read:

broken.
forgiven.
thanking God for (the blessing of Her) grace.

this resonates

i have decided

i have decided to find myself a home
in the mountains, somewhere high up
where one learns to live peacefully in
the cold and the silence. it's said that 
in such a place certain revelations may 
be discovered.  that what the spirit
reaches for may be eventually felt, if not
exactly understood. slowly, no doubt. i'm 
not talking about a vacation.

of course at the same time i mean to
stay exactly where i am.

are you following me?
                    
                     mary oliver