that day between

yesterday was good friday and we went to church. for two and a half hours. it was wonderful. my eyes leaked through most of the service as we focused on the passion of the Christ.  the gift.  the sacrifice. the love.  for me.  me who so doesn't deserve it.  the mercy.  the grace.

today is that day of darkness in between good friday, and easter.  a day of emptiness.  a day of let down and defeat and people left asking the question - who was that guy and why were we following him around? i wonder why this is the way things went down? i wonder why there is saturday, a day between? and why on sunday Jesus only showed himself to a few?

it could have been much more dramatic.  it could have blown everyone out of the water.  it could have been a spectacular show.  it could have been hollywood. but.  it wasn't.  it was subtle and quiet and delayed.

i think it's because God is interested in people and people need process. because God is interested in our process- in people listening and looking and searching. i think there were things that needed to happen in the hearts and minds of people on that saturday.  i think it was a needed space- a pause- an undesired but necessary time of process.  i think questions needed to be asked internally- 'who was that guy and why was i following him around?' 'what did all of this mean?'

i think it's because our lives are full of these saturdays and God knew they would be.  these unwanted gaps of time- these potential spaces of asking and listening and waiting and growing and learning. 

if.

if we allow ourselves to be in those places, because they are usually not fun, they are usually painful and threatening, and emotionally avoidable.  we can choose to distract ourselves through our saturdays- however long they are.  we can avoid the asking, and searching and fill up with other things.

i remember when jude was a baby we had months of saturdays. we were living in a place of repeated neuro-imaging and follow up.  the outpatient pediatric MRIs were scheduled for fridays to coordinate with anesthesia.  jude would get his scan on friday and we'd have to wait until monday to get the results from the neurosurgeon.  those were hard saturdays.  we would ask the questions 'what if it's worse?  what if he now needs surgery?  what if that tumor is growing? what if the brain is damaged? what will we do?  why is this happening to our child?'  i remember wishing that pediatric imaging was on mondays, so we would get the results the next day, that we could skip the waiting.  i remember feeling like these were the days in the tomb- days of darkness- days of unknown.

but these saturdays were full of learning.  because in that space and time, if nothing else, we learned that life goes on. no matter what. you get up and eat and hike and see your friends and you hope and you pray and you know that God still loves us no matter what.  that there can still be peace and joy in the midst of potential badness.  we learned that it's okay to ask hard questions of God.  it's okay to be angry at what feels unfair.  it's okay shout, 'my God why have you forsaken me!'  because Jesus did. 

but because of the passion of the Christ- we knew we were not forsaken.  because of the coming sunday- we knew that no matter what we were not abandoned in badness- but that we could have hope, there could be peace, there could even be joy and laughter.

i don't usually like God's timing, but i have learned to trust it. i don't usually like the saturdays of life, but i'm learning to be open to them. i'm trying to remember that they are gifts in themselves- often crunchy and scratchy and uncomfortable- but holding so much potential beauty and value.

so today i will practice being here, in this day, this saturday, this potential space, this day between.

todays grace

today grace came in the evening air. 

today grace came sandwiched between layers of long and hard, because today was long and hard. today was full of let down and small pieces of relief. 

today i took my friend with lymphoma to the hospital for pain relief and then to enroll in hospice.  today i had to alternate between being strong and feeling like i was falling to bits.

today grace came because the morphine worked quickly and my young friend was pain free. and because hospice saw him quickly and sent us out with morphine for the week, and a plan and a promise to see him next week.

today grace came in the soft prayer of dr. helena the oncologist, who knows that we do the best we can and keep going, and we keep praying and we keep asking and begging and pleading and loving.  we keep looking for the grace- because that is how we keep finding it.

today grace came in the moments i sat with jude on the couch and we listened to that song i love by the fray, and i held him and inhaled the scent of his head and remembered all the years i've loved him and the smell of his head, and how deeply thankful i am that he is here.

today grace came in that evening air, and the words of that song, and the people who helped care for my kids so i could take him in.

today grace comes in knowing that the God who made him, who knows him in spirit and in body, each cell even the sick ones, will bring him peace and freedom and relief and courage.  today grace comes in the promise of non-abandonment.  grace comes in the fullness of that promise from a God who knows suffering, who knows our deep pain and holds us through it.

i don't know why this cup hasn't been taken from my friend.  i don't know why it seems to grow and not shrink.  i don't know why sometimes this is the way it is, except that we all have the same cup.  we all experience suffering.  we will all experience death.

thank God we don't have to walk these places alone.  thank God that today there is breath and life and we got to no a place of no pain.  thank God that there are moments in the layers where we can see the grace that is given.

even when it's the evening air.

satisfaction

today i missed the ocean. i missed it in that way when you need to walk for a long time looking at the same thing and hearing the same sounds so your thoughts can stay as the focus with out added stimuli to process.  just the feet turning the sand, the waves crashing, the water lapping, and the horizon forever.  that feeling of space and breathing- i miss it.

i've been reading the book of Genesis, the story of adam and eve, the fall, original sin.  i've been thinking about that tree in the middle of a garden, the forbidden fruit, the one thing they weren't allowed to have.  what is interesting is that they were not lacking.  they were not hungry, they were not with out options or variety, they were satisfied.  they even walked with God in the garden. they were living in harmony.  i wonder how long they lived like that before the tree began to call to them?  days? months? years?  i wonder if it was only after having it pointed out to them, that they even really noticed that it was missing?

they chose it because they wanted more- a lack of satisfaction. they chose it because someone told them they should, someone told them something was missing, someone told them they could.

and when they ate- it wasn't just that they disobeyed and got sent out of the garden and had pain with childbirth and work to till the soil- it was that they became aware of an emptiness that they had never known before.  an emptiness that actually wasn't there before.  they had no idea what would befall them with that one choice.

in reaching for more- for extra- for even better- they got way worse.  they went into negative numbers.  suddenly everything changed. suddenly their internal peace and okay-ness was wrecked.

are we satisfied? do we have enough? are we grabbing for more? do we actually think when we get what we are reaching for we will be happier? or will it just bring an emptiness that we didn't have before?

living in a place of satisfaction keeps us from falling.  choosing to be okay with what we've been given, to appreciate it and hold it and embrace it, keeps us happy.  being content, brings contentment.  and that is what we all want- what we are all searching for.

peace. happiness. wholeness. fullness.
and space and breathing.

delcious and spectacular

is cold out which is delicious.  it has rained and i am sitting on my three legged stool in the door way. i'm trying to be outside but am tethered to the computer cord.  as best i can tell, most of the children are off running and the house is quiet and that is also delicious- especially the part about me not really knowing where they are-and that being okay.

we have a new kitten.  her name is lucky (which is lucky because i'm not entirely sure she's a girl).  zoe found her in the neighbors yard and, well, look at her- we couldn't say no.

she is living in a box in the kitchen and drinking milk avidly. the only problem is that i'm pretty sure she hasn't peed since sunday morning. bygones.

today mike left for kenya.  i hate when that man is away. but.  i'm trying to do it all. homework is done. fish costume for tomorrow evenings school performance is painted. baths not yet, house cleaned...kind of. however i might not be trying hard enough because tonight we are having left overs supplemented by eggs and zucchini.

i'll be honest.  the dinner was awful, but surprisingly they all ate it and didn't complain which NEVER happens.

the sunset was spectacular. i mean, perfect, painting like, lingering, deep and full. 

the kids were in bed by 7:30, the dishes done by 8, and i got to video chat with my brother for at least 15 minutes without a broken connection.

the day had it's bad parts too- like the hour and half in traffic to get the kids to school, but even then there was some good discussion sandwiched between tears and yelling.

some days are just good in their simplicity. when i say simplicity,  i mean their chaotic normality.  the regular old crazy that our days are made of, like doing a medical consult in the living room while making the eggs and having the children run in and out to show off lucky the kitten.  (hopefully she'll be luckier than poor friendly the dog..)

these are our delicious and scrumptious days.

the bad, the good, and the beautiful

this week i felt swallowed by africa. i felt the weight of her, i felt trapped by her, stuck in her and getting no where. 

there have been several medical challenges this week that required a lot of navigating in an unfamiliar 'system'.  things like finding drugs, and finding where tests can be done and where labs can be run and being disappointed by the lack and the missing and the unavailable.  it. wore. me. down.  i was feeling the intensity of the need and then the frustration of the reply of not enough of whatever is needed. in these moments i notice more the constancy of the asking- the expression of the need.  literally every conversation i had with someone who wasn't a parent at my kids school, involved being asked for something.  so i started to avoid conversations at the football pitch, or at the security gate, and to move away quickly after the initial,  "how are you?"   "i am fine" response, before i could hear the looming, "but i am somehow not fine". i was feeling spent. i was clinging to that promise that we aren't given more than we can handle, that we are given the strength we need to continue in what is asked of us, that we are not alone.

but then zoe came back from her class trip to sipi falls.

she, of course, didn't want to talk about it. i think it's overwhelming for her to try to summarize for herself the conglomeration of feelings she'd had on the trip, let alone explain it to eager parents.  all she could say was that it was hard for her, that one of her tent-mates had snored (twice)  and the other one was mean to her.  but, she said she'd hiked the whole way to the falls and even had to rock climb and that she was so proud of that.  then- not another word- despite her brothers begging her to talk about the falls over dinner. 

to me, it sounded pretty good, but i was dying to get the report from her teacher the next day. and this is what i got:  "zoe was amazing! she was the star of the trip.  she didn't end up doing the easy hike but the full regular hike with the other kids and she did the whole thing with minimal difficulty and kept talking about what a great hiker she was (thanks to learning on the log).  she did well with the sleep over parts, even ate well and knew what to avoid with dairy and gluten, and had everyone laughing around the camp fire".  wwwhhhhaaattt?

that girl.
full of surprises.

when i told her the report from teacher trudy, she beamed. 
"well i guess i really did have a great time."

we aren't given more than we can handle- any of us.  we are given the strength we need to continue, or to climb.  and we are never alone.

on friday afternoon- when feeling swallowed- and needing strength- i stopped while driving up my little road because i saw this:

see that light coming in on the bougainvillea, and the banana trees and the little red dirt path? beauty and goodness.  it was like God was saying, "stop.  look.  be still and know that I am here. I am here with you- no matter what. I am here with you, even when you are overwhelmed, and frustrated and done. I am here with you and your family and I show up when you are desperately in need of my light on these leaves to remember.  I show up when someone needs to keep up with her class on unsteady vertical ground, because I love her, and know what this will mean to her.  I am here even for your friend and patient with recurrent lymphoma who is only 14 and asks you questions like 'will this cancer ever go away?'. I am here for you when you can't bear to see another person in luwero with newly diagnosed HIV and no ability to guarantee them ARVs.  I'm even there for them.  so hang in there, look for the goodness, be still and know I am here."

this week i will meet with zoe's potential new school about whether they will take her.
this week mike will be in kenya all week so i'll be single parenting.
this week i am meeting with the lawyer to set a court date for becoming rose's legal guardians.
this week i will set up hospice for my friend with lymphoma to get him morphine.
this week i will see the sun on those leaves and flowers, and i will hear the stories of my kids around the dinner table and i will be be still and know that no matter what, strength will be given, grace will abound, and we are not alone.

Be still and know that I'm with you
Be still and know that I am here
Be still and know that I'm with you
Be still, be still, and know

When darkness comes upon you
and covers you with fear and shame
be still and know that i'm with you
and i will say your name

If fear falls upon your bed and sleep no longer comes
Remember all the words I said
Be still, be still and know

And when you go through the valley
And the shadow comes down from the hill
If morning never comes to be
Be still be still be still

if you forget the way to go
And lose where you came from
if no one is standing beside you
be still and know i am.

Be still and know that I'm with you
Be still and know I am 
                     the fray

she gave me eyes

it's morning.  it's quiet and drippy after a crazy hard rain last night- all night.  i love that sound of rain pounding on a tin roof.  i think the rainy season is back- with cooler air and mud and the closest thing we get to the pensive feeling of autumn- at least in the mornings before the sun heats up. 

today zoe left for a school trip in eastern uganda. it's a two night get away at sipi falls.  she is so excited, and a little nervous. i am so excited for her.  in preparation, her teacher asked to meet with me briefly yesterday to go over dietary issues and medications. 

when people ask how zoe is doing in school this year- i usually say- "great! i think...."  and i think that because she is generally happy and enjoys school and wants to go every morning.  i think that because i haven't heard otherwise.  i haven't been called in about desk hiding or drama or distraction,  and for that i am so so thankful.  i am thankful for the absence of bad news- i am thankful that people know how to work with her and are willing to do so.  i am perfectly okay with not being in the educational loop on a daily basis- because ultimately i know zoe will be fine.  i know that zoe has her own path- that it is unique- and timed differently- with gaps and spaces and lots of color and texture.  i know zoe's years will be variable and filled with stepping forward and leaping backward and many side steps too, but that eventually, she will end up where she is meant to be.  i have learned this over the years with her- i have learned this because i have faith that God has a plan for her that is way better than anything i could orchestrate.

yesterday during that short meeting with her teacher- my hopes were affirmed.  zoe is doing great.  that means that she is participating enough, that she is learning enough, that she has made huge progress from where she was 6 months ago when she started at ambrosoli- said her teacher. is she different from her peers? yes.  does she learn differently and at a different speed? yes.  but.  she is learning and growing and maturing in typical classroom because the people who teach her are okay with her different.  because they trust that eventually she will be fine.  because they believe that the little moments will all balance out and they can step back and see ahead.  because they can take themselves out of the picture and make her successes and failures about her - not about them.

i needed to learn that too - especially when i was homeschooling her.  i became so enmeshed in her world and her life and her learning that i became lost and overwhelmed and terrified for both of us.  i needed to let her go.  i needed to pull back and be just her mother- that role of guiding and leading and picking up pieces and sticking them back together with out getting my own arms stuck in the glue.

yesterday during that short meeting with her teacher- my faith was affirmed. i heard and saw again, the goodness of God.  the faithfulness.  the fulfillment of promises- for provision- for non-abandonment- for live to the fullest.  wow. 

yesterday i was reminded again of zoe's strengths and her perseverance.  her ability to get up and be in very challenging days.  to return to the places that are hard over and over.  to face the social challenges of a 20+ kid typical classroom. to be the different one.  how easily i forget how hard her days must be and how gifted she is in managing them. wow.

the other day someone sent me a link to an article written by a woman who has a differently-abled son.  she included these wordsworth words about her son- and they resonate about my zoe.

 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble care, and delicate fears;
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy. 
                        wordsworth 

and such joy!!

 

today

it's late and i'm a morning person. i have more to say in the mornings, i think more in the mornings, when i can sit and be quiet- hopefully tomorrow.  sometimes at this hour, all i can wonder is what was in my day?  what were my moments of goodness? of failure? did i add happiness or did i steal it away?

i awoke from a deep deep sleep and foggily dragged the kids from their deep sleeps. was i gentle?
i drove them to school in the dark as the sun rose behind us.  did i rush? was i patient?
i cross-fitted with my girls, i thought about my week, i made lists and called people and bought bread and airtime. did i smile and make someone else have a better morning?
i spoke with florence and told her our cutting her hours is "us not her"- i think bringing her relief.  i drank coffee and worked on luganda and tried to be patient and brought someone movies and spoke to the coach and made dinner and read stories and sang songs and cut zoe's hair and packed her for her 2 nights away on a school trip.  those are the facts- but what was the living? the being? the spreading or the taking? i wondered as i bumped down another dirt road today- how do our seconds matter? our eye contact with the one on the side of the road cooking? our wave to the one in the garden? that smile to the kid on the bike?

tomorrow we begin again.

today

today i'm flying low and i'm
not saying a word
i'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

the world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
and so forth.

but i'm taking the day off.
quiet as a feather.
i hardly move though really i'm travelling
a terrific distance.

stillness. one of the doors
into the temple.
                      mary oliver.....again

this child

8 years ago, i was in the hospital having just given birth to jude.  i remember it blurry.  going in the night before to begin the induction, wondering what the next day would hold, who this child would be, this child i felt i already knew so much about - this child i'd already given up to God- no matter what.  this child who had already taught me so much about God and love and faith and prayer and community before he'd even taken a breath.

this child has a story. a story that began with intensity and drama and pain, and a lot of beauty and goodness and miracle.  it's hard not to over wonder about him because of that- not to expect- not to await...something.  at the same time i gave him up.  i was able to release him- to hold him up with open arms and accept that he was a gift- no matter what- and no matter for how long. and because of that, i began to understand that none of my children are mine in a possessive way- none of them are a direct reflection of me. they are themselves- they are given to me to guard and teach and guide and lead.

but.

i thank God that i've had 8 years! i thank God that he is a precious, regular 8 year old, full of big ideas and confident in his knowledge of things, and sensitive and generous and aware.

this weekend was all about jude.  finally. he had his birthday party- boys only- just a few friends- lunch at mishmash, cake, movie, sleep-over and swimming in the morning.  it was great. even his sisters were not allowed. he had his day to shine, to for once, not be overshadowed by the squeaky wheels of his sisters.

his favorite gift?

so happy birthday my sweet boy. 
may God continue to bless and keep you- as you continue to bless us. every. single. day. 

the edge of land and sea

today when i walked rosie to school, the sky was perfect in that cool closed cloudy way.  it was the kind of sky that needed an ocean beneath it.  it needed continuum.  it need space and expansion.  i walked up the pebbly path in my flip-flops and leaned heavily on my memory of sand and sea and the sounds and the smells that go with it, because there is something about where the land ends and the water begins that douses me in perspective.

i wanted to walk miles at that junction, at that intersection of what we walk on and what we are mostly made of.  i wanted to walk miles on that sand made only of brokenness.  broken stones, broken shells, broken and refined and softened and smoothed by pressure and time.  like me.

today in my lenten reading, i read the wise words of ronald rolheiser.

we need a theology of brokenness.  we need a theology which teaches us that even though we cannot unscramble an egg, God's grace lets us live happily and with renewed innocence far beyond any egg we may have scrambled.

amen.

maybe we live long to know this.  the first half of our life is trying to figure out the rules and get it right. the second half of our life is realizing that we never will. and thus begins the process of figuring out what to do with that, how to find that balance of acceptance and trying, how to surrender and carry on.

how do we live in this?

we life in the grace.  we live in that beautiful place of knowing that perfection is not an option and knowing that our state of scrambled is a constant.  from this place of beautiful let down, of beautiful embrace, we can find gentleness and kindness and forgiveness and humility and love.  we can begin to love our broken scrambled little selves and to hold the hands of our broken scrambled neighbors. and then what we strive for changes. our trying to get it right changes.  our living changes.  then we can become community.  then we can stop worrying and competing and wearing ourselves out and we can start being full, we can start giving out of our fullness, and being filled by the fullness of others.

a theology of brokenness brings freedom and connection and renewal.  that sand, those soft broken up bits that have been so hammered and made small and fine, they link the sea and the land.  they transition. and they hold our feet as we walk on and on through our life, through time, at that great edge, that expanse- as we process what is- as we reach for the grace.

a new day

i wanted to write last night - but i refrained- for all of your sakes- because i had a headache and you would have been depressed or at least, not encouraged.

i was feeling overwhelmed and tired and homesick. i was done with the bumps and the dirt and the heat and the neediness and the constancy of those things. i was wanting the easy, quick, feel good "fixes" for the blues.  i was wanting air-conditioning and the familiar smell of starbucks and my mom. i was wanting to pack the very grumpy kids into a leather-seated, working stereo-ed car and drive down butter smooth paved streets and plop them down at osteria, where some one else cooks a delicious pizza and pasta and it comes quickly and you get what you order and even a nice cold glass of wine that doesn't come from a box.  i wanted to go to ben and jerrys afterwards and have a chocolate fudge brownie cone with jimmies on the roof deck.  i wanted to go to target and buy some cute, sparkley tank top for 9$.  i wanted, apparently, consumption.

but none of those things were available.  none of those things even have a close second here.  so i consumed the best way i could.  i went to the people magazine website and looked at other people carrying startbucks to-go mugs and wearing sparkly tank tops.  but indulging in the pity doesn't ever make you feel better.  and in the back of my head, i could hear that still small voice calling.  He was saying, "am i enough?"  but i wasn't listening.  i was ignoring. i was pretty sure that in that moment, He didn't feel like enough.

so i got in bed and began to talk to God.  i did start with "help", as in, "i'm desperate for you to show up now! here! especially since none of the things i would like to have or do are around."  i think i said something like "thank you", as in, "thank you for listening and being here even though i am pathetic for feeling sorry for myself and acting like you're second best to an anchovy pizza.  thank you for loving me, even with my ugly bits.  but now back to help..."  and last night i had a long laundry list of help- not just for me- but for many.

then i had a good long sleep, interrupted only by a very welcome call from my dad, a little piece of provision. and like psalm 30 says, weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning, this morning i can breathe. 

God hears us.  She answers us.  He shows up and holds our weary little heads in His hands. and through the words and voices of others, we are comforted. 

i awoke and i felt rested, but i still said 'help' before my feet hit the ground.
help this day to be better.
help me to be better in this day.
help me to look up and be thankful in it.
help me to know that You ARE enough.
help.

i awoke to several kind emails that i didn't even ask for from old friends.  provision (thank you sara and amy!). i awoke to no headache. provision.  i awoke to less grumpy children. i awoke with my delicious husband. i awoke to a cool breeze and good african coffee. provision.

i awoke to a new day.  a totally new day.  a new day with new chances and new opportunities and newness!  that is a beautiful thing.  that is enough.

some of mary oliver's words

my boys all went hiking in mabira forest.  i wasn't feeling great so i stayed home. mistake.  now it's that yucky sunday afternoon feeling- like your left holding the last bits of the weekend- meaning you'd better make it worth it- but it never quite works out.  it's been a life long problem for me, the sunday afternoon feeling.

so i'm sitting on the hot porch and even though i have a lot i need to write- i'm going to sit with the words of mary oliver, who i adore.

hopefully i can spend the rest of the afternoon choosing my life well, standing at the ocean of my longing and living my life, while abiding in the shadow of the maker of that ocean. 


What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.

And live
your life.



Maker of All Things,
including appetite, including stealth,
including the fear that makes
all of us sometime or other,
flee for the sake
of our small and precious lives,
let me abide in your shadow-
let me hold on
to the edge of your robe
as you determine what you must let be lost
and what will be saved. 

- Mary Oliver

its all the same sort of thing

it has been hot here lately and so last night i went to sleep with a fan blowing.  the sound of a fan at night brings me right back to hot summer nights in wilmington north carolina after a long day at the beach. that is a place that brings much memory joy.

this was a hard week.  but as all hard weeks it was also full of learning and blessing and miracle.

this week i started down at the university clinic- that was good.  this week i met with the social worker from the babies home about rose- that was hard as she outlined many potential new stumbling blocks on this already rocky path.  this week our friendly dog died- that was horrible- he ate poison left out for wild dogs and seized for hours before he died right outside the boys bedroom window.  thankfully they were asleep.  we buried him in the yard. there were lots of tears.  we miss him.

this week i was reminded again about God loving us through it all and our daily decision to remember to trust in all things.  even the frustrating things that don't appear to be going our way.  even the with the painful bits that pull us down.  even then, we can bear it, knowing it's ultimately part of a beautiful picture that we can now, only see a small part of.

here is one of the blessings.  jaja's family continues to bestow gifts for the medical care we gave her before she died. (yes, jaja died, i think i forgot to write about that, i will).  today a large rooster arrived- alive, along with several pumpkins and sweet potatoes.
this is my life.

of course zoe wanted to keep him as a pet. she was not into the idea of eating him.  but. tomorrow we will be eating chicken, a lot of it. 

life here is messy. literally and figuratively. but it is everywhere isn't it? maybe sometimes more dramatic- there are two monkeys fighting in my tree-and a beheaded fully feathered chicken in my kitchen sink-  but similar in the stuff that matters. life and death and kids and jobs and memories and hot summer nights- even if some of them are in march.