the bare reality

hard days here, are so. much. harder. 

it's not always that the things that make the day hard are harder, although they can be, i think it's the lack of available responses to the hard. it's the loneliness that comes. it's the awareness that you live in a different land than where you were raised. it's knowing that your people are far, far away. it's the 8-11 hour time difference.  it's the lack of history with the wonderful people who are near by. it's when the gloss comes off.  it's when the card flips and you see the underside of a life you've chosen, a life that has a lot of hard spots.

so i'm making cake balls- or cake pops if i can find some sticks.  i'm listening to beautiful music that takes me back to places i've been, to seasons, to people, to memories.  i'm having a cup of instant starbucks coffee.  i'm remembering that the sun is shining outside my window now even though it rained  all night.

so what is hard?

tomorrow mike leaves for burundi to do a 12 day missions trip with an engineering missions group. i remember when he left to go to america last november, i cried.  i cried and i clung and i felt this massive sense of loss and cleavage. it was the first time he'd gone far away since we'd moved here.  it was the first time he'd be away from me for 3 weeks- in twenty years, and the combination of those things felt huge.  i think it actually was huge because we'd become so attached, so entwined that it felt painful to separate, i felt ripped apart.  i felt not whole.  i felt broken.

only now on the eve of his going again, am i seeing my response to that division.  i took those bits and tried to mend them. i covered up and calloused.  i re-grew my missing arm like a starfish. i made my way with out him.  i sucked it up and decided that it would be fine, i would be, we would be fine, if he were gone.  i moved into places of self-protection.  

so when he went to kenya, i was fine.  when he went to western uganda, i was fine.  but really- i need him in a desperate way, in an uncalloused, naked, armless way.  when he leaves tomorrow, i might cry again- but i will remain bare while bearing it.

what else is hard?

you can't fix other people's lives, not really. 

you can't.  only God can.  you can help, you can be there, you can support, but that's all. and sometimes helping means stepping back and being quiet (even when it's the last thing you want to do).  and sometimes being there means being way in the background.  and sometimes support is just waiting and praying.  these things are hard.

and jude coughing so much  he threw up last night- all over his bed.  and rosie peeing her pants.  and the whining neediness of the dog and the cat. and the lingering people in my yard- always lingering.....

but.

there will be cake pops soon.  and there is music and there are words and people here and people far who i love.  judes cough (and mine) will end.  mike will go and come back.  it will rain and it will shine. we will continue to help each other, to love each other, to walk in each others messes and be there patching and waiting and holding and praying.

brave

sometimes i forget how brave zoe is.  sometimes i don't recognize her unbelievable courage.  i don't acknowledge the challenges she must face all day, everyday. i take for granted that she makes the hard choice to face what she could avoid, what many people would choose to avoid, what i would probably choose to avoid.

last night was a birthday party camping sleepover for one of her classmates.  it was the whole class, all 20 something of them.  it was the whole night and the next morning.  it was a full plate of social dynamics to contend with.  it was an opportunity for rejection, and feelings of less than, and not fitting in with nowhere to retreat, no home to run back to.  but that is not how zoe looked at it. she saw it for the fun it could be, for the opportunity, for the potential of acceptance, and being included.  she saw it as a chance to be with friends and classmates.

we arrived and mike helped set up tents and i spoke with the moms, dropped off her gluten/dairy free food, and i left my number just in case.  when we got in the car, mike said it was hard to watch zoe during those minutes, as she tried to engage the clique of girls, only to be turned away.

ouch. it is hard. i know this. i've watched it for years.  it used to give me a sore spot inside, a sour taste in my mouth. a pang.  but over the years something has changed.  i see her struggle socially yes, but i also see her victories.  i see her incredible bravery for facing it.  for wanting to go to school.  for choosing to go to all the parties. for not wanting to miss out on what must be very hard for her to manage.  because she could. 

she could easily choose to stay home and play with her littlest pet shop pets, where she has full control.  where it's safe. where no one is going to leave her out or tease her or run away.  she could live in her little world with out risk or fear or rejection.  but she doesn't. 

she faces the music, she weathers her storms, again, and again, and again.

when i went to pick her up today, i asked my friend, the host of the party, how it had gone. 
"well.." she said, "it was hard for zoe. she kept trying to be with the clique of girls, but they kept leaving her." and my friend was really sad.  she could feel how hard it must be for zo.  she could understand as all parents can when they open their eyes to it, how tough it is when your kid is the one who is different.  how hard rejection is, how painful social failure is.

'i know.' i said, 'it is hard. but look at her bravery! look at how she stays and doesn't run away, doesn't call to be rescued. look at how she finds her way, despite. she is incredible!'

and she really is.  we all got in the car, and zoe said she's had a great time and the party was really fun.  a few hours later, she mentioned that she may have 'annoyed' some people but that it turned out okay in the end. 

the whole thing gave me pause.  the whole event helped me to step back and see the 30,000 foot view.  to see what  matters, to see her victory in perseverance.  to see how in the things that really matter, she does try, and she tries hard!  so maybe i can be more gentle when she doesn't try as hard with hair washing and homework, because she is working so hard on finding her way in the massively confusing world of pre-teen girls.  maybe i can cut her some slack for talking with her mouth full, because she gets up everyday enthusiastically to face 7 hours of hard work reading the social cues that come naturally to everyone else.

yes this girl is brave, and strong.  she is much stronger and much braver than i.

a poem for friday

Mysteries, Yes
 

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads. 

                              Mary Oliver

mid-life crisis?

when i think about the words "mid-life crisis" i automatically have this picture of men in their 40's with thick hair and (for some reason...) mustaches, buying red sports cars, flirting with younger women and desperately trying to reclaim their youth. it feels very 1980's as a concept (and in the way those people in my imagination are dressed). was it something from the '80's that we've now evolved past?  was it a baby boomer thing?

i am in the middle of my life.  i've been joking with mike that i'm having a mid-life crisis: meaning that for the first time, i don't like telling people how old i am, i cringe when i hear '42'.  for the first time i have a sense of having reached a peak and now being on the down-sloping side of the equation.  and things are sloping down, literally.  gravity has taken it's toll and it takes a lot more cross-fit than it used to, to combat that sloping.  the sun has taken it's toll, and i have more freckles and inverse freckles (that's what i call the white spots all over my arms and legs) to prove it.  years of facial expressions have taken their toll, smile lines and frown lines and all sorts of lines now decorate my face. 

let me start by saying that no one over 40 should have a magnifying mirror in their bathroom. they just shouldn't.  no one should see their face up that close even if it means you're make up might not look perfect.  in fact it might even be better to not wear any make up so as to avoid that magnifying mirror.

perhaps it began when i turned 40 and my eyesight suddenly took a nose dive.  i mean it felt like overnight i couldn't see.  so i went to the optometrist for the first time in my life.  he told me i needed +1's or maybe even +1.5s and that soon it would be +2s.  he told me that basically everyone over 40 needs reading glasses and that for some people it happens slowly, for others it feels like it just happens overnight.  i was not happy.  i felt betrayed by myself.  when i was 26 and in med school i'd bought +1s to help me "focus"- and i was sure that i was just now paying the price for the wearing of unnecessary glasses back then, not that my eyes were....old.

but my eyes are old and getting older.  the part that makes me wonder about a mid-life crisis, is that i basically refuse to wear glasses when i should. i mean i will wear them when i'm reading.  alone. by myself. when no one is looking.  but not at a restaurant, not when i'm with other people.  it's not because of how i look in glasses (although it's not great) it's because i don't want to have old eyes. when i was 26 i thought it was cool to wear glasses, i didn't care how it looked, but now that i actually need them, now that it actually is a reflection of my age, now that it's less of a choice and more of a necessity,   i don't want to be that lady in the reading glasses.  it's because i don't want to look old.

the other day i decided that i might feel better about the whole thing if i started lying about my age. i decided i should pick an easy number like 32 which is exactly 10 years younger than i am, so as not get stuck on the math when asked to "prove it" by stating my year of birth.  this seemed fine until i began to run the idea past people. 

i heard comments like,  " you might want to go with 36 or 37..."
to which i responded, "but the math..." until i let the weight of the comment sink in,  'oh they don't think i can pass for 32...doh!!"  that didn't make me feel so good.

when i told my kids the plan, they were horrified.  " but mommy!! you are 42! you can't be younger than aunt linds!" 
"mommy's just kidding!!" i replied, "i would never lie about my age! but could you please stop saying i'm 42 out loud! and stop telling people! let them think what they think!"

when i told mike he said, "what about me? i'd be 15 years older than you."
"that's okay! i can be your trophy wife!" i chimed back.
"but i don't want a trophy wife."
"oh."

another friend said, "but you do realize that you will have to forget the first 10 years of your life- i mean you can't say, 'i remember when starwars came out'- or 'where were you when john lennon was shot?' and isn't that kind of sad?" 
"i guess so....i hadn't thought of that...i think maybe i'm having a mid-life crisis...." i mumbled.
"do women even have mid-life crises?" he asked.

i thought about that....i thought about why i now feel...old....  is it the freckles and the lines that sit on me even when i'm not smiling? is it the +1.5s? is it that i have a teenage daughter? or is it that i live on a college campus and hang out with a bunch of 20 somethings? and then i thought about why i care....why getting older bothers me?  is it a number? is it fear of continued decline? is it ultimately a fear of death?

yikes! it's worse....i think it's vanity!

then i thought about how completely absurd i am. not just absurd, but how wrong i am.  how i don't believe in any of this way of thinking.  each line and each sun spot and each southward sag has a memory or an experience, or even if not, it's ME.  it's part of me.  my body is 42 years of story.  my face is 42 years of laughing and crying and wondering.  and i still work pretty well. i can run and even kind of fast.  i can climb a tree.  i can dance. and all those beautiful, and hard, and terrifying, and peaceful years that i stand on, they have shaped and formed me and given me and taught me and grown me.  and the best things in my life have either shared these years with me, or given me the gray hairs and stretch of skin that i'm fighting- and i would never trade in those best things!

so i've decided to go with 42. i've decided to embrace it.  to even feel fantastic about it.  i am 42 and i'm proud of it.

(but i will still be avoiding that magnifying mirror.)

stop look and listen

do you ever have those days when something stops you and you suddenly realize that you do, in fact, have it all?  well, not it all, but you have absolutely enough, actually, more than enough?  that you have, exactly what you really need and even what you most wanted.

i am having one of those days.

perhaps it was the endorphins released during my incredible cross-fit, girl time (plus ian) start to the day.  perhaps it was having the house to myself for a few hours- to just be still and quiet and reflect and remember.  perhaps it was reading through several inspiring articles posted by friends on facebook about work and mommying and time.  perhaps it was thinking about the summer and going home and how great that will be, sandwiched between the parts about not being with all my kids and mike together, and how much i will miss them. perhaps it was finding a betty crocker cake mix and the frosting, at a market in town.

but whatever the reason (my heart or my shoes), i'm sitting at my table feeling an abundance of blessing. feeling in awe actually of what i've been given- in my husband and my children, and my siblings and my parents and my in-laws, and my friends.  i'm sitting at this table praying that i can sit still long enough to not forget this in the moments that are coming. 

because i'm really quite good at forgetting.

i'm really good at being swallowed by the blessings.  at being distracted away from them.  at busying myself so that i can't see the joy in front of me.  i'm really good at turning around at the end of the day and wondering where it went, and whether i sat down and looked each of my children in the eyes at least once.  i'm too good at having everyone in bed by 8, but maybe not good enough at being present in the hours between getting home from school and climbing into those beds. 

in these days when i am able to see my life for what it is- the privilege of parenting these 4 completely fascinating individuals, and being married for almost 20 years to an amazing man who i am not worthy of, and living cross-culturally in africa at a time in history when i can still follow the news and see my nephews on line as if i lived nearby- all i can do is say WOW and THANKS and HELP me to be in this blessed life's moments.

because i don't want to wake up one day and have missed it.  i don't want to take any of it for granted.  i don't want to mis-influence my kids, because everything we do and don't do, is noticed. 

the problem is, HOW? 

how do i train myself to slow it down? how do i stop mentally planning my day during the car ride to school, and start engaging in the conversation about how tall the tallest man in the world is compared to a tree, or how someone came up with the idea of juggling chainsaws to get into the guiness book of world records, and then how they could actually juggle 73 of them? (it might not be 73- because i'm pretty sure i was thinking about the needed ingredients for cake pops) but really, HOW?

because it's hard. even on these spectacular days of remembering, it's hard for me to fully embrace the mass of energy and blessing that are my children.  it's hard for me to stop and look at mike and stand in awe of this life we've been given together- instead of just rushing together to get dinner on the table.  it's hard for me to be thankful for living life in uganda on days when i feel overwhelmed by the need or the bad roads, or the lack of chocolate chips.

i thought about painting the word STOP in giant letters on the wall, but that might send the wrong message to the kids about where it's okay to write and where it's not.  i thought about making a rule for all of us about no media during 4-8pm for anyone.  i thought about planning more kid-friendly activities- like making cake pops.  but then i remembered the times with my parents from my childhood.  i remembered the important ones.  they are not glamorous.  they were not planned.  they were watching sunday afternoon football with my dad on the couch.  they were talking with my mom as i sat on the dryer while she made dinner.  they were conversations in the car on the way to the dentist.  they were learning the multiplication tables in the living room.  the moments when i felt valued as a kid- were just the normal, everyday moments.  the times that stick in my memory are found in just the plain old living of life together.

so guess all i can do is try. and keep trying. i guess i can turn off some of the outer distractions when my kids are home, and mike is home, and try to work on the inner distractions too.  i guess i can hold on to the thanks, i can chose to remember, i can put on my mental "todo list" - stop, look and listen - over and over and over again.

i'd like to say i'm starting fresh.  that from here on out, i will listen intently to every story out of small mouths, and laugh loudly at that joke, "why is 6 scared of 7?...... because 7 8 9" even though i've heard it a million times, and wait patiently as someone learns to whistle, and actually play legos.  but i can't promise that.  

all i can do is live in today.  live it this afternoon between 4 and 8pm, and maybe it gets easier because laughing and playing are fun, and what am i trying to get done anyway?

on returning....

last night we booked our tickets home. well, home for a visit.  i know i should be happy, i should be thrilled, but i'm sad.  i'm sad because it's not how i'd envisioned it.  it isn't going to match my expectation.  it's a pieced together third best option, but it is going home.

this is what i wanted....

i wanted us to all go back together,  all six of us in a big pack.  i wanted to have those moments of re-entry together.  i wanted to see the kids faces when they first see their grandparents, and their cousins and their old house, and a supermarket. i wanted us to eat our first ben and jerry's ice cream cone together. i wanted to hear their first impressions of being back in the place that grew them. 

i wanted to bring rosie for everyone to meet.  i wanted to go back as the family that we've become, whole and real.

this is what we've got....

mike and the three big kids leave july 1st, and i stay with rosie until july 20th.  that's right, i miss the first 20 days of my kids re-experiencing america. i will be away from them all for 20 days.  that seems like lifetimes.  then i go and i leave rosie here in uganda, in our house, with our nanny, and dog and cat and various nearby neighbors and friends, for 16 days, until mike and the big kids come back.  that seems like lifetimes.  then i stay in america kid-less for another two weeks. i will be away from mike on our 20 year wedding anniversary.  i will be away from zoe starting at a new school (hopefully).  i will in fact, miss most of my kids summer vacation.

but.

sometimes you have to just make do with what you can. sometimes third best is what you need to be thankful for. sometimes things are messy and don't work out as you'd imagined.  sometimes real isn't as whole as you'd like it to be.

i almost cried when i clicked "accept" on the KLM sight.  mike told me i needed to let it go. that all would be fine.  that people all over the world leave their kids for long periods of time with relatives.  that this is what we'd signed up for. he said this is our new normal, or it might be for a while as we wait for pieces with rosie to come together.  he said it's better than not going home at all. he said i should look at it differently- as time for regrouping, for retreat, for renewal.  

so i will.  i will wrap my mind around this new normal.  i will let go of my ideal reentry plan. i will be happy that we get to go home, happy that we get to have rosie in our family, happy that i'll get to see my dad here in july and fly home with him.  and i will look forward to eating my first ben and jerry's cone with my already acclimated kids.  and i will embrace my time alone with rose. and i will embrace my time alone in the US.  i will turn it into beautiful.

but.

(i will still pray like crazy that something will happen and the courts will grant us guardianship and we will magically all get on that plane together- the six of us- real and whole).

it's a monday poem

How surely gravity's law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the smallest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.

Each thing-
each stone, blossom, child-
is held in place.
only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we each belong to
for some empty freedom.

If we surrendered
to earth's intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.

Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.

So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God's heart;
they have never left him.

This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
                     -rainer maria rilke
    

a state of grace

"If something or someone doesn't work, it's in a state of grace, progress, and evolution.  It will attract love and empathy. If it does work, it has merely completed it's job and is probably dead."  nigel andrews (taken from the book far from the tree)

i'm reading the book far from the tree by andrew solomon. 

i am only at the beginning of the book. i've just finished chapter 1 (all 50 pages of it), but i get it.  in this first chapter, he writes about horizontal identities, identities that aren't inherited or shared with the parents, and the challenge this poses for parents who so desire to have their children mirror themselves. the challenge is born out of a desire to identify deeply with our children, it's not bad, but it can be bad, and either way, it's hard. 

i am the parent of a child with a difference. with a horizontal identity and even though i'm only 50 pages in, i get it. i get all the intensity and the depth and the pain and the beautiful agony. i get the joy and the bittersweet and the changes that happen inside you when you begin to see over and over what really matters and you begin to let go of what doesn't.  but change is hard and growing hurts and like all things we learn, it takes repetition and time and patience. 

i love the idea that when someone or something is broken, it's in a state of grace.  i love the hope that is inherent in progress and process and evolution.  because if there is one thing i've learned in my 13 years with zoe, it's that i'm much more broken than she.  if there is one thing i've learned it's thank God for the grace.

i remember when zoe was a baby. i remember when i first knew there was something different.  when i first noticed her short neck and her slightly curved spine.  everyone said it was nothing, that her back only looked curved because she was wiggling.  but mothers know in a way that maybe only the person who grew you can know.  and when she couldn't lift up her head at 3 months, others agreed we should have it checked.

when we first had "confirmation" of her difference- her malformed scapula and her non-segmented cervical vertebrae- i was so sad and so scared.  i was in medical school and i was studying all about differences and malformations and abnormalities.  i went right to the books to research what were the possible problems with my baby.  there were a few possibilities- the "worst" being klippel-feil syndrome.  no one wants a "syndrome" and no one wants a kid with a "syndrome"-- it just sounds bad.  klippel-feil syndrome is rare and possibly affects many organs during development- the spine, the kidneys, the heart, to name a few.  i remember thinking- please God don't let her have this, i can handle anything but this. (i would come to find out again and again, as we all eventually do, that we can handle way more than we ever dreamed we could.  we are given the grace to handle the this's of our lives).  i remember envisioning a very deformed child, a child who would stand out for being exceptional, but not in a good way.  i thought about how different our lives would be.  i thought about how different her life would be from what mine had been, and i didn't want that for her. 

i was desperate to look into our future, into her future- what would befall us? where was our community as the one we were in, didn't always get us.  when zoe was one year old, i had decided to take a year off and work with her and be with her, and delay my residency.  we were in little baby class at gymboree for moms and babies.  every week we'd go around in a circle and introduce ourselves and our beautiful babies and basically brag about what new and exciting milestone they'd reached since the week before.  when we started zoe could sit up alone, and when our class ended about 3 months later, zoe could still sit up, but that was it.  meanwhile all of the other babies ages 6-12 months, were learning to roll over, and crawl and walk and maybe even juggle.  they might as well have been juggling, because all those normal baby things were far off for zoe.  i remember feeling sad and different and awkward and even.....ashamed.  i remember thinking that this was the beginning of the rest of our lives. 

and in many ways i was right.  it was my first experience of being in a group that i didn't mean to sign up for- a group of people who are blessed with raising different children, a group who are thrown into colder and rougher seas; who must climb higher and steeper mountains; who will trip and fall over and over again, and while we may sometimes feel like we are drowning, that we'll never reach the top, that we might not get back up again- man can we swim! and heal, and hope and wow! how we've learned to enjoy the view, even the view from the side of the mountain, peering out from a cave we've crawled into to avoid a thunderstorm (because loud noises are scarey). 

i didn't know it then, but i was beginning to see myself differently.  i was beginning to see that all of us are broken, that all of us are in a state of grace.  i began to see how misaligned my views and expectations were- that a crooked view of normal is much worse than a crooked back. an elevated ideal of perfect children is a much greater burden than an elevated shoulder. delayed connection with your different child is much more dangerous than delayed developmental milestones. 

as the years went by, and we added more doctors and therapists and appointments, and diagnoses, i began to laugh at what i'd initially feared. scoliosis and glasses proved to be much less challenging then the things you couldn't see.  the really hard part was understanding that she has a different way of perceiving, processing and interacting with the world around her. and once i began to grasp that, i had to accept it. and once i'd accepted it, i had to learn to love it. i had to make a choice to let go of some long history of who i'd thought my child would be, and throw my arms around the one i was given.  i had to choose whether or not to acknowledge the difference or embrace it.  and over the years,  i would be given the grace to not just accept her differences, but to say 'thank you for the gift of zoe- for the gift of all that means- for the gift of her differences, and our different lives.  thank you for the pain we've gone through- because it is part of this.  thank you for the loss of normal- because this is our differently beautiful life.  thank you for the tears and the aches because this is our story- this is what was meant to be'.

it's not easy.  it's not now 'packaged'.  it's not over.  i am not standing on the top of the mountain. 

but.

i am remembering that i live in a state of grace.  for that, i am thankful, because it is enough.

"i write now what 15 years past i would still not have thought possible to write: that if today i were given the choice to accept the experience, with everything that it entails, or to refuse the bitter largesse, i would have to stretch out my hands- because out of it has come, for all of us, an unimaginable life. and i will not change the last word of the story. it is still love."
-  Clara Claiborne Park (mom of daughter with autism) 

the mystery of ourselves

"And men go abroad to admire the heights of mountains, the mighty waves of the sea, the broad tides of rivers, the compass of the ocean, and the circuits of the stars, yet pass over the mystery of themselves without a thought.”
― Augustine of Hippo, Confessions

there is so much that needs to be said, responded to, shared.

the boston marathon.  bombings in my hometown, us far away over here, and watching 'lincoln' that night, and thinking about our country, then and now, both looking so different from way over here.....zoe as a teenager...trying to differentiate herself, as i try to differentiate 'normal' teen behavior from pathology (haven't i learned yet to let that go?)......rosie being with us for a year, and her birthday tomorrow.  what all that means, she's lived one quarter of her life with us.....the national mental health referral hospital that i visited today, one flew over the coo-coo's nest, boney patients lying naked on cement floors in urine, zombi like women in matching green gowns shuffling toward me to paw at me while staring through me....and the strange woman at our door tonight...

but i only have fragments, because some days are like that. because each piece is so full.  because each one is a story.  each person in those stories, a story, a world, a mystery. and there are more, and there will be more.  and because i need to go wrap rosie's presents, and research about anti-psychotic medications and schizophrenia  (for my friends sister who is at that national referral mental hospital), and check the news for any updates on the boston marathon bomb disaster.

and in our fragments and our days, let us not pass over the mystery of ourselves and each other.
good night.

Rosies one year anniversary!

what is in a year....

Christen Rose Lochoro we love you! we are so thankful for your joyful spirit and your independence and your engaging personality. you have made our lives happier and busier and louder and a lot more fun! 

on being still....again

today is cool and cloudy and rainy and kind of sad and lonely too in that way that days like this can be.

i haven't been being still enough lately, or maybe even at all.

the other night at bedtime i was singing "be still" by the fray.  bryn asked what it means, why God wants us to be still, what if the right thing to do is to move, he said.  i explained that it's about being still in our heart and our mind.  that we are invited and asked to be still, to rest, to know that "I am God." that we don't need to be worried or anxious or stressed or disturbed because it's part of a plan, because God knows, and cares, and loves.

bryn likes to move. he moves in about 4 directions just to go forward, he has energy and motion.  he couldn't unlink being still physically with being still mentally. so i asked him when does he feel most disturbed in his heart or his mind? he told me walking up the banana path if he hears a rustling in the grass, he worries it could be a snake and so he runs.  so why would God want me to be still he asked.  i told him God would be fine with him running,  but if he worries about that snake all the time, even when not on the banana path, then God would want him to still his mind and his heart and not be disturbed.

there are many things that disturb me when i'm not on the banana path, but i think i've just been running.  i think i've mixed them up too. instead of trusting and quieting and waiting and listening- i've just been going and going and going.  and now, i'm tired.

i was thinking about the story of the prodigal son, a metaphor for how God loves us.  i was thinking about that father.  he let his son go, take all of his portion of the inheritance and go, and then what? he waited.  and maybe he was disturbed a lot.  and maybe his mind was often full of worry and stress, but he stayed still.  he didn't go out searching hi and low for his wayward son.  he didn't leave his life.  he was still.  he allowed his son the process and the time he needed.  he forced himself to resist the urge to move and find and rescue. and i think this is how God loves us.  He allows us to wander off, to leave and reject and run and then realize what we've left and come home.  He holds himself back and waits eagerly.  He models stillness.

i wonder if this is also a metaphor for how we are to love each other, and even ourselves?

patiently, waiting, allowing, letting go, not always moving to fix, not always moving to help, not wearing ourselves out in doing and going, but being still, quieting the mind and the heart.  living out of that trust and not out of our fear.

running up that banana path is an appropriate reaction to fear. but worrying and stressing about those potential dangers when not even outside, and then running, that is not what we are called into.  for me, being still is the. hardest. thing.  i am so easily fooled into thinking that my actions, my moving, my trying, my talking, my fixing, my going will make me feel better.  i am bad at letting go.  i am bad at practicing patience.  i am bad at trusting in time and process.  i like quick resolve.  i, like bryn, have a hard time separating physical stillness from mental and spiritual stillness. 

maybe sometimes i need to practice physical stillness to teach myself spiritual stillness.  maybe by limiting my movement, i will help myself limit my mental movement too.  maybe by saying no, by allowing others to move for themselves, i will rejuvenate and rest into a new season.

maybe.

4 - 2 = way easier

okay.  two kids is WAY easier than 4 kids.  i can say that even with the two more challenging ones. its half the noise, half the fighting, half the whining, and half the needs, but maybe half the fun.

this weekend i am home with my girls while the boys have gone camping.  it was supposed to be a family camping trip with two other families- but one of the things about zoe, or having a teenager with some extra challenges, is that sometimes plans change.  like this weekend.

vacation is hard for kids who like constancy. routines are disrupted, things happen differently, expectations change, life becomes unpredictable for two weeks.  this is partly my fault.  i mean i could be organized and scheduled and re-create routine.  i tried.  i planned somethings, but maybe too many things, and zoe was telling me that she needed more down time.  i dragged her around for three days, trying to convince her that this pool would be fun and this play-date would be good, but on thursday she has a little meltdown, and i realized that i wasn't really listening.

she's now a teenager.  she has appropriately maturing opinions about what she wants to do.  she is also a kid with social challenges who is working hard on knowing her limits and her boundaries.  these things are both really good and important, and this combination makes it especially necessary for me to stop and listen and adapt to her needs.

and she was right.  she needed down time.  she needed to not be managing a camping weekend with people she doesn't know too well, in a place she doesn't know too well, with parents and siblings who would be distracted with other people and conversations and unable to fully attend to her need for extra help managing in all the newness.

becoming a parent is a lot about learning to adapt to others, learning that your kids are individuals, they are not mini-me's, which is tricky.  becoming a parent to a child with special needs magnifies all this- there is a much greater need to adapt and it's perhaps more challenging to face and embrace their differences.  becoming a parent to older children also requires more adaptation, and more acceptance of their individualism. 

i'm proud of zoe for knowing her limits.  i'm proud of her for her adapting all week to my busy plans and reminding me that i need to adapt too.   and even though i would have loved to have spent this weekend camping, even though i totally miss my boys, staying home with my girls was the right thing.

just

sometimes we don't know why life leads us down certain paths.  sometimes we end up doing things or having done things and we're not sure what they were for.

here i am in africa.

before we moved i was doing palliative care.  i had studied it, i was teaching it, i was about to be board certified in it.  i had one chance to return to the US and take the exams for that certification, but because i was here, and doing more internal medicine than palliative care, i couldn't return and take the board test.  i missed it.  and i began to wonder what those years were for?  we in medicine, are so used to working toward a goal, toward advancement.  but i let it go.  i figured that God's plan for my life had shifted, now i'm in africa practicing medicine and even a lot of pediatrics, and while i won't be able to officially practice palliative care with out a fellowship in the US, i loved learning it and teaching it and mostly i loved the privilege of caring for those people at the end of their lives.

but now, i think i may have studied and practiced palliative care, just so i could come to africa and care for timothy. just so i could know how to correctly dose adjust morphine and manage bone pain and how to sit with someone who is scared and crying and afraid that pain means worsening disease and all the crap that stirs up internally.  just so i could remember that popcorns and movies and sweets and bikes and football, and talking about normal stuff in between pain scores and bathroom habit conversations, are life changing.  just so i could be less afraid of crying with someone.  just so i could hold their hand and be quiet.  just so that i could wait and be there and not give up.  just so that i could do my best to relieve suffering even, even when i can't fix it.

we in medicine, like to fix it.  broken things bother us.  illness is supposed to be cured, death is failure.  but learning to be with non-fixable things is essential in medicine and in life, because broken is part of living.  broken is everywhere.  broken is in us.  unlearning this as a failure, is key to caring for each other. whether it's death or pain or divorce or anything that causes suffering, reaching into our own brokenness, looking at our own pain, unites us.  it's not pretty, but it's true.  when you peel back the layers of the onion of each of our lives, it's all pretty much the same.

so we should be slow to judge, and slow to avoid, and quick to comfort, and quick to embrace. we should cloak one another, we should shelter each other, forgive each other, accept broken and practice gentle mending.

here we all are, where ever we are. i am here and i have the opportunity to care directly for someone medically, socially, and spiritually in ways i've been trained in and i'm so thankful for that.

but everyone, in every place has opportunity to reach out and mend and patch and hold. we just do what we can do. we just do our best- even and especially when we know we can't fix it.

the key to happiness

“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”
― Alexander Pope


it's twilight and i have escaped outside to the porch.  i have left the dinner table where we were listening to chet baker and eating by candlelight.  i was try to create an atmosphere of a pleasant and subdued reality, which is so not my reality.  it worked a bit, but not really.

it's the second week of school vacation and today i was acutely reminded again of the great value in lowering expectations.  i mean we set ourselves up for disappointment.  we create our own scenario for which to watch our lives not live up to.  this is especially true for parents. basically what every new parent should plan on is the following:

-someone will wet their bed at least weekly for next ten years- so instead of being upset when it's wet, be excited when it's dry.

-when you go to the pool, you will not read that book that you brought. instead it will get wet, as will your shoes and your clothes and the crackers and pretty much everything else- so don't be surprised, don't even let it phase you.

-the car is the perfect place for children to fight because they are only partially restrained and sitting way to close each other not to.  so don't be surprised when they poke each other and whack each other.  don't expect to listen to that podcast or to the new mix you made for your long car ride on the ipod.  just be amazed if you hear anything other than yourself yelling at the members in the back seat.

-even if they like where they are going, it takes a long time to get your kids to complete the morning tasks required to get there- so let it go. you will be late, so embrace it. let it go that it even matters, and enjoy the chaos, because it's not going away.

- when you order food at the pool, someone will always change their mind after the food comes and cry about it.  you will want to say that they definitely ordered that hot dog, and that the people living right outside that pool gate would love to eat that hotdog, but it won't matter, they will still want your fish and chips, so just switch and know that in 15 years you can eat what you want again.

-expect that the new puppy will poop on the porch ever night, so just be thrilled when he doesn't, instead of upset when he does.

-don't bother that you will have to repeat yourself a million times a day, especially if you have a child with special needs, to get them to complete simple tasks.  instead, just jump for joy if you only have to ask twice.

-don't plan on ever having 5 minutes alone in the bathroom, they always know you are in there, and that is always when they need you.  this is true for phone calls (especially long distance ones) and writing, or pretty much anything you are trying to do in an uninterrupted fashion.  so enjoy their company because maybe someday- you'll miss their constancy.

-it's normal for siblings to make fun of each other.  you did it too.  so when they come up with the absurd name calling, use it as an opportunity to gently teach them about kindness and treating others how you want to be treated, then go away and laugh because some of the names are pretty funny, and you might have 1 minute before they find you.

-remember that even though it's their vacation, it's absolutely not your vacation. in fact its actually the opposite of vacation- it's way more work.  so suck it up and remember that in 4 days they go back to school and you can complete your thought and finish your conversation and drink your coffee while it's still hot, and then be so excited when they come back at the end of the day.

see if we start low, we are pleased.  it we start high, we are disappointed. it's all about the expectations.

april pieces

it's april now and it rained all night.  we were in kampala at our friends house for a sleep over- all 6 of us- it was great.  now i'm home and exhausted. jude and i walked the dog, i put in the laundry, mike made the dinner and i did dishes. 

yes we have a new dog.  we have an easter puppy who i adore.  he is a german shepard- a real one- not a wild dog that looks like a german shepard- but a real one with real german shepard parents. he was given to us by a friend and i just love this dog- his name is scout (but i keep calling him bolt- oops).

it's april and i want to write more, because it helps me to be more, and to stop more and to reflect and review more.  but i will start with a poem by rainer maria rilke that kind of reminds me of april, because of the rain.

in deep nights i dig for you like treasure.
for all i have seen
that clutters the surface of my world
is poor and paltry substitute
for the beauty of you
that has not happened yet.

my hands are bloody from digging.
i lift them, hold them open in the wind, 
so they can branch like a tree.

reaching, these hands would pull you out of the sky
as if you had shattered there,
dashed yourself to pieces in some wild impatience.

what is this i feel falling now,
falling on this parched earth,
softly,
like a spring rain?