climbing that ladder

the thing about life is that it just keeps going.  forward.  in the same direction.  can't do much about what's behind you, can't get it back, the only possibility of control we have, is in our moments- this moment- right now.

i'm sitting at a cafe, thankful for this cooling breeze and the wiggling leaves in front of me, looking at a sign that says "kindly watch your children while playing" and realizing that already, those days of needing to watch very small children, are over, yet i'm still needing to watch my adolescent child, at her play.

this weekend mike and i went away-alone together- with out our kids.  we stayed somewhere with no power and no internet and the most incredible views of valleys and waterfalls in a little cabin with two walls of windows, either very cold or very hot water - by choice of the tap only, and a bucket toilet.  it was so perfect.  the one day when we were not driving there or home, we hiked the whole morning through villages and gardens and rocks and waterfalls.  it was the first time we'd been away alone with out the kids in over a year.  the only problem was it was too short, about 5 days too short, and we drove back to our crazy lives and squeezed the kids we missed so much and began again,  the living of it.

there was a point on the hike, getting up from the bottom of the last waterfall, that required climbing a VERY long ladder up the side of this mountain.  i was exhausted at this point, but that didn't matter at all, because i'm also very scared of heights.  i realized about 10 feet up the ladder climb that this was the only way up, that it was very high and that if i looked down or up, i might panic. so i kept my eyes looking straight into the dirt in front of me, put one hand and then the other and began my mantra, "i can do all things through Christ who gives me strength."  ALL things, i would echo after myself.  even this horrifying ladder.  ALL things. I can.  through Christ.  Strength.  i just kept going and soon it was over and we were up at the top again- with that amazing view.

in thinking about that ladder and my fear and my ability to get up that ladder, there are some interesting things. i did it by remembering what worked before when i was in panicked or near panicked situations.  i did it by (as unpopular as this may sound) leaning on the strength of God NOT myself.  and i did it by keeping my eyes in one place.  i wasn't cavalier, i didn't recite that verse and then test myself by looking up and down and all around, i just kept slowly going up. one hand, one foot, one hand, one foot.

about half way up the ladder, and after about 20 mantras, i began to know that i believed what i was saying.  that i can do ALL things through Christ who gives me strength- all things asked of me- all things given to me- all things before me, in that moment that i'm in- where ever it is, who ever it is with- ALL things.  but why does it take pure fear, why does it take frozen with anxiety to remind me?  why is that mantra not triggered by overwhelm in other areas?  why is it not on the tip of my tongue between the hours of 6 and 8pm when i have 4 usually filthy kids needing or wanting me, two animals meowing or barking, a messy kitchen, and the phone ringing?  why is it not surfacing when i'm about to make an unwise choice, when i'm about to take the path of least resistance instead of the better way? when i'm not in the mood to walk far to someones house and test their child for malaria, or hear about the need for school fee's....again.  why do i so easily lean on myself 99% of the time - when i know the beauty and the comfort and the strength i get from simply asking for help- from leaning into the everlasting arms?

unfortunately i didn't reflect on this until this morning.  unfortunately when i arrived home to 4 tired and crabby kids all vying for attention, i didn't remember the mantra.  unfortunately when zoe was driving us both insane, we forgot so much of what we'd talked about over our weekend. that Gods plans are perfect. that we aren't given more than we can bear.  that i we can do ALL things....even when we are tired, and burned out, and scared. even when we don't want to, and that is perhaps the hardest, but we can.

i have today.  i have now. i have what is in front of me. what has been given to me.  things i've chosen and things i haven't- they sit together.  i have these moments that will become my past.  i decide how to climb, and whether to look up and down, or straight ahead, and thankfully i have those everlasting arms, now if i can remember them...

one hand, one foot, one hand, one foot- eyes on just what's in front.

on moving and time and life and memories

oops. i just accidentally looked back at my life. i just fell upon some photos from about 7 years ago when bryn was born and we lived in san francisco and zoe hadn't hit her perfect storm and jude was looking fine after a year of scary.  it was a very sunny season.  it was a very different season from now. 

in these pictures, in these years, my kids dressed well- really well.  their clothes matched and they were clean and their hair was cut.  they wore shoes, even inside, cool shoes like vans and converse or little leather european shoes.  zoe hadn't yet vocalized her sensory issues so she wore cute jeans and ponchos and pants with zippers. in these pictures we had nice things- pottery from our trip to barcelona, art painted by friends, things we'd collected.  on the table in these pictures is good food, good cheeses and prosciutto and fresh figs and baguettes.  out the window i can feel the cold wind and i can see the pacific ocean and the bay bridge. 

our place was small for the five of us, but it worked.  we even had a washing machine and a dryer, and a dishwasher.  just down the street in the mornings we could buy fresh croissants and coffee and little meringue cookies in pistachio flavor.  if we went in the evening we could drink cold wine and eat a croquet monsieur sandwich and hear live music.  the ocean was near by with all it's sounds and smells and the feeling of sand between toes.  there were trolley cars to get down town and strange interesting people riding on them. 















 on sundays we walked to church in the mission, and hiked in the marin headlands with our best friends in the afternoon.  the world smelled like warm grass and fennel, and wet earth and the bodily scent of eucalyptus.  things were good. they were good.  we didn't even know how good.

but we talked often, in our tiny breakfast nook, about sustainability and how our life there wasn't. we talked about the cost of living and schools and daycare and buying a house?  and we whispered words like what about family? and what about zoe? and what about africa? so we packed it up and moved.  we flew out on a red-eye after eating sushi with my sister and her family, with three blonde pajama-ed kids and their blankies. 

when we landed and sat in north carolina in my parents mountain house waiting for our moving truck to arrive and to sign our mortgage papers, i cried a lot and panicked and tried several times to push the escape button on this decision we'd made.  we don't have to sign the papers.... we can turn that moving truck right around...i thought.

but we didn't. we moved into a lovely home in atlanta where we could still walk to get delicious treats, but they were bagels, and thin crust pizza.  where the world smelled more like the familiar east coast that i'd grown up with, and seasons became real again. and we thought we'd arrived somewhere permanent or as far as we could imagine permanent. 

four years later we moved to africa.

and now three years after that, i'm sitting in africa looking at pictures, and missing things- things like family and figs and live music and the smell of fennel.  and i'm still whispering words like what about zoe? and what about africa?

and this is life i think, at least life for me.  the asking.  the looking back.  the remembering and the dreaming ahead. this is life for me. sometimes when i look back i want to burst with the fullness of life and time and the seasons we have,  and then i realize that my moments now will soon join those memories.  that today will soon become pictures of what was and that i better savor it- all of it- the mismatched missionary clothes my kids run around in, their filthy red-dirt feet, my filthy red- dirt feet, their shaggy hair and lego litter, their kitchen concoctions and not yet perfect english. 

that i need to love their constant snack asking, their failure to shut the door and the joy it brings of trying to capture the cat and put her back outside, their (painful) dinner time retelling of lord of the rings scenes, their hour long group car ride singing of every name they know to "banana-fanna- fo-food- me-my-mo-mude- jude".

it goes and it goes fast and it goes faster every year.  so to try not just to live it- but love it, appreciate it, value it, own it, be in it, see it for the daily beauty that it is- sharing life together with whoever is in our life- it's worth it.  so worth it.

we gather these things into us.  these things that make us laugh and cry and need a nap, or a conversation or a glass of wine, or a run, or to write, these are the things that connect us and helps us ask the questions and find their answers- wherever we are, whoever we are, and whoever we are with.  so love it, do it, savor it, hold it, let it go- live it well.

mile 16

last night i couldn't type because i had aloe covering my right hand, to soothe the rope burn that ran across my fingers, because i have a german shepherd that is still a puppy but weights more than i do.  when i took him for a walk last night with my boys, things got a little crazy and i ended up with this friction burn that kept me from writing.  unfortunately it didn't buy me enough sympathy to excuse me from cleaning up the cat pee on the rug.  it killed! but it also taught me something.

because today it still hurt.  it hurt enough that in the shower i could really only use my left hand to wash my hair, and that is hard to do.  and that made me think of zoe.

i have taken long with out writing about zoe- not because things have been really good with her- and not because things have been so awful that i can't bear to write it- things have just been.  as. they. are.  as they tend to be. to have been.  to remain.  and there in lies the problem, or the trouble, or the pain, or the challenge, or all of the above.  i've never run a marathon, but i would imagine that when you are on mile 16 or so, beyond the halfway point, but nowhere near the finish, that you would just be exhausted- but not really want to give a report on things.  i would imagine you'd just want some water, and some distant cheering, but having a conversation would not be worth much.  i could be wrong, i've never run a marathon.

but having a child with special needs, to me, feels like my entire life has been running mile 16 over and over again, f.o.r.e.v.e.r.  it's like mile 16 but with no promise of only 10 more miles.  it's mile 16, but you've actually gone way more than 16 miles- you've gone for years- for me now 14 of them. and you are exhausted. and you don't know how to pace yourself, or in what context to place your life. it's not a race- that is obvious, but it is linear- there are goals, finish lines to cross- or so one hopes.



















i thought of zoe in the shower for two reasons.  one: she still struggles with taking a shower- all the steps, the opening of the shampoo bottle, the strength needed to effectively wash her hair, the overwhelming feeling of discomfort for her with scrubbing her scalp, soap in the eyes, etc.  and two: she often forgets she has two hands.  really.  sometimes i will watch her struggling to make her bed (after being asked 1,000,000 times and finally standing in her room to make sure she'll do it) and she will be struggling because she is only using her right hand.

i will say, "zoe- remember you can use your left hand too."

"ARRRGGGGHHH!!! i ALWAYS forget!!!!!"  she'll say.

and then i will be humbled again, and feel horrible that i've been annoyed with her, because if i spent my life only using one hand to make my bed, you'd have to ask me at least 1 million times too.  but it is so easy to get annoyed with her because  i can't imagine forgetting i have a left hand. it was all i could do in the shower today to stop forgetting to not use my other hand. i have no idea what it would feel like to go through life being that disconnected from your body, almost imposing your own limits when they don't need to be there, she has two hands that work, but forgets she does- how unbelievably frustrating her days must be! 

so this morning, i was reading buechner on faith and prayer, specifically, the relationship between faith and prayer.  now i think of myself as someone who doesn't struggle with faith.  i struggle with basically everything else- and i do mean everything- but believing in God and trusting in God- i don't usually wrestle with.  but when i was reading about prayer and healing and asking for things from God, i could clearly see the limitations of my faith.  i don't tend to pray boldly.  i tend to pray cautiously, politely, like in an oliver twist "please sir may i have some more porridge?"  way.

buechner wisely pointed me to that part in the gospel when Jesus heals the kid with what sure sounds to me like epilepsy.  and i think that maybe this part of the bible was put in there just for me, today, because the father of the kid, isn't even praying- but actually talking to Jesus in person- and he basically says, "please sir, if you don't mind and if you are able, could you maybe try to heal my son?"  this guy speaks his doubt. he appologetically throws it out there-not boldly, not taking risks really, just hoping for some small something.

that totally resonates for me. "so gosh, i know, there are worse scenarios, and i do know that zoe is a true gift from you, but if you have a chance, maybe, could ya, just give me a bit of patience today, because asking you to actually MAKE HER BRAIN WORK SO SHE REMEMBERS SHE HAS TWO HANDS (WHICH, P.S.  YOU GAVE HER) might be too much."

i get it. i do.

but what does Jesus say?  He says, if you can believe, all things are possible if you believe.  and this is where my problems start.  ok but REALLY?  ok but as a doctor, i HATE when people tell their loved ones that if they had enough faith they would be cured.  because i have seen the fall out of this kind of talk.  but Jesus doesn't say all things will happen. or depending on the level of your believe you will be healed.  He doesn't even talk about healing here- he says THINGS and he says  POSSIBLE.   and he says CAN and he says IF.  He acknowledges the challenge of this- the struggle- the hardness of believing. 

but the best is what happens next.  the father cries out with tears, "Lord i believe, help my unbelief!"  and that was enough.  i'm sure he had tears. i'm sure he was crying because in the moment when he was facing a possible solution, a cure, an end to mile 16, to this life long struggle for his son, it came down to his belief.  doh!!!!  so what does he do? he speaks his unbelief.  he asks for help in his unbelief.

 and i'm kind of thinking, 'that's allowed?'

YES.  and it's like everything else that Jesus says.  "I want to help you, come."  but i can't, i've done horrible things!  "come."  but i'll just keep trying to do it all right, to be a better person. "how is that working out? no, I got it, come." bring me your mustard seed size faith- and i will move a mountain.  bring me even your begging to have any speck of faith at all- and all things are possible.

wow.

that is what i'm left with.  wow.

so what am i doing praying for specks of change, drops of patience, tiny 'don't mean to disturb' improvements?  what am i afraid of?  i'm afraid it won't work.  i'm afraid of mile 16 forever. so i pussy foot around, i assume that i've done something to deserve, i think who am i to ask? i shyly stumble through our life on a shoestring budget of faith, when God says ALL things are possible, and then gives me permission to ask for help in believing that. 

and that is what i'm going to do.  "please reconnect zoe's brain- i believe you can- help my unbelief!"
"you said all things are possible,  i want us to move past mile 16, help my unbelief!"  "i believe she can know she has two hands. help my unbelief." 

thank you dog for giving me rope burn so i could feel a small bit of what it must be like to be zoe. thank you buechner, for reminding me that all things are possible.  thank you Jesus for hearing my doubt, for listening through it, for joining me and holding me and helping me to believe that with you all is possible.  so maybe mile 16 won't feel like mile 16 forever.

missing input

today i found a lizard in my underwear drawer.  i didn't really care, until i realized why he was in there.  i had hid the chocolate valentines candy that someone brought from america in that drawer. and to be honest, i hadn't hidden it there so that the kids wouldn't find it before friday, i had hidden it there so that I could eat it.  slowly by slowly. perhaps it was divine intervention.

 the other night, i listened to a TEDtalk that someone sent me on compassion.  i sat there entranced and loving it, not just what was being said, but because something was being said that was interesting and provocative.  because  there were so many ideas, and her sentences were so packed full.  even the title a linguistic resurrection for reconnecting with compassion was full and calling.

it gave me pause. it made me realize something that i really miss. really. 

i miss input. i miss stimulation. i miss new ideas or old ideas in new ways. i miss outside of the box thinking.  i miss this in my ears and in my eyes, i miss this in my mind.  i miss this in every arena of my life. at work. at church. and even on the playground.  in the paper.  and in down time.  i miss new music, i miss the constancy of exposure, art museums, seasonal festivals, live jazz, art films, book readings, academic lectures, late night TV talk shows.  i began to thirst for my american culture- meaning what was available at my fingertips. 

the TEDtalk made some really great points about compassion, it also made me feel the paucity of input in my life these days. and that was hard. 

hording reeces valentine hearts. picking through a bag of candy to remove the pieces that hare half lizard eaten. deciding which of the 4 messages asking for financial help i should or can respond to. deciding if we should make the drive into kampala for date night- or just skip it because it's so far. having simple conversations about things because of language or cultural barriers, or having the same conversations with those who get it- conversations about the coming here, or the leaving of here, or the hardness of here- or even the beauty of here- but that's not input - it's important and it's processing - but it can also feel like it's not living.

i think it's here- in the space of feeling that absence - that i can feel swallowed by africa.  that i can feel lost or changed or disconnected.  it's when i feel the 'sacrifice' of being here.  i miss higher level thinking that is not just about fixing something.  i miss a challenge that i'm not the only solution for. i miss hearing other peoples solutions.  i miss the bigger picture. the abstraction.

i spend so much time problem solving small stuff.  how and where to get this test done for this person, or this medicine for that person, or how to keep insulin cold for someone who doesn't have refrigeration.  or helping other people problem solve their lives- how to save for this or pay back that.  and it takes a lot of time and energy and effort. 

and so does the living of life here. i mean it takes a lot of time to look through candy and examine it for lizard teeth! living here takes longer.  living here take more work.  even little thing... for example, you can't buy a gallon of milk in a container that pours.... you buy 1 liter bags of milk and you freeze them so they stay fresh and then you have to remember to unfreeze them and then cut them (which requires finding the pair of scissors that works) and  pour them into a pitcher. (which is also 1 liter so it fits in the small fridge or worse yet, the recycled less than a liter mayonnaise jar because your 4th liter pitcher shattered).. it's the little things. time. effort.  maybe that is why week after week i'm amazed at how little i've accomplished.  how little i've written.  how little i actually have to say. 

but the truth is, the little bits of living are the living.  and the small things are important and valuable.  there are season of rich input, and seasons of needed output, and the biggest needed inputs i do have- the word of God- the love of people- the beauty of the world.  they are sustaining and life giving. and how amazing to live in a time and place where i can watch a TEDtalk while monkeys jump the trees in my front yard.

23

i have been meditating on the 23rd psalm.  when i say meditating, i mean reading it, trying to memorize it, and reflecting on it- i wish i was meditating - i'm not quite there yet.  this is one of the psalms of david.  the one about God being our shepherd.  the one about provision. the one about needs being met- no matter what.  the one about care and comfort and protection.

the Lord is my shepherd, i shall not be in want.
He makes me to lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside still waters,
He restores my soul.
He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake,

yea though i walk through the shadow of death, i will fear no evil, 
for You are with me. your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies, 
You anoint my head with oil,
my cup runs over.

surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life 
and i will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

what has been speaking to me most about these words, is the transition from "He" to "You".  in the beginning david talks about God in the 3rd person, but then shifts from speaking about God to speaking to God.

You are with me.

and when this happens is most interesting. this happens in the shadow of death.  this happens in the darkest parts. this happens in the terror and anguish of our lives- God becomes....real.  God becomes personal.  God becomes You, instead of He.

i get this. this transition. this change in awareness of who God is.  this becoming real and known. because it has been in the moments, the seasons, of need and helplessness, when i feel most trapped and scared and alone and unable, that i find the love and provision of God in an undeniable and palpable way.  when i feel the everlasting arms and they are holding me. when God goes from being an idea, to my father. 

maybe for some people they can go with "you" from the beginning. but not me.  i know that the hardest things i've walked through (some of them over and over again) have given me the gift of knowing the realness of God.  have given me the opportunity to feel those everlasting arms.

those same arms that were leading me here and there and making me rest beside nice places, became known in those dark valleys. in those hardest and worst ever times, when i am at my most lonely or scared or unlovable place- to know that i am loved and held and know and most importantly not alone- that is for me, it's worth it.  to know that.

 You are with me.