taking off the armor

“The original, shimmering self gets buried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all. Instead we live out all the other selves, which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world’s weather.” ~Frederick Buechner

it's the last day of the year. i'm looking back, so thankful for what i've discovered, learned, and grown into. so thankful for how God has worked, patched, remoulded, renewed, restored. so grateful for His ongoing timeless presence. for the continuum of His love. amazed by His provision. in. everything. this past year was a year of surrender. open hands. closed eyes. being led. of waiting. listening. heeding, deferring, obeying. so much is given when less is taken. abundance comes with relinquishment.

there is a self, i mostly wore against my world's weather.  a self of control. of pulling myself up by my bootstraps. of false belief that i can gather myself together and will change. this version of self likes to do big things- things like new years resolutions, things like 'none of this' and 'all of that'. this self often lives in extremes and is afraid that with out bold steps nothing will happen. afraid that with out psyching itself up for the game, it will lose. this self looks to outside things to regulate inside things. this self has a plan. always.  this self prefers noise to quiet, motion to stillness.

sometimes i read a commentary on a bible story that i've heard and read over 100 times, but something stands out that hasn't before. something means more than it ever did.  today it was the story of david and goliath. most people know it. small, young, shepherd boy kills giant enemy fighter with a slingshot and a stone. it's an amazing story for lots of reasons but what spoke to me this time was david's knowledge of his shimmering self in that moment.  what spoke to me was david taking off the armor.

the king had given him all of his own heavy protective wear. helmet, breastplate, shield, mighty sword. things to help david win. to give safety. things everyone knew were needed in a battle. things no one would ever question using in a fight. but david knew himself well enough, trusted himself and his God, to know that these items were not for him. not only were they not necessary, they would actually hinder him from success. his mission would have been jeopardized had he tried to do it with other people's tools.

my eager, controlling, fear-based self would have looked at my little slingshot and animal skin covering and thought that of course i needed the kings armor. that part of me would have thought, 'who am i to think i know better?' or perhaps in not wanting to offend the king, i would have ignore my inner self's prodding, and struggled out to the battle field all weighed down with someone else's ideas of what i needed.

i don't know a lot but i know this, we are each made uniquely for a purpose that only we can accomplish, and we can only accomplish it as we are, using what we have been given . maybe most of our years are spend tripping and falling under the heaviness of other people's armor. then there are the seasons of shedding the armor- probably one piece at a time, until we finally lay down the sword of another, and pick up our slingshot. life is the process of getting to know that shimmering true self and living in it. life is for helping each other see when we can't see, who's armor we are really wearing, and reminding each other of the beauty of our simple gathered stones.

tomorrow is january 1st. the first day of 2016. it's also just another friday. a day to wake up to, just like today was. to breathe in. to be in.  to look for our shimmering selves in. to lay down our coats and hats and stand in our skin as we face the world's weather.

the eve of Christmas eve

it's the eve of Christmas eve and i'm so grumpy. this is bad because this is the time of the year when i really don't want to be grumpy. this is the season of light and life and joy and giving and peace. but today it feels like the season of 'hot weather, dying moaning dog next door, and "no you can't have another pack of gorillos". it feels like the season of 'i've been to 10 different stores and no one has sprinkles for Christmas cookies'. the season of 'last years ornaments were eaten by mice', and the season of 'the power goes out when we want to watch a Christmas movie'.  it's the season of 'i've been promising to make a gingerbread house and it still hasn't happened'.

this is the fourth day of no school and i'm already done. i just want some time with out needing to make lunch (i mean they just ate breakfast, three meals? really?) or approve a snack or hear whining about not having power.  i just want some time to myself with no one else around- with no one else's energy.  i can hear them now, zoe is screaming at jude. there are yard tools in front of me,  i just eyed the panga, but did the wiser thing- 20 minutes in bedrooms for quiet time.

for me this is supposed to be one of those guaranteed good times of the year. so being grumpy now, feels like the worst.

but i'm learning to stop and listen. i'm learning to inquire with in and inquire of the Lord. to pause and try to understand the feeling instead of living from the feeling. so grumpy. what does that really look like inside? if i unpack it, it looks like a lot of other things. it looks like lonely, like missing family and cold weather and maybe even snow. it looks like tired, of single parenting and then transitioning back to double parenting.  it looks like feeling suffocated by my own goals and plans.

see grumpy is usually one of those emotions that i like to blame on other people. especially my children (see paragraph 2). "if you could JUST STOP leaving your stuff everywhere.....blah blah blah" or "why is it that EVERY time i try to go to the bathroom, you need to tell me something." but grumpy is not about them. grumpy, after looking inside, is about me.

and that matters because now i can breathe and look inside again see how i can tend to myself . because we all need tending, not just our kids, our selves. so i'm sitting outside and i'm letting myself feel sad that i'm 8000 miles away from my parents (all 4 of them) and siblings and extended family. i'm letting myself be sad that the weather is hot and nothing outside looks like my idea of Christmas. i'm recognizing that while this won't happen for at least the next 2 days, i need to carve out some alone time- as in silent retreat time.  and i'm trying to allow it to be okay if we never make the gingerbread house. breathe.

then there is an opening. a space that was missing before this process of interior listening happened. that space makes room to be thankful, and thankful is the opposite of grumpy.

there is a lot to be thankful for. tomorrow's Christmas party with a whole bunch of people who get the missing family, warm weather, sprinkle frustration. thankful for this breeze and the equatorial beauty that i love 11.5 months of the year. thankful for those 4 kids i like to blame my grumpy on. their laughter and creativity, their growth and insights, and just their lives. thankful that i have a partner to parent them with. and most real and relevant of all, thankful for Jesus who's birth looked nothing like my winter scene Christmas time advent calendar with glitter (which by the way, is not sold here).  the founder of Christmas time, before santa and snow and cookies with sprinkles became a thing. Jesus who knows the feeling of homesick, and tired and overextended, and even grumpy. i'm thankful for the entrance of Emmanuel, God with us, the giver of the most treasured parts of this season: light and life, joy and peace.

advent

this time between thanksgiving and christmas is my favorite time of the year. this is the time of advent. the time of anticipation. of waiting with eagerness. of expectation. the birth of Jesus. the intersection of the divine and humanity. the promise fulfilled. the answer given. the bridge between. the way forward. the hope. ultimate Love. this entering and the 30 years that followed, are summed up to me, as Grace.

this time is covered in a lot of stuff that has nothing to do with Grace, but has become linked and loved. things like snow, and little white lights, and candles and evergreens and cold outsides and warm insides and cookies with sprinkles and kindness. things like music and short days and eggnog.  all those outer symbols and traditions and expectations, are wrapped up in this season, and i actually like that.

but it makes it hard to be in the middle of africa during christmas time.  right now, the rainy season is ending. everything is lush and vibrant and it's about to get very hot and dry, just in time for christmas. i'm trying. we've put up the lights and made snowflakes and cozy spaces and are listening to handel's messiah - but it kind of feels fake. yet being here, with out the external things, is perhaps that much more real.

i've been doing a lot of internal work this year. work that involves listening to feelings and tending to them inside myself, instead of relying on others (or sparkly tank tops from target), to feel better. internal work like pausing and reflecting before speaking, or texting, or email sending. internal work like staying with hard feelings instead of running away from them or blaming others for them. internal work like being enough for myself, turning inward and finding strength from God- not the external things that seem to call like sirens - promising to meet my internal needs better than i can. but they don't. what they do, is reinforce that i'm not enough, that i'm dependent on someone or something or some place to be okay.

there is such relief in beginning to see that it's the external things that are fake. to begin to find in caring for myself with God's help, that i am stronger and more able. that life is more manageable, less chaotic, and more peaceful for everyone when i'm not grappling outside of myself. when i'm not leaking out everywhere in search of something to contain me.

maybe i'm worse at this then other people. maybe i'm learning at 44 what others learned when they were 14 or 4. but i am here. better late then never. i am without the christmas symbols i love, with out the familiar traditions, but i am learning, and this blossoming begonia and african sun are pointing me back to the center. to the core, that doesn't need leafless trees and icicles for the miracle to be true. maybe from here i can see it all more clearly.  that with this baby, came the Spirit. and with this indwelling Spirit came safety and strength and stillness. and the invitation to turn in and find wholeness. and Grace.

be thankful for you

there is a nunnery up the hill from me. once in a while when i'm walking the dog, i can hear them, singing. tonight from my open window, they are singing the halleluiah chorus from handel's messiah. it's. so. beautiful. it's a little gift.

this week is thanksgiving and the little things are worth noticing. like the abbey music. like the light pulling out the colors- of the bougainvillea, the sky, a mango tree. but today i want to be thankful for me, in my life. i don't do this very often and i bet you don't either. i'm really quite good at being annoyed with myself, frustrated and impatient with myself, tired of myself and  giving up on myself. and i'm pretty bad at appreciating myself- so i'm writing this for the most- of- the- times, when i forget that i'm okay.  i'm just going to look at today- this day- what i did and didn't do- and i bet if you do this, you will find that actually you are okay too. maybe you can be thankful for you too.

i got up at 6 (after only 6 hours of sleep) made breakfast for 5 people, packed lunches and snacks for 4 people, got 4 people to get themselves dressed, brushed, book-bagged, shoed and in the car, and put dinner in the slow-cooker. 

i remembered to mobile money to someone for transport to clinic; contacted the hospital where he'd stayed to get the receipts, so he can bring them to court tomorrow am- to try and get payment from the guy who hit him with his car. orchestrated how all this would happen with the police man from his slum.

spent time meeting with God, reading the bible and in prayer. meditated on forgiveness. prayed for help with forgiveness.

took a shower, got dressed. emailed work about our weeks schedule. sent mike a good morning message (as he's 8 hours behind). made a todo list. reviewed our community questionnaire for work. finished reading a book on development and community health. discussed with team changing our strategy. took a call about patient with a brain tumor. made several follow up calls about the mobile money, transport and receipt collection- half in broken luganda. ate lunch. researched successful development stories. went to bank where there was no money. photo copied the receipts. spoke with mike on the phone. picked up the kids at school. straightened out the after school sports/ clubs dilemma. when home. gave 4 people snacks. more phone calls about the receipts. replied to messages from employee about forgotten charger left at house.

left with bryn to get football boots, via the slum where i could drop off the receipts. needed to get gas. stuck in traffic, helped him with spelling and sentence structure while in traffic. wondered if / when i will run out of cooking gas. found person in slum to give receipts, went with bryn down to check on patient and leg. attempted to communicate with them about plans for tomorrow's court and next return to clinic. failed to get football boots b/c the used shoe bin didn't have his size. stopped in to check the balance on the modem before skype meeting tomorrow. drove home. walked the dog with jude. got in a fight with random dog walker whose dog attacked mine- ending with me shouting "you are fake!" while walking away and jude saying "mom he's laughing at you." (awesome- like i care?). strongly encouraged zoe to finish her table setting chore. confirmed rose's homework was done. asked someone to feed the dog. got everyone to wash their hands and sit down. replied to message from former patient. ate dinner. evening prayer. got ice cream for rose and bryn, did long division with jude, got zoe in the shower, sent christmas wish list to mike for jude, learned about the 40 new tech inventions by reading a post from a cool friend on fb. quickly reviewed the news and shared with the kids the ending of the northern white rhino- learned from jude that there are both northern and southern white rhinos - with some snow leopard facts thrown in. helped bryn find swim bag, videoed rose doing her version of tae kwando. tucked 4 kids in bed. locked up the house. refilled the water purifier. turned off lights. was handed a freshly fallen out tooth, with the request for money tomorrow (some people do not believe in the tooth fairy). spoke with best friend who lives in california. messaged with employee about plan for tomorrow. replied to request for a loan. lost power intermittently for an hour. read embassy alerts about pope's visit to kampala this week. messaged with my brother. replied to emails. wrote down the expenses for the day. brushed my teeth. put down the mosquito net. started to write.

while i'm sure that was incredibly boring and unhelpful- if you write out your day- you will see that you should be thankful for you.  we. do. a. lot. and that is to be appreciated- if by no one else, by yourself! you are amazing!! look at what you do! and what you don't do.  i only yelled at zoe once! none of my kids hurt each other or cried today. everyone ate three meals. (which is better than yesterday :).  it's the little things.

so today. be amazed by you! be thankful for you! you are keeping things afloat and you probably don't even consider that important. but it is. you are doing your life. even when it's boring and un-exotic, even when you wish you weren't. you are showing up and you matter. we are to love ourselves- it's actually a command- so be thankful for you! and if today felt like a flail- that's fine, because in 6 hours, you get to do it again :)

good night.

broken

what do i do with this? she's 16 now. not 9. has anything really changed? i mean significantly? besides the basics of multiplication and division?

it's been 7 years since i got the phone call to come pick her up from school. not just school but special school. because she was hiding under the desk. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.

now i got called again. to come and pick her up from school. not just school, but school with a full-time aide. because she was yelling. because it was all too much. because she was afraid and overwhelmed.

i have ptsd. i do. i have trauma around this- around having a child whose past has been so hard and whose future is so unknown- unpredictable. whose life has impacted mine more than i'd imagined. a child whose challenges have more than challenged me- they've demanded years of my life diverted. they've demanded career holds. they've screamed for time and more time, and patience and way more patience, and hope when hope is hard to find. they've taken hours and days and giving things up and doing things i didn't want to do. they've taken normal.

she hides and yells, and in someways i do too, but on the inside. because for me at times, it's all too much. and i'm afraid and overwhelmed.

today there was a new girl at school, visiting to see if she would go there. i'm sure she's lovely and trying and feeling new and out of place. but all zoe could see was another threat. another change. another person to have to navigate with socially. competition. disruption. so she unraveled. she couldn't put herself back together again.

when i got the call to come pick her, i tried to listen to the feelings inside. there were a lot of them. anger and fear and exhaustion and shame, with compassion and love and understanding buried beneath them.  i wanted so badly to clear off the top rubble and get to the good stuff. the stuff i know she needs. the stuff we all need especially after we unravel. and i know for her she was in the same boat- anger, fear exhaustion and shame covered her ability to love and have compassion and understanding for this girl, but also for herself.

that's my job really. to give that to her- to show her, model it for her. the getting out from underneath. the ability to access the good stuff. but how? how on earth can i?

i got in the car and i prayed. i told God that i needed Him to show up NOW. and in a BIG way. i told Him that i had pretty much no strength to dismantle my pile, let alone hers. i reminded Him, in case He'd forgotten, that she is really His child after all. and then i said "help" for about a kilometer until i reached school.

i didn't do a stellar job. i wanted to cry really hard and really badly but i didn't. she came running to me from the front office saying, "there was this new girl....etc". i told her we would talk about it later. she asked if i was mad. i said no. she asked if i was disappointed, and while i know the correct answer is also "no", i was disappointed with a lot of things, so i said "yes".  i watched that sweet child with her slight limp-walk, go grab her enormous book bag and we headed to the car. i prayed some more. something like, "this totally sucks and i'm about to cry and none of what i'm feeling right now feels like You are showing up by the way." as we drove out the guard flagged me down and asked for my exit pass. it was all i could do to turn the car around when i wanted to scream at her, "who cares about the blipping pass! can't you tell my life is about to fall apart again!!!"

as i returned to the car with my pass, i saw zoe in the passenger seat. she was looking out the window, maybe at me, maybe at the school, with that hard to read expression she has- probably because it matches her own hard to read feelings. she was looking out at the world through those glasses she's worn since age 3. looking out at a world that is way louder, and brighter, and scratchier and more confusing than my world. looking out from a seat of constant rejection, infrequent invitation, and the deep pain that follows that.  looking out from a body that is slightly bent, that doesn't always do what she asks of it, that forgets it has a left side sometimes.  looking out and wondering how to navigate it all, and why she has to be different.

i don't think i'll forget that face. maybe ever. it's blankness spoke so much- if you mix all the colors together you just get brown. and it broke me. it took away the anger. the fear and overwhelm moved aside and i could feel the love- the deep forever love a mom has for her babes. i could feel the compassion for a girl whose bad days make mine look foolish.

when we got home, even with the ugly bits moving over, i was still not fine. shame and fear were hanging around and anger had handed it over to sorrow.  she went upstairs with her kitten, and i came here to sort it out. to remind myself that God is often in the faint whisper, so i should quiet down and listen. then i told myself- all the parts and feelings- that i would listen to everyone- but they needed to soften so we could also hear God.  and this is what i got.

it's really just one bad day, not you life falling apart. there has been a lot of change in 7 years, not just math facts. she is my child, I'm just asking you to love her, not fix her. and by the way kris, you're broken too. My arms are big enough for both of you.

and that's enough for me to feel safe enough that i can find her, and enter in. and sit beside her in a world i don't begin to get, to listen, support and comfort. and then i'll return to those arms- and cry for a while, as i listen to my own grief in this, and all the other parts, and trust that the rubble will clear and from the dust will rise love, compassion and understanding.

i'm going upstairs to find her.

getting to real

i haven't written in a month. again. and i even promised myself that with mike away, i would write every day- like i used to, because it helps my brain communicate with my heart and my heart communicate with God, and that helps me take better care of my family and myself.

but in this season instead of me reaching up to God, He has been reaching down to me and bypassing my need to pull my brain and heart and Him together in writing. in His reaching down, He told me that i have stories and they will come.  and somehow i know that's true.

for my whole life, i thought i was truly passionate about something when i got this antsy, jealous, anxious feeling hearing about other people doing what i wanted to do. a pit in my stomach and a flutter in my heart at the same time. i first remember it happening when i wanted to go to medical school. and sometimes when someone was moving to a place i wanted to live, like san francisco. but it was strongest when people came and talked about international health, i almost turned green.  i so desperately wanted to hear what they were doing and how they got there, while simultaneously wanting to leave the room and instantly start the process of getting  there. then a part of myself (the wiser, truer part) would assure the younger, scared self, that there was no shortage of need for doctors in africa, so could i please sit still and listen, maybe we'd learn something.

it used to happen with hearing about adoption. and writing, for example, the explosion of momastery (although i love that glennon melton) and sometimes in smaller and less life impacting things.  an undercurrent of anxiety, of uneasiness with my life. a fear that somehow i was missing out, or i'd gotten it wrong. or that i was about to miss the boat. and it all has to do with control and fear.

i really don't fear the things i can't control- accidents, illness, political unrest- but i appear to be pretty afraid of the things i do have some control over, my career, where we live, adding more children.  because if something just happens to you, all you can do is deal with it, but if you mess up your own life? you have to deal with it, and the awful reality that you are the one who messed it up! 

but now where is God in that? where is mike in that? it's a lot of "i's". because underneath the fear and control, and fear of the control, this is about identity.

who am i? what am i supposed to do on this giant spinning ball?

last year at this time, i left the place i wanted to live and i left international health, and i returned to my cold new england roots in the winter time- because God reached down and found me.  He found me spinning and tired. He found me worn thin to the bone. He found me doing the things i had pushed ahead to do, but lost to myself. and He loved me enough to call me close to Him and tell me who i am. 

i am His. beloved.

and while for years, i had tried to tuck that under my belt and carry on with my agenda, pushed by fear and feigning control, and fight to find myself, what mattered most was lost in my pocket. i am His. as i am, where ever i am. known. loved. (known and still loved). waited for. searched for. held. amazing. there i was, not where i wanted to be, not doing what i wanted to be doing, but learning to trust that i am enough- even with nothing. and that i am strong, really strong in Him. because when you feel that level of known-ness and loved-ness, the fear goes. it just goes. and when you give up trying so hard to build who you're supposed to be, so you can be happy, you get peace and freedom.  peace that replaces that river of anxiety. and a freedom that is way better than arriving at where you feared you'd never arrive. a freedom to be only who you were made to be- and everything that you were made to be. no more, no less. 

when you break open, you get to real.
and real is what we are all searching for anyway.
 so there are stories, and they are beginning to come.

safe

last night i was on my weekly skype call with my therapist.
yes, i said therapist.
yes, i said weekly.
yes, i said over skype. i'm in africa, she's in the US, we make it work- so that i can work. so i can learn to show up well for myself, and hopefully for my family, and the rest of the people who come in my life. God is here with me all the time, and she is with me for an hour a week.

last night i was lying down in the bed on skype because i'm recovering from a horrific bout of amoebic dysentery. good times.  especially good times when you are single parenting- when you're outnumbered 1 to 4 - and as i must always mention, one of them is zoe (which really makes me outnumbered 1- 6, she counts as 2, believe me).  i had successfully gotten everyone to bed, or close enough, but i hadn't locked the door. 5 minutes into the session, in walks zoe with an american girl doll, wanting me to help add a watch to the dolls outfit, and struggling to understand why i couldn't and wouldn't stop whatever i'm doing to assist. i calmly shuffled her out and promised to help in the morning (which i'm now realizing i still haven't done- 4:30 pm). 

when i returned to the computer, my therapist said that my interaction with zoe sounded calmer than the week before - when zoe had again barged in but that time with a more "urgent" need.  and because she's a therapist she wondered if that was a reflection of my overall state of well being, being more well. and i said yes- in someways- because in some ways it's true, but that really zoe can unravel a very well being (if that being is me). she just can. or i can just let her.

and with that, i cried, probably because i was exhausted and felt alone,  and had been to the bathroom 18 times in 12 hours, and because with zoe, it's. so. hard. and it has been for years. and it will be for years.

and then i said some of those things that sit at the bottom of your heart that you don't usually let have a voice. things that were all about me. about the unfairness of it. about the exhaustion and the constancy. about how she keeps me from being the parent i want to be. about how because of her, i get frustrated and i yell, and i feel like i don't make home a safe place for her, or for the other kids. and that was the bottom line. i want my home to feel safe- and my home is really me and mike- so i want to be  safe.

God has kind of been putting this on my heart. He's been asking me to reflect on this. to consider parenting with that as my goal- being their safe.

safe
: not able or likely to be hurt or harmed in any way : not in danger
: not able or likely to be lost, taken away, or given away

: not involving or likely to involve danger, harm, or loss

because the world is full of hurt and harm and danger. it's full of getting lost and being taken, and being given away. it's full of loss.  it just is. and it has been forever and it will be forever.  i can't protect them from it and i wouldn't want to. because all that stuff makes us who we are on the inside, it shapes who we become.  my job as their mom is to help them build the frame through which they will learn to look at those hurts and those lost seasons. to teach them that the frame we build, matters more than the harm that comes our way or that we walk into. because those dangers, those losses must go through our frame before they become part of who we are. and i want to help them become the best of who they are.

of course it's not zoe's job, to behave in a way that allows or helps me to be safe for her. it's the opposite! it's my work to see where she is, how she is, and get to a place myself, where i can help her feel safe, and that makes the others feel safe too. but it was important to say that deep in there, some part of me blames her for my inability to manage myself well. it was important because once you give those things a voice, you can look at them in the light, and you can see that a part of yourself is so scared. a part is scared and overwhelmed.  a part is herself, young and in need of support and care and love. we must tend to ourselves to tend to others. we must love ourselves well to love others well. and the only way i've found to do this- to love and tend to myself- is to open up the closets and cabinets and other hiding spots inside of me- and say "all are welcome", "bring it".  bring all the fears and the sadness and the unjust things, the silenced things, the previously un-welcomed things, the ugly things, bring them to the light.  only when i am split open, vulnerable with myself and Jesus, only then can i really love me because it's all of me. all of me is allowed. all of me is showing up. and i'm not too much for Him.

when i'm sitting there, with all of myself and the everlasting arms are wrapped tightly around me, so none of me falls away, that is where i feel safe.  and from that safe place- i can love my husband and i can love each of my kids, as they are, with all of me.
 
so that is where safe begins.  safe begins with me. safe begins with me taking a moment to pause, to listen internally, to gather myself, to sit in the silent, calming presence of Love, in the Arms.  from that place of safety, i can untangle from her. from there, i can learn to be her safe.

retreat

last weekend i went on a women's retreat.

on this retreat, i was there alone. meaning, i knew no one, almost. i had had one coffee with the woman who i was sharing a room with, and i had met one other woman, once. but basically- i was alone. and that was good because the last time i retreated alone but with other people, i met God met again. and that was real real. in the wind, in the grass, in the sounds of the leaves and the light, speaking as God does, in my heart. the things spoken were so desperately needed, so craved, that i sat in that garden and cried. because i was so known. because i felt so loved. held. promised. safe.

that was the first time i'd gone away with a group where i knew nobody. it was a strange experience. i'm not shy and i don't suffer from social anxiety, but i realized after a few minutes that when no one knows you, first impressions matter- as in- they kind of define you for the weekend.  so i had this moment of wondering who i was? or who i should be? or wanted to be? and then i remembered that we are so not one thing, that trying to decide about which version of myself to be for 2 nights, was going to be exhausting, and that just showing up as myself - even if a very shabby, tired and swiss cheese self- was going to have to be fine.  that what really mattered was showing up for myself, which i had become very bad at.

that is what not retreating is, it's not showing up for yourself. and it's hard to show up for yourself, if you have forgotten who you are, but that is all the more reason to retreat.

retreat- the process of moving back or away from, especially something hazardous

that weekend was in new england in the spring. it's theme was about gardening our lives. i had just emerged from a very long, cold, snow-filled winter, i was desperate for spring.  i had just emerged from an even longer season of knowing that life is hazardous.  of knowing the danger of not pausing, not reflecting, of not moving back but rushing straight ahead into enemy lines- where harm happens.

i have a deep desire to be known. known and still loved. known and forgiven my flaws and still loved. known and loved- as. i. am.  this is what God does, only better. because God knows my truest self- the one i can't even see fully- the one i try to stay close to when i find part of it before it slips away. and God also knows that girl who showed up alone on a retreat wondering who she was, and He loves her.

it's more amazing to be loved when you are so lost. when you can't remember. when it takes a long time to see yourself the way God sees. so that time in the early spring of sitting with God in the garden and feeling that known and loved feeling, was life changing.

this retreat was different. it wasn't that it was in africa, or that i knew one person instead of no one, or that God didn't show up (because He did). it was different because i am different. because i didn't wonder who i was to be, because i didn't see me in versions. because i have learned to internally retreat. to show up for myself. to be okay with where i am and to know that a known, open, vulnerable swiss cheese self is better than a neatly packaged gouda self, because it's true. because it's real.

and all of that honesty and wholeness, makes me happy.  to be still on the inside, to be still and known.

saying "i'm sorry"

today i went looking for an article i'd read in the huffington post about, once again, parenting.  but instead i found an article on getting older, which was hysterical and, because i could remember neither the title nor author nor even the point of the parenting article i was looking for, relevant.

this said article, which i never found, did that thing that most huffington post articles about parenting do; make me feel everything at once.  i read along thinking that i've kind of got this thing, but i could definitely do it better -  that i will absolutely try, because i love my kids - but that honestly, the person writing this doesn't have my kids. i usually laugh, or laugh and cry, but i always cry because in reality, i'm not actually evaluating my parenting, i'm evaluating my person. internally it reads, "i'm probably okay - no, i definitely suck - there may still be hope - or not - oh well, it could be worse." because feeling everything at once feels like i've already, completely messed my kids up for life, but somehow also hopeful that tomorrow is another day, and while i know that i will probably only change my behavior by maybe one degree, for an hour, at least i know i'm teaching my children the essential lesson of saying "i'm sorry" - because i've gotten very good at that. 

that is the conclusion i ALWAYS end up with. usually it's enough to go on about my business with a dented, yet semi-intact ego.  but not this time. the article had something to do with supporting our kid's sense of worth, of home being emotionally safe, about growing their little self-images to be strong and mighty. no this time i couldn't go about my business because suddenly i saw that while i think i'm modelling self-reflection and humility, if i don't EVER change my behavior, i'm still doing damage, and modelling the damaging behavior, and so teaching that "i'm sorry" doesn't mean very much. my usual positive spin, had become the negative trifecta!

oh dear. crap.


apparently saying "i'm sorry" later, doesn't undo calling someone a 'dingbat' in the heat of the moment when you find a liquified, rotting banana in their school bag....again. and saying, "please forgive me, you're really not an idiot" post reflection, doesn't make it less likely to be believed.  all of the i so wish i didn't say those things moments came flying back to me like boomerangs.

"don't be a twit"
"those blank-ity blank kids!"
"stop behaving like a bunch of banshee monkeys!"

i don't even know what banshee monkeys are.

that is when i realized (sorry mom) that we are such creatures of habit. that perhaps i'm less likely causing my kids to believe they are empty-headed (dingbat) and foolish (twit) and that "blank-ity blank" must be a bad word, as i am handing down a pattern of shouting absurdities that will come flying out of their mouths in 20 years when they find decomposing food items and shoes left everywhere, and when their kids won't stop smacking each other in the way-way back seat.

i need to work on this. i do. on pausing, on tolerance, on choosing laughter. and i will, for at least an hour :)

but "i'm sorry" does count for something. it say, "i'm not just your parent, i'm human. you don't grow out of saying or doing things you regret. everyone has bad days. we make mistakes even when we're older. we are not just 2 parents taking care of 4 kids, we are 6 people living together. trying counts. forgiveness is essential. it's important to admit when you're wrong."

i guess i think honesty provides emotional safety. that self-worth is ultimately found in believing God made you and loves you as you are, that it's strengthened by parents valuing you for who you are not what you do, and loving you even when you are acting like a twit (thank you mom). that self-images can only be strong and mighty when you know that people who have your back will always have your back, and when you see the ones you look up to as strong and mighty, able to be real and vulnerable too.

so i try to do those things. and i mess up. and i will keep saying, "i'm sorry." but i do hope it becomes a little less often.

(oh, and according to the merriam-webster dictionary, there is no such thing as a banshee monkey. but banshee means : a female spirit in Irish and Scottish stories who cries loudly to warn people that someone is going to die soon
in which case the combination very appropriately describes my children.) 

healing leaves

that moment.

that delicious moment when they drive away to school and i know that i have the house, alone, completely alone, at least for a little while.

i am home. a new home in a known place. i am new and known. there is sameness and difference. stability and change.  the world changes, God is the same. that source of love and light that stays and is, where ever we are. we are somewhere between. in time. on a journey, changing to know and become more of that light and love.

i woke up wide at 4 am, killed the mosquito in the net and wrestled sleep for a couple of hours. at 6 it was still dark but time to begin. i had 45 minutes until the fullness of the house happens. it starts slowly- child by child- escalating in volume and remembering things and shoes and bags until the car heads out of the driveway. and then...that silence.

we have been back home in uganda for 5 weeks- in someways forever, in other ways it's brand new. we have moved into the city, eliminating our 3 hours in the car each day, and having to find out where, in this place, to buy vegetables and airtime and cooking gas.

our house is on a hill and is filled with light and breezes and i have to admit that from my bedroom veranda (yes i said i have a bedroom veranda) i can see lake victoria. and that is only because that is the way that God provides- above and beyond what we can ask or imagine. it's a gift of peace and refreshment that i didn't ask for or imagine- and it's fantastic.

all i asked, was to come home. all i wanted was to return and to return re-assembled but correctly assembled. even if i landed in a hut- i wanted to return.

i came here four years ago like an ikea bed. ready to be put together quickly and used, assuming wholeness, but missing some key bolts and screws. not enough that i couldn't serve my purpose, but enough that with time, i wouldn't be strong enough to withstand the pressure of those using me, those needing me.

but, Jesus is a carpenter. God is a repairer of broken walls. a healer. a mender. one who values and loves the core of us. is not afraid of our broken bits. sees our wholeness.  is big enough, to hold us when we break apart, put us back together wholly, glued with grace, and from this place our cracks and scars tell the story of Love. from this place, we begin to shine.

i'm one of those people who never reads the introduction or the preface.  i just want to get to the good stuff. it even bothers me that people write an introduction or a preface. i enjoy a quote- and then chapter one.  but today i began a book and i began with the introduction. the book is called "the journey to wholeness in Christ" and because it is about a journey it seemed appropriate to prepare by reading the intro.  thank God. because i would have missed words i needed to hear.

there is a lot in the bible about gardens and fruit. about bearing fruit and being connected to the vine, about the kind of fruit we should grow and how we should tend to things.  but this was about leaves. "Their fruit will serve for food, and their leaves for healing." Ez 47:12

healing leaves. it is a beautiful image. perhaps because i am surrounded by them and they make nice sound when the wind blows them. perhaps because they can be medicinal, or eaten, or provide shade from the sun and cover from the rain. perhaps because they come in such different shapes and shades, as we do.

we need different things, at different times. often, we are each other's healing leaves. at times we can give shade, protection, or salve. sometimes we bring music, or color, and joy. we give and we need to receive.

but when we give our stories, when we share our broken, when we hold each other in the suffering and the mending, when we show our scars, when we listen; it is the story of Love.

and the light begins to shine.

listen

the wind moves and speaks and silences. there is much in it. there is revelation. there is presence. there is comfort. there is grace. but you need to be still. still enough to notice.

it touches you. but you can't grasp it. or hold it. or gather it. or contain it. you only experience it.

experiencing it is only possible in relation to its affects. the things it brushes against. it moves the leaves- i can hear it. it shakes the trees- i can see it.  on my skin- i feel it. somehow, support. somehow enough.

there can be long periods of quiet- or subtlety-there can be movement over another hill, in another forest, across the water- where i am not, but always, it returns to me.

God is in the wind. He knows i need reminding- when i need to see and hear and feel him.  He knows when i am listening, when i'm looking.

and when i'm not.

i should pay more attention to things that blow away. to the loudness of the wind at times- the force that can be so strong it's hard to walk against. but sometimes i push on. sometimes i fight my way through. sometimes the greater the strength of it, the more determined i am. sometimes, if it's cold, i might even get mad.

but what if.....

what if i stopped. right there. what if i put down my bags. what if i put up my hands. what if i felt the fullness of it.  what if i asked what i was to hear? what message was there for me? what if i was open to it? what if i stood in the glory of it- hot wind or cold wind or rainy or snowy wind- what if i released what i'm clenching, lifted my face to the sky, and said, "here i am."

exposed

it all started the day she ate three earth worms.  that was the day that i knew i needed to write out my life. to speak the things that felt like they were killing me slowly. to stop just feeling like i was always living with my underwear showing and actually admit that it is. that is what life with zoe often feels like. exposed.

i used to go to overnight summer camp.  there was a girl's camp and a boy's camp and we ate our meals together in the common dinning hall. every night after dinner, there was a time, a most dreaded and feared time, when the head counselors distributed the various items they'd found in the bath house to be claimed by their rightful owners . it started with goggles and swim caps and it always ended with underwear. they would hold up someones abandoned panties and that poor person was supposed to fetch them- right there in front of everyone. and because it was camp, and everything was labelled, if you didn't get them, they would read the name attached to the underwear.  i don't know which was worse, everyone seeing your underpants? or knowing that you were walking around with out any on.

i was a shy kid and this was my idea of a nightmare. so even though i was always sure to check the bath house and my pants before leaving the swimming area, i was sure that somehow, my underwear would magically end up back there and i'd be called out after dinner. it never happened, but for 30 nights straight, i had a knot in my stomach between finishing my pudding and walking to the cabin. i didn't want to be exposed. vulnerable. laughed at.

going through life with someone 'special', exposes all the vulnerability everyone feels but is so good at hiding. zoe says and does exactly and whatever she is feeling or thinking, no matter where we are. and that makes people very uncomfortable- except for a few who find it refreshing that pure honesty still exists. zoe lets out the hurt, the frustration, the fear, the anxiety, the side-splitting humor that all of our days are made of, without filtering it.  it's just raw. so i spend a lot of time trying and failing to help her work out the stuff that the rest of us not so special people, do on our own and keep to ourselves.  her internal battles are loud and intrusive and external and hard to deal with. she doesn't just wear her heart on her sleeve, she wears her brain on her sleeve.

for 5 years, i have written here about our life- exposed. about what it feels like to have the challenges of living with and parenting someone with a differently-abled brain. about the pain of it, the humor in it, and the lessons learned - which are mostly me seeing my own brokenness and being so thankful for the Grace of God.

i was in the car the other day with the kids, and i turned around to ask if everyone was being gentle with the inchworm that bryn had found.

that is when i had a moment. 

"i ate it mom." zoe said.

zoe who is now almost 16.

"i hope it was good." that was my response.

and that was when i had my moment.  i remembered the earthworm incident. i remembered the bewilderment and the despair that ensued- the feeling of oh dear God, what is next?

but instead of having that mind numbing feeling of complete bafflement, of who does that? and why would you? and what does this mean for the rest of my/ our life? i could finally see that it just is what it is. only.

and that is what, in a lot of ways, life with your underwear showing becomes. it just is what it is. as it is. no matter what. we are all weird and fascinating, odd and amazing, we live small moments and very large ones. we share breathing and waking and hurting and longing- making surprisingly bad choices and astonishingly good ones too. we share fear and joy, loss and growth, regretted memories and cherished times. 

maybe the exposure is the gift. it strips off the layers we hide behind. it lets us see life and people differently. the truth of us. broken and held. band-aided together and trying.

accidentally on purpose

i landed here 8 months ago for a 10 day trip that will have turned into 10 months.  this was accidentally on purpose.

what does that mean? it means exactly that.

it was by mistake that i ended up experiencing 're-entry' from the mission field, but it was completely God's plan. it was by mistake that i was present for the longest, coldest, snowiest winter in new england, but it was all known by God.  it was by mistake that i was able to sit beside my friend and second father jud carlberg in his last few weeks of life, but it was God's gift to me- on purpose.

that is the way so much of my life has been.  an 'oops' followed by a 'thank you'.

my mess ups, God's beautiful clean ups. a 'help!' followed by a 'wow!'

maybe it's because the snow finally melted and then there were buds, and birds and green, and i am outside in my skin again- that i am able to step out and see.  that i am able to look at the 'on purpose' part of this season of seasons, in my life.  and what i see when i turn around- is God. everywhere. 

God called me home from a place of lostness. a place of brokenness. a place where i had forgotten what whole looked like. i had lost my vision. lost my mission. lost my words. i had really lost my true self. i had become my worst self. but even though i was barely listening, off in the distance i could hear a familiar and very safe voice.  a voice that has never disappointed me. a voice that said- you are still loved.  you are still my child. return to me. from where i was, i didn't believe it, and i couldn't do it.  so it kept on.  relentlessly pursuing. and it got louder, and i began to accept the child part, but not the loved part, and i didn't return. so it kept on. faithfully calling. and it got even louder, or more frequent, or maybe i started to listen. and finally i surrendered.  that was all i could do from where i was. i sat down. it was the first step in returning, and that happened before i could believe the still loved part.

there were things i thought i knew that i really didn't know. there were things i believed that i believed, that i really didn't fully believe. i see life differently now having gone through the fall and winter. having come into the spring.

growing up with a dependably changing physical environment, forms you. the patterns and rhythms of the outside become a part of your internal patterns and rhythms. but i have been away from the extremeness of the north east for over 20 years. it seems appropriate to be here now, to have been here for these months of metamorphosis. because just as the outside called to me as a child, the air and trees and the color of the ground called to me over these months.  

wait. put on your coat. dormancy is necessary for growth. there is a time of rest. of quiet. of stillness. of death. things necessary for life.

so i did because what else could i do? i made tea and wore a wool poncho and waited for things to melt and bloom. again. because things always do- i've seen it many times. and it was long, and it was dark (because winter is), and i was cold and i cried a lot (because i needed to). i needed to let things die, so i could be free, untethered and from that place, i could begin. again.

whole. new. held. invited. alive. welcomed. watched over. full. guided.

breathing.

the air is warm, the sun is hot, i feel my skin again, my boundaries- where i end and the world begins.

in two months, i will get on a plane and return to my home of dry and rainy, gold and green.  the days will start and end at the same time, and there will be no physically long, dark times. there will be no completely barren, colorless seasons. four will become two, loud and wet or hot and dusty, alternating like day and night. and i will need to be in my skin and learn to hold on to things differently, and to release, and gather, with internal seasons in mind. to know when to wait. to prune. to plant. to trust. to trust the maker of all of it. to trust Him with all of me.

learning to abide

i'm sitting at our makeshift desk, surrounded by windows, in the morning, as it finally becomes spring. i'm drinking a cup of tea, because it is a season for tea, and abiding. tea instead of coffee, and abiding instead of bearing.

i've spent most of my adult life drinking coffee and bearing things. attempting to bear fruit (isn't that what we're called to do)? to produce things- an educated self, a married self. to bear babies that we will bear into children, to bear good things from our work, to be busy, to do, to do more, and if we can, to do even more. we become these things, our products and achievements, we measure ourselves and each other by them- the amount and the type of fruit we bear. even the good fruit that Jesus talks about- the fruit of the spirit- i tend to measure it, and to make it into something to do, not something to be. my 'doing' looks like 'trying'.  i expend effort- thinking about it, reviewing the day before to evaluate my fruit, beating myself up for failing- again, and again- to bear good fruit.  i have learned that i'm really good at bearing the fruits of frustration and anger and impulsivity and impatience.

that is because i. can't. DO. it. i'm not supposed to. if i stuck a branch outside and expected it to grow grapes it wouldn't. it needs to be attached to the vine and the ground and the earth and when it is, the grapes just come. when the system is intact- the fruit just comes.

Jesus says bear the delicious fruit of love and kindness and gentleness. fruits of patience and self-control. fruits of peace and joy and faithfulness. but He also says abide in me. and if you do, you will bear these things- you will have them and give them. and all of these fruits make me happy, and help me to make other people happy.

i spend a lot of time forgetting the abiding part! i spend time gathering the resources i think i will need as a branch, standing alone, to grow my own grapes. and it doesn't work. instead it makes me exhausted and often the opposite happens, i don't become barren, i make ugly fruit. fruit that makes me unhappy and helps me make other people unhappy too.

so this has been a season of learning to abide. a long cold winter, the longest and coldest i've known- but necessary- as i have learned to stay- to remain- to live in- to dwell- to abide in God. to feel the everlasting arms around me. to be hemmed in, behind and before. to know that i am known. and loved. held and sheltered. protected and fed. watched over and waited for.  called to and invited back. forgiven. safe. allowed to just be. and to grow.

it has been a time of being quiet. of listening more than talking. reading more than writing. being filled up again and tended to. and i'm finding that abiding itself is delicious. and it's not just allowed, it's required. contemplation- prayer- learning the words of God- are the soil and water and sun.

this is a season of drinking tea and abiding. the spring is coming- there are buds on the trees, and buds of peace and joy and faithfulness. there are some leaves on the low bushes, and some leaves of patience and self-control. there are orchid blooms and forsythia, and blooms of love and kindness and gentleness. and in time, there will be a season of bearing fruit.

time again

how did it get to be april 13th already?
it was just not that long ago that it was september 13th. and i was home. and the sun was hot. and the earth was red.

now we have survived the longest winter i've known in 18 years.
but yesterday it was warm enough to be called hot if i sat in the sun and out of the wind - and my skin felt good for the first time in seven months.

three years ago.
three years ago today. rosie came.

how strange to be celebrating her anniversary with snow still on the ground. on the other side of an ocean. far away from what we call home.

sometimes it feels like too much time has passed and i begin to forget. sometimes i can just close my eyes and be there. like right now. 

time is strange- we can't let go of it, out run it, or avoid it- it's just there with the coming and going of the sun. and there was evening and there was morning - the first day. God gave it to us. it's a gift, He knew we needed it because we are small enough that not having time would swallow us up- or at least me. this way, i get to begin again. and again. each day, each week, each season, each year. each minute if need be. and need often be.

her birthday is coming too. six years old. half her life with us- the half she remembers. three of my kids have lived most of their remembering years on the other side of the world.  not here, booted and coated.  but there, barefooted, bare-chested and free.

today before school, we read something from the bible, because it has become even more, my most precious book.  because it's really what i want them to know- words that draw us nearer to Love. words that bring life and light, and hope and healing, and joy and peace. today it was jeremiah-  for I know that plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a future. then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. you will seek me and find me when you seek me with all of your heart. I will be found by you. 

God is full of promises and truth but God doesn't need time so that can make communicating hard. we are tied to it- He isn't. He knows, we don't. we see now, He sees always at once. so things that don't seem like prospering, things that seem full of harm, are only a part of a story that's already written. we are stuck in chapter two, and when chapter two is full of challenge, it can be hard to hold on to promises- it can be hard to call, and pray, and seek. 

i asked the kids what challenges they feel.  they all said being away from home. and they meant uganda.  i get it. i feel it too. but there has been something in this long cold winter that has spoken to me. quietly.

time in new england is visible. palpable.  its passage is written in the trees and the grass and in the light. a knowledge of things changing. of life returning. growth. awakening. renewal. things becoming restored. this is exactly where i should be now, the story outside the window gives a voice to my own story.

in looking back, because we can in time, i know there are some seasons when God does more than know and listen and be found.  there are some seasons when God is more than waiting, seasons when He does the seeking and the calling and the reaching and finding.  and this time, for me, is that time.  i have been found. again. and when someone goes looking for you, you know in a way that you may have never fully know before, that they love you. like really, truly love you. and being loved by the one who made time and spring and everything, is huge. is enough. no matter what.

that knowing, is worth a thousand winters.

in about three months, when the world here is green again, and our skin feels good all the time, we will finally be heading back home.  and from the other side of the world, we will look back to now and marvel at how time keeps on going, and wonder how it could already be august 13th. we will remember the months of snow and silence. the stillness of winter. the waiting. and the soft calling of God- who knew all along.

and it's only 8:17

oh dear.
today did not go well. and it's only 8:17 am.

maybe it feels particularly bad because lately i've been doing particularly well. lately i've been managing my life by giving it up, by letting it go, by asking God to come on in and clean house. and it works so much better than when i'm grappling for control of my life with my sticky little hands.

but today, i guess i forgot.

lately, i've been reading a lot about what is underneath the 'rules'.  about not just how we are to live, but why we are to live that way. and it pretty much comes down to love, obedience and peace and joy.  Jesus said we are to love. everything else flows from this. if we love each other, really love each other, we wouldn't lie or cheat or steal or insult or manipulate or gossip or betray or kill or ignore each other.  and if we felt the love of others, really felt the love, we wouldn't over eat or over drink or over spend or hurt ourselves or isolate. and if we loved ourselves, we would come from a place of knowing our own value, of security, safety, and wholeness.  i think we can't love, really love well, anything including ourselves, until we understand that we are loved first. loved by God. and we are. but sometimes, i forget.

today, i think i forgot.

it's tuesday. we were rushing. the first to leave is mike, then zoe, then the other three.  zoe is, of course, the hardest. it's not her fault....or is it? we had eight minutes to go time. her last tasks- brushing her teeth and her hair- are upstairs tasks, and sending her upstairs is a great risk- a risk that she will never return. upstairs is where her toys are, and her brothers and sister, and pretty much everything more desirable then completing her tasks. and, if she decides to use the bathroom? forget it- she will miss the bus.

so today, at 7:02, i sent her upstairs to finish getting ready. now i know, after 15 years of getting her out the door in the morning, that if i really want her to be ready on time, i pretty much need to be at her side, but see, i don't want to.  i don't want to have to.  i want her to be able to do it on her own.  i want her to grow a sense of time.  i want her to have that internal clock that she lacks.  i don't want her disability to disable my morning cup of coffee.

at 7:06 i called from the bottom of the stairs, there was silence. doh.

i went up. she was in the bathroom, on the toilet, looking guilty, with her hands behind her back.

oh dear.

suddenly memories start flying at me from old, dark places. memories of her at age 9. memories of her in the bathroom, with stuff on her hands that shouldn't be on her hands. memories of sadness, anger, confusion, helplessness, hopelessness, and feeling very, very alone.

i asked her to show me her hands, which she did, and they were covered in spit.
i suppose i should have been relieved. but i wasn't.  what welled up in me was the opposite of love. it was fury. anger. confusion. and it was old, and dark.

this would have been a good time to shut the door and take a deep breath and decide that perhaps today, missing the bus might be okay.  that maybe in love, the right thing to do would be to try, really try, to understand. to be present for her. to accept her. to forgive her weird sensory things that i don't get. to let the big picture dominate. to realize that the bus doesn't really matter, 7:10 doesn't really matter, being late doesn't really matter- but her feeling loved and valued? that really matters.

but do you think i did that? no.

do you think those things even crossed my mind as options at 7:08? no. they didn't. there was a bus to catch and three other children to get up and ready.

so instead, i reacted out of a place of fear, wearing the mask of anger- because anger is easier. instead i opened that awful weapon on my face called a mouth and shouted at her. "you complete moron!!!" while throwing the hand towel at her. "clean that up!!!"  "what is wrong with you???"

oh dear.

there was no love in that. none. all i could think was that somehow she was punishing me. that she was purposely wasting time and doing things that she knew would make me mad, instead of choosing to do what she had to do.

when she came downstairs, she was muttering that she's an idiot and why was she even born, and i was still so mad that i told her to just be quiet and get in the car. something about the freezing cold air cooled me off and i asked her to please, for the love of God, tell me what she was thinking? why there was spit all over her hands???

"because there was too much spit in my mouth and i was on the toilet so i didn't know what else to do with it."

i'd like to say that i just stopped there and said i was so sorry and i get it and please forgive me.  but i didn't. instead i told her that she should have just swallowed her spit like everyone else does. that she needs to be more aware of time and tasks, and that i shouldn't have to worry about her doing things like this. i was basically asking her, to try to understand me. doh.

and then a piece of my heart broke.

it didn't break because of spit and not knowing what to do with it. it didn't break because she lacks any sense of time.  it broke because i forgot to love.  because my words and my tone, hurt this beautiful child, demeaned her, and caused her to question her very worth and value.  and my most important job as her mother is to do the opposite of this. to affirm her, as she is. to encourage her. to support her. to be her safe place in a world that won't ever get spit hands.

my heart broke at my complete failure to love.

when we got to the bus stop i told her that she wasn't a moron, and that i was sorry for yelling that, i told her i loved her and to have a good day (unlikely though, given that start).

"yeah right mom. adios!" and she slammed the door.

life is hard and messy, and i'm really good at messing it up. this is why i try to show up here and "out" myself.  so maybe someone will say, "holy crazy! at least i'm not as bad as that lady!"and then love themselves better. and maybe they will then show up and love other people better, even their challenging child or their hard to deal with boss, or their differently wired husband, or their confusing friend.

the phone just rang.  i was convinced it was going to be the school, telling me that zoe is incapacitated because of her mother's behavior in the morning.  but it wasn't.  it was mike, checking in.  telling me that i'm not that bad. reminding me of forgiveness. and renewal and grace.  i said 'thanks' but then asked him if his mother ever called him a 'moron'. and he said no, which i already knew, but that at least i didn't swear at zoe... (this time).

so that is where i am. where i begin. by saying i am sorry, and asking God and zoe and mike and the other kids, and maybe you, and even myself, to forgive me for not loving well. and then i give it up, let it go, ask God to come on in and clean house again.  but tomorrow morning i am going to get up 15 minutes earlier, have my coffee, and remember to love and be loved, before anyone else is up.

you're 10

you were born with your eyes wide open. your eyes, big and blue and unafraid.  minutes after you were born, you watched me while you nursed and you held my hand. i didn't know back then what would come of you.  what those first months and years would hold and mean and teach.  i didn't know back then what would come of me, either.

life is spent growing us. life is spent unknowing things. life is learning to let go of stuff, and people, and old ideas, parts of our past, and the belief that we control our future. in some ways it seems you already knew that.  you were born with old eyes.

i didn't know that day that i might have to let go of you completely, let go of 'normal' and 'expected', that i would live the lack of control.  i didn't know that i would feel held in the arms of God as i held you in my arms, and feel the tears of God while i cried.

the path we walked down together was unknown, lit by only a lantern, everything obscured except what was in our moment. it felt new and scarey and like we were the only people who had walked it before. but everyone's beginning is like this. our lives are like this. none of us know. we think we do, we think our dreams will come true, our expectations will be met, our ideas will blossom into our reality, we will arrive at where we planned to go.  but really, we are walking beside each other, holding our lanterns, unaware that there is someone next to us in the dark.

for your first few years we examined you.  we put you to sleep with medicine and let you be sucked into a giant magnet to see what was growing inside of your head, to be sure it was your brain and not fluid, or tumor.  we waited for you to do the things you were supposed to do, and we hoped and prayed that you would not do other things- like have seizures or headaches or projectile vomiting. we measured your head everyday while you watched me with those knowing eyes. eyes that somehow put me at ease. eyes that somehow seemed older than me.  we crushed and mixed up a pill everyday to mix with my milk so your brain could develop correctly even though your thyroid didn't work. and you took it no problem. eyes wide open.

i loved you deeply, but i learned to know that ultimately, you were not mine.  that you, like samuel in the bible, you had been given to God.  i learned in a hard way that you were a gift, that everyday with you was a gift- a gift to not take for granted- a gift that may leave me.  i held you tighter, but i held you free-er too. it's funny that we forget this when bad things don't happen.  with out sickness or loss, we forget the life in our life.  we forget how precious we are, the gift we are to each other.  hold on to that for a minute. feel it.  you are a gift.  i'm sorry that 10 years later, i forget...even though...even you.

you used to have a little bomber jacket and white blonde hair and baby teeth. you used to look up at me and say "mo' juice peeeezzzz".  you used to crawl around the kitchen floor in the morning finding and eating whatever was under the table. you were easy to read, you knew what you wanted- a bottle, or sleep, or food. things came easily for you, naturally.  you were ready for things before i was. i often had the feeling that you were waiting for me to catch up with you.

now you're 10.  now you are taller than my shoulder, you can pick me up and i can wear your boots.  you get your own breakfast, take your own shower, you can shovel out the car and start a fire in the stove. nothing about you is little anymore.  and that is awesome and awful at the same time.

these days see i myself all over you and that is the hardest part. i hear me in your voice- complaining too much.  i see me in your eye roll, in your messy handwriting, in your uncapped tube of toothpaste. i see me in the contradiction of your growing confidence and insecurity. i see me in your rush- your desire for the next thing- even when you don't know what the next thing is, even when you like the thing you are doing now.  i see me in your shape of your face, in your love of learning, but your impatience with what you don't want to learn.  i see me in your love of writing and the way you can tell a story, in your sense of humor and you awareness of the needs of others.

but you are becoming your own.  seeing me in you is both beautiful and dangerous.  i can hold you tightly, but i need to hold you freely too- to be you.  but really, you always were- you knew that, you were waiting for me to catch up.

happy birthday sweet jude.

i'll take autism over measles....or saying 'thank you' and meaning it

the other day i read an article in the huffington post called 'i know what causes autism', and after a brief moment of jealousy that i'm not one of those moms who gets to take the impossible challenges life has thrown at her and turn them into a blog worthy of the huffington post- i read it.  and it was really good.

i was expecting another (appropriate) commentary on the absurdity of people not vaccinating their children, because of the fear of their child being like my child. this topic has been in the news a lot now that we are seeing the unnecessary return of diseases that we had figured out a way to prevent.  i love how now random people are smarter than doctors and scientists, and opinions are more accepted than randomized controlled trials.  it's also funny how people talk about wishing there were a magic bullet to prevent cancer, but they can't see that someone once said that about infectious diseases, and immunizations are that magic bullet. but i'm not going to rant about getting your kids their shots, i am going to tell you what zoe said about it after she watched the news and asked me why people aren't vaccinating their children. i told her it's because they are afraid.

"afraid of what?" she asked.

"some people are afraid their kids might get autism."

her reaction was a surprise and an incredible joy to me.  her reaction was unprompted, unborrowed, and directly from her heart.

"well that is an insult to me and my kind! are they saying i'm no good? that makes me want to cry.  that is discrimination. maybe they should get to know someone with autism before they go around thinking that!"

i couldn't have said it better myself. and it wouldn't have meant as much coming from me. but it came beautifully from her own autistic mind.  it showed intellectual connection, it showed emotion,  and it showed self worth, and advocacy.

for people with autism and for those of us who love someone with autism, it raises very difficult questions about the worth of differently-abled people in our society which prides it self on non discrimination as a core value.  people are willing to risk death from preventable infections, and harm to others, because they are afraid that their lives might become like my life? that their perfect child might become like my imperfect one?

wow. ouch. zoe is right.

this is tough for me because i have wrestled and fought with her differences.  i have wished things would change or go away or at least get much easier, maybe a little closer to 'normal'. i definitely have  a love-hate relationship with zoe's differences.  i love her deeply, and i love the way that her mind works. i love that truth trumps all- so she speaks what others are thinking, she can't keep a secret or tell a lie. i love that she still finds humor and real joy in childrens books- 'olivia mooooves the cat, and brushes her teeth and mooooves the cat' - things that my other kids don't even notice because their minds are busy doing what typical minds do, go on to the next page, see how the story ends. i love that she can't help flapping her hands when she gets so excited.  i love that she answers the question on the IQ test "is milk white?" with "sometimes", even though she gets it 'wrong', she's actually right, because sometimes it becomes pink or brown when you add Quick.  i love that she can hear two notes and know what the song is.  i love that she remembers who gave her every single thing that she owns.

but there are other things that i hate.  i hate that it hurts her to brush her hair. i hate that she can't ride a bike and that every single thing she puts on is 'scratchy'.  i hate that she can't remember the order of steps to wash her hair unless she speaks them out loud.  i hate that she has no sense of time and is distracted by everything.  i hate that she can't sleep in a room with someone because she can 'hear them breathing'. i hate that she will likely unravel no matter where we are, if she hears a vaccum.

she is all of these things.
but so am i.
mine are just different.
so are yours.

we all have very loveable, endearing parts, and we all have things that drive even ourselves crazy. we say that people like zoe have 'special needs' and they do. but they also have 'special strengths'.  zoe lives her life in the moment she has been given. in the page of olivia, in the first note of a song that she will play again and again because it sounds good to her. zoe notices things that most of us rush right on past. dragonflies are as impressive as giraffes, moths as worthy as butterflies. zoe has no hierarchy of popular. she can sense who is real and who is not.  she doesn't care if you're the school janitor or the principle, you will be treated the same. she will salute anyone in any kind of uniform, which the guards outside of every house in uganda, loved.

but there have been and there are days when the special needs don't seem very special, instead they seem massive, and i want to poke out my own eyeballs in frustration and impatience.  there have been and are days when i cry because i feel the loss of things, little things like not buying jeans with my daughter, and bigger ones like friends children looking toward college.  there have been and there are days when i am so angry that she demands one on one parenting, when i have four kids.  there have been and there are days when i wonder why?  why me? why her?

and there have been days, when i wanted to fix her,  but i don't have those days anymore.

i am a praying woman. i am a person of faith. i am a person who believes that God allows things, even really bad things or hard things, but then stays with us while we suffer them.  i am a person who believes that we are allowed and invited to say anything to God and He or She can handle it, (because they're God.) so i pray a lot for zoe.  and i pray a lot for me.  mostly my prayer is HELP.  help me get through this day.  help her get through this shower. help her to not feel alone. help in general.

about three years ago i was in kenya at a christian medical conference. there was a time at the end of the week for small group prayer requests and usually i'm the first to raise my hand and even wave it around a little because i know zoe and i need a lot of help.  but this day, in this little circle of people, i didn't raise my hand.  i just sat there and when it came time for me to share my request i started to cry.  and i was crying because for the first time in about 10 years i didn't want to shout help, i wanted to say thanks. thank you God for zoe and for her autism. thank you for who she is, as she is.  not 'thank you for zoe, despite', not 'even though', but as she was- perfectly made.  made to hear and see the world differently and respond to it differently. made to reach people that i will never be able to reach because i'm trying to turn the page and get to the end of the story.  made to teach me something about humility and honesty, and stillness and moments, and reliance on God. made to teach me to question what is broken, and what is whole?

we want perfect, but nothing is.  we want whole, but life is broken, we look for answers but that can lead to more questions, we can grapple for control, but it feels better when we give it up. i've come to accept that life is pretty much impossibly hard, not just for zoe, but for me too. and that i can't do it alone, that i need God and grace and people to show up as His hands and feet.  but now, from that place of acceptance,  i can truly say, thank you, and mean it. i'll take autism over measles.

the fallow season

winter in new england is for me, kind of awful.  it's cold and bleak and barren. it's colorless and uninviting, and so for me, it's depressing.  i wonder why anyone would have settled here once the leaves fell off and the ground froze.  but here i am.  i am here. in winter.  in a season. plunked down and like much of life, asked to be still in it.  to wait. to listen.

i used to think that people grow up.  that we get to an age, a number of years, and we settle into ourselves and our lives.  that we know the routine, we've worked out our deal, we get it.  we've found our place in the world.  but i'm finding that isn't true.  that our lives are about change and seeking and finding and learning and unlearning and really discovering, continually, who we are and who God is and who other people are too. there is no endgame. no arrival.  i'm finding that there are no caps on suffering, and no limits on joy- that life is full of surprises and awakenings- that come in forms of goodness and hardness.

but there are some key things that are available all the time- through the goodness and the badness and the parts of life that just are what they are without needing a label. and those key things, those guarantees are Grace and Love.

grace: unmerited divine assistance given humans for their regeneration or sanctification; an
act or instance of kindness (the dictionary)

love: that thing we all crave and  spend our lives trying to get - through various healthy but often unhealthy ways, that thing we want to know that we are, that we want to share and give out, that we misuse all the time, but that we all have and if we could just open up and embrace it we could stop driving ourselves crazy and ruining things.  (me)

i like to look for God outside.  

i like to feel His presence in the warm wind and hear him in the leaves moving, and in the colors and the smell of the outside.  these days, it's hard to see life and hard to feel God in the way that i am used to.  it's just so cold.  there is just so much snow.  everything is white and gray. and life is up in the air.  kite strings. unsettled. we are displaced. we are wondering what's next.  we are a group of moving pieces. pieces that sometimes seem to be moving in opposite directions. all of this, in this bone cold place. a place of my history, and now my present reality, (at least for today).  all of this with out the broad smiles of home, with out the red dirt that i love and the constant sounds of birds and leaves, with out the smell of burning things. some days it feels like too much.   but somehow, in the new england winter, even though i feel blind to certain parts of God, i can hold on to somethings that don't change.  i can hold on to that truth that i am deeply loved, as i am, by the One who invented love. and so are you. and this is real. and when we accept it and turn toward it, it is life changing.  because how can it not be? I am loved- as i AM.  YOU are loved - as you ARE.  not when we're good enough, not if we're good enough, not if other people tell us we are loveable, not if we even feel it, or don't.  we just are- because God made you and me and like i can't help loving my kids- God can't help loving us.  not only that, but perfectly- that is the way that God loves, unlike how i love my kids, which is way imperfectly.  we are valued for who we are- in our own special, crazy, imperfect, learning and re-learning and trying way. 

sometimes, like these days, it gets old and i feel tethered. the kids want to go home. they keep losing there gloves (the mismatched ones from the used store).  they miss their dog, and their friends and their own beds, and not having to wear snow pants. and i am right there with them. 

but then comes the Grace.  it comes when i'm walking back from the bus stop in the morning and i hear a bird, and the sun is hitting the snow with early morning light that is still soft and gentle, not yet hard and glaring. it comes when i see zoe get on the minibus and ride to an amazing free public school with all sorts of services.  it comes when i see mike shoveling out the car beside the snow fort "eggloo" and i know that home is really where ever we are all together. it comes in singing the same songs in church as we do across the world and getting goosebumps, even if i'm the only one dancing in my seat. it comes in the generosity of family and friends taking us in, sharing homes and winter coats and sending sweaters.  it comes in the uninvited blessing of having a season of stillness.  

the fallow season is the longest here.  a time of dormancy. of the ground healing, preparing itself.  a necessary time before the planting, before the growing can happen. a time of regeneration, of restoring. but there is grace in this, when we enter a time for our ground to heal.  not glamorous, not pretty, full of roots and sticks and rocks and brown things. there is absence even. but out of this time comes the ability to produce. for things to sprout and bloom. for beauty and nourishment.  

so i will be still and wait. i will turn and sit with the Love- let it sink in and warm me.  i will look around, i will listen, i will pay attention and find the Grace.

the journey- again....by mary oliver

i have shared this before, even in january, a few years back.  that's the thing about words, you can come back to them and see something new inside.  time and our eyes and our hearts pull out new meanings and beauties and aches. so here it is again....

the journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – – -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – – -
though their melancholy
was terrible. It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.

But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – – – determined to save
the only life you could save.

         mary oliver

transparency

there is something about transparency that i think we all want and crave and need but are perhaps the most terrified of also.  what would it look like for you to really know me? to know all the bad parts and the scared bits and the weak things? to know the lost places in me, and the hidden corners, to know what i'm guilty of- to know my broken. 

because to share those things, to open them up, to be revealed and with out cover or armor, with out the niceties and the packaged deal, would leave me so exposed- so vulnerable- so naked, yet so authentic, so real.

but what if you didn't like me anymore? what if you saw the real me and you decided that i'm too much for you, that my kind of broken is too far off from normally broken, what if you left? what if i was alone? and not just alone, but alone and exposed.

yikes!

but the thing i'm coming to see and feel and know, is that being authentic, being real and true is what we also deeply desire. we want to be loved, and real love is being known- really known- and still loved. loved despite our webs and tangles and mistakes and scars. loved even though we've messed it up. 

the thing is, we are all messed up.  we all have our messes and our secrets and our struggles and our stories- but some how we think we are the only ones who can't seem to get it right and better just pretend so people like us.  is it better to be liked than known? is it better to be generally superficially accepted by many, than truly understood and welcomed anyway by a few?

and what do we think of the people that we know who have stood before us and shared their shameful stories, their sicknesses, their addictions, their pain? we usually call them brave.  we call them strong and whole and admirably trying to carry on.  we even envy them - even if to get to real, they had to fall and fall hard- we still envy them because they have arrived at a peace that we want.  they are no longer afraid of people finding things out- because people already know, because they told them.  

my first boyfriend was a 17 year old recovering alcoholic- (which my parents thought was awesome). but in so many ways it was- because he had confronted a lot of things that most people at 50 haven't yet confronted.  he had already found out that truth that we spend lifetimes avoiding- that we have little control, that we need each other, that we need God. 

i used to go to AA meetings with him.  i think i was tolerated because he was the youngest guy at the meeting and they wanted him to keep coming.  those church basements with the cold metal chairs on tan and white colored linoleum tile, and the coffee and cigarettes and the array of people who were brave enough to be honest and to show up for each other and themselves, to be reminded of their lack, their needs, their broken, so that tomorrow they could try again- those were some of the realist people around.  i think if Jesus came back today he would be more likely to go to an AA meeting than many of our churches- because Jesus is all about real.  He is not afraid of broken- He mends.  He's not afraid of lost- He goes looking.  He's not scared of pain- He heals. He doesn't run away from messes- He runs to them.  because that is Love. and that makes it less scarey.

this is a new year. day 4. a time, a season, a chance for realness and honesty and in that, finding connection with God and with each other. finding our togetherness, our humanness, helping someone get back up, leaning and holding on to each other, and knowing that when we fall, because we all will, we are falling into the everlasting arms.