goodbye, and hello

it's the last day of the year, i'm sitting in the dark except for the little lights, listening to vance joy. this is part of why i love december. it's packed full of special things.
things like waiting and remembering and ending and looking ahead. it's a time of reflection. taking moments to be thankful, to be sorry, to be honest, to hold things. to see what was. to sort, to take and savor what you want to keep. and to release the things that bound you, (even things you once thought were good for you, things you thought you needed, maybe you need to be free of them).  and it's a time to see what could be. it's a time for hope and new chances. it's time to enter in.

it used to be about resolutions.

it's not about that anymore.

resolutions sound rigid and forced and check-listy. what i really want is growth into wholeness. i don't want to pull myself up by my bootstraps-it never lasts- i want renewal. i don't want to start something or stop something- i want to learn something. i want to keep letting go of shadows and pulls and the things i've piled on myself. i want to keep climbing into places with room for me to expand, out of boxes and into the wide open spaces. to feed my soul and my body and my mind each day with healthy words and sounds and sights  and conversations. to take the bitter and salty and sweet and taste them equally. i want to shed visions of anything false and shine into truth. i want resurrection. the rebirth of things forgotten or lost or buried - things i thought didn't fit, but have a place. i want to welcome all of me. and i want to welcome all of you.

i'm not just going to want this year, i'm going to choose.

i choose to be free of having to know, and choose to embrace the doubt. i choose to open the closed places and bring light to the corners. i choose to invite Love to begin the day with me and end the day with me and hold me during the hours between.  i choose to allow myself to create.  and laugh. really. loudly.  and i choose to feel, really feel, the hard and ugly, scary things- to cry when i need to- but to live bold and brave. to be patient, endlessly patient with everyone, and especially me.  i choose to be bravely curious instead of defensively armed. i choose peace with in me. openness. making spaciousness a goal.

i am going to be quiet and i'm going to be loud. i am going to allow the being and the unfolding of what is, whatever it is. i am going to watch God move with me into the great unknown - i am going to hold life lightly - because we don't know what a year will bring, or even a day.

happy new year 2017! bring it

Emmanuel

i always get sad after christmas. that sinking feeling that this season of hope- of advent- anticipation- the entrance of Love- the paschal mystery- the season of light- is over. that sinking feeling that the world must wait, another 12 months- that i must wait. but today, it felt especially dark.

we don't know what migraines are exactly. and since that is true, i'm going to attribute this acute sense of darkness to  some triggering or miss-firing of neurons during a bad migraine today. it was weird. it came out of almost nowhere with the beginning of a headache and it broke hours later after migraine medicine and sleep.

when i woke up from a small nap on the couch with my arm over my head- trying to be physically present with the kids, since i was absent in all other ways- i realized that i felt a sense of hope that was absolutely not there an hour earlier. in a sort of post-ictal foggy way, i went to my bedroom, lit some candles and remembered something i'd read from richard rohr in the morning- that for positive experiences to get imprinted in our brains we need at least 15 seconds with them. so i watched the flames from the 4 candles hold steady their light and i spoke some words of truth to myself and to God. because mediation on truth brings light.

Emmanuel, God with us

again and again.

Emmanuel, God with us

over and over.

contemplative prayer is meditation on truth. it calls us to stillness. quieting the inside. remembering the goodness of God's entrance and that it doesn't go away on december 26th.

Emmanuel, God with us

because that is huge. God is with us. all of us. each of us. wherever and whatever we are doing.

Emmanuel.

we can open our selves. look and listen. feel Him. let ourselves be held by Him.
hold onto the light.
hold onto the hope.
hold onto the Love.
and the mystery.

Emmanuel, God with us

Merry Christmas!

always.
even on christmas eve with a migraine.
even when zoe is flapping in a circle because i corrected her pronunciation of 'vibrato'.
even when someone's just lost a parent or husband or child and this is their first christmas with that stinging absence.
even when people are fleeing their homes, leaving everything, just to live.
even in the middle of all the pain.
even in the middle of the beauty.
even as the birds sing. as the sun shines or as it snows.
even in a world where we are surrounded by both- the good, the bad. the hard, the easy. the agony and the ecstasy.  

'I AM GOD'
know that
and be still.

tomorrow is the answer.
tomorrow is why i can trust that.
tomorrow is the joining of the Spirit and the body. the entrance.  waited for. looked for. and often missed. missed because we are looking in the wrong places. we are looking in the temple, and He is in the barn. we are looking for high and mighty, He came down and humble. we are looking for shiny and bright. He came to the dirty places. we are looking for loud. He came quietly. we are used to busy. He calls us to stillness. we too often have it backwards. the whole thing. we make life messy and complicated and then try to cover it with pretty and sparkly.

but Christmas reminds us of who God is. of His heart. His deep love. His desire to know us. to know what we taste and smell and feel and see - from our perspective. that is huge. that is life giving and life changing.

Oh holy night
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining

Till he appeared and the soul felt it's worth

The thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices
For yonder brings a new and glorious morn

Fall on your knees

Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night, Oh night divine

 

shepherds. night. glory. angel. good news. joy. the Messiah. a baby. lying in a manger. 

not what we thought it would be. not the way we may have wanted it. but so much more beautiful. because He entered into the mess. the broken. Jesus sees us for who we are. peeled. beneath the sparkly and perfume. beneath the clothes on our back - designer or filthy. He sees our bones and our spirit and that they all long for that deep love. to be known, even and perhaps most of all at our worst, and then still loved.  for the soul to feel it's worth. 

living in that worth, knowing that love, makes things bearable when they may seem unbearable. it doesn't make everything 'fine' or 'okay', but bearable and held - is better than unbearable and alone. Christmas is about a Presence that promises fill the stinging absence, to rebuild the home after the fleeing, to hold the hands of my flapping daughter and to still the head and heart of her mother.  

always and even no matter what.

Merry Christmas!

when the answer is no

i'm really good at praising God when things are going well. i'm really good at saying "God is good!" when the answer is 'yes'. i'm not so good at those things when the answer is no. especially when it feels like i'm sitting in a season of 'no's'.

the "no" this week was the answer to getting a visa for rose to come to america this summer. the little man behind the glass wall with the semi-circle cut out to hear each other- said 'no'. followed by "i'm sorry - this time, the answer is no."

i'd love to say that i graciously smiled and accepted his answer. but i didn't. i did refrain from reaching into the semi-circle cut out and throttling him- but i began to beg. "we haven't been home in 2 years! we went before and we came back! we have a special needs child who needs testing before september!"

"i recommend you finish the adoption and apply for an immigration visa." is what he said.

really?? REALLY? yeah i recommend that too but for the LOVE OF GOD that hasn't exactly been working either!!!  i wanted to ask him when the last time he'd seen his family was. i wanted to ask him how old his parents were. if his sister was expecting a baby. if he had a special needs 17 year old who needed to be assessed before 18. i wanted to ask if he'd ever tried to "finish an adoption". i wanted to ask when the last time his family couldn't travel together was. when the last time that he had to leave a child on the other side of the world so other children could see their grandparents.  i wanted to scream and swear (truth be told). i wanted to shout - "you are NOT sorry! you have the ability to not have to say you're sorry- but you are choosing to say "no" and "i'm sorry." 'no' i will have to handle- but i will not except that you are sorry."

it was only 8 am.

the rest of our lives flashed before my eyes.

years of stuck. years of no. years of living here in this place that i sometimes love and sometimes can't believe exists. our post-apocalyptic nightmare. where they run out of butter and don't know how to use a level but have fancy cellphones. i was my worst self.

i was mad at the little man behind the counter who looked like weinerslave from 30 rock but i was also mad at God.

God who could have said 'yes'. God who knows how tired i am, and how much i needed this summer in the USA. God who promises and follows through. God who knows best. and... then my little tirade began to fall apart.

because God does know all these things and His promises are real. i've spent years learning and re-learning that His way usually doesn't look like my way but His way is better. always. so i started to remember. i could hear jude outside playing and i remembered submitting to what felt like an impossible situation- only to watch God shine. i remembered the countless times i haven't submitted but rather pushed my own agenda, tried to meet my own needs my way, and how i've suffered at the hand of my own grubby little hands. so i started thinking about needs and whether or not i even know my own needs or only think i do.

it really felt like a need to go back to the US this summer. but that is my answer to a need or many needs- that really isn't the need. so instead of asking God why? and why not? i started asking myself what i feel i need. what feels like it's lacking. what inside is hurting. what inside got so angry at the "no". i tried to ask in a gentle way- a curious way- a compassionate way, not a judgmental or condemning way.

it turns out my little small self did need some tending. someone to listen (someone being me). i heard things like- i'm so tired. friends keep leaving and i'm lonely. life here is hard. what if we never finish the adoption. i miss the ocean and covered parking. i miss my family. i feel guilty for leaving family and friends for such long periods of time. and those things i knew. so i waited. and the greater fears came out. what if i'm messing up my kids being over here? i want a pattern- i want normal- i want to be able to have a routine of going home each summer- i want something i can count on- dependability- i want to know the future of what will happen with rose, and zoe- and even with me.

that was the big one at the bottom- i feel like i have no control- like my life is a greased watermelon and i can't pick it up.

so God showed up- as He does- probably because many people were asking Him to on our behalf. and He said the same things He says and has been saying. I am in control. I am dependable. you can count on Me. I know these deep desires of your heart. I made you. I made your kids. I've got this. let's together help your little self to know that she can rest in Me. lean on Me. do you trust Me?

and the answer is "yes". "yes i trust You." because You are trustworthy.

some of these things just need to be felt and grieved and going to america isn't going to do that for me- some of these things just need to be lived through. and some of these needs can be met in different ways - more respite. and what is in the ocean? sand and water and spaciousness and perspective- can i find those things here? can i make space in my life to breathe better? can i accept that yes- ultimately i don't have a lot of control?

i'm left with a lot of questions- but questions that start with 'yes' and hope. questions i can ask myself while leaning on Him who gives life and breathe and oceans and summer, who knows what it feels like to wear skin and be lonely, who also made choices that limited His control, who knows me and has known me and longs to give me the true desires of my heart- the ones underneath that i can't even see. He wants to give answers that satisfy long after the summer ends. He wants to draw me closer to Him and grow me in the questions. growth that couldn't happen if the man behind the counter said  "yes".

deepest oceans

today is the first sunday in advent. my favorite season. i love the celebrations on earth, but i'm mostly blown away by the divine. the entrance- the union of God and humanity- it changes everything. i could throw out most of religion and just hold onto the mystery of God becoming one of us and remaining Himself. that deep love and humility and sacrifice out of a desire to Know us from our perspective is astounding. but i still forget- even today- the first sunday of advent.

it wasn't even that big of a deal. it was just that it was the same deal. zoe yelling about having to get dressed. zoe yelling at people for "bossing her" when they reminded her to get dressed. her weekly argument over going to church. little things. little things that add up. i had had it. i decided instead of venting to mike, i would tell God my real thoughts on the matter (as if He doesn't know). and it was like that scene in the apostle, when robert duvall goes off on God. yes, that was me in the bathroom this morning.

i told God, out loud, that i was pissed and that i was pretty sure i'd learned everything out there that there was to learn from having a child like this so could He please 'fix' zoe. (i may have even said 'fix') i told Him that i didn't have what was needed in this situation. i told Him that now it's affecting the other kids and they're done too. i told Him that we have had enough and that i don't feel like He's doing His part to show up. He kept interrupting me with things like, 'do you trust me?' and i would say 'well yes, but back to what i was saying about being exhausted...' i think after a few minutes He stopped saying anything because He knew that i wasn't listening. i was ranting.

my mother had told me long ago that it's okay to be mad at God because He can take it. but i still felt out of line so i asked for forgiveness and we went to church. 

i sat in my plastic chair and the singing began and the sky was dark, and the wind was cool and noisy, and God began to speak again because He knew that now i was listening. He spoke straight through the 20 minutes of music- as if it were just Him and me on this advent sunday - because that is what advent is all about- God caring That much about me. and That much about you.

I have heard You calling my name
I have heard the song of love that You sing
So I will let You draw me out beyond the shore
Into Your grace

these days i feel that i'm treading water in the deepest ocean. that i'm way beyond the shore.

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

these days i feel that i'm treading water with no idea which way is land. direction-less.

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand
Will be my guide

Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed and You won't start now

You will guide me with Your hand- will i take it? have i been looking for your hand? or only looking for the shore?

and that is true- You have never failed.

You make me brave

You make me brave

You call me out beyond the shores into the waves

You make me brave

You make me brave

No fear can hinder now the promises you've made  - bethel music

these days i am afraid- (it usually hides beneath anger). these days i don't feel brave.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior
Oh, Jesus, you're my God!    - hillsong

not just stop treading water. not just know the direction and swim. but walk upon the waters. the waters i've been called into. deeper than my feet could ever wander. to places i've never intended to go. places i'd like to run away from. but here i am. i have been called out beyond the shore. that is life with zoe. i have been called out onto the waters. and today i called out God's name- to keep my eyes above the waves.

and standing beside my plastic chair with a room full of people and me and God, with that beautiful image of God's hand reaching down and picking up my treading self and making me brave enough to walk on that water, i held His hand fixed my eyes on Jesus, and i cried. 

i cried tears of awe and wonder on this first advent sunday. because it's so much bigger than His coming. that is just the beginning. it's His knowing me. His picking me up over and over again. His not tiring of me. His holding my hand. His making me brave. 

brave in the deepest of oceans.

different drummer

 "if a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music he hears, however measured or far away."     Thoreau

i remember the smell of eucalyptus and her white blonde pony-tails and being teased for not being able to do the monkey bars.  i remember years of sticky thoughts and anxiety and picking her up from beneath desks that felt safer than classmates. i remember trials of different medications and diets and music and movements to help regulate her to fit into a world that has always felt strange to her. but then there were special schools and camps and other people working with my girl- people with training and patience. i remember giving her that- the opportunity to engage with people who are like her. and who like her. who get her. i remember there always being something that we were moving towards, the end of the school year, camp, the next year, with the assumption that we were moving toward the same land as everyone else, just at a very different pace and perhaps by another path. but there was a path.

now. it. seems. unbearably. hard. and lonely. and scary.
it feels like treading water in the deepest part of the ocean with no idea which direction to head to find land.  i'm tired. tired of treading and of spinning around and looking for land. it's the directionality that is lacking and that feels new.

i can hear her laughing in the other room- she is watching a show on my computer. i just got up from sitting in front of my bookcase which is covered with books about autism with names like 'lovey', 'the out of sync child', 'freaks geeks and aspergers' and 'no easy answers'. i sat there because i was looking for answers or ideas or something or maybe anything. yes. anything would be good because i'm pretty much at nothing. and before i could open any of them. i just cried. it was the old familiar cry about why do i have to have this shelf of books in my house? why can't i just have 'the blessing of a skinned knee' and that be enough? the cry of 'i don't want this' and 'it's not fair' and 'i'm not cut out for any of it'.  the cry that boils down to 'i'm exhausted' and 'i love her' and 'i don't know what to do', and 'help'.

i landed there in front of the books because she'd had a rough morning and i found her crying on the couch saying that we were asking too much of her. i asked her what she thought we were asking and she described the typical ADL's (activites of daily living) that everyone does in the morning and the evening. that was it. so i held her while she cried and wondered how on God's green earth, that, could be too much for anyone! she asked me if this is what love feels like and i said yes. love is sitting together when whatever it is feels like too much. we sat for a while and talked in the rare but good way- the less is more way- the way where i feel like for a moment, she hears me and i hear her- then we listened to silent night (the priscilla ahn version).



















the problem is.....there are no easy answers. period. there aren't even easy questions . what do we do? where are we going? what are our goals and how do we reach them? how do we support our other kids with one who demands what feels like everything? how do we stay in our days and smile and laugh?

she hears a different drummer. it is differently measured. and it's far away.  love hears the music of many drums. may i open my ears. may i be moved by them all. may i have the strength to leave the line and dance with her some of time. no matter how far away.

one nation under God

 

tonight i fell apart a bit.

it wasn't just the elections. it wasn't just zoe. it wasn't just another reminder of rose's challenging adoption. it was all of it.

it was after bible study. after reading luke talking about Jesus. after spending too much time putting together a 1000 piece puzzle of antique candy bars while my kids tried to get me to turn off the light so they could sleep. it was after they were all in bed and zoe finally stopped shouting at us that she was going to become a rebel because that is what people with disabilities do when they don't feel understood.

mike and i sat on the living room floor and i cried. a lot.

i cried because it wasn't supposed to be this way. any of it. trump wasn't supposed to win and i wasn't supposed to have a 17 year old daughter like this. because they have things in common- they both make me mad. but really what sits underneath that is a lot of sadness and fear. sadness about life as it is and fear about the future. sad about what it all means and afraid of what it could mean. and i cried some more and apologized for crying because so many people have things much worse and mike said that actually our life right now is pretty darn full of crap and that we should pray. so we did.

we asked God to show up in a big and real way. we told Him that we were done with things as they are and that He knew it because He knows everything but that it was time for something to give. we said we were hitting our limit. and i cried a lot more.

we went out side and looked at the moon and the clouds and played fetch with scout.  over our compound wall there was a party happening. we listened as people sang loudly the songs of old- the ones i grew up with in church- i cling to the old rugged cross- amazing grace- and many others. we watched the banana leaves shake in the wind and the clouds darken and those same songs sang to us. they sang us back to remembering that we are small and God is big. that we are afraid but He tells us not to fear. that we see only a part. He holds the whole. He's got the world in His hands. no matter who is president. no matter how crazy zoe seems.

when we came inside, i check facebook and found that it had simmered. it had simmered to a place of remembering too. there were posts about peace. about rising strong. about listening to each other. about the amazing-ness of our country that has a fair democratic process. about standing together and not forgetting that we are americans and americans stand for what is right even in this. that we will hold each other accountable and look for the ways that we need to bend for all voices to be heard- voices of women and minorities and those who have come from other shores and the LGBT community and even those who vote differently than we do- because we are not a people of hate or judgement- we can't do that- not in any direction- we need to have faith in our systems- we need to enter into them to make them better, not run away. we need to feel empowered and find a common language in the midst of many differences. i read words of apology for things we've done and left undone. i read words of regret and desire. words of hope. i found words of hope.

and there was God showing up. in the night air. in the words of friends. in the songs of old.

'what ever my plot thou has taught me to say- it is well, it is well with my soul!'

special

i started the day writing about quail. about the extra provision of God to the isrealites in the desert and how there can be seasons of not even seeing the quail because we are pretty unhappy about being in the desert. so unhappy that we see provision as an expectation. so unhappy that quail looks like a lot of work and a reminder of where we are, which is in a place where there is no fast food- pre-prepared anything.  i was hoping i would land somewhere good at the end of writing as often happens- but i'll tell you the truth....i've landed right back in my life.  and to be honest, my life is the last place i want to be right now.

i'm pretty sure that the term 'special needs' was invented by someone who didn't have a child with them and was an eternal optimist. or that 'special' stands for 'Some Particularly Extra Challenging Insufferable and Long lasting' needs. those are the needs we are talking about.

i'm writing this here because i think there are a lot of parents out there who may feel this stuff and never say it. they also may feel this stuff somewhere inside but not allow themselves to even breathe it into a thought- because it feels like betrayal. betrayal of the darkest kind.

the feeling is so convoluted and distorted and sharp and pointy. it's everything all mixed together- it's sorrow and anger and love and hopelessness and hope and exhaustion and fear and poignancy and blessing and terror. it's loss and forever trying to let go. it's acceptance and forever trying to accept. it's hours and hours of tears and what if's and why didn'ts and what now's. it's regret. it's intense guilt. it's lack of understanding. it's ugly and beautiful and awful and good. it's real. too real.  it's heartbreaking again, and again, and again. and it doesn't stop. it doesn't stop.

i know that 'special needs' looks like a million things and i'm only looking at one part. i'm looking at autism. and i know that autism looks like a million things and i'm only looking at one girl. but it's my girl.  i'm looking at and living with someone who sees and feels and hears and experiences things in a completely different way than i do. it's like living with someone who speaks a different language but neither of you can ever learn the others tongue. you can sign and point and try but real communication is extremely hard.

zoe is smart enough to know that she is different and that makes her feel very alone. and people who are alone often get depressed and people who feel the world differently often get anxiety. and depression and anxiety make everything worse.

being her parent is probably not as bad as it feels to be her- except that you'd rather suffer anything than watch your child suffer at all. this is part of the problem- i feel like i feel it all for both of us.

in the US i was a palliative care doctor. and i taught palliative care to medical students and residents. and a lot of times when i would teach, students would express the fear and frustration of not knowing what to say to people who are at the end of their life. we talked a lot about not saying but being. about being present. about non-abandonment. about never giving up on someone. of being brave enough to walk with someone to the end. because no one wants to feel alone and especially when things are scary. and no one wants to be given up on.

i just went into her room. she'd had a meltdown about an hour ago- over mike taking away her bambi plush toy because she was being mean to her sister. i knew she'd be in her bed. i knew she'd be sleeping, and i was right. so i climbed in bed with her and gave her a huge hug. she told me to get out. i told her no. she said why. i said because i want you to know that you're not alone.

she asked if was crying and i said kind of. she said why. i said i'm sad. she asked if i was sad for her and i told her i was sad for both of us. she asked if i was giving up on her. i told her never.

that's all it can be sometimes. be together in it. the unknown terrifying thick of it and be honest and real and try. it's about the same things we all want when life feels over in someways - we want presence. we want non-abandonment. we want bravery and belief and truth. we want to never be given up on. and that part i can do. at least for today.

thanks for listening.

outside of the box

                                                                 photo  The World

we've been bumping into the edges of things since the beginning with zoe. try as we may have, life with her hasn't fit into the box that most of us live in. everything has demanded out of the box thinking and creativity and flexibility and trial and error just to stay in the corner of the box. there wasn't a rule book. there wasn't a clear 'plan b, or c, or d'. there was mostly responding when things stopped working.

like this year. when school stopped working. we were all trying so hard- to flex and create and think and try- to make a plan g. but then we had to stop. we had to climb out of the box. and that is where we found her. 

when zoe was 10 we came to uganda to see how it would be for her and for us to live here. we went on safari up north and on the game drive we came to a tower of giraffes. giraffes are magnificent. there is almost nothing like seeing the big animals of africa in the wild. it gives you a sense that you only know so much and that things have been around a lot longer than you have. we all got out of the vehicle and watched these animals walking together across the plain. all except for zoe. she was bent down, squatting on the ground, mesmerized by these little dragonflies that had just hatched.

middle of africa. middle of safari. my girl is choosing dragonflies over giraffes. there was the beauty of her life outside of the box- appreciating something differently, sharing an experience but from an independent point of view- reminding the rest of us that, as elizabeth barrett browning said, “Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God.”

her world is in many ways a complete mystery to me. i try to guide her as best as i can but i'm blind to what life is like wearing her skin, seeing through her eyes, hearing all the sounds and the words that confuse and isolate. she lives with such a different perspective, such an unshared experience, such a variable bag of what each day brings her- no wonder why she's lonely. 

for someone who thinks so literally, i was surprised when she told me last week that she is becoming a ghost. so matter-of-fact-ly. but i know why she said it.  she moves around but feels invisible, not unseen by eyes, but unseen by hearts, unseen for who she is. she talks and talks, but feels unheard, people know the sound of her voice, but they don't know what is in the words and it becomes so easy to stop listening. she feels unknown and not being known is the loneliest of lonelies.

i'm guilty of this. of being so overwhelmed by her out-of-the-boxness,  so tired of the effort it takes to try and understand her, so frustrated by the truth that is my inability to know her world, that sometimes i stick her in a box, label it 'zoe' and go on. and by go on i mean that i can have an entire conversation with her, in the box i've stuck her in, while doing something else and realize after 10 minutes that i haven't really heard a word she has said.

this is a new beginning. or it feels that way. we've left the box. we've listened and seen and perhaps most importantly we've believed what she's said about life in her skin. it's still taking flexibility and creativity and trial and error and there is no rule book out here. but her days are becoming filled with things she is good at or interested in- helping in a babies home, baking and selling gluten-free sweets, reading and researching things she's curious about and her favorite thing, connecting with a younger fellow 'brain cousin' as he learns to read and speak. we are trying to let her lead us into her world. to respect her uniqueness and to help her find that special path those of us in the box miss out on.

it was hard to climb out, honestly. we were tempted with self-doubt, and the what-if's and the fears of the unknown. but it feels less like we've lost something and more like we've found something. a way to see her better, to hear her better. we've stepped out of the box and joined her. perhaps she was always there outside and the edge of the box was between us. now we are stepping into knowing her on her side of things.

the picture above reminds me of these things. of zoe and her perspective. her gift of seeing beauty that many overlook. in insects and animals and most impressively in the people that so many ignore or walk right past. she sees and hears others who walk ghost-like through their days. who live a different version but know the lonely of not being known as she does.  these are perhaps her greatest moments- the moments the rest of us fail at because we are busy looking for the tower of giraffes on the horizon, or the people version of them. we aren't brave enough to stop and look down. to reach out. to see the value in the smaller less glamorous things.

maybe now she will guide me.



                                                                   

suubi

suubi means hope. and this picture of my driveway means hope. something beautiful where you thought something beautiful wouldn't be. flowers through cement. life breaking through hard dry ground. the reminder that beauty doesn't need much- only a small crack in the concrete, a spot of dirt, a drop of water, a moment of sun. that is the promise.

zoe is almost 17. it's hard to swallow. it's not just her years, it's her birthday. and what that means. it means planning a party and who to invite and who will come. it means gifts that aren't age appropriate. it means celebrating this girl who i love. so. much. while staring in the face where we are and where we are not.

today i was in game (a target-esque store- african style). after buying cat food, i wander through the toy section to see if there was anything reasonable that i could find for zoe. it was one of those heart squeezing moments. i was in the aisle of pink plastic things and games that say "for ages 4+" and i knew that i could get her any of it and she would be thrilled. i remember watching a video clip from 'america's funniest home videos' of a kid opening their birthday gift and flinging the present off of the hanger in the unwrapping and exclaiming with pure joy "a hanger! you got me a hanger!" as if it were the greatest thing ever. it could have been zoe. she's a great gift receiver. but there i was in the pre-school toy section trying to imagine what a 17 year old girl "should" get for her birthday.

when i was 17 i had a boyfriend, graduated from high school and started college. i had a job and drove a car. i could get myself up and dressed and fed and take care of younger siblings. i wanted things like clothes and music and travel and independence. this is not about me. her birthday is not about me.  except that it kind of is, because it is the celebration of the day that i birthed her. her tiny little 5# body with a broken wing. the beginning of something beautiful that at times has felt like it's had to push through a lot of concrete.

mike found me standing among the pink mini brooms and princess shoes sized for a 4 year old. we had just come from a school meeting with the special ed coordinator where we went over her homeschool curriculum focusing not on academics but on life skills. on ways to support her independence. but these are the things which are most terrifying for her. all things related to growing up.

it would be so easy to leave her here. in her world of disney characters with cartoon eyes and perma-expressions. she would be happy to live in a place where things are painted on clear, black and white, not the confusion of subtle reality. not the nuances of the face and the tones of the voice and the complexity that each of us holds able to be good and bad, kind and mean. it would be so easy to fill the cart with LPS sticker books and barbie dolls and tell myself that it's her birthday after all.

mike knew all this because we live it together and we have our moments as we slide back and forth trying to find that balance that provides her with safety and challenge- acceptance and encouragement, trying to hold that tension of the opposites.

"i know," he smiled, "but she has so many toys."
"so what do we do?" i said back. "what do we get for a 17 year old who still likes to watch max and ruby? whose wishlist is filled with plush toys characters?"
"she wants the hunger games books, that's what we can get her." he said.
"and some of those indian print pants." i said remembering the hanger story.

it's a slow process, growing up. i feel like i'm still doing it. so for zoe, i know it will be long with many steps backwards among the forward ones. but we will walk it with her- holding her hand until she's ready to let go. we will not leave her in arrested development. we will watch for the flowers to bloom on their own- pushing through the concrete. beauty instead of ashes. and there is the hope.

Isaiah 61:3 to provide for those who grieve in Zion-- to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

letting go

letting go is hard. always. at least a little, and sometimes a lot. there is fear. and what ifs and something's better than nothing. there can be ownership and control at stake (or so we think). there can be identity lost, or other things lost. and emptiness- that feeling of what was but is no longer there. and the meaning in it all, or under it, or hidden in the middle of it. there can be a lot of questions, sweaty palms and curled fingers, and re-grabbing. it doesn't feel good or right, but letting go sets our hands free to see what is next. 

a long time ago, i had to let go of 'normal'. it was a long process with much re-grabbing. for a long time it felt like i was clinging to something that was slipping between my fingers, dripping like an ice cream cone on a hot day. uncontrollable but undeniable. it took years to see that i clung to something that really was never mine. i'll tell you the truth, holding onto the wrong thing brings much more emptiness than letting it go. it's true.

i never thought that zoe wouldn't finish high school. i don't mean that in a judgmental way, it just never crossed my mind. when she was in elementary school and clearly struggling, i figured it was a stage we needed to pass through. i clung to books like "a special education' by dana buchmann who's daughter also struggled with significant learning disabilities, but went on to college. went on to achieve some sort of 'normal'.  "see? that's with in reach." a part of me would say to settle the unsettled bits. but late at night those same unsettled bits would search the internet for the diagnostic criteria of autism, for other syndromes that perhaps we'd missed, for a peek into the black hole of what we were dealing with, for clarity, solutions, for anything that would either give me hope or force me to see reality, depending on the hour. holding the unknown was nearly impossible.

as years went on, zoe went along on her bumpy unique trajectory. and i went along on mine- equally bumpy and unique. perhaps equally lonely. and in many ways, our grasping ate us from the inside out. we did all that we could for her. we made choices and sacrifices. we tried and we believed in her. but what does that mean? what did we believe about her?

did we believe she could do things that didn't appear to be able to be done? did we believe that she would somehow, someday transform into or arrive at this slippery thing called 'normal'? or did we believe in the unknown of her. in the mystery of who she was made to be? 'believing in' can be clinging if we are believing in the wrong thing. and clinging is the opposite of letting go.

life has shown itself loudly enough and long enough to know that 'normal' didn't belong in our hands in the first place- it doesn't deserve to be clung to by anyone really.

someone asked me today if i'm okay- as in really okay- given zoe's challenges this year and her exit from school. it was a good and thoughtful question and i could see the sweet concern in her eyes. ' i am,' i told her, 'i really am.' but i don't know if she could see the truth in that. the freedom in my eyes.

because there is tremendous freedom in letting go. a fullness replaces the emptiness that was feared. a foundness, the lostness. what is better than false control is not having to be in control. what is better than tightness is openness. when clenched hands release, the body can breathe and what was meant to have always been, can finally bloom and grow.

mind the (widening) gap

life with zoe has never been easy. it has been rough since the start.
she was small and breech and i had to be induced. she was a sleepy preemie and it took her a month to gain back to her birth weight. at three months she was diagnosed with klippel-feil syndrome. at four months they found two small holes in her heart, by then i had some holes in mine. watching her and worrying about her became my normal. milestones ticked by and she didn't reach them, there was always a delay. rolling over came at 8 months, crawling at 14 months, walking at 21 months. talking was there, but it was parroted and repetitive. she flapped her hands when excited and she was excited over things that other kids weren't. at preschool she preferred conversations with herself in the mirror to conversations with the other kids. she cried and covered her ears when she heard a coffee grinder, a blender, a vacuum cleaner. and those ears could hear only a few notes and know it was django reinheardt. she was not like other children.

kindergarten was hard. it was loud and filled with challenges, like learning to read, and finding your way around, and those impossible monkey bars that everyone but her could do. there were birthday parties that happened with out her, and awkward conversations with parents at birthday parties she did go to about how their child was used to being kind to people with disabilities. friendships were few and far between. homework was agony. but she could find a lonely adult in the coffee shop and make them feel like they were queen.

the years went on like this and we had other children. other children who proved that yes, she was not like other children. things got harder. things fell apart. her puzzle-like world began to come clearly into focus and she knew she was not like other children. and that is scarey and lonely and isolating. slowly, the gap began to widen.

other kids began to ride bikes and ride to town, stretching their worlds of independence. but bikes require balance and coordination and motivation, and town requires a sense of direction. other kids began wearing jeans and make up. but jeans are scratchy and makeup is sticky. and school got harder. it wasn't learning to read is was learning to understand what you read and there were metaphors and symbolism and making connections with other books. characters became complex, they weren't just good and bad like fairy tales, they were both sometimes and that was confusing. and social things got harder. the rules became more subtle. everything was not so black and white. and the noise was still there- vacuums and weed-wackers and bells between classes and ticking clocks. the puzzle was getting bigger and the pieces were getting smaller.

in three weeks she'll be 17.

today is day 4 of 9th grade. or it was. because we have decided to mind the widening gap. to listen to the cries of a girl who is exhausted. whose world for 17 years has demanded more from her than mine ever has me. to be honest that the gap between her and her peers has widened to place where she could fall in and get hurt.  we have decided that what matters is her heart. here laughter. her sense of self. that she is at risk of falling into the abyss of that gap never to return. that we could lose her to our desire for her to be someone she is not. we have decided the best thing to do is stop pinching her into a world that doesn't fit, and adjust her world where we can so she feels more softness than edges. more love than defeat. more success than failure.

so today the three little kids went off for their fourth day of school and zoe got up and got dressed and stayed at home. we met with the school and shared where we are, what we are hearing and seeing from zoe and we all decided to take it very slowly. she will come with her aide for her drama elective, and the rest of the day will be creative learning from home. for now.

the widening gap is hard. it pinches and pulls and mocks. it says "you've failed!" it tries to shame and blame and return you to places of "what if" and "why didn't i". it calls out to your sorest, oldest spots inside - the ones that scream for value in the wrong places  - the ones that fool you into thinking that other people are responsible for your being enough- that identity is grounded in markers of our successes or our kids successes. poppicock and hogwash! as zoe would say.

yesterday after listening long and hard to zoe and her aide about the day, and listening to the voices of the widening gap, i decided to listen to God. i inquired of the Lord. and as usual, i heard the gentle but clear truth pointing me to see where my small self sat in all this. He said things like, most of the world doesn't have even an 8th grade education, and they are functioning and happy. and things like, don't you think i have a plan for her? because i do. and don't you think that it's perhaps and probably a better plan than you could have? 

this is about trust and obedience.

in exodus God commands the israelites to respect the sabbath during their time wandering in the desert. this was the time when God was providing all their food in the form of manna that would be on the ground each morning for them to gather and eat that day. and that day only. anything they tried to save would spoil. except for the day before the sabbath, when there would be enough to gather for two days and it wouldn't spoil. God provided for them to be obedient. He cared so much about their obedience that he changed the properties of the manna so that only on friday night the left overs wouldn't spoil but on every other night it would. that speaks to me of a present and relational God. a God who can be trusted and who will provide for me and give me what i need to be obedient.

17 years ago i was on bed rest. i knew i was having a girl and that we were going to name her zoe which means 'life' and that i couldn't wait to meet her. i didn't know anything about klippel-feil syndrome, or autism and it never occurred to me that she wouldn't go to college or learn to ride a bike.  but i did know this God who i could trust to provide.  i had no idea that the trust would be like the manna- that i would need to trust daily for a portion of grace. and  that i would be given just enough- enough for that day- for that diagnosis- for that parent-teacher conference- for that episode in the grocery store. i had no idea that provision would be in the form of therapists and school aides and seamless clothes. but i did know those everlasting arms that are holding us as we mind the widening gap.

'far'

i started to write the day that zoe ate 3 earthworms. i was off on a run trying to regain my sanity, which had been lost earlier in the day while homeschooling her. she was 10 years old.

on the run i thought, 'it wasn't supposed to be like this.' 

i wasn't supposed to be a homeschooling mom. i was a doctor. my life wasn't going as planned.

i had entered a world of sticky thoughts and meltdowns and medications and reactions to medications and medications to manage the reactions. there was music to stimulate the right brain and exercises to cross the midline and gluten-free diets and social groups. there was occupational therapy and physical therapy. there were appointments and waiting rooms and conversations in waiting rooms with other mothers whose lives weren't supposed to be like this either. and there was the waiting.  waiting for the appointment to be over. waiting for things to get better. waiting for the other shoe to drop when things were better. waiting for it to become like it was supposed to be. and the waiting gave time for worrying. worrying about the meltdowns, when and where and if i could only figure out the why. worrying about transitions, about the day, the next day, the year, the rest of our lives. worrying that maybe it never would become like it was supposed to be. and wondering.

the day she ate the worms, i wondered what 16 would be like.

about a month ago she ate a marble while i was watching a tv show with my other kids. she is 16. have things changed? yes and no.

last week i took the kids to eat american fast food in uganda- which is a giant thrill and a huge treat. afterwards we went to the market for a few things. zoe lost it. i mean lost it. it was over a bunny plush toy cartoon character that she didn't have money to buy. it started with a sticky thought- she wanted the bunny, couldn't put it down, tried to convince me to buy the bunny, she couldn't take no for an answer. the next thing i know she is clinging to the rack of sunglasses by the check out line shouting that she won't leave with out the bunny. that she will sell the kindle that she is clutching with her other hand, to buy the bunny. she is shouting that she can't calm down, that she can't trust me, and she is refusing to budge.

when a three year old does this- you can pick them up. people understand. people smile with that "don't worry, we've been there" face on. when a 16 year old does this- you are stuck and people look at you like, "please do something because we don't know what to do".

 6 years ago, i would have been horrified at the thought of dragging her out of a grocery store at age 16 over a bunny plush toy. but that wasn't the awful part.

the awful part was in the car on the way home as we listened to her heart pour out all the hurt and anger and fear and confusion and loneliness that she feels. all. the. time. to hear her tell us that her life is worthless, that her life is a puzzle and no one understands her, that she will never get better, that it will always be like this. that she feels like a grenade waiting to explode.  it just broke me.

it wasn't supposed to be like this. but it is.

6 years ago, i would have been so terrified, so overwhelmed, that i would have let that brokenness be covered up with anger and shame. 6 years ago, i wouldn't have listened. i would have talked. talked over her, corrected her, told her that she will get better, that people do understand her, that there is hope, that it won't always be like this. i would have told her she has people who love her and she doesn't need to be afraid. i would have denied her feelings and told her the things that i needed her to believe so that i could be okay.

but this night, i listened. i just listened. i said 'i hear you' and 'that must feel awful' and 'that must be scary and hard' and 'i'm here for you'. when we got home. we sat together with mike in the living room and the kids recounted the drama. zoe slowly calmed down. i looked at her, crisscross applesauce, snapping her hands like she does when she's nervous, and i was overcome with love for her. and then i started to cry. and zoe started to cry and she sat on my lap and we wept.

it felt like we wept tears that had been denied time together. like we finally could be in a place of feeling it out loud- and see each other in the hurt messiness of it and know it's shared. we were letting it be known that this is what it is- laid bare. it is hard and lonely and sad and scary and overwhelming.

after a while we got up and got ready for bed. i read her mog the forgetful cat which always makes us laugh and tucked her in and prayed remembering lamentations, "because of the Lord's unfailing love, we are not consumed! His mercies are knew every morning."

sometimes God allows cartoon bunny plush toys to show you how far you've come, but that 'far' doesn't look like you thought it would. 'far', i would have thought, would be the absence of bunny plush toy meltdowns. but 'far' is bigger than that. 'far' is allowing for truth to be spoken and felt and shared. 'far' is letting it be painful because it is sometimes, and letting that be alright.

so instead of fighting that it wasn't supposed to be like this, 6 years later, i can see how i am becoming who i am supposed to be, in this which is my life.

owning your slippers

it has taken me a long time to realize or to admit that i have made a choice to live on the other side of the world.

“The key to your happiness is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have, and own the ones you don't. If you keep saying your slippers aren't yours, then you'll die searching, you'll die bitter, always feeling you were promised more. Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny.”abraham verghese, cutting for stone

it's time to own my slippers. or more appropriately, my flip-flops.  i've been wearing them for years now and i've been wondering. wondering things like, are they comfortable?  are my kids happy that i wear them?  will i grow tired of them? are they my style? are they worth the price? i mean, i don't have to wear these flip-flops. but i have been wearing them and watching as other people move on to shoes. i've been wearing them and wondering at what point i will get so sick of dirty feet that i too will trade in my flip-flops for some shoes.

i've known inside myself that these are my flip-flops since i was 17 years old and went to kenya. i didn't know when or how or even why. i just knew. but knowing it and wearing them are different. and trying them on and buying them are different too. 

because of that knowing, five years ago when we moved here it felt like an easy choice. it felt like one of many choices we'd made in our lives- moving to atlanta, moving to san francisco, moving back to atlanta. moving to africa was another move, just a bit farther. only it's not. it's on the other side of the world and a different time zone, and i mean that in decades. maybe it would be another move if it were sandwiched between moves. if after 3 or 4 or even 5 years we decided it's time to move home and buy shoes. but look, 

i'm still wearing these flip-flops and i think it's time for me to own that i'm wearing them. 

i'm doing a lot of work these days on listen inside and holding my hands to be open to the mystery. i'm working on, as richard rohr says, 'the sacrament of the present moment, that will teach us how to actually experience our experiences, whether good or bad or ugly, and how to let them transform us.' 
i'm working on accepting that 'reality requires more of a both/and approach, than an either/or differentiation.' 

i'm working on how to wear these flip-flops, and how to wear them really well. 

sometimes they hurt if i'm walking far or too fast, so they help me to slow down. 
sometimes my kids don't like them, they prefer to be barefooted or shoe-ed, and that's okay.
sometimes they don't match what i'm wearing, sometimes i want something sparkly or heeled.
and sometimes i get tired of dirt stained feet. 

these things are true- but that doesn't mean their not meant for my feet. 

we need to own our choices. owning them gives the freedom to embrace them, live fully in them, invest, engage, and grow in them. bloom. thrive. 

here i feel most myself and least like i should be on to the next thing. i love what i see when i drive along the bumpy road. i love the heat of the sun on my arm out the window. i love the sound of the night and the smell of burning things. i love it in a way that probably makes no sense to people who like to wear sneakers. but here i'm no longer searching for other shoes. 

and maybe that's how i know the slippers are mine.

from here

it's hard to know where to begin. it's hard from over here to know what to say.  we seem to be standing in a great divide- that seems the farther you get away from it, the more crazily tragic it all is. so much of life now has become snippets, quotes and hashtags. we read headlines and get inflated- we are appalled or we are poignantly moved. we "stand" with victims of tragedy by changing our facebook picture. we brand ourselves with our outrages. we try to find solidarity.

we become known by our alliances - do we welcome the refuge or do we protect our borders? do we hate trump or do we hate hillary? do we hashtag #blacklivesmatter or #alllivesmatter ?  do we stand with paris and belgium or do we include bangladesh and istanbul? do we grieve the loss of lives differently if those who died lived different lives than we do? do we care who marries who, or who pee's where?

tragedy surrounds us. we see from every side the brokenness. we are overwhelmed. it's too much. there is so much anger. there is so much fear. we don't just pick a cause we pick an enemy. anger and fear beg for a target. a channel.

this is where i land- the same place as most of us. the place of what now? silenced by the weight. knowing words are only words.

so i'm left asking myself, am i strong enough to let the anger become sorrow?  can i lean into God and let Her hold up both my hands- a hand for black men and policemen, for children in school and adults at a gay nightclub, for all the suffering that comes at the hand of another person wearing skin no matter what country that suffering is in.

am i strong enough to let it break me? break me open so i can look inside at my own brokenness? my own prejudices, my own hatreds, my own selfishness, my own failings?

am i strong enough to let it change me?

am i strong enough to love through it? to take up my cross and follow? to love my enemies? to love my neighbor? to love myself?

am i strong enough to grieve the truth that i share skin with those who died and those who killed. with those who marry differently, and dress differently. with those who are at a different place in the same path we all walk- a path of evolving consciousness- a path that hopefully leads us into the arms of a deeply loving God- a path that hopefully transforms us, grows us, opens us.

a path that i pray gives me the strength to feel, to break, to change, to love, and to seek the truth.

what not to do and why

here is what not to do if you wake up on a saturday morning with cramps and a headache, and you can already hear your kids fighting in the next room.  

#1. do not decide that you need to get up. in fact, decide the opposite. decide that probably the best thing (for everyone) is to get some advil and a hot water bottle and go straight back to bed.

#2. if you do get up, do not decide that things need to get done, that people should stop watching the movie and clean up, 'cotton-pickit, you've been looking at this mess all week!' because while you are annoyed at the mess, you will be even more annoyed when they whine and complain and then don't do it. no. let them watch, it's saturday.

#3. do not decide that your teenage daughter who has been sick for 3 days, now, right now at 8:30 am on saturday morning, must take a bath. because her resistance (which is there on a day when she's not sick, and when you have much more of yourself present to assist) will only further your compromised state of mind. no. don't do that- go make coffee, or better yet- get back in bed.

#4. do not decide to make the todo list for what needs to happen in the next two weeks before family comes to visit, most of which requires your husband's involvement, and then do not decide to share it with him. instead, decide to finish your cup of coffee and live with whatever color your accent wall is, just switch seats at the dinning table so you don't have to look at it. they're his relatives anyway.

#5. and if you do share the todo list with your husband, and he happens to seem annoyed by your eagerness, and you feel yourself getting annoyed as his annoyance, and your kid comes out of his room because he can sense his parents argumentative tone, do not snap at him. that's never good,  instead, smile at him, ask if anyone has seen the hot water bottle, and head back to bed.

#6. and if your husband happens to follow you back with a concerned look and asks if you want to be alone or talk, absolutely say 'alone' because you are not going to say anything that is necessary, or entirely true, and certainly you won't be saying anything nice. by all means recognize that this my friend, is not your day and choose to do no harm.

#7. do not decide to appease your kid who asked for a mohawk haircut yesterday, by redoing the haircut now while your other kids are rushing you out the door. you're in a hurry and you're in a bad mood- put the scissors down- it won't go well- he may end up bald. 

#8. and when you don't put the scissors down, and he tells you he looks even worse and that from now on dad is cutting his hair, do not decide to tell him that he's impossible to please and should be thankful that he even has hair. because that is ridiculous. instead, tell him is sounds like a great idea for dad to cut his hair, that's one less thing you need to do.

#9. do not decide to let your husband choose who will drive across town in traffic to get your kids to a party when you have another party 3 hours later on another side of town. because he is not insane and will choose to stay home. and then you will think about how hot it will be in the car and the children fighting and you will ask your kids if they really want to go to the party and they will take one look at you and your other kid's hair and say selflessly 'no'. but then your husband will feel badly for them and volunteer to take them. you will not only feel like the big jerk that you are, but you will miss the chance to see some of your friends too, and while you are home with sick zoe reading 'bunnicula' outloud for the 40ith time, he will be relaxing having a beer with the dads.

#10. finally, do not then decide to make it a 'spa day' to make yourself feel better. because you won't- you will feel worse. you will mess up your nail polish, cut yourself shaving, and be very dissatisfied with any cute outfit because your stomach is bloated. instead decide that a better choice is getting into your largest most expandable pants and your softest shirt, and climb back into bed with a good book.

a small nap (or a large sandwich) will keep you quiet for a little while and let everyone else recover.

loss and faith

it's season of loss. again.

june is a month of goodbyes. there is a lot of leaving going on and a lot of being left. and i'm left feeling silent and wondering. the wondering comes as part of the goodbyes. wondering who will come next? when will we go? how do we do this? this life of transitions. wondering where is our home? who is our core? and knowing that where ever we are, life is going on without us somewhere else.

what happens to a life, when you disappear for 5 or 10 years to the other side of the world, and then return? you are no longer you and they that remained are no longer who they were either. there will always be that wondering. who exactly am i? who will my children be? what happens to third culture kids?

last night i led bible study. it was hebrews chapter 11- all about faith. and faith in God, despite what mainstream christianity often reports, is hard and messy. faith makes you ask questions about the thing you have faith in- and understanding God, is complicated.  people say they have faith in God, 'so everything will be fine', or 'if you only have faith... it will work out'. but life is often not fine. and things don't always work out. so is God fake or are we wrong? neither, i think we just get lost in the details.

God never promised that things would be fine and work out the way we want. God promises non-abandonment. God promises fullness of life. God promises to hear us and help us when we ask. God promises forgiveness and redemption and restoration. faith is believing those things, and believing them even when they don't look like how we think they should.  

in this season of loss i can pray with faith for a new group of friends. and i may get that, God certainly can do it, but i may not.  God goes deeper than our words- God goes to the heart of our words. He promises to give us the deepest desires of our heart when we ask. but how do we ask? sometimes we stumble around explaining to him our solution for meeting those desires- 'i want a new group of friends who are staying longer than i am because that way- i won't be left anymore.' but what if instead, i get a season of incredible personal growth because in my loneliness i spend time in prayer and meditation and see and feel the indwelling light of God so clearly that i am forever changed? did God not answer my prayer? or does He know me so well, that He knows the deepest desire of my heart is intimacy, joy, growth and security, and that those things can be given in many ways.

my life has been a series of events where God continues to show me that when i seek His will and give up my own, amazing things happen. but often those amazing things are interwoven with a lot of pain. and that is the messy part. the beautiful agonizing truth of opening ourselves to faith. the paradox that God is love, and there is still pain.

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29

Maria Rainer Rilke

space and place and time and change

facebook now has a feature of sharing your 'memories' by reposting posts from years past. today it gave me a blog post i'd written five years ago about our move to uganda. and that gave me pause.

pause about time. pause about choices. pause about change. and not change.

five years ago we had just received our housing assignment at the university where we would be living. it was a wonderful house with a lovely yard and a front porch where much of the living happened. because we were on a university campus, we didn't have a fence or a gate, our yard ended where other's yards began. there was a lack of privacy, an openness of community, that honestly i had a hard time getting used to. people walking up to greet and chat when they saw me on the porch, was not in my comfort zone. people waiting on the porch for our return was not part of my normal. i longed for boundaries. i longed for space to call ours. i longed for protected places.

five years ago, i couldn't explain why this need screamed at me, and i carried a lot of guilt about my desire for privacy. i judged myself for not being more adaptable, more culturally sensitive, more willing to embrace and learn from this communal atmosphere. but now as i look back on my memory, as i look back in time, at choices and changes and things that don't change, i see more clearly what i was desperate for.  i was trying to find myself in the middle of my life in a new place. i was trying to find where i began and where i ended, in a significant way.

i had come from a house in atlanta with a front and a back porch. the front porch was where i drank coffee in the morning while my babies played at my feet. the front porch was large and screened and looked out on a small front yard with a giant water oak tree and the street. in the morning the porch was a place of transition- from sleep to waking, from home to world. an entrance to the day.  the back porch was for the close of the day. the retreat. the back porch was off the kitchen and high up in the trees because the house was built on a slope. the back porch was both open and protected. screenless but not accessible from the street, surrounded by tall water oaks that bordered our sunny yard. the back porch was where i drank a glass of cold white wine at the end of the day and wrote out the process of life that happened in the time from the front to the back porch. it was sacred. it gave me space and it gave me time. time and space i didn't even know how much i needed. who i was in those years of baby boys and zoe derailing and life changing decisions like stopping a career to home-school her and moving our lives to africa, became blurry.  who i thought i was, who i wanted to be, became scrambled up with assumptions of internal consistency and external labels. outwardly i could describe myself fairly well, i was a 40 year old doctor who was in a season of home-schooling her eldest child with special needs and responding to her husbands call to missions in africa. but internally i was very confused, and internal confusion is not my specialty. internal confusion if unable to be sorted, was to be abandoned, and external identity was to be embraced and worn proudly.

five years ago i packed up our lives and moved across the world with a fairly superficial idea of who i was, unbeknownst to me. landing in africa was perhaps the place i needed a back porch more than ever, at least metaphorically. i needed space and a place to do the work of understanding myself, in the middle of my life, with life looking very different than i thought it would. the combination of a need for that space and reflection, while adapting to a new foreign communal culture, was harder than i realized. the competing desires to separate and define, and to integrate and define, added to the internal confusion of who i was and who i wanted to be. i craved my back porch, a glass of wine and an uninterrupted hour, but what i actually longed for was to continue the process of finding myself in the middle of a life i didn't sign up for (as if life ever is) and didn't know what to do with. what i was searching for was my sense of self- a self that was intact and strong enough to fare all weather and location. a self with internal stability that could stand true and wear the external things with out depending on them for identity.  a search that took me to far and dark places that i didn't know i had.

five years have past. we live in a lovely house off campus in the city. our compound has walls and a gate and even a guard. no one stops by uninvited. no one waits for us on our front porch. this house only has one porch- a back porch. my days start and end on this porch. my babies aren't crawling or toddling around, they are playing air-guitar, and instead of three there are four of them. i'm again sitting on my porch writing, but writing from a place that is more than a porch. writing from a place of having braved the internal confusion and growing in the understanding of self rather than abandoning that which is hard and messy inside. a place of finding myself, where i begin and where i end, no matter where that is, no matter who is derailing, or what the calling is. a place of returning to old truths made whole. a place of newness and unity. a place where one porch is enough for mornings and afternoons, for beginnings and endings. a place where i no longer fear the external exposure and vulnerability of the front porch, because i now welcome and hold my own internal exposure and vulnerability. when you are safe inside, the outside is less threatening.

i'm so thankful for space and place, for reflection and growth, for time and change. i can now say,
"the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places, i have a beautiful inheritance." psalms 16:6