seven

i woke up yesterday with the number 7 in my head. 7 years.
7 more years. here.
it all becomes real. this is where i am and where i will be. this is where my children will be raised. this decision we made 6 years ago, has become my life in a more significant and permanent way than we ever imagined.

it wasn't that we planned on leaving here. it was that we didn't have a plan. we went where we felt God pulling us, with the idea that we would listen and be still and stay until it was time to go. but there was a freedom in that that we no longer have.

there was always the possibility of escape. if things got too hard. if we got too tired. if we got sick. if our kids were miserable. if things fell apart politically. if things fell apart financially. if we just missed home so much. and normal, and starbucks and the smell of new things in clean bright stores that only sell new things. if we missed really tall buildings and old cobbled streets and history and being a majority and having normal jobs, that pay us. if we longed desperately for our family and our friends, for being known deeply. if we just needed to see leaves change color and smell the cold and feel snowflakes fall on our upturned faces as we stare at a white sky. if we just wanted to remember. to be where it's familiar and comfortable and you have to ask less questions of the world and less of yourself even because  you don't have the developing world staring you in the face. or if we got scared. and thought that our children would do better at "home". that they "deserve" more. that they might resent us someday for raising them here- for growing them up as third culture kids. all those lingering thoughts and emotions, we could listen to them and they could know that we heard them, that they had a voice and if they screamed loud enough- we could turn this ship around.

not anymore.

yesterday i was feeling it. i was hearing from all those parts- thoughts and emotions- fears and sadnesses and i just listened. i resisted the urge to tell them that it is fine and to convince them that actually everything is great here and we had better just pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and make the best of it. no. it's really important to sit in grief sometimes. to open ourselves to our pain. to give ear to even our most absurd fears - because here is something i've learned- they don't believe in bootstraps and they won't go away- so best to listen, to acknowledge, to not abandon parts of ourselves that are hurting. hard as it is, sit with it, in it, cry it out, write it out, run it out, paint it out, shout it out, give it a healthy place to be heard or it will lash out. it will lash out in blame or resentment, or falsity, or displaced anger, or chronic, low grade, lingering sadness. it's best to invite ourselves to feel openly, and with out judgement, to have compassionate curiosity for ourselves.

when we get scared, we like to dichotomize. to make things black or white. to see the world as all or nothing. it's harder to live gray, in between, to grow into the comfort of the truth- which is 'all' and 'and'. for me, in this, it looks like saying, 'i'm thankful that we are happy here, but i'm sad that we can't go home whenever we want. sometimes that can feel scary. sometimes it feels good to have a plan and know where we'll be. sometimes i love living in africa and sometimes i really hate it. some days i can't imagine being anywhere else, and some days i'm so very homesick. ' i know that if i moved back to america right now, i'd have very similar feelings. and so would my kids. i know that God has absolutely allowed this to be as it is and so i know that He will absolutely provide what we need to stay here. not a guarantee of easy or painless or perfect- but a guarantee of His presence and of peace and joy- even though.

listening to the fears and the missings and the goodness, helps me support myself better.  i might not have a lot of money, but i can get a latte at the dutch coffee shop in town- and sometimes seeing that leaf patterned into foam - is enough. i can call home more. i can look at pictures and tell stories with mike and our kids as we remember our very snowy winter 2 years ago. i can enjoy here and i can remember there- both with thanks. and i can trust. trust that God knows and loves me- that His promises and provisions are real. that time is in His hands.

right now it's beautiful. it's cool and gray with a few raindrops and a good wind. it's my version of a rainbow- a promise that He brings what we need in small ways. today i needed this cloudy sky and some darkness. i needed goosebumps and a to wear a sweatshirt.

seven years. one day at at a time.

where is the window?

"whenever God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window." someone said once.

where is the window? it's hard to breath in here. the door slamming was loud, my ears are ringing. it's dark. so dark i can't see my hand. where is the window?

i just got an email from the lawyer. it may have been the worst email i've read- or one of them. it said NO. it said they said NO to rose's adoption. it said NO and Never and wait until she is 14 and can legally request adoption. it could have been over next week. we had a court date for next week. this 5 year ordeal could have finally been closed and a new chapter opened- the post adoption chapter.

i read it with shock and appall because we had spent an hour with the family before this, right before this, and it sounded like we were all on the same page. it sounded like we were family now- the jaja called me her daughter- it sounded like they understood what they had agreed to months ago in the village way up north. it sounded like finishing the reality that has been our life for 5 years now.

i read it and i felt like i was choking with my hands tied behind me. powerless, and trying to breathe. trapped and trying not to suffocate. 7 more years. jacob and laban. the longest labor ever known- measured not in hours but in years to birth this child.

i started clamoring around for a window in the dark. maybe there is latch if i can just feel it i can open a window- i can find light and air. but i'm just struggling in the dark- flapping my arms against smooth solid walls, and getting tired.

the thing is, i have this unshakable faith in God that gets in the way sometimes. i mean even if i want to get all pissed off and angry at God, i trust Him too much to really do that. i know he can handle it- i've been angry many times before, but lately His love and constancy have grown that trust even more and i know in my deepest parts that somehow, this awful, bleeping plan, is ........better. i know this, even though i don't know why. even though i don't know how. even though it sure as H-E double hockey sticks, doesn't feel like it's better.

it is.

we don't get to choose what life gives us, but we do get to choose how we respond to it. i have a choice in this. i can let the rage that wants to ignite in me take over and i can "fight this!!" (but i'm not even allowed to make a court date and if i had one, the judge wouldn't grant it anyway in this current adoption environment). i can let this anger fill me and i can refuse to let this family ever see rose again, because legally i have that right, and man right now that is exactly what i want to do.

or, i can sit down in this very dark room, open my hands and ask God to show me the window. knowing that this window might not look at all like my idea of a window. knowing that i might have to sit in the dark for a while and let my eyes adjust. knowing it might just be a window in my heart that opens. that lets a greater love grow. that changes me in ways i can't imagine, but need.

the tricky part is that i also have to trust that God is big enough for this to be .......better, for all involved. mike. zoe. jude. bryn. even rose herself. for her extended tribe. for our extended tribe across the ocean.

it's so much easier to get angry than it is to sit down in the dark.  it's so much easier to organize and strategize and make plans a, b, and c. to feel i can take control even in a very dark room.i know because i've been doing it for 40 years. it's so much harder to feel what feels horribly unfair. to feel the pain of it. the trapped-ness of it. perhaps most of all to feel the fear of it and all it's rippling fears. it's so much harder to release the anger, to widen my view to see all sides, to embrace the very unknownness of this, and commit to do the right thing, and not what i feel like doing.

this is the battle we all have. the parts of us fighting inside - the dark side and the jedi side. in moments like this the dark side has some very legit points and likable ideas- "this isn't fair to rose! play hard ball! tell them they will never see her again unless they sign those papers!" but if i'm honest, all this heaviness is coming from a place of fear, not a place of love.

and light comes from Love.  i'm sitting in this dark space yes, but if i can access that love, one small light is enough to kill the darkness. so i choose light. i choose trust. i choose faith and waiting. i choose hope. i choose to believe that while fear is flying all around this from all sides, so is love. love of a child. birthed by some and raised by others, loved by all.

i will sit in the arms of Love that parted the waters for the Israelites twice, once out of slavery and once more into the promised land. i will trust the parting. i will remember my own waters crossed dry and my own illuminated darknesses. i will wait with my little light. i will ask to see the window, and i will look and listen for where the light comes, and i will do my very best to walk in it.

supposed to be like what?

the sun has set and the birds have been replaced by chirping frogs and insects. music from the club down the street carries differently in the evening- its sound is right here. we just came in from playing football- both types at once- while trying to chase the dogs away from the ball. it was after a dinner of chicken and chips - our last supper before we meet (again) with rose's birth family to try to move closer, after 5 years, to finalizing her adoption.

 it's been a long five years. a lot has happened and a lot has changed. i've changed. in many many ways- but even in the way of how i feel about her adoption. for a long time i carried a lot of ambivalence. i loved her and wanted her absolutely, but once i found out she had a birth mom and a large extended family, and then later on a birth father surfaced, i felt conflicted. it wasn't supposed to be like this. for anyone.

 so i worried about her birth mom. i worried about where her words came from. if she felt forced or coerced to say them- to not take her back. i worried that culturally she didn't have a voice. but all i had was her voice and her words and they said- 'take her, keep her, raise her'.

time when on. we saw the birth mom several times a year, and her mother (jaja) and their entire village. we were given the 'blessing' and welcomed into this unfamiliar family that became our family. but when ever legal issues came up, things changed. people dragged their feet and said they couldn't decide with out this person or that person. they hemmed and hawed about not wanting to completely let go, officially. and again, i was conflicted. i worried that they were voiceless. i imagined being in their place. i felt we couldn't rush them. i felt we needed to respect them.

time went on and years went on and as her legal guardians, we again went to the village and met with everyone to again try to settle this child's life in a permanent way. there was a program and niceties but again when legal talk began- so did the foot dragging.

now i can see that in the only voice i need to worry about is rose's voice. and that she is the one who has been silenced in this. she was left at 2. she had to do the work of learning another language and navigating a family of people that didn't look like her. she has to hold a different passport. she has to see these people who birthed her but haven't raised her and won't let her go, again and again, and she is tired and because she's a child, she is voiceless.

but she has a voice. a very clear one. her voice is fierce and bold and resilient. her voice is confident and smart and decisive. it's the one that calls me mom and mike dad. the one that calls over and over again to her brothers as they play and walk to school and laugh together. the one who helps her big sister again and again in her gentle, ever-forgiving manner. her voice doesn't understand why this is even an issue. she only has known us as family- even though she's seen these other people off and on for years now. yet her voice is too young to be heard.

so i have to be her voice. i have to no longer worry about the feelings of her birth mom or her grandmother - or anyone else really. i have to speak for my beautiful daughter however i can. because life is full of things that are 'not supposed to be like this'.

and this wasn't supposed to be like this. not for her birth family, not for our family, but mostly importantly and most of all it wasn't supposed to be like this for her. not this hard. not this long. not this complicated. not this messy.

but it is.

so maybe it was supposed to be like this. for reasons that we will possibly and probably never know.

give us wisdom. give us love.

in retrospect i should have started at paragraph 5.
i'm referring to yesterdays blog.

i have spent most of the morning in tears because i awoke to an email that expressed a lot of hurt and anger about my writing yesterday, and my intent was so not to offend or anger or disrespect. i was in tears because words are powerful and words can sting- i'm so sorry if mine stung you. i was in tears because i felt misunderstood, so i'm sorry if i misunderstood you. i cried because i felt small and voiceless and insecure, i'm so sorry if my words made you feel small or voiceless or not secure. 

in a lot of ways, this is a metaphor of where our country is right now. many people were feeling small and voiceless and not understood and disrespected. someone finally heard them. someone heard something that others hadn't. the forgotten felt remembered, and they should have been remembered, we should all be remembered. but now others, who were just given a voice themselves, are afraid it will be taken away. others feel they will become forgotten. now they fear that this is about the turning of tides. that it's one or the other, not both.  like dr. seuss's the the star-bellied sneetches, stars on, stars off. but i believe it can be both. that everyone can have a voice, that we must love each other and part of loving each other is listening to all our voices. i think that is really what i was trying to say.

i am just one small person living on the other side of the world who is trying to follow Jesus. i wrote yesterday about love. i wrote about 1 corinthians 13 which is usually reserved for weddings, but is a call for how to love each other in all relationships, including me to our president. so if what came across, is me not loving donald j. trump but only judging him, i see the irony in that, and i am sorry.  my point wasn't to bash trump or those who voted for him- my point was to call us back to the basics- love, and not get lost in the politics.

unfortunately and perhaps obviously, i'm not very diplomatic.

i was writing from a place of hope and faith and belief in our country and with a deep love for our country, not from a place of anger or bitterness.  i was writing because the beautiful thing about our country is that we have a system that works,  a history of peaceful transitions, of distributed power, and freedom to share our thoughts, and an expectation to respect each others thoughts. i was writing to remind myself and anyone listening, that LOVE is what we are called to, and because i do struggle with some of the things that trump has said and done that don't appear to come from a place of love. i was writing because our country was founded on Christian principles, and how we live out Love together matters, regardless of who is in office. and i am writing now because we are called to unity and forgiveness and peace and perseverance.

if you heard anger in my words, i am truly sorry. i felt no anger.
if you heard bitterness, i'm sorry, i don't have bitterness.
if you heard judgement in my words, i am sorry, i can see how that could have been. i didn't mean to judge, but to ask questions.
if you heard confusion, yes, it is confusing. politics are confusing. religion is confusing. life is confusing. we do the best we can.

i really don't like to write about politics because there is so much intensity and conflict and hostility and division. but now that i have opened a can of worms- let me be totally honest. because truth matters. i do struggle with donald j. trump's character. i also struggled with bill clinton's character and most of all, i struggle with my own character. because we should wrestle with character and in all honesty, none of us get it right, probably most of all, me.

1 corinthians 13 tells us how to love. how to love regardless of gender, color, political opinion, nationality, sexual orientation, or religious affiliation. how to love all people, those like us and not, those who like us and those who don't, those who agree and those who challenge. those who were once forgotten and those who fear they will be. all.

as we enter the next 4 years as a country with a new president, i pray that i will practice LOVE, of all, including donald j trump. that you will too. that our nation will Love well each other and other nations. and i pray that for those of us who follow Jesus, that we would lead this, guide others in this, model this and teach this.

this is what is in my heart. again i am sorry if this did not come across in my words yesterday.
i say this in humility and with peace, and love and prayer and hope and a promise to be more loving in my words.


"When prayer is authentic, it will always lead to actions of mercy; when actions of mercy are attempted at any depth, they will always drive you to prayer." - rohr

but have not LOVE

i started out crossfit this morning in tree pose and read my inaugural version of 1 Corinth 13.

"if i say "i will make America great again', but have not LOVE, i am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. if i promise jobs and protection and if i appeal to all your greatest fears, but have not LOVE, i am nothing. if i appoint Christian supreme court justices, and support anti-abortion law but have not LOVE, i gain nothing.

love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. it is not rude, it is not self-seeking. it is not easily angered it keeps no record of wrongs. love does not delight in evil but rejoices in truth. it always protects, always trusts, always hopes and always perseveres.
love never fails."

i'm sad and upset. i'm sad because it's the end of the obama era but i'm upset by what's coming. i'm upset because WHERE IS THE LOVE? where is the love? i look at what's coming and i see a lot of hate and i see a lot of impatience and meanness and boasting and pride. i see rudeness and selfish ambitions and a lot of anger and bitterness. i see rejoicing in lies, not truth.

and then i wonder how? how did We the people, get here? Where is the love for each other? for our belief in love? for the welcoming arms of the statue of liberty? where is the love of our fellow person, whether in the USA or abroad? how did we as americans come to be so divided over certain issues that we landed here? how did we, a nation founded on biblical principles, put someone of questionable character in our highest office?

love is hard. truly loving each other well is very hard- all of it. patience and kindness and forgiveness and peace and humility and selflessness - those things i need to work on each day, with the people i love most, let alone strangers, or enemies. but i value these things highly. i know they are right and how i should behave and how i want my children to behave.

here we are on inauguration day. i'm on the other side of the world, maybe you are too. here's what i'm holding on to: LOVE. i'm holding onto all the attributes of love- but today, i'm holding onto the last part of that verse- it always protects, always trusts, always hopes and always perseveres.

i'm holding on to that part because from way over here in africa, i believe in our systems and our people. i believe that we still believe in love and that we will do what we can as a nation to trust this, to protect this, to hope in this, to persevere no matter what.

i'm holding on to LOVE NEVER FAILS.

remember

the early quiet morning is a gift. time gives time. i am years of me- old selves that built me. reflector sneakers and tough-skins walking me to the beach at sunset on 4 year old legs. the light on the marsh grasses- a field of tall brown feathers sweeping together- the silence of it.

"take time to remember, lest you forget." seems something an old woman would say. i want to say that- to my children. to my self. to you.

look at the light on the grass in the morning, how it's broken into bits with darkness between. let your eyes see a pattern, a picture. let your mind take you somewhere from there- back- back to who you once were. the spaces of the light, the lines of the darkness on the ground.

i am taken back to a sky once on a walk in the middle of the day a few years back. it was blue and cloudless with planes flying so high in the dry crisp air, they silently marked their trail with white lines that slowly dissipated. i stopped and looked up, a perfect "X" in the sky. i watched. my fleece ready. i asked a question of God, of myself, of the sky- to be answered by another "X". it was chance- there was no airshow- just the randomness of life as planes entered and exited an airport 20 miles away. so i asked a question- like gideon- the presence of another "X"- the ground wet, the fleece dry. it came clear as the day itself, not a sideways x, not a cross, not the intersection of 2 lines, not even one faded to almost gone and another fresh line of exhaust- but a perfect "X" - 2 strong lines in the sky crossed at the middle. so i asked again- dry ground wet fleece, for another "X", again a perfect one. and it came- not one, not two, but six. six large "X"s in the sky in a row- shouting clear as that day- "YES".

yes to the question i had asked (which did by the way, turn out to happen). but yes to much more. yes to a listening universe and an answering God. yes, even though and despite of doubt. yes more times than i had even asked for- above and beyond all we can ask or imagine. yes, and just in case you didn't get it, yes 4 more times.

yes- I am here in the this garden on this day in these spots of sun on the grass. yes I am here in the banana plant shadows that break up the light. yes I am there drawing in the sky so you can see me, on that walk years back in time, because I am outside of time. yes, it was Me moving the marsh grass at the end of the day, on the edge of the world where the water meets the land and you squinted in the light with  little plastic barrettes holding back your hair. Yes this is a time for you who is made up of time, to remember- lest you forget. I made you as all of these years- the first time your eyes opened and closed quickly, blinking the world into focus. the first time you noticed how light changes with time and colors change with light. and when you saw people paint that mystery, when you longed for someone to see the mystery as you did, and when you found him, and as your life has happened. as you have birthed others who blinked their life to focus, and held the hands of little barretted toe-heads on beaches where the sun leaves from the edge of water not land. others who see the mystery differently because they are equally but differently made. and are Mine- just as you are. loved just as you are. yes I am here as life keeps happening and time, for you, keeps ticking. see your body, with it's scars and it's markings of time- you are made up of all these years. hold them. remember them. cherish what can be cherished and grieve things that have hurt. know they are somehow still part of you- not to burden you, but to inform. let them make you gentle with yourself and with others.

time has happened even now. the light has grown, the shadows pulled back, now only fingers of darkness. the sounds of the day have started. the dogs sleep. the coffee is now cold.

it's time to start this day.

compassion

sitting in the house. so hot. fan on. seeing photos of other peoples lives in places where i used to live.
i can hear the crunch of the snow when i walk, or the sloppy sound of slush as it melts. the cold biting air. the slip of the ice beneath the dusting. i remember.

yesterday i read an article about suffering and choices. it was talking about how suffering is a part of life, a large part for many, but we treat it like it's a surprise. an injustice. an anomaly rather than the norm. it was talking about the value of recognizing the truth which is that suffering is part of being human. and from that truth not wasting time being surprised by it, but instead use it to unite us with each other. the universality of suffering can bind us together rather than set us apart in isolation.

amen.

yesterday zoe was driving me crazy. terrible PMS. (in luganda you can add -enene to a noun and it changes it to mean huge or a lot). it was PMS-enene.  from my crazy i struggle to access compassion. it was four pm and she STILL had not taken a shower. i had managed to get her into the bathroom and could hear her talking to herself about why she didn't want to take a shower and how much she hated me and no one understood her and blah blah blah.

i went into my bathroom and talked to God about how much i didn't want to be dealing with this and how much i felt strong negative feelings about her and how really no one understands me and blah blah blah. i thought how nice it would be to take a bath with some music and some candles and just try to relax from my overly stressful life. why don't you offer to draw a bath for zoe instead. is what God said. really?? is what i said. have compassion for her stressed out life which you don't think is stress-worthy, just like i have compassion for you in your .....umm.. stress. as usual, He was right.

so i offered to get a bath ready for her. to help her with her hair. to decompress her day. to acknowledge that her stress and anxiety is real even if i dont' understand it. that she deserves compassion and love, just as i do.

really?? is what she said. and then "no thanks, i think i'd rather take a shower."

so i climbed in the tub and soaked with my snowflake Christmas candle and i think vance joy singing again, and thought about how compassion soothes suffering. it reaches and touches and validates it. it speaks into the middle of it, saying you're not alone in this desolate place which is your emotional world right now. it says 'i'm here too'. it says 'i love you anyway and even though and no matter what'.  compassion brings us together .

zoe often feels overwhelmed by her life. torn and chewed up by things that i don't understand. i can't identify with the link between the feeling with the cause but i can understand the feeling. i can understand suffering. on some level. for some reason. as can you. as can we all.

when our days or our lives have ripped us, if we left torn or broken, is it possible to: “reincorporate your version of reality, of normalcy, to accommodate suffering.” BJ Miller  ?  from there, we remember we are not alone. from there we can reach out to another. and let it bring us closer together not farther apart.

laugh out loud

the last year came to an end for me me with good music and writing and family and sleep. it was a gentle end to a gentle year. a year full of very welcome newness and healing and knowings and growth. last year things came in steps and brought change -  the kind that is real and stays- because it comes slowly and in layers on top of each other. a year that has made space by untangling old knots. space that lets me free to remember and to welcome what comes.

yesterday was the first day of 2017. yesterday i laughed. a. lot. and it was fantastic. i laughed so hard that i cried with zoe. i laughed at a movie and at dinner with friends and with mike and the kids after dinner. it was a strange thing because i saw something in me that i haven't in a long time. something that feels like it kind of died, or perhaps it was buried alive. you can only really laugh like that when you are untethered. when your mouth is free to open wide and your belly is willing and able to let loose and you can lose yourself in the moment completely. when nothing is so serious or so broken or so painful that real laughter can't happen. yesterday i remembered that for most of my life, i've been lucky enough to have that freedom. yesterday i felt the pure joy of letting go and laughing so hard i couldn't breathe.

then today happened. it wasn't awful. it wasn't dramatic, okay it became dramatic. it was, of course, zoe. or me, with zoe.  i came back from seeing a sick man in the very poor namuwongo community, and she met me at the door. 'where was i? why wasn't i there for her? why didn't i help her when her dad asked her to eat breakfast?' it was the beginning of the derailing. noon and she hadn't yet brushed her teeth or bathed (really the only 2 things we were asking her to do all day) and you would have thought we asked her to run a marathon and take the SATs.

(as usual, the things that annoy us most in other people are the very things we struggle with). what i get most infuriated with zoe about, is her seeming lack of ability to try. to accept her disability and move on with her life. what makes me the most mad is her stuckness. her burdened-ness.  but that has been my problem too.

i could feel the webs. the tentacles, the vines climbing on me and pinning me down. all the fears and pains and angers and guilt that come with parenting a special needs child wrapped around me and tightened snake-like with each breath. i wanted my breath back. i wanted my joy back. i wanted to get out from under this tarp of darkness and LMFBO (laugh my freakin' bum off) again. so i did what i usually do after i verbally lose it but refrain from murder, i cried.

but i today it was different.

i cried in an empowered way. i cried to dissolve the tarp. to allow myself to go right ahead and grief that moment, so i can go and enjoy the other moments. i realized i have the ability to choose to climb out from under. to snip the vines. break the webs and i don't have to stay tethered there!

last year gave me the space i need to begin to see it differently. it's not about holding both the good and the bad and pain and joy. it's about feeling the reality of life and then allowing yourself to let go of the heaviness. to be able to feel the pain, and then to be able to release it.

it doesn't come easily to me- the letting go part. for so long, holding it seemed the only thing to do. releasing it seemed like betrayal or denial. but with the freedom that comes from honestly looking at my life for what it is, not what i wanted it to be, or thought it should be, or wish it would be, i am free to unloose those tentacles. i am choosing to hold on to laughter and freedom and not let that go. i am choosing the re-birth of that part of me that i thought was gone. and it feels so good.