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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.