getting closer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i think i finally realized what makes me so bone tired. or maybe it's what i'm so bone tired of. it's having to think extra about every little decision and having to second guess every idea in light of the "new normal" that's what it is. it sucks the joy!

i'd love to have people over tonight. oh wait. is that a good idea? have we seen too many people lately? are we in the same bubble? oh nevermind. (they will have to go through the same exercise on their end).

but then i feel lonely and my brain hurts. 

i just want to sing a christmas carol and have friends for dinner, and not have to hear myself say, "did you remember your mask?" i just don't want to have to think about everything all the time. 

this seems particularly challenging for the more impulsive non-planner types,  because let me tell you, we are having to redo our whole deal. is it easier if you are normally more considerate and organized? probably not. i'm sure it's just as exhausting and disruptive. 

sometimes i stop and look around and think how amazing it is that we are so resilient as a species.  i mean what are our options really. but we go on. we slap on our masks- or many of us do, or we should, and we wash our hands and we go about our work and our lives and try to find food for our families and if we are fortunate enough to be able to continue to educate our kids we do that. hopefully those who can do that and have enough to eat, can also find time to look at the disparity and wonder about it in a more profound and direct way and maybe commit to doing something about it in our own spheres. let's say there is a lot of potential for new years resolutions involving others for 2021. how can we make the world more equitable when we see a virus that doesn't discriminate who it infects given the opportunity, but the outcomes are impacted by social determinants, as is the opportunity for infection in the first place. 

in a few weeks i turn 50. good Lord. this is snapshot of life right now: we just got power back after 3 days in the dark and with no charged devices. i have a borrowed fake christmas tree which is not yet decorated (in 30 years i have always had a real tree by december 1st decorated - including my 10 years in uganda :( ). i have three teenagers full of all things they should be, sweat and stories and complaints and laughter. they are all-knowing and desperately needy simultaneously, someone always has an ice pack, someone else is in the shower,  and someone needs a haircut. they make me laugh louder and longer, and they can push my buttons faster than anyone else. i have a 21 year old who i miss terribly but i also find challenging to talk to on the phone every other day 8000 miles away. i took a kickboxing class on saturday which was awesome and then got a migraine all day. i'm loving teaching the third year medical students here, in the way buechner describes our call. i miss my family in the usa, consistent electric power, and good milk, but i love living in africa. i cried my way through 2 very different zoom memorial services this week, one for a friend who died this summer of cancer, a woman my mothers age who i've known for decades, the grieving was for many things as was the celebration of her beautiful life, lived mostly in east africa, and is part of the reason why i'm here now. the second was an unexpected death of a child who i've never met who shares the name of my child who i almost lost, the child of a friend of a friend. i attended in support and solidarity, to respect both his life and to support their family as the body of Christ had supported me when i thought i might lose my jude. both reminded me again of resilience and of what matters and to be so deeply grateful daily. and of the hope we have in the Love.

so we are getting closer. closer to 2021. to a newer, new normal, which will i believe be better than this one. i have hope in the vaccine and biden and harris and of course Jesus, and time. and Love. 

may we Love better. may i Love better.

advent, finally

 

it is advent. my favorite time. this year it seems we are crawling to the end of the 12th month like a marathon no one signed up for. we are longing for rest and hope and joy and meaning. maybe more than ever before.  

our tradition is to wait until the day after thanksgiving before we can begin to look toward Christmas. this means we wait to watch or listen or decorate. we wait. this year the struggle was real. a few times, i almost gave in and my kids held me up to my word. this year there is a desperation for the things that advent promises.

this year has done us in. laid us bare. flattened us. tested and toughened us. everyone has lost something or someone. there is collective grief. a mourning. 

advent promises us the gift of Love. advent is the season of hope, anticipation of  a celebration, a birth, of joy, of abundance, of divine entrance, of true miracle. LOVE. radical love. 

this year, more than any other i can remember, i am sitting in the need for radical love. and everything about Jesus's birth, life, death and resurrection was radical Love. He spoke radical words that made the establishment mad, He did radical things and hung out with the "wrong people", He turned things upside down - with a clear and simple message- Love one another as I love you. He was inclusive always, He chose people over rules, people over money, forgiveness over judgement, always. period. 

our hope is here. radical Love, inclusive Love no matter what by God. that is the good news of Christmas, the hope of advent.

for me this week, this first week of advent, i'm going to be still in a time of reflection on this year.  this is not my tendency. i like to avoid the negative and skip over the bad feelings and get to the good ones. but as i get older, i'm learning the value of holding hard things, the lessons learned in dark nights of the soul. i'm beginning to brave the cold and experience what is there for me.

i have hung some little white lights (my favorite) and the advent calendar made by my sweet sister and i'm listening to Handel's Messiah while I reflect and sit with the year. the equatorial sun shines and outside it looks and feels like my childhood summers which still seems a bit confusing,

oh come oh come Emmanuel!

wonder

i can hear the thunder, it's about to rain. the sky is a dark blue gray and the leaves are almost yellow in contrast. it's beautiful. it looks like my childhood memories of fall. a timeless, place-less emotion. it doesn't match the sounds of tropical birds that are still chirping warnings of the coming storm. 

a few weeks ago my girl turned 21. that little blonde head, starfish fingered butter-soft hands, years of Wonder, in the blink of an eye. today i read an article written by her childhood crib-mate, neuro-typical best friend who studies at Brown University about managing anxiety during covid-19. tomorrow mike and i will have a transitional meeting about the plans for zoe's future with her developmental disabilities service coordinator and her support staff at school, zoe's anxiety is too high to attend the meeting. how wide the gap is now. and we'll have that meeting via zoom- we in africa 8000 miles away. 

my friend is adopting a wonderful girl with special needs. i'm so often tempted to run to her, to hug her, to ask so many things. are you okay? no really- you can tell me if you're not. tell her that it's okay if you are and you aren't at the same moment because that is where i live. and are you ready? do you know your world is now changed forever? that forever will be bittersweet, but that bittersweet is better because you taste way more flavor when you live in that contrast. the truth is i wouldn't change a bit of it. i wish for zoe life was easier, but i wouldn't change her for a second, she's one of my favorite people.

life is so dang beautiful and hard and intense, isn't it? it's like the sky right now. all the things. all the pieces. singing birds and thunder. car mufflers and neighbor children's laughter. dark clouds and ambient light on yellow leaves. people doing the best they can with what they have, with who they are, moments frozen, time moving. my heart is weeping, my mouth smiling, my eyes are dry. my mind full of Wonder.  

goodbye

there was something about the way the sun caught the "pumped- up pink" toenail polish on my tan feet leaning on the passenger side dashboard that reminded me of when the biggest problem in my life was whether or not to get a perm. we just drove away from dropping zoe back at school and my eyes were blurry with tears.  when did life get so hard? that is what i've been asking God since about 4 am, but really for about the past 18 years. She must be getting tired of me but Love is okay with tired so i keep on asking it.

periodically i have these awakenings to my own life. you would think they are 'ah-ha moments' except that i've probably had the exact one already, but am awakening to it again. it's like i've forgotten and then it's new to me. this happens when i re-watch a movie or TV show also because i often forget the ending and it seems new (which is an advantage- currently rewatching homeland, and it's actually exciting!). at 4 am i was awakening again to the reality that my sweet zoe will never ever be independent and that no one will ever love her like her parents do and this has major implications for my heart and my physical being too.

leaving zoe this time felt different. harder. definitely harder. in six days we fly back to uganda. through a series of miraculous events we are heading back on a repatriation flight. the world is topsy, turvy in a way it never has been before. my 20 year old reality is unchanged. and i'm getting on a plane with what feels like a wing and a prayer.

so at 4 am i found myself at the foot of my bed leaning on the window sill crying out to God. 'why are you making this so hard? you could have blocked this! you could have held our work permits, made the flight full, anything if you wanted us to stay here with her!' you know God speaks to me in the trees and the wind and She did. zoe is my child. I love her even more than you do- I made her. and you. I've got her. I've got you. you need to go. I know it's hard to leave but there are some things I need you to do to be ready for what is next.  the entire row of mighty, tall, maple trees shook with words. and then there was stillness and then i had that moment of awakening.

i went back to sleep.

a few hours later, the Celtic book of prayer had a morning reading that is one of my favorites.
a poem. i heard it as God speaking. a dialogue again, i took it one line at a time.

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart,
but there is so much unresolved. hold these tensions? let them sit? as they are? it's soooo uncomfortable!!

and try to love the questions themselves
"the truest and most beautiful life never promises to be an easy one" love the process

as if they were locked rooms
or books written in a very foreign language.
love the blessing in the challenge of it all.

Do not search for the answers, which could not be given to you now,
stop wasting precious time spinning my tired wheels

because you would not be able to live them.
oh i couldn't live those answers now anyway!

And the point is to live everything.
there are seasons.

Live the questions now.
this is my season.

Perhaps then, someday far in the future,
you will gradually,
without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.
perhaps, (or, gulp, perhaps not). far? (deep breath) it will come naturally, as i grow and change and allow and transform with my life and the people in it....the answers. or maybe different questions.

Rainer Maria Rilke

there was so much in that poem for me today. and in the trees. God speaking in ways that i needed to hear. knowing that my girl is being cared for by the God who made her- reassured of the presence of the Holy Spirit. 

still driving her there i cried a bit behind my sunglasses. i got through the actual goodbye with out tears and she did great. but as we drove away- my heart hurt, as i remembered my awakening at 4am- and i tried to recall the poem, instead of simpler times - and perms are almost always a bad idea anyway.

 

reunion

we picked zoe up from ELC-2 on April 6th and brought her to our temporary home in annisquam where we've found an affordable furnished winter rental to live in while we wait with the rest of the planet for the world to restart. i hadn't seen zoe in over 3 months and i couldn't wait. we'd done all the things- we'd gotten off the plane and quarantined for 2 weeks with out seeing a soul, check our temperatures and kept our hands washed. her school wasn't meeting anymore and there were only a few kids in the residence (ELC-2) so she called us all the time- she was ready too. ready to come 'home' or whatever 'home' looks like to our family which is another blog post for another day.

the traffic was light. i called when we arrived. mike had been back to the states a month before so i asked him if he could step into the back ground and i could have the first hug. i couldn't wait. i speak to zoe every other night in africa. i'm the one who dials her number, who goes out and calls her cat so she can see her, who rallies the siblings, but when she ran out that door at ELC-2 she ran to her dad.
"mom, where's dad?" then seeing him, " DADDY!!" and gave him a huge hug.

not to be overly-dramatic but it felt like dying. dying in the way that you read about when someone has a near death experience and their life passes before their eyes. because in those moments when her staff member looked at me with that bottom-lip-stuck-out look of 'i'm sorry' and i slow-mo'ed a glance to her hug with her dad, i saw all the moments flashing before me. i felt all the feelings- the pain of watching her struggle through the past 20 years, of holding that: the smirks and the non-invites from supposedly open-minded liberal san francisco parents, the giggles and purposeful bullying of her peers, the countless times she has told me her life isn't worth it, the hours i've spent writing it all out so i don't explode. and here. here was this moment. the longest i've been away from her in 20 years. and BOOM slap. it hurt! 

and i know there is all that psychology behind it and that 'punishing the one your closest with' yada-yada, but it didn't change the fact that it felt like a huge punch in the gut. so that was the intro which i guess is good in that there was room for improvement.

i thought i'd be writing a lot. i thought i'd be here, near the water, with time and with my muse (zoe) and i'd be full of words again, but it's a different season. a different season entirely. when i started writing i needed to get through my days. there was still so much to be discovered and uncovered about zoe and her future. i was trying to do that while also trying to accept it, and what it might mean for our family. as the years have unfolded, we have more clarity and a deeper understanding of zoe. we have begun to grasp what her future may look like and in that, to accept it and look at what that means for our family.

i have a house full of teenagers right now- in attitude, habits and hygiene- their age range is 11-20. it's complicated. one wrestles with issues with identity and adoption, one with identity and autism and all that comes with that, 2 that wrestle with third culture kid issues. it's a lot. and then of course there are all my issues! it's a party over here. :) but for zoe, being 'home' means staring what she is not, in the face. it's about confronting her difference 24 hours a day. it's feeling like the oldest and the least able at once. i know it's asking a lot of her- all. the. time.

but there is something about sitting around the dinner table, the 6 of us, that in it's crazy, i love. something about my 4 babies all together, being way too loud, attitudes galore and usually mocking me, but there we are- the model of the imperfect world. hard. not easy. loud, not peaceful. sitting crooked not straight. forgetting our manners, but sharing our stories. laughing even if it's over some stupid simpsons episode rerun. laughing even if everyone doesn't get the joke.  learning that we are different. learning that we are the same. 

like the past 20 years, a beautifully bent but not broken, reunion.

#justiceforahmaud

Ahmaud Arbery. he was shot and killed by these two men while running in the middle of the day in a suburban neighborhood in february. he was killed because he is black. he was killed because of our deeply shushed brokenness. these two men didn't even get arrested. they were let go because of 'citizens right to arrest' laws and supposed self defense. an unarmed black man punching one of them to defend himself against one of two gunmen- and they were not even arrested because they were defending themselves? these are the deep deep lies. this is the disgusting, horrid, oppressive, unjust sickness that continues to rot at the core of our country. WE HAVE TO INSIST THAT IT STOP. ALL OF US.

i didn't want to watch the video but i made myself- could it really be as simple as that? YES. IT WAS. it was as simple as 2 angry scared fools shooting a young black man to death- again- and no justice being served. i feel physically ill.

rose just turned 11. for her birthday she wanted to eat pizza and watch 'just mercy' with her white family. it's an incredible movie. it's about racism and injustice and majorly broken systems. it's about voicelessness and powerlessness. just like this. just like what is happening right now with ahmaud arbery. 

do you feel sick? because you should. 

when i was 22 years old i was driving home in the rain from my premed chemistry lab and a drunk irishman came out of a pub and stumbled in front of my car. i hit the breaks but because of the wet road i skid into him and he flew over my car and landed in the street. i pulled over in a state of shock- sure that i'd just killed someone and was going to jail. it was right near the fire department so in no time there was an ambulance taking him to the hospital for his broken leg (only, thank God). at the same time the ambulance came, a kind black man walked over to check on me as i was a mess. he calmed me down and sat with me and assured me that the man would be okay. about this time the victim's brothers came out of the pub to see where their brother was and what all the sirens were for. the police told them he'd been hit and to go to the hospital. what happened next was unbelievable. the policeman came over to take the statement about what happened. i told them exactly where i was driving, how fast, when i saw him, him hitting my car etc. then they turned to the gentleman who had stopped and asked him to tell them what really happened and that i shouldn't cover for him. the police and the brothers proceeded to all try to pin the accident on the black good samaritan who had stopped to help me! i remember the conglomeration of feelings vividly. at first i truly couldn't understand how they could be confused. i tried to reason with them about the events and the logic and give them proof. then i realized they were literally trying to get me off the hook and pin it on this guy. they were trying to say that he was driving my car. i was enraged. i was yelling that this was the only person who had come over to help me, that i didn't know him so how could he be driving my car, and that how dare they try to accuse him of anything! and i kept profusely apologizing to him. (as i write this for the first time ever, i am realizing they were probably trying to say he carjacked my car, then hit the guy, that never had occurred to me until right now.)
it was a moment of shame. for me it was shocking, but for him? sadly, i bet it wasn't. i bet he wasn't surprised. and that is sickening too. 

imagine if Mr. Aubrey was your son. 

no really. imagine. your son comes home from college, goes for a run before lunch and doesn't come home because he's dead.

or image that he could be your son. that your son is someone of color and that could happen to him, and no one even arrests the killers. and it's minor news. NO ONE ARRESTS THE SHOOTERS. or that it could happen to your brother, your father, your uncle, your cousin, any of your neighbors. 

and if this was in reverse? you know what would have happened. and that difference is sickening too.

IT IS NOT OKAY. IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO FEEL BAD. IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO CRY. IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO FEEL ANGRY. WE NEED TO DEMAND JUSTICE FOR HIM. WE NEED TO DEMAND THESE MEN BE BROUGHT TO TRIAL WITH AN APPROPRIATE JURY THAT INCLUDES THE PEERS OF THE VICTIM TOO. 

sign the petition, make the call. pay attention. be a voice. (in case you are wondering, i pretty sure this is what Jesus would do)




here is what you can do:
Call GA Gov Kemp's office 404-656-1776 and demand justice for Ahmaud Abrey
also their website: www.gov.ga.gov then go to 'contact us' then constituents then services and leave a message
also can call the Attorney General 404-656-3300

 #JUSTICEFORAHMAUD

perspective

we have now had 3 days of sun. in a row. this is life giving to me. life giving. it's actually surprising how much my mood is tied to the weather. i mean i like a rainy or cloudy day once in a while. stay inside, snuggle up with a book, bake something, but that's like 1%-5 % of the time. the rest should be sunshine, warmth and outdoor time. April was so rainy and dismal for me, that i actually looked up when the Mayflower landed because i was so sure that i must have had it wrong. it must have been in early summer when people thought this was a lovely warm climate because what fool would choose to settle here otherwise? i was wrong it was november 6th. (mike said the kind of fool who had been traveling in a boat for 3 months and was happy to hit any land at all).

two of my kids are doing geometry as part of their math curriculum right now. and in geometry it really helps to remember perspective. looking at things differently, changing the way you see the shapes and their relationship to each other can give you insight into the problem.

on sunday morning i was making coffee and thinking about perspective alone in the kitchen and i realized (as if it were new information) that we will get back to uganda, eventually. that this time of staying at home and social distancing will eventually come to an end as all things do. that like with geometry, i can change how i look at this. i can step out of right now for a minute, look at the bigger picture where life returns to more normal (different yes but not this) and i can see hope. i can see dinner parties and faces in full view and even eventually hugging people. i can see bringing our own bags to the market again and talking with strangers at the store (even past 6pm) and other things on the news and my kids having friends to play with and peers not just parents for hours on end. but.

but i could also see the healthy changes all around that hopefully we will choose to keep. families on walks together. john krasinski's 'some good news', emphasis on others, valuing teachers, taking a hard look at the social determinants of health and the disparity and it's deep roots, choosing to change our perspective as a country. 

then i stepped back into the moment. out in the yard there was a red fox. she ran from the side yard to the back yard and stayed for a few minutes while the kids and i watched her, then she ran off. a pair of canadian geese flew close overhead honking- alone together- social distancing as well. last week a coyote ran down the road in front of the house and we are surrounded by wild turkeys. gifts. beauty.

i went on the porch. that warm sun. the leaves starting to break from the buds. pine needles sparkling. perspective changes everything. perspective and that great warm ball of light.

waking up

this business of growing people.  i will always say it's harder than growing babies. so much fun, but hard passionate work. sometimes i look at these people i'm growing (knowing that really, they are growing me) and i see all the years, all the places i've dragged them around this great spinning world. they landed with us- entrusted- gifted- they didn't sign up for us. they didn't choose nomadic. they didn't ask for adventure.

i'm reading some good books right now (trying to) it feels very stereotypical (what i'm reading, for my demographic). but only because there has been a hole waiting for it, a void, an absence of strong women's voices speaking into spirituality.

i read something beautiful today. it was in the introduction to a book, the explanation really of why she had written the book. it was a question, "once you wake up, can you wake up anymore?"

yes! yes absolutely yes. life is a forever waking up. this is one of the gifts i hope i can pass on to my people - the desire to be woke and the search for continual wakening. and to surround ourselves with people and situations and art and writing that challenge us to think differently and broadly. to fight the urge to box things up, to resist our inclination to categorize and sort, but instead to be okay with a different system- with one that can hold options and maybe less order but more acceptance. one with more room, and less tension.

i'm trying to notice the tension. i'm trying to live in this space of internally accepting more and fighting less. for me it's a gummy feeling inside when things are coming from old stale places. i've learned to know when it's there. it's the color of stubbornness. i can see it even in small doses now, sizes that used to be able to hide. now that i know what to look for, i can help myself gently unglue inside. i can follow the thread and look for the old pattern or fear and i can awaken another small part of myself.

it's become more and more important to me as i see my people and i want so badly to give them a better way.  but the truth is - i can't. it's their journey. they will have their luminal spaces to traverse. their dark nights of the soul. they will have to wake up again and again and chose if they want to stay awake, if once is enough or if they will chose a life of waking up.

the girl on the trike

it's a strange time. and there is so much of it. i thought i'd be able to write. a lot. every day. back to how it used to be.
but.
instead of output, i've been quieted. held in thought. collecting things. observing. curious. about this strange strange time, the whats and hows and whens and whys of it. i've been trying not to go narrow on these questions in the darkness but to hold my arms open to the greater whole. to keep the perspective broad. 'everyone is going through some version of this, mine is a very blessed version actually, how can i help my universal neighbor today?'

my immediate neighbors are my 4 kids and mike. zoe is home! 5th, 7th, 9th and a full special education curriculum are definitely challenging-  in good ways and there is so much blessing in being able to see their minds working and how they each learn and don't learn and what works for them as individuals. to be able to spend time asking hard questions with them and listen to them figure out their answers, to give them the freedom to speak their truth and not just provide the answer they think the teacher is expecting- it makes you want to keep homeschooling.  i don't think my kids would agree.

today was the first sunny day in what feels like forever and my dear friend neeli had given zoe an adult sized trike, so today was the perfect day to try it out. zoe has never learned to ride a 2 wheeler. she has balance issues and motor planning issues and the two combined just made it too hard. it was another thing she couldn't do which always made me sad. at her new school, they have trikes and she had learned to ride one and really liked it - so when my friend said she had one and wanted to give it to zoe, i was thrilled. so was zoe.

mike got the trike in the car and zoe got the helmet and we headed off to a flat trail that runs through the woods.

it was amazing.

she started off near a big puddle and the brakes were a bit shaky but she figured out she could slow down by not peddling. she got the hang of the steering and to stay on one side of the trail. she could go fast and make us run after her which she loved. "this is so much better than walking or running!" she said.

for 2 and a half miles we could forget about corona virus.
we could hear birds and feel sunshine and see only a handful  of people walk or bike by, mostly without masks.
for 2 and a half miles we watched our girl experience a childhood joy that she hadn't ever had in her 20 years!
for 2 and a half miles - life felt normal. or as normal as it could for us. our version of normal. 

it was delicious.

i watched the people that walked by as they would take a second look at an adult on her trike (who also happened to be talking loudly about animal facts from "wild kratts").  i know those faces so well. but i think i interpret them differently now. the kids looks are curious or confused, kind of like they are really wanting to ask if she never learned to ride a 2-wheeler, combined with a look of relief that they've passed that milestone or are on their way to.

the adults give a look of what i feel like now is solidarity. like, i'm glad she's got this. it must feel good. the look is saying, "she seems good with it, you seem good with it, we are good with it."  and to that, i give zoe the credit. she is the girl on the trike shouting out facts about fennec foxes and not afraid to ask for a push if she needs it. she would have no problem if those kids did ask her about trying to ride a 2 wheeler- she'd tell them. 

watching zoe over 20 years has changed me. for the better. seeing her become, and loving her so deeply and enjoying her so much- there is no room for anything else.

gratitude

i am grateful today for breath and life.
for friends that reach out from across the ocean.
for the ocean,
and that it's right outside my window.
for the smell of coffee grounds mixed with boiling water
and all the mornings of memories that it brings with it.
for the brave forsythia who blooms before everyone else
promising spring
reminding us it will come.
yellow hope amid gray scraping branches,
'there is more. don't give up!'
for my yogurt cover this morning,
God's whisper to me.
because the mercies are enough for today
just. and tomorrow, there will be new ones.

the world is still beautiful

the world is still beautiful. but.

it's the tension of the opposites that gets me. it gets me in it's truth and poignancy. both and.

everything has changed, but so many things are actually the same- the sun rises, we love our kids, we can take sing or read or walk or pray, God is here.

but.

but for some people the line between enough and not enough is so thin that 'everything changes' means that very little is the same, at least not the same for long. when that line is thin- housing becomes an issue, food becomes an issue, health is an issue, life and death can become active issues.

how do we love our neighbor well in this? not just well, but right? what is the right way to love our neighbor is this?

in uganda things are getting tighter, closed businesses, closed transport, closed schools. the thin line becomes thinner.

and while i worry about this, i hear italians singing off their balconies together. lawyers learning to sew to make masks in the USA for the shortage, churches making runs to markets for older folks. people sharing their stories and their songs. reading to each other online. teaching each other online. giving resources for free. car companies coming together to make ventilators. the air being clear. dolphins come back to canals. regrowth. renewal. remembering.

are we rediscovering our shared humanity? are we rebuilding community in a deeper way? trauma and tragedy bind people together - like war. are we listening? seeing the mystery?

it reminds me of the buechner quote i love:
Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.

Grace.

grace. that is what it is. a divine gift. the world still being beautiful, and.

the bird feeder

this morning at 5 am, i was awake on the couch reading an article about collective grief. i cried a bit. it's such a strange time. there is a wet, achy feeling, a lonely, unified waiting. an anticipatory unknown. an impending-yet-to-be-revealed. a desire to be hopeful, alternating with the awareness of possible deep dread.

holding these things is exhausting, wherever we are. 

the article talked about the legitimacy of what we are all feeling. and the importance of allowing ourselves to feel, rather than react to or judge our feelings. and the value in grounding ourselves. and being in the present. the importance of balancing our thinking, not to catastrophize but to acknowledge great fear with the reality of what is more likely,  and to connect with reality through our senses. there was talk of gentle acceptance, continued trying, finding meaning, and having much compassion for ourselves and each other.

yesterday i was in my car in the driveway of this two week rental apartment we are quarantining in, having my monthly call with my therapist. we were talking of similar things. and of remembering the past and having done hard things, perhaps harder things and come through them. this is empowering. we have done hard things. we can again, do hard things.

out of my car window with the cloudy white sky and the end-of-winter trees, i saw this random bird-feeder on a pole stuck in a disheveled looking side yard between the two parking areas. there were a lot of birds flying around, landing in the branches of the bushes beside it and then flying away like they were looking for something. they were mostly plain brown and flew together in a group, silently. they would land and then fly away. there was something collectively lonely about them.

then i saw this guy come from the building behind. he had a cigarette hanging from his mouth and was wearing a workers jacket, the kind with a name badge sewn on it, and black boots and he was carrying a can that looked like a 16 oz beer. i watched him walk over to the small lot wondering what he was doing.  he finished his cigarette and walked over to the bird-feeder. the can in his hand wasn't a beer, it was a can of bird seed. he took his time as he filled the feeder and then made sure it was full and hanging properly and slowly walked away. the birds returned, mostly the same brown birds, and one bright red cardinal. they grouped together on the branches, taking turns at the feeder.

in this time of scarcity, in this time of emptiness, his guy remembered gentleness. through grief and fear and lack of thermometers and toilet paper, he remembered the birds in the back of a parking lot. perhaps he found some beauty. some grounding in the feeling of the wind on his face and the cracking branches. maybe it's his routine. his normal. whatever the truth is, for me, for my truth, it gave meaning. it spoke to me of compassion, of remembering, of life continuing amidst the crazy.

while i hole up in this tight space with my kids, trying to create space, physically and even more metaphorically, i will remember this guy and his birdseed. his choice. i will look for the small moments. the clickity-clack of branches, the breeze, the sound of waves, a budding leaf. i will balance that with letting myself feel the sadness of being away from our ugandan home. i will remember that both are real and allowed. that God is in all things, holding all things. in this i ground.

By Jp16103 - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=47366822

seasons, storms and sailcloth

we are in this strange season which is sitting in a crazy time in the world. we've been back in the country we love for almost 3 months- that's all. pictures finally on the walls, classes being taught, projects being designed, medical license finally through the bureaucratic process and we are finding that we have to go again. not for long, but still.

there is unfinished business with rose's papers. and there is zoe, sweet zoe and the closing of her school because of coronavirus. the world has gone mad. everything is all topsy-turvy on top of a season which for us is brand new. we are trying to get used to living 8000 miles away from our girl who has been fairly dependent on us for 20 years. trying to see what life feels like with an ocean between us. asking the questions, is it possible? is it good for her? is it good for us? could this become normal? asking the questions, what do we want our life to look like? her life to look like? why does it seem God has asked two things of us that don't fit together? maybe we are mishearing?

right now the tree frogs are chirping, there are car horns honking in the back ground, the night breeze is cool through the screen and the sun has set leaving a pink streak  behind the shadowed treetops. above it the sky darkens to blue. i don't want to go. my heart is tugging and reaching back behind for something to grab onto. 'but we just got here!' i can hear her thump loudly. 'but i don't want to!' thumping louder still. quietly the God voice inside of me speaks back, I know. it's not forever. it's not even for long. trust me. this? this is part of the season. this is part of the plan. of the new normal. of figuring out what it will look like. it's part of gathering your team. finding the players. those who can support you. and zoe. those who will be needed later. I've got this.

the other day my friend and i went for coffee and talked about my going and the seasons and the feelings around it all. i said i was questioning my ability to hear God because i said, God feels so quiet. she told me that she had a word for me. God's got this. God is with you in the storm. then she reminded me about the story of Jesus and his disciples in the boat. a huge storm came and they were terrified and Jesus was completely asleep in the back of the boat. the disciples couldn't understand why he was sleeping? how could he be sleeping during this massive storm that was causing them so much fear and distress. finally they woke him up and asked him, "don't you care if we drown?" He calms the storm and says, "why are you afraid? do you still have no faith?" 

she told me that God cares. that His silence is not a lack of presence or a lack of caring. we see the the storm and have no idea how it will go, we feel the wind and the boat beneath shake and we are terrified- but Jesus knows that it takes one word. He lifts His hand. the waters still.

we were headed to my favorite store so i could buy a carry on bag for the airplane. i had one in mind that i'd seen before and when we got there, i read the tag describing how the bag is made. it is made from recycled old Dhow sails from wooden sailboats that sailed along the east african coastline.

"this is it!" my friend said. "this is Your bag. this is about Jesus being present in the sailboat and in your life during the storms! just like in the story!  i'm buying this bag for you." and my beautiful friend did.

such a treasure. all of it. her friendship. this bag. the reminder of Jesus having us so assuredly that He can sleep in the back of the boat during the storm. even the storms, which when they don't destroy us, grow us, challenge and teach us, bring us together. remind us. strengthen our faith.

tomorrow we fly. i will climb on that plane with my sail-bag and my story and God dwelling in me. deeply thankful that my family is together and will be fully together soon for a little while anyway in this crazy world, in this new and strange season. 

and then soon, we will return.

this day 15 years ago

this day.  this day 15 years ago was the day i was finally going to meet my baby boy. it had been such a long waiting. then a complicated pregnancy and now it was going to happen. there was so much anticipation, attempts at over preparation, the medical community was almost afraid. but i wasn't. i just wanted to hold my boy.

the world is a crazy place. it can be hard to find and hear your own voice. it feels crazy now too so i remember back to then, 15 years ago when the world told me crazy stories about my son and tried to tell me what to do. fear can be so powerful and contagious but love can be bigger and it's so much better always.

with jude, we chose love. we listened inside. we listened to God and so when march 9th came and it was time to meet him i was so so excited.

my journey with jude from the start has felt like one of letting go. it's hard to explain, but because of his prenatal diagnoses and then early postnatal diagnoses, i had to hold him with open arms. deeply loved yet aware that he came from God and belongs to God. Samuel Jude- because i asked the Lord for him- and Praise the Lord. hannah who was barren- given samuel- and then she gave him back to God. she finally got her long awaited son and then she brought him to the temple and released him, in love, back to God.

love is the not control. part of loving is letting go, especially in parenting. after we grow babies, we then grow people. and they are much harder. yes, birthing people is much harder then birthing babies. it is also more fun, more interesting, life changing, joyful and sometimes more painful. sometimes the letting go can be especially hard when it feels like they are running away or closing up and this person who used to fit in your lap and play with your hair for comfort brushes past you to their room. because they had a bad day and maybe they know they need to find a way to do hard days with out you. and that's okay because they are becoming themSelves.  and that becoming of Selves with a capital S is the best thing we can give our kids. that is love. that is letting go.

sometimes i have to ask mySelf if i'm a big enough Self to let him become his own Self. ouch. i have to leave some space. i have to tend to my own needs and not ask him to meet mine. you know? so we grow each other a bit. this life stuff is so cool because if we let it, we get to keep growing too.

so happy birthday Jude. capital J. for your amazing Self. may i be able to keep loving you and letting you grow into you apart from me. oh i love you so!

back

i'm back.  and i love it.

back in africa. the heat. the dust. the broken. the beauty. green and lush but dry and red and hazy. the burning smell. the sounds of birds and wind in leaves and people. my senses are always full.

this is the first day i have had for stillness and i am deeply thankful. to be quiet and alone. there hasn't been time for this, or space. it's been movement and busy and many things- and maybe i haven't let myself sit and be. or maybe i forgot. then this morning was my women's group and someone put on some music and we had a time of mediation for 5 minutes. i closed my eyes and my mind ran right off to the northern california coastal trails as if it had been waiting for me to let it go there. i was having this vision of zoe as a little girl. and as we walked the trails in the bright sunlight she grew up and ran but in this vision she wasn't autistic. she didn't have scoliosis, or klippel-feil syndrome. in the end she was a neuro-typical 20 year old zoe running on the hills above the pacific ocean. i started to cry and to miss her and i wondered where this vision came from because i'd never had it before. since the song was ending and we were about to wrap up the group, i pulled it together and noted that these feelings needed tending.

as i return to them now, the feelings are ones of longing and gratitude.
longing is a yearning for. it's desiring something that has been lost or gone missing. i think that longing is all wrapped up in zoe. and it's complicated. i love her so deeply. as she is. she is so special and unique. i long to be with her. to have her here with me. but i know she is doing better where she is now. that vision also represents a grieving. the lost normal. the gone missing perception of how much easier all this figuring out life overseas would be with a neuro-typical 20 year old who was midway through college. the tears were for the truth of the struggle. the missing her. the guilt that pokes it's head around the corner and smirks at me. the wondering if it will ever get lighter? feel freer? will the longing go?

there is also gratitude.
deep gratitude for the lightness that has come. for where zoe is and how she is doing. for the privilege and provision of that. for being able to see her face on the phone at night and hear here laugh. for being here again. for meaningful work and impact and to be able to hit the ground running. for a God whose promises are true. for the flowers in my garden and my children's laughter on the trampoline.

so as we settle in, amidst the business of work and life here, i will try to find these spaces to sit and be still and quiet my mind. let it out for a walk, listen to what needs tending.