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!