begin again

when i was in medical school i struggled to hold all my academic kite strings.  there were so many classes, so much information, so much left brain. i couldn't sit for hours in a library taking notes neatly- i needed to spread it out- in color- i needed to engage it in pictures or with humor- anything to help it be more enjoyable and to get it into my brain.

so i began to make posters early on.  large posters.  i carried them around in a scroll and i carried around my rainbow pack of markers.  i would stretch out on the floor and in one large space cover respiratory pathogens- or how the kidney worked.  i could draw it out- write it out- see it- color it- relate it to other things- and it was fun.

today was the beautiful letdown.  that day when your guest leaves and your house is quieter and emptier- but so is your heart.  you feel far away again. and become sad that you're not going home for christmas. you breath and wonder.  why am i so far away? what are we doing? why is there so much noise in my head? and all the items you've pushed to the side while you visited, jump up and scream for attention.  today my todo list was too long and complicated and boring- and i could see the kites bouncing and blowing in the wind above me- all the pieces of my life that need sorting and deciding and time and energy. today it feels like there are so many, and their long ribboned tails are tied together- they overlap and depend on each other for the deciding and ordering.

so while i wanted to climb straight back to bed, pull the covers over my head and pray that by the time i woke up they would have magically untangled themselves, and several would have floated away- i didn't.  i got up- took rosie to school and walked up monkey hill, asking for clarity, when i should have been quiet and begging.  i walked and thought. i reasoned and listed. i ordered and re-ordered. i tried to write it out in my head- but i continually got stuck- there was a jam- the strings were knotted. i couldn't let go. 

when i came back home i remembered the scroll of posters that helped me process a lot of information. maybe i need to go back to that.  coloring out my life. so i wrote on unlined paper with markers, but that didn't help either.

then i remembered where the answers lie. 
in the stillness.
in the still small voice passing by the cave.  not the thunder, not the earthquake, not the storm or the fire- it's not in the drama of the tangled kite strings.

but what do we have to do to hear that whisper?
elijah cleared the plate. he let go, went away alone- called out and gave up. but before God spoke, he fed elijah, and elijah ate; he let him sleep, and elijah slept; he fed him again-because he knew of his journey, and elijah ate again.  elijah obeyed in the little things- the simple bits.  he listened and trusted and followed. then after a 40 day trip, God led him up a mountain and asked him a question - what are you doing here? elijah answered- not with the smart-alec answer i would have given- like 'because you told me to come up here'- but with his real answer- his problem- his struggle.  then God told him to stand on the mountain- and He came in a whisper - asking the same question- what are you doing here elijah? again he answered.  

then God revealed the plan and the promise.

i don't know what it is about the asking.  except that it's engaging and relational.  it required elijah's reflection- which reinforced his conviction, and his answer helped bring clarity and common purpose.

i need to sit in the empty house.
quiet the mind.
still the soul.
rest and eat and rest and eat and obey in the small things.  i need to listen to the question - what are you doing here? i need to go back to the beginning- before so much life happened here. i need to not feel the tug and pressure of the kite strings above me.  i need to look up, past them, into the great wide open. go back to the place where it began.

the promise hadn't changed for elijah, for the people of israel. 
the promise hasn't changed for us. 
provision. guidance. love. non-abandonment. forgiveness. redirection. relationship. joy. peace.
be still and know. I am God.

a small stone

this morning on the way up monkey hill, i stopped to pick up a smooth stone.  it was a perfect sand colored circle stone, firm and smooth, and noticed because it was unlike the cragity crumbly red pebbles that make up most of the path.  i fingered it for a while as i reached the top, enjoying it's worn surface, appreciating it's uniqueness.  on the way down, i realized that my hand was empty- i'd left it behind.  i felt disappointed. i would have liked to keep it, to show the kids that we find little treasures in unexpected places.  in that moment of feeling a little bit of loss, i thought about how much life is like this.  things float in and out of our lives.  people come and go.  time is shared for a week- then gone.

there is a great pebble layer.  she knows when we need to pick up stones, to have a certain conversation in an elevator, to see a sunrise, or a full moon, or feel a perfect breeze, or hear a song, or walk a tea field.  the great orchestrator of our pebbles.  they are placed for us, there and then, for a reason.  so that we can see something or feel something or have an experience that is needed- special because it is in that moment in time- and then it's gone.  we hold it for a while, in our hand or our heart, it gives us something- but not everything. we are made up of these stones, these moments.

but who do we have to be to notice them?  where do we need to be to listen? to stop and pick? to wait, to not rush off?  often for me, it is in times of brokenness, when the world has stopped, or the day, and the channel of life i was on- was changed.  in those moments- when i feel my smallness- when i wish i could climb into someones great big shirt pocket- when i know how little control i really have- that is when i look down while walking and see that smooth stone.  that is when i feel the world around me differently. when i get out and walk the hill, and the field, with my eyes wide open, my ears stretching to hear him - the one who places the stones on our paths. 

extremes

it's thundering so loudly that i think God might be coming.  the last bolt sent me flying inside- but i'm back again, in the rain, on the porch amazed by the drama of it- the power- the intensity- it's shouting out and pouring down the extremes.


as best i can tell, my original nuclear family- the one that started me out, are all together in the mountains of north carolina.  i can see the fog rising off the lake, people reading on couches, the leaves full and lush.  i can smell barbeque chicken on the grill and butter melting over corn on the cob.  i can hear my nephews laughing, a distant motor boat, a catching-up conversation.  i can feel that hot southern summer sun, the air noisily rushing by us as the boat jumps on the lake, and the cool leather of the sofa as everyone is gathered watching the olympics together. i can see the people that i love so so much all in one small space- and i begin to feel that deep longing.

this is when i feel far away. and homesick and achy.  this is when that question, that must live somewhere inside most of us who choose to live abroad, rides up to the surface-
'wait, what are we doing here?'


this, while i'm living with ebola killing 14 as the news headline.  while i'm receiving emails from the embassy about possible terrorist plots in the next few weeks. 

there is irony in the timing of these extremes- the safety and joy of being surrounded by family in the beauty of that mountain house- the unsettling possibility of deadly hemorrhagic fevers and bombs.

it's these times when those usually easily ignored questions reappear - 
'why did we move?  why did we deviate from normal? what was wrong with good jobs and safe shopping malls and free good public schools and living in the same town as family?'

and when the africa-ness of africa rears her head- the other questions come flooding out too- 
'why do you live somewhere that most people are trying to leave?  why, where there are black mambas in your yard, and horrid infections that they make movies about?  why live in a place were there is no blood in the blood bank, and no gloves in the clinics, or doctors for that matter, or MRI machines or medicines and even when you can buy medications, they are often no good?  why do you live in a place with bad water, malaria, bilharzia, and broken down roads or no roads? why did you leave well working for broken? beautiful and trimmed for dirty, mangy and trash covered?'

be still.
be still and know.
be still and know that I AM.


i am in north carolina with the people that you and i love.  i am in africa where you are with the other people that you and i love. you don't see the world as i do- don't be fooled by tidy and trimmed- everywhere there is broken.  don't fear ebola, fear not being where you should be.  fear missing out on the transformation into beautiful. don't run from dirty, run from the possibility of missing out on the adventures i have for you.  

right.  yes.  true.  because this is where we are supposed to be right now.  because asking those tucked away questions is okay.  because missing people who you love is so normal, as is missing systems that work well, and good roads, as is not wanting to relive the movie outbreak.

so. the storm has stopped. i can hear the last rain falling, i can smell the earth, i can see the other people who i love so much, the ones who are starting out with me, here. i can hear their laughter. there is power and intensity and the one who made it all walks here too. we are here- in one small space, and i have that deep joy.



 

we are beloved

the other day i saw a snippet of what is wrong with the world.  driving down a street i drive down everyday, a street full of people and dirt and ramshackle and broken down trucks and no trees or space to breath, i saw a grungy wild dog going to the bathroom beside the road, wearing that mildly embarrassed, ashamed face that dogs wear when they sit in that known position relieving themselves with no cover.  she was there- exposed and vulnerable in her place in life- always fending for herself - eating from trash piles- finding shelter and bathrooms where she can.  no sooner had she squatted than a male equally mangy dog mounted her.  she let out a moan of fatigue and frustration and deflated anger and deep longing for something other than this life of hers.  a groan of sad desperation- of helplessness- of sorrow.  her bark cry of 'where is the peace?', of 'get off', of 'no more', of 'can i just do what nature calls me to do without you having to do what your natures tells you to do to me?'  it worked and he retreated, ran off over the railroad tracks and she finished her business in exposed peace. there was something in that sound she made- that ache- that disturbed me- that spoke to me of humanity- of the conflict- the disconnect- the dissatisfaction that sits in our days.  all this in a flash as i drove by.

yesterday was fathers day- a day when i think of my beautiful dad and my beautiful husband and how they love their kids and how they point up- how they center their lives on the One who is love- how they point to the Father- who calls us all His beloved.

Abba, who wants us to walk with him.  he tries to make it simple and easy, but we spend our lives making it complex and rule-y.  we like to boil it down, to hold the truths of the universe- but in tying down the infinite we lose the intricacy, and the mystery.  we lose the process, we miss the growth of the days- the hours-we miss the search and the seeking.  our sticky little hands trying to understand, push the One who is Love and can not be contained- into spaces that we think make sense- at least to most of us- but He can not be made small.  it doesn't work- He doesn't fit.

can today i let go? can today i let Him be big and glorious and uncontained?   can i stand in awe and feel both my smallness and my grandeur (because this father seeks to know me)?  can i live in days that are bigger than i imagine? into places that are unknown but full of mystery and promise?

the Goodness waits for us when we embrace the openness- when we allow ourselves to sit with uncertainty- to be still and only sometimes know one thing- "that I am God" that I AM is enough.  that those words hold in themselves the nature- the massive and mysterious nature of our creator.

love the Lord your God with ALL your mind, All your soul, All your strength.  Love your neighbor.  whoever they are- whatever they look like- whatever they do- or don't do.  Love your self. even on the days when you fail- when you can't even try.  because you are loved, and so is your neighbor.

where is the containment in that? that is huge and encompassing and total and constant.
ALL. not part.
ALLways- not sometimes.

And the greatest of these is LOVE.

we spend our seventy years trying to make sense of this- to find love- to be loved- to be loving. to love what we do- who we are- who we live with- and birth- and share life with.  like zoe we don't want 'help', we want control.  we don't like our need, we like success.  we don't want to seek, we only want to find.

my first boyfriend was a recovering alcoholic.  i had a huge amount of respect for his humility and awareness of our limitations- and our brokenness. i went to meetings with him- i met rooms full of people who had been down so low-who had known that desperation - that depravity- like that dog on the street- so well that they had no choice but to utter the serenity prayer when they open their eyes each morning- and many times in the day- and with others who've been on that same road- and at night when they shut their eyes again. 

'Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things i cannot change, the courage to change the things i can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

because there are things we cannot change (but we try so endlessly to change them).
there are things we can (but don't, or won't).
can we ask the One who knows- to bestow that to us?  to admit our powerlessness? our struggle? our need?

i sit with these things.  i ask myself, can i accept that i am His beloved? can i be still with the mystery? can i let it remain as big as it is and not shove it into small places?  can i be okay with my limits? my need? my inability and dependence?  can i love out of that love?  that massive, permanent, encompassing love that answers the moan and the cry.  can i ask for serenity, and courage and wisdom? can i call Him father?

rainy days and hours

it's a hard rain this morning. that beautiful cool rain that makes me wish i was in the north carolina mountains with a fire in the fireplace.  it makes me miss these people. so. much.

a rainy day is for me a God given, grown up 'time out'.  on a rainy day i allow myself to slow down, to be inside, to not feel the need to do everything.  the rain sets limits that i sometimes have a hard time setting for myself- my options are limited- i have natural boundaries.  i am also free from my bizarre  guilt of being inside when it's sunny out. 

i was thinking the other day about our hours.  that people often say- there just aren't enough hours in the day.  i think there are enough to get done what needs to get done- but not enough to get done what i want to get done.  often by 8pm the tasks are finished- kids in bed- kitchen cleaned- house somewhat straightened.  but then i know i need to be in bed in two hours and i want to read a book, watch a movie, make brownies, hang out with mike, write, send some emails, skype with a friend, take a bath, get my life slightly more organized, make a mix of music, read the news online and check the 'people' magazine website.   there are so many fun things to do. 

maybe our hours are like the rain.  they help us slow down a little.  they enforce the boundaries.  they make us have to prioritize.  they demand us to choose how we spend our time.  to differentiate between what is urgent and not-urgent, what is important and not important.  mike has been listening to the book on tape 'first things first' by stephen covey. it's a follow up to his other book 'the seven habits of highly effective people'. basically he says that we are ruled by urgency above importance.  we are good at urgent and important, and urgent and unimportant, when the things that are important but not urgent- get shelved. 

it's hard isn't it.  we answer the phone, check our email, respond to the emails instead of reading a book with our kids. we turn on the TV for them so we can do a little more work.  we clean up our house instead of building a fort with them.  but it isn't just about kids.  we prioritize most things above self-care.  what urgent things was i doing in my day that were so important that i couldn't make brownies, or take a bath, or even read a book for 20 minutes?  i think we all suffer from sort of guilt theme- whether it's the notorious jewish or catholic guilt or protestant work ethic guilt or some 'you-must-enjoy-all-sunny-weather-days-outside' guilt- it keeps us away from the important but non-urgent stuff that only becomes urgent when we are so worn down we can't function in other quadrants.  and this is sad. 

we should live more gently.  more balanced.  in less of a hurry.  in a way that helps us to breath and have less headaches.  what if we allowed ourselves to put yoga and baths and running and reading to our kids or ourselves into the urgent catagory?  what if we urgently cared for ourselves?  would our world fall apart?  would nothing get done? would life as we know it, stop?

it actually might, but that could be a very good thing.  because when life is suddenly shortened, when we have a loss or a potential loss, we stop and look and we regret and we want those hours back.  then we see that we've missed the main point, we've been duped, we've wasted the hours we were given. 

so lets breath and be kind to ourselves and each other and allow time to stop and listen to that still small voice.  lets live our hours today in places that build us, grow our relationships and bring joy- whether it's rainy or sunny.

being in the moments

 today was a beautiful day, in a way that seems rare here.  it was crisp, dry, and clean, like someone had cleaned the glasses or washed the windows we look through.  so i had to go up monkey prayer hill and see the view.  my new tea field walk.  to move and think and be and try to pay attention all at the same time.

this is what i see when i walk:

half way up i was tired and thought that i should probably turn around and go home to help mike with the kids.  i paused, and i asked God permission, and he said, 'no- just go up i want to show you something.' so i hiked on.
when i got up to the top- i could see lake victoria clearly and kampala and everything in between.  it was beautiful.

i wanted to capture it and save it, freeze it and keep it. but the camera can't do it justice. the layering of the sky is missed. the whole expanse of it is lost, the perspective isn't the same. it reminded me of something someone told me in kenya when i was trying to take pictures of the sun setting over the rift valley. he said, "don't be so busy taking pictures to look at later, that you miss out on the real thing right now." 


it's so true for me.  not necessarily about taking pictures, but just living my life. i can be so distracted about something happening in the future, that i miss the now-ness. 
 
that was what i needed to hear.  be still. be present. be aware. don't miss it!

on the way down i didn't take pictures and i paid attention to the light and the shadows. i listened to the sounds of my shoes and the sounds of the birds and distant church songs.  i opened myself to being right there on that road, in that minute, with that temperature and those sounds. and i was filled with the goodness that comes when we let our life just be in our moments.

tonight the sunset was spectacular.

and it just kept getting better.  these weren't even the best parts.  i had to run and get rose and jude out of the bath at the very end when the sky was electric red, and all six of us watched together under the evening star and the bats as they escaped our roof into the night. we stood and sat- two people wearing only towels- in those still moments at the end the day.

full exposure

ok- just so you know it's still me, i'll share a few things opposite of bird songs and monkeys in trees :).

today i found out that my eyelids are puffy and itching like crazy because of my new mosquito net.  and today i was acutely reminded that, "oh right! i have a child with special needs."  today i was reminded that my life, where ever i am, is usually lived with my underwear sticking out.  i just can't get away from that, try as i may.

today zoe had her first 'melt down' since we've moved.  today poor zoe got overwhelmed, and our poor new friends had to deal with it, friends who were helping me out so we could buy a kerosene lantern and some fabric, friends who don't really know me yet and who don't know zoe. 

i was standing on the side of the road bargaining for a bamboo shelving unit for the bathroom when the phone rang and zoe was crying.  she'd been playing, she'd gotten a sticky thought, she'd gotten upset, she'd started crying and yelling and yes, even, throwing things.  gulp.  that is bad.  poor zoe.  poor poor friends experiencing this, trying to help this, trying to know what to do with this. trying to wrap their heads around this.

they were generous.  they were gentle.  they helped her get home to her safe place.  but then everyone is left with the pieces.

the pieces of our lives that we do know.  exposed.  that at some point the other shoe always falls.  that when things are good for a while, all that means is that things have been good for a while- nothing else. that moving to a new place, with new people means learning all over again how to package things- how to help other people package things.  and that is hard.  and that is even painful. 

in thinking it over, this is our first move since shoes began falling fo' reals'- or being thrown as the case may be.  four and a half years ago when we moved to atlanta, we moved with people, and to people, friends and family who had known zoe for years.  people who, even if they didn't get her, loved her.  and four and a half years ago, zoe was 7 and life was easier for her, and for us.  she was different but not out of control.  and differences at 7 are much less obvious than differences at 11, expectations at 7 are much less than expectations at 11.  so this move, i knew would be hard.

and we had 4 really good days.  days when i thanked God but then didn't allow myself to think about it because i didn't want to jinx it (all subconsciously of course).  and i fault myself for not being more careful with her.  not being protective, not being precautionary or preventative.  instead i held my breath and jumped.  i acted in a bit of denial, i took advantage of those good days, i trusted them, when i think i should have known better, known that she needed more support and so did our new friends. 


but that is what happens sometimes.  you think for a moment that maybe life can be normal- or kind of normal.  or, you forget what your normal is. 


so after the call from crying zoe, and florence the lovely woman who was caring for her, and after a preparatory text from a friend about the incident, mike and i took the bamboo shelves and came home.  and i began my rounds of checking on zoe and those holding her pieces. 

and that is when i realized that i had moved. 

that i had left my deep rooted supports on the other side of the world, across a giant ocean and several time zones.  that is when it hit me that i have landed, at 40, with my kind of messy life,  in a new place where i need to navigate new supports, and explain my very complicated child.


it's not hard to leave stuff.  it's not hard to leave clean water from your faucets, and reliable electricity.  it's hard to leave people who know you.  who have seen the ugly cry and still like you.  who have helped you collect the pieces after you've fallen to bits.


so i went back to my house, and cried.

which was good. 
and real. 
and mike who knows me, held on to me and we talked, and then we talked with zoe. 
and we talked about the hard stuff- for all of us.  we tried to help her understand other peoples perspectives and feelings.  we tried to help her understand her feelings and to begin to recognize when she's feeling overwhelmed and to know that is when it's time to go, to re-group, to call us, to get some help.  and we told her if she ever threw anything again she would be throttled- ok- not really, but that she would lose an american girl doll.  we also apologized that we'd not been around today to help her navigate her world.


tonight the sun set at 7 as it has, as it will.  tonight i miss the long southern summer nights and i miss old friends. but the electricity is on so thankfully i can write which always helps put the pieces back together.  and i know that my far away friends are still there, that tonight they will look at the same moon i see now.  and i know that these kind, gentle new friends will be ok with the pieces- the exposed bits- the messiness of our life- besides they're stuck with us for a while :).

so i will be still and know.

waking under african skies

ahhhh.  we are here!!
and this is right.  this is right where we are supposed to be.

this morning i woke up to brynie standing beside my mosquito net saying "mommy! i heard the bird that sounds like a monkey!"  then we all went back to sleep until 1pm; after getting to bed at 4am; after arriving at the house at 1am to a group of greeters and a house stocked with coffee and rice and milk and pineapples and a homemade stew.  we were welcome!

today i was greeted by a bougainvillea tree outside our kitchen sink, and more giant colored flowers on trees and bushes around the front yard than i've seen, and enormous turquoise birds with bright yellow beaks that i've already forgotten the name of, and many other birds and lizards and butterflies and all the sounds that go along with them.
  
today i was greeted by a lovely ugandan man who introduced himself as our gardener, after his very ugandan greeting, "hello!  you are welcome!"- literally - you are WELCOME-  (not our american response to thank you).  i love that.

today i walked through paths between banana trees and bottle brush trees to meet with many new friends and have coffee and conversations and watch as my children laughed and played with their new friends.

today mike and i had our coffee and our time of celtic prayer on our new furniture-less porch (like it has been in atlanta for the past several weeks) looking out over the town of mukono, feeling both such peace and excitement.

today i woke up to that burning smell and knew exactly where i was.  i was home.