happy Christmas!

the anticipation is over.  the waiting.  the searching.  advent is over.  it's Christmas morning! and it's a beautiful morning.  we woke early to the children's excited greetings of 'merry Christmas!'.  we turned on the tree lights, the music of robert shaw's 'many moods of Christmas' that i grew up listening to, made coffee and hot chocolate and the kids began sorting through the presents.  after the opening of gifts and cards, we headed down for church, because it's Christmas and it's sunday.  the church we went to is the university church, and so with the exception of maybe 10 other people, everyone was ugandan.

the service seemed really long, and it was over 2 hours, but felt especially long because it was Christmas morning, and the kids were dying to get back and play with their gifts, but it was really good.  we sang many Christmas hymns, heard the sermon, and had communion.  there was also a teen choir that sang Christmas songs with an african flavor.  and as i listened, i thought about this place were we live now, these people who we live with, and this day that we are celebrating.

the reverend had asked us what Christmas means to us.  i thought about the birth of Jesus, and the images that come to mind of mary and joseph and the donkey and the night sky and the glowing manger and the animals and about how my entire life i've been told that story.  i thought about all the Christmas eve services i've been to, where the preacher emphasizes what a big deal it is that there was no room in the inn, that Jesus was born in a manger.  for so many years people have recounted the images trying to break into the wealthy western mind what that would be like- old straw, smelly animals, cool air coming through the cracks in the walls, no lights, no water.  then i watched as the teen choir sang a version of 'away in a manger'.  i watched their faces, and their joy and their look of awe and appreciation.  and it occurred to me that they must get it in a way that i can't. i began to wonder if it might mean more to people who have experienced poverty, who know what it's like when you can't afford the inn, when any roof is better than nothing, people who live closely with animals,  that their God entered not just the world but their world. 

sometimes Jesus seems really old, far away and hard to relate to.  a guy with a beard and sorrowful but loving eyes, wearing a white tunic or robe and sandals, walking around healing leprosy and confusing people with his stories. 

sometimes i forget that 2011 years ago, God put on skin and traveled through a birth canal and landed in some straw to be raised and live among the ordinary and hang out with the poor, the sick- not the wealthy, not the royalty. 


sometimes when i've traveled to poor communities in the developing world, i've been amazed that people can have such faith when they live with so little.  i've been humbled by people who will worship and praise a God who allows them to remain poor and experience a lack of basic needs.  but maybe their Jesus is more real to them, more tangible.

one of our advent readings this year began with a poem by oscar romero, an el salvadorian bishop who was martyred.

No one can celebrate
a genuine Christmas
without being truly poor.
The self-sufficient, the proud, 
those who, because they have
everything, look down on others,
those who have no need 
even of God- for them there 
will be no Christmas.
Only the poor, the hungry,
those who need someone 
to come on their behalf, 
will have that someone.
That someone is God.
Emmanuel.  God-with-us.
Without poverty of spirit
there can be no abundance of God.

it makes sense to me because the times i've experienced the abundance of God, have been those times when my spirit was poor and suffering.

so this Christmas, in east africa, does feel different.  not just on the outside- where life is in full bloom and warm and sunny- but on the inside as well. i'm realizing, maybe for the first time, that while our advent season ends, our longing for God, our searching to find him, to see him, to experience his abundance, doesn't end.  that is what lifetimes are for.

christmas eve in bullet points

- bryn thinks this is my birthday week- which technically it is- so he keeps creating little things for me.  yesterday he made a sculpture and a card- 'it's bells mommy!'  such a creative giving soul!

-last night went out for the evening with good friends- a perfect start at an art gallery/ coffee shop/ tapas place, sitting outside on couches on a lush lawn, followed by the best meal i've had here yet- outside with little white lights and a band- magical

-woke to jude in our bed saying 'tomorrow is Christmas!!!' in that exuberant way that can only be from the mouth of a child

-went into kampala to get more wrapping paper and some last minute gifts- including a few stocking stuffers for meh.

-on the way home, saw so many people all dressed up, suitcase in hand, waiting for a taxi to take them to the village.  i love this.  everyone here has a village- where they go home too. it was such a slice of life here.

-saw a boda boda (motocycle) carrying a family of five- impressive.

-saw several other peddlers peddling anything and incredibly creatively- a guy on the bicycle peddling large baskets who must have had 30 of them tied on the back and sides, like bubbles, like he was going to float away.  the man with the makeshift wheelbarrow, carrying several rows of neatly spaced shirts hanging on a contraption attached to the wheelbarrow, the guy with a 6 foot tall board, loaded with chotskies, attached like a backpack walking down the street.

-passed by several threadbare cows

-had a moment of noticing that everyone here is black - but i'm not, and looking down at my pale arm feeling underdone- like i should have baked longer.

-managed to not get pulled over despite the high number of traffic police on the road.  my strategy? no eye contact

- came home and heard jude say: i don't believe in that rumor about santa claus.
me:  what rumor?
jude: you know, the one some kids say, that parents put out the toys, not santa....
bryn: yeah! some people think santa's not real!

-finished wrapping all the gifts (you know the ones that santa isn't bringing)

-about to head off to a friends house to watch the famous 'a charlie brown christmas'

-remembering the pure joy of anticipation. how it's almost better than what you're waiting for.  remembering that Christmas eve is almost as good as Christmas day, or maybe even better.

kirabo (gift)

there is something about an african sky. 
i went out again tonight walking at twilight

it was like being inside a poem.  a few stars out, a different color sky in each direction, the giant trees with their wide covering leaves, making patterns of negative space as beautiful as the light between.

kirabo means 'gift' in luganda.  one of our advent reading today was about gifts, how sometimes it can be easier to give then to receive, how receiving requires humility.  i see this, but i love both parts.  i love to give gifts, but i also love to receive them.  there was one part of the reading that stuck with me.

"This is often the way God loves us: with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we don't necessarily want to be."

the first think that came to mind was those gifts in life that are associated with suffering.  i thought about zoe.  she's such a gift- in all the good ways a child is.  but there are parts of her life, her struggles, her disabilities that i definitely didn't think i needed nor did i want.  and i became a member of a group i didn't really want to belong to. i never planned to be in.  same with our early years with jude.  i didn't need the 'gift' of being told my pregnancy would likely result in a severely handicapped child.  i didn't need the 'gift' of hearing over the phone that he had a bad brain tumor.  i didn't think i'd belong to that group of parents who make regular visits to specialty doctors, and have thick medical files on their kids.

but those were gifts.   the kids, of course- that part is obvious.
but the suffering parts- those too, were gifts.

it's strange to think of God expressing love by allowing us to experience suffering, but as a parent, i get this.  even in little silly ways. take immunizations.  my child looks at me with horror as i'm holding him down and the nurse is sticking him four times.  but it's because i love him, that i not just allow it, but drive him there, pay for it, and then hold him down, to receive these pains that will prevent worse pain in the future.  but my small child doesn't understand this.  he just see's mommy allowing this awful nurse to inflict pain on him.
we see through the glass dimly, we see to the end of the street, but not around the corner.

some of our gifts appeared wrapped in old bags, gifts disguised,  sheep in wolves clothes.  gifts that on first view we'd return to sender.  but.  they were gifts that we did need to become who we were meant to be.  gifts that brought real transformation. 

i would change the end of that quote.  i would change it to "with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we didn't necessarily want to be." 

because this is who i want to be.  i'm better for having gone there.  better for experiencing these gifts even though i've shed many tears because of them. because i want to know the things i've learned from going through these times. because i understand life differently now, i value people differently now, i can relate to people who i never would have understood before, i've felt God differently.

“You do not have to sit outside in the dark. If, however, you want to look at the stars, you will find that darkness is necessary. But the stars neither require nor demand it.”  annie dillard.

the camel and the night sky

the moon held on today, still bright in the morning sky, not ready to leave the night behind.
i was glad. 
last night the sky was so beautiful. so stable. so consistent.  a reminder that your day can be hard or bad, but it's just a day.  that wide open night sky makes me feel small in a good way, it expands my perspective.  there was one star last night that was so bright and so big and high up- it called me back to bethlehem.  it reminded me of Christmas. 

right now i'm sick of sick.  everyone at clinic is sick, my family is sick, my friends and neighbors are sick and even i'm a little sick. today was full of sad stories and lots of remembering to compartmentalize.  to do the best i could for each person i saw. 

the 15 year old girl with AIDS, on second line therapy with a CD4 count of 37, missing an eye and a cheek from cancer.
"when did that happen?"
"the year my parents died, when i was five."
"did you know you had HIV then?"
"yes"
 imagine loosing your parents, your sight, your hope; and gaining a deformity and a place in your aunts house as the only one with HIV, when you're only five.
it's not right is it?  it's not fair.

the 30 year old man with AIDS, fever, cough and shortness of breath, on exam and chest x-ray a lung full of fluid or pus, lying on a mat, shallow rapid breaths and heart rate, refusing a ride to the hospital saying he'd wait until tomorrow when his brother would take him.  me wondering if he'll even go tomorrow and wondering what good it will do anyway.  will they read the referral? will they tap his lung and culture the fluid and make a diagnosis? or will they just slap some antibiotics on him and hope for the best.  me wondering if 'doing the best i could do for him' included driving him to the hospital emergency room, waiting with him, talking to the doctor on his behalf, making sure they did what needed to be done.  but fearing that i'd be so mad or so sad that it might do more harm than good.  me wondering where the boundaries are and where the line is between making a difference and achieving sustainability. because i don't want to burn out.  i don't want to become bitter or hopeless.  today i just wasn't ready to see mulago (the big city hospital).

on the way, i was given another reminder of that starry night in bethlehem.  drawing me back to Christmas time. 

a camel walking down the side of the road. and i stopped in the middle of traffic and took this picture.  if i hadn't given a friend a ride i wouldn't have seen it. subtle orchestration not an accident.  it was saying: don't forget. drawing me back to this season of hope.  reminding me of redemption.  telling me to hold on.  to be patient. to be gentle in my thoughts and my fears and with my expectations.  to choose to be joyful.

so i'm remembering the joy and the peace,  the hope and the redemption, the love and the gentleness.

the whisper and the ordinary

dry and crisp. there is bright light everywhere.  it's hot and the sky is wide open.  it feels like early summer- that perfect awakening feeling after a long season of inside.  nothing about this day has the closure of december.  nothing about it has the feeling of Christmas.  i think i need to get used to it.  the difference.  mabye i need to need it less.  rely less on the external things to move me into a place of reflection and preparation.

in some ways this makes sense. i mean with out the planning and the pomp and circumstance. because 2011 years ago the divine crashed into creation with minimal warning.  the entrance of a king in an unsuspecting stable.  that first Christmas wasn't about acute preparation. there had been promises, there had been long lengths of waiting, there had been expectations.  and i love the surprise of it.  i love that God ruffles feathers.  that He does it his own way.  everyone expected a king- and all that went with that but when the sacred entered- He entered into the ordinary, that's the way our God rolls.  it's real, real.  He came only announced to a few- a few people who didn't matter much to the world- he came to poor people- he came to the ordinary.

one of my favorite parts in the old testament is about God appearing to Elijah.
'Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountain apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind.  After the wind, there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake.  After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire.  And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.'  God was in the whisper.  so why are we so surprised that Jesus showed up in a barn?  and why are we so surprised that we don't 'feel' God more dramatically?  He's in the whispers, He's in the barn.  He's in the ordinary.

if you haven't read anything by anne lamott then you need too.  i love her blunt honesty and find her path to God real, real (read 'traveling mercies').  today i was re-reading a part of her book "grace (eventually)".

"This was the day I pecked a hole out of the cocoon and saw the sky of ingredients that would constitute my spiritual path.  This was the day I knew the ingredients of the spiritual that would serve me- love, poetry, prayer, meditation, community. I knew that sex could be as sacred as taking care of the poor.  I knew that no one comes holier than anyone else, that nowhere is better than anywhere else. I knew that the resurrection of the mind was possible.  I knew that no matter how absurd and ironic it was, acknowledging death and the finite was what gave you life and presence.  You might as well make it good. Nature, family, children, cadavers, birth, rivers in which we pee and bathe, splash and flirt and float memorial candles- in these you would find holiness."

because Jesus entered in.  he came from his perfect culture into ours.  he wore our 'traditional clothes' and spoke our language and embraced more than our ways, He embraced us- all of us- more importantly, each of us.  He was foreign born too. He didn't just observe, he engaged fully.  He didn't just live next to it, He lived it.  sometimes i think of his hands and how splintered they must have been as a carpenter.  i imagine them tough and calloused and strong and having slivers of wood just under the skin.  i imagine that after he finished building something with his dad, he must have carved other things.  i imagine that perhaps he carved a bird on the inside of a chair or the underside of a table-even if no one would notice, because he couldn't help himself, because He is a creator- the ultimate artist. and i wonder what it felt like for him to be so contained by skin? so limited by his hands when inside was the spirit of the universe- when before He just spoke it, thought it, and it was. 

and i wonder what He thinks now as he looks at our remembering.
if he sees all our preparations and ritual and attempts at creating the atmosphere of Christmas time, and shakes his head and sighs and thinks- they just don't get it. to me, i know he's saying these things: you don't need any of it to be ready for me- you don't need to feel something special at Christmas time.  i'm not just here in december, and then reappear at easter.  i'm not in the earthquake i'm in the whisper.  i'm in the relief sculpture under the table in the corner where people stick their gum.  i'm in the sunset you were too busy to see.  i'm in the guy who looks drunk on the street corner asking for money who you walked past.  i'm in that hot hot sun and the crisp sky, not just the snow and fir trees.  i entered all of it. for you.  so i could sit with you- when you're so very happy, and when you're so very sick. so i could sit with you when you are full of me and even when you've forgotten me. that's what you're celebrating.  

i'm thinking of these things today and feeling so thankful, in a hot and foreign land at Christmas time. 

far away at Christmas time

okay.
i admit it.  i want to get all dressed up and go to a holiday party.
i want to drink hot coco, and eggnog, and see lots of sparkly things.
i want to see my old friends on my birthday.  i want to tell them in person about the last three months, about life here. 
i want to smell the burning of a fire in a fireplace, not the burning of trash from the field behind me.
i want to see a leafless tree and feel a cold breeze, and maybe even an icicle or a snow flake.
i want my family.
i want my old oranaments and Christmas books and the home-made stocking i've grown up with.
i want to watch 'it's a wonderful life' with my brother and sister.
i want to watch my mom making Christmas cookies with my kids.

it's a hard time of the year to be far away. 
it's a hard season to be removed. 
i just want to go back for a day or two.  i think i could savor every second- every minute of it and not take any of it for granted.  i could see it, feel it, inhale it, hear it- the voices, the laughing.

but.
i will close my eyes.
i will feel the cool breeze from all those past decembers that live still in my head.
i will feel the snow falling on my cheek and then lighly melting and i will taste it- slightly like dirt and iron.
i will make some coco.
i will smell the burning and just enjoy it for what it is.
i will love the live Christmas tree in front of me with it's little handmade ugandan ornaments.
i will watch 'its a wonderful life' and make Christmas cookies with my kids.
i will celebrate my birthday with new friends who i enjoy.

but.
how i miss some people deeply.
i understand 'longing' now.

shake it like a polaroid picture

yesterday the clinic was slow, perhaps because we'd seen 125 people the day before, so i was able to leave early and head up to the orphanage for their Christmas celebration.  this was a party organized by some of the volunteers who've been there for a while and done a lot for the kids and the place.  the volunteer organizers sang some carols accompanied by a violin; then the children did some songs that they'd practiced; then the workers did some traditional african dances; then there was some impromptu dances followed finally by a giant ugandan meal.  i felt so badly that i didn't have zoe with me, she would have loved it.

 the kids were of course, adorable and dressed perfectly.  i mean their outfits were clean, the tops matched the bottoms and they were gender specific.  this is only important because notice the haircuts- they all have shaved heads- so except at bath time- it's hard to tell who is a girl and who is a boy.

the mamas were awesome.  those ladies can shake it- and they did.  they were doing traditional dances from different areas around the country, as most people in kampala are really from other parts of the country, referred to as 'the village'.   this is what people say, "i'm going home to the village", or "my wife she stays in the village".  this time of the year especially everyone goes back to the village.  i love that word and the concept and some day i hope i get to go to the village.  i thought the first dance must have been a courtship dance- it was sort of suggestive and like someone was presenting herself. but then the next dance was similar and the third one too.  and i began to wonder.  it's a catholic orphanage run by a nun, so i looked over to the sister to see her reaction- she was clapping and moving in her seat like it was all normal- like that whoopie goldberg movie 'sister act'.  it was awesome. and the music and the drumming made you want to move that way- to shake it and shake it fast.  even the older women the "mzee" - can move. 

but what was most amazing, was to see this one woman who is deaf, get up and dance.  i don't know if she could feel the vibration of the drum, or if she just had the music and the beat so deep in side her- but she could move to it just like everyone else.

i got tears in my eyes watching her.  but all of it was moving. there was so much joy in the dancing, the celebration, the performance of it- the kids shaking in their seats too- ready to get up and join them.  it was a reminder of that moment in 'the grinch who stole Christmas' when the grinch gets it-  "it came with out packages, boxes or bags!",  "maybe Christmas isn't something you buy in the store, maybe Christmas means a little bit more. " 

here we were in this little orphanage, which is often dirty and even stinky, and there was so much joy. even with out a Christmas tree, and with out little white lights and with out presents, even with out parents.
it was way different than most Christmas celebrations i've been to, and so, very special.
here it was, some of the 'more'. 

the mystery

People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes. All is a miracle.--Thich Nhat Hanh: 

sometimes i think we've lost the mystery.

we are uncomfortable with what we can not explain- we are so trustful of our minds and chose them over all else.  one of the best things about kids is there comfort with the magical- their desire for it-their need of it.  it makes me wonder if we are socializing away from the truth- away from the places of miracle.  children hold on to it- and slowly, it fades away.

this time of the year especially, and at the ages of 4 and 6 and yes, even 12 (but it is zoe) the magical comes into question.

i hear the kids conversations in the back seat of the car where early logic meets faith.
"but everyone knows he can't fit down the chimney, so he uses the door."
"yeah and sometimes there isn't even a chimney."
"but does he really have reindeer?  and do they really fly?"

several times this week i've been asked the dreaded question, "mommy is santa real?"
this pains me.
maybe i'm over thinking it, but i feel like i'm torn between looking my child in the eyes and lying to him or, alternatively and probably worse, stealing the pure joy of possibility and mystery from his precious little heart.  this is where it begins.

and it slowly fades away.  oh the loss of it.

so as parents, this time of the year makes us question the absoluteness of truth-telling and appreciate the complexity of moral ethics.  but we also go through our own faith vs. logic battle.  instead of the existence of a man dressed in red, we struggle with whether a baby could also be God, and how a virgin could give birth. we are quick to denounce the mystery of Jesus, the miracle of the transcendence of the spiritual into the ordinary.  we like to keep the beauty of a snowy night, a bright star, a young family on a donkey, some wise men.  but that is often where it is left and we just celebrate the guy in the red suit flying through the night sky and putting presents under our tree.   

but don't we still crave the mystery?  i do. and i still believe fully in miracles- small ones and big ones.  as a medical student, a resident, a friend and a mother, i've been to many, many births.  and even though i understand and can teach the biology of the creation and growth of a fetus and it's maturation to a full term baby, every time i've watched a baby born, i've cried.  because there is something you can't describe in the biology that is so clearly present at birth and so clearly absent right after death- a soul.  the mystery of the life inside us.

this time of the year is ripe for returning to that place of our original selves.  to embrace our children's vision that maybe there is more to life than we can see with our eyes, or even understand with our minds.  to believe that all around us is miracle and magic if we look- if we chose to engage in the possibility.

let's hold tight to the mystery.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.—Unknown

I would rather live in a world where my life is surrounded by mystery than live in a world so small that my mind could comprehend it. -- Harry Emerson Fosdick

We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and to know the place for the first time. --T.S. Eliot

I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. --Bob Dylan

little white lights and hope

today is the first sunday in advent.

i treasure these sundays.  there are only 4 of them, and this year, the last sunday of advent is on my birthday, december 18th.
i'm still finding it hard to "feel" christmas here.

i grew up in new england- with cold and snow and chestnuts and roaring fires and hot cider.  there were even real reindeer at the natick outdoor mall during chrismas time.  people put up their trees and their lights and christmas 'yard art' and built snowman.  there were candles in windows, wreaths on doors, poinsettia plants on mantels and smoke coming from chimneys and everyone listened to christmas music and strung cranberry and popcorn strands and made paper chains and watched the same christmas specials over and over year after year.  frosty, rudolf, a charlie brown christmas, 'twas the night before christmas, and of course, the grinch.  church lawns had creche scenes and kids enacted christmas pageants.  schools did plays of dickens 'a christmas carol'.  we baked cookies and decorated them, we pulled out stockings and made ornaments and sang carols in nursing homes for old people who weren't with their families.  but perhaps my favorite part of all is the little white lights.  the ones that are wrapped like scarves around those naked leafless trees.  they make me fell warm inside. little white lights in the dark of night.  we also celebrated advent. our church and our family.  we collectively both acknowledged the season and purposefully remembered the reason behind christmas, to be sure it didn't get lost in the wrapping paper or buried in the gifts. 

i'm okay with out the cold and the snow, but i miss most of the rest of it.  american culture is very good at celebration.  we even start preping for the weekend on wednesday- as if it's a rare event- as if saturday and sunday are holidays.   i'm not finding this a big part of ugandan culture so far.  in fact when i get to work on monday and ask how peoples weekend was or what they did- they look at me funny.  'it was fine'.  and they usually did the same things they always do- live their lives.

christmas here feels the same- it feels ordinary.  i have found some shops with a few mangy fake trees displayed, advertizing their for sale christmas items- today i even heard christmas music in a store- but most of uganda looks exactly the same as it did in august. 

today we tried a new church.  it was nice in some ways- the music was familiar- it was a good mix of people, ugandan and expat- but it made me so homesick.  i missed my church and my people- those who i've grown to love dearly and grow with and celebrate with.  people who help me remember the reason behind things. today there was no mention of this sunday being a special sunday, no mention of it being the first sunday in advent.  they mentioned in 'announcements' about the childrens christmas play- but there was no focus on the process of 'His arrival' no acknowledgement of the need to prepare our hearts for the arrival of a baby who changed the world.

i gravitate toward the seasonality of life.  it's rhythms and patterns, the things that are reliable and steadfast- almost like old friends.  maybe it's because i'm not inherently organized, maybe it's because i don't buy the same things at the market each week or have a meal schedule, i currently don't even have a calendar.  i think this is why i crave the larger, external patterns or seasons.  why i love the sunrise and the sunset and the moon.

i need advent this year. 
i need to spend these weeks remembering the hope and the promise.  the hope that our life has meaning and purpose beyond our present daily experiences.  the promise that it does.  that God does big things with small people- makes beauty out of brokenness, creates light out of darkness.

so i'll do with out the tv specials and the icicles and the smoky chimneys and the excessive christmas  decor.  but maybe not the little white lights- i might need those to remind me of light in darkness and to keep me warm inside.