a memory from lalibela

"When you get to the end of all the light you know and it's time to step into the darkness of the unknown, faith is knowing that one of two things shall happen: either you will be given something solid to stand on, or you will be taught how to fly.”
― Edward Teller

i was thinking about this quote about light and darkness and faith. the darkness of the unknown.  that is one of the greatest darknesses- one of the things we fear most.  

two years ago today, i was in ethiopia with one of my best friends and favorite people of all time.  we were there to adopt her son.  while there we traveled to lalibela a beautiful old town full of ancient churches that were dug out of the earth.  they were carved down from the top, into the ground. and they are connected through passage ways.  the last two churches are connected by a long and very dark tunnel.  lisa and i had taken a tour, and been guided through the churches- at the second to last one- we were told that we should enter this small dark tunnel and walk slowly through it until we emerged into the light of the last church.  it was supposed to symbolize the rebirth we have in jesus, or death and coming into the light of heaven.  

i have had the light go out, i've stood before the unknown, i've had times of blindly walking on solid ground, and times when i've been able to fly.  and never have i been more thankful for that provided ground or the gift of temporary wings. but in that moment of actually walking into a pitch black hole, into the unknown of total darkness, and having to feel my way along dirt walls- i was terrified- i couldn't do it.  i backed out and walked in the light. 

this really bothered me.  i wondered about my faith.  i wondered what i was so afraid of, and why i couldn't participate in the metaphor of this experience.  i imagined the feeling of exiting the tunnel- of running to the sunlight- but it wasn't enough for me to enter that dark place and engage in that walk.  

perhaps that level of faith, knowing that i can trust that my foot will not slip into oblivion, comes only "at the end of all the light you know".  we are only taught to fly when there are no other options, when it is absolutely needed. 

at the time i was in the middle of a very hard season with zoe. i was broken down and exhausted. i was not about to willfully enter something else unknown. i'd had enough of the darkness and i had a choice.  i didn't need to walk only by faith- there was another path above ground- that was the one i took. 
 
our days are full of the unknown, so how do i live in my days?

i want to live them all in faith.  i want to walk through my days with one foot in front of the other trusting there will always be ground before me, with my arms outstretched in case i will need to fly. 

and if i ever return to that town in the hills, full of carved sanctuaries and catacombs, i hope i will chose to enter the story- to go willingly into the darkness, so i can be reminded and appreciate the full welcome beauty of the light.

light

                    Sudden Light
         I HAVE been here before,
         But when or how I cannot tell:
          I know the grass beyond the door,
          The sweet keen smell,
          The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
          You have been mine before,—
           How long ago I may not know:
           But just when at that swallow's soar
           Your neck turned so,
           Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
           Has this been thus before?
           And shall not thus time's eddying flight
           Still with our lives our love restore
           In death's despite,
           And day and night yield one delight once more?
                               Dante Gabriel Rossetti












there is something about light. especially as darkness comes. there is something about the contrast.
the other day i was looking at the shadows of trees on a dirt road.  the patterns were beautiful and moving and time-limited. i thought about how a shadow is just blocked light, a dark spot in the middle of bright- the opposite of a candle in darkness. 

i thought about night and day, and the earth and the sun. two sides of the world. nighttime is just the shadow of the the earth. one half experiences darkness, the world turns, there is light.

like life.  we have both. we need both.  darkness and light. they depend on each other to be. 

there are times when the night is too dark, and we are cold and lonely, and waiting for dawn.  but we can't forget that in that night shadow, we are able to see far far away into the sky.  we can see history in the light of ancient stars, the swirl of the galaxy, the face of the moon.  there is opportunity there, we can see things that we can't without the darkness, and when we can't take it anymore, we can turn on a light. 

other times, the light is too bright, too hot, and we get burned. and then it's good to find the shade, to rest in it's protection, to notice the patterns and watch them change, to appreciate the contrast. 

then there are those in between times- the transition times of morning and evening- sunrise, sunset. those hours are more beautiful than the brightest day and the darkest night, the change- the stillness of the coming or going of light. i think we are made for them- or they were made for us- to be reminded that our lives are not just black and white- not just dark and light.  or that holding both are necessary- times of shadow and times of light. 

because even our moments are sided. there is light and dark in them. and the living and learning lies in the acceptance, the looking at the stars, standing in the shadows, and the flicker of a flame, and the contrast itself.  we know greater joy, after having pain; deeper love after loss.

this season with zoe feels like the sunrise. moving from the dark into a place where i am beginning to see again. 

top 5

it's friday.  it's pouring rain.  these are the top 5 good things about the last 24 hours.

1. i did rosies hair:

why is this a big deal? the poor girl has a muzungu mama.  i've had no lessons in how to do her hair (although i'm famous for stopping people on the street and asking how they get their hair to do what it does- resulting in crazy looks like, "lady your hair will NEVER look like this!") of course she did wake up at 5 am crying for me to remove the back half so she could lie down.

2.  i went to a friends house and had a trader joes dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt candy bar:

i also saw an american sized refrigerator and freezer and stove. they were so big that i thought maybe i'd shrunk, when i went to put the milk away, there was room for it with out any rearranging.  i had a moment. then  i saw a kitchen-aid mixer, and trader joes peanut butter, and i forgot for a moment that i was in uganda, which is what the people who work for the US embassy get to forget sometimes. then i got to visit with my new friend- who i "get" because she is a doctor and a mother and an american living abroad and someone who has a differentish kid and someone who tries to know and love God. it was lovely.

3. i found my way:

i got seriously lost, on some serious dirt roads. after leaving the house that made me feel like i was in america, i was quickly reminded that i was not.  no road signs, off of 'google maps', not able to communicate with most people on the street, and trying to avoid very small children and goats- it was more of a path than a road. when the road petered out into a legitimate path, and i had to ask a boda driver where i was, he simply said- "you go that way." and motioned with his hand- eventually, i found my way.

4.it's friday:

that means movie night. all the neighbors come over and we eat pizza and the kids watch a movie and the grown ups talk and we feel good and connected and thankful. it means i get to kind of sleep in tomorrow and spend the next 2 days with my favorite people.


5. i got to see zoe in a moment of regular glory:

this can't be fully appreciated by people who don't know me, or zoe, or other kids like zoe. but if you've been sharing life with us, you will get this.

here she was, at a regular school, doing the regular class performance.

it was year 6's turn to do
the friday assembly.  they've been studying the solar system.  she wore her tie-dye skirt from kenya (that she's been wearing since age 5- i'm not kidding) because the swirls sort of look like a galaxy.  it was so perfectly beautiful in it's normalness.  there was no drama. no anxiety. no great differences. she was just a girl, at school, doing a small performance with her class. i wanted to squeal with glee.  i was bursting with joy.  three years ago, this was not in the picture.  three years ago, we were falling to bits. for the past three years, if i closed my eyes really tightly and allowed myself to dream, this would have been my dream.  to get to a place of usual, average, alright.  i didn't need extraordinary,  or above average, or star of the show, or high grades, or even age appropriate math, i just want whole, and happy, and not in pieces. this, is the goodness of God.  this is above and beyond what we can ask, or imagine.  this is fullness.  this is answered prayer. 

i .am. just. so. so. thankful. i am so happy for her.

permission

i love the ways that God shows up.  but i especially love when he shows up in the words of my mother who called me last night.  this might be the second time she's called uganda.  she's of that generation that has had to put up with a tremendous leap in technology during their lifetime.  missionaries in africa were people you sent those thin pale blue letter/ envelope combination air mails to- not people you could just call. you didn't call africa.  she spends half the time on skype remarking about how amazing it is to actually be able to see us through the computer (if she can find the button to turn on the camera). so i was thrilled when i saw "private no." show up on my phone- i knew it was the US- i was hoping it was her.

once we'd adjusted the pace of conversation to accommodate the slight international lag- it was so good to hear her voice.  there is no one like my mom.  there is no one like the one who loved you for 9 months before you were even born.  she said the things i thought she'd say- but didn't want to ask for.

restful seasons are important.
you're doing a lot.
please allow yourself to breathe.
has zoe even been in school for a month?
didn't you just adopt a child- or actually isn't it even more complicated then that?
regrouping is not just important, it's necessary.
let the dust settle.
wait.
do not over commit.

i needed to hear that from someone who has known me my whole life, and watched me burn the candle at both ends, and tended to my burns from the burn out.  i needed to hear that from someone who knows about sacrificing for others, someone who as mothered, who follows God and prays for me and mine many times a day, someone with the gift of discernment.

it was why she'd called.  she responded to that still small voice inside her, i know it's calling africa, but she needs to hear from you.  she needs your permission to breathe. a voice she has been listening to for almost 70 years. a voice she doesn't question or second guess.  a voice that has guided her.  a voice she raised me to seek and listen for and trust and obey.  it's not just her knowing me- it's her knowing the one who made me.  her words mean more.

there it was. reminding me of the kind of mother i want to be. the kind of friend i want to be. reminding me to pay attention to what i'm being called to say to others- and then to actually say it- even when it's inconvenient, or expensive, through time zones and across oceans.

we are the hands and feet of God on earth- sometimes we are also her voice. and we are not so far away.

another neruda poem

sonnet xvii: love

i don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
i love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
i love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
i love you simply, without problems or pride:
i love you in this way because i don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no i or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
                      -pablo neruda
 

it's the climb

i'm thankful for a quiet morning, for a cloudy prayerful walk up monkey hill, for some needed stillness.  because lately, my mind has been busy.  i've been doing a lot of thinking and asking and waiting and stressing and feeling guilty about what i'm doing or not doing or not doing enough of.  and it's hard to hear the quiet voice of God, underneath all the louder voices.  it's hard to decipher the one that matters most, beneath the needs of many.

so much of life as a mother is about the giving away of ourselves.  so much of life as a doctor and a missionary is the giving away of ourselves. it seems to make sense that we need to live into places of renewal- that we need to create space, find time to refill, to be gentle and tread lightly and think into our futures- all the futures that we influence. ours. our childrens. our husbands. our employers. our patients. our friends. 

what i'm left with is a question: is it wrong to have a season of stillness? is it wrong to have a season of putting things back together? of mending? of less doing and more being? is it allowed? is it selfish? or self-protective in a good way?
and what are the thresholds? how do we find them if we've not had them before?

i have friends who's lives are crazy busy, in my opinion, and then some of my friends think my life is crazy busy.  how do we know what is doing enough? how do we know what is too much?

last month i wrote this:

"it will require some good alone thinking time, praying time, asking what can-and-should-i-do time. this new season of something. my season of transitioning myself as i transition my littles. it's again about finding the balance, holding the tension of the opposites as they pull at us, maintaining the pose.  it's about helping with out burning out.  it's about remembering that my family comes first- but i don't need to hide out and wait for their possibly neediness to be revealed.

trust. be. try. give. hold. let go.  and always, savor the stillness."

what is that balance? i'm holding the tension- i'm trying- i'm trusting- i'm waiting.  i'm so bad at waiting.  when i was reading about elijah, i skipped over the part about the waiting- but it's in there. 40 days (again).  between his first being fed and sleeping, and then the revelation, there are 40 lonely, hungry days.  God fed him well before he sent him off because God knew he'd be traveling and starving for 40 days before he'd encounter God in the whisper.

i would guess the lonely silence was worse than the hunger.  not much is said between the angel telling him to eat because the journey was great, and him landing on the mountain.  i don't know if he was told to go to the mountain, or if that is were he ended up, or if it was always the place people always went to hear God.  but either way, i wonder what those 40 days and night were like.  what processing happened, what conversations he had with himself, whether he felt any presence of God during that time.  i know if it were me, i'd have risen each day wondering if today would be the day i'd figure it out, be given direction and clarity, be able to go home and eat. 

it has been 28 days of my waiting.  and i've been doing a lot of things that don't look like walking alone toward a mountain.  it's been full of what my life is made of- parenting and driving and cooking and front porch doctoring and homework and fundraising and meetings and entertaining and home doctoring visits and orchestrating schedules and learning luganda and writing and connecting with friends.  i've had several moments of peace and awareness, and others full of self doubt and noise.

i've spent my life sprinting.  running my heart out until i collapse panting on the ground and wait for my breathing to slow, so i can get up and run hard again. part of this is just who i am, and how i work and that is okay.  but i also need to learn to pace myself for the long distance run of life.  i need to keep it at sustainable- and if i can't jog, i need to be okay with the times in between when i'm panting or catching my breath.


maybe the question is: can i let all of it- the sprinting and stopping, the silence and the noise, the walking up mountains, the standing in the cave- can i let it be life-giving for me and for others?

can i forgive myself for needing to understand what it will take for me to become more of a long distance runner? can i forgive myself for the need to stop and breathe?

yes. i think so.

i'm thankful for the soon to be busy afternoon.  and i'm thankful for good friends who walk beside us on the long stretches, who know us when we seem to forget ourselves, and who love us whether we are climbing, running, panting, crying, or just standing still and trying. 

a poem

Last night the rain spoke to me
By Mary Oliver

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,

what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again

in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,

smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches

and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing

under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,

and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment

my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars

and the soft rain—
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.