hallelujah

"Maybe I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah"
                 - rufus wainwright

i love this song.  i love his voice.  i love the truth in it- i know that often all i can mutter is a broken hallelujah.  it's that bittersweetness- that is felt most when our limits push up against the eternal.  time- you feel it, you watch it- moving pencil lines up the wall as your children grow.  you know it in the fact that life hurts and is indescribably beautiful - at. the. same. time. you know it when something touches that core spot inside you that you can only know as your soul.

did i ever think i would be sitting on my porch at sunset watching monkeys jungle-gym through the trees? did i ever think that zoe would re-enter a typical school?  did i ever think she would do this in africa at an international school?  at age 13, one of the hardest ages to re-enter the social world?

no i didn't.

there are so many things i never imagined that have happened.  so many things i thought would happen than never will.

i have cried many hallelujahs.  i have fallen to bits many times.  i have cried out in joy and brokenness- hallelujah.

today my hallelujah was pure joy. 
today my hallelujah was out of deep thanks for just a kind of normal school day- a day with a few blips- but smoother than the day before.
today my hallelujah is on bended knees- in awe of this.


we come with what we have- open our hands and give it up - behold.

plink plank plunk

i just had a moment.  one of those achingly bittersweet moments.  when you feel your heart and it hurts a little bit, but feels warm and swollen too.  that twinge of beautiful agony- that ache that comes sometimes from loving someone so deeply that you feel their life in your life.

we had returned from the second day of school and it had been a hard day.  zoe was in her adapted tagless, seamless school uniform, wearing pigtails, glasses on, shoulder up, running through the kitchen to go find her neighborhood friends.

it was the pigtails. and watching the back of her head, her bare neck- revealing her elevated left shoulder. my mind played back all the times i've watched her running away.  watched her through the years as her white blonde pigtails have darkened, watched her gait steady slightly, watched and wondered and worried and prayed.

i love this girl. so. much.  this zoe. all of her.  the almost 13 years of her.  the challenges she never asked for.

today when  i picked her up, unlike yesterday her teacher said she had a hard time- at line up, in math, and french and pe- but the afternoon was better.  zoe seemed okay.

part of me didn't care, part of me expected that, part of me was crushed, part of me was annoyed that someone tried to test her math skills on the second day, part of me was scared about what direction we may be going. 

but as she dashed through the kitchen in her typical zoe form- i felt all those years like a giant ball in my throat and mostly what i felt was proud. because even if the morning was hard, she still invited almost everyone we passed on the way out of school, to her birthday party.  because she wasn't in bits.  because i know she can multiply even if she wasn't willing to count for her teacher today.  because a new school, being the only new kid in the class, in a class of 22 typical kids, who have all had french before, is a lot- with out being evaluated in math.  because we've come so far.  because cricket is really hard when you haven't played before. because even if she didn't try in math, she is trying in life.

and that is what matters.  trying in some form.  trying to navigate a much more complex world than i have to navigate. it will come slowly by slowly. she is not broken- she is whole- she is love.

as she dashed by me in the kitchen, i felt it all- our past, this day, where we've been, where we are going, all the unknown of it - but the known parts too - "zoe can i have a hug?"
"no mom!" she said smiling. "i want to go play!"
"oh come on, please?"
"okay fine! one."

i held her tight for a moment. her hair now at my chin level, her glasses still pressing awkwardly into my chest.  this girl has come so far. mustard seed faith. mountains will move.

plink plank plunk

first days

today began with mike jumping out of bed and announcing that he'd forgot to set the alarm. doh!
but we chose calm over crazy rush.  we chose trust over panic. and it worked.  we even got them there early.

bryn woke up in tears, mostly because he was tired i think, but the drama of being in year one, having two friends move away over the summer, and worrying that his teacher was too serious- got the best of him.

jude was fine. he's that guy who once he knows a place, and the routine, he is set.  last year was a different story, when it was new and he was new, the world was scarey and he let us know for about two weeks. but going into year 3, at the same school, piece of cake.

zoe had verbalized last night at dinner (while everyone was fighting over who got the finish the broccoli.....i know right?) that she was both excited and nervous.  totally natural, totally appropriate.  today the slowest girl in the world, managed her time and her excitement/ nervous combo- perfectly.  i was amazed.  but not really because the peace i was feeling was also clearly not of this world.  i could feel the prayers, those arms, that sheltering, the mountain inching.

rosie was quite honestly, being a brat- because for once- she was not getting the attention she likes.  she isn't starting school yet, so other people had issues today and needed to be held or their tears to be dried.  but she's three so it's allowed.

at breakfast they wanted to know about how i felt on the 'first days' of my life.  i was shy; my mom and i had a mix up my first day of 1st grade, and i thought she was picking me up at school, she meant the bus stop- that was scarey; but in general- i like new beginnings.

this is a new beginning.  today. wednesday. august 29th, 2012.

 at the equator, we don't have the seasonality that shaped my childhood years.  i miss it, and crave it, because it was another external boundary providing internal guidance.   so school starting  feels like that first cool autumn dry wind, bringing change, the leaving of something, the beginning of another. a seasons when i am not a home-schooler, i'm no longer zoe's teacher, i am free to be only her mom and all the beauty and responsibility and privilege that comes with that.


i don't know what this will hold.  i don't even know how long it was last.  maybe my phone will ring today - maybe there will be desk hiding and falling to bits.  or maybe it won't and these hours will become mine again- to work on our mobile medical clinic- to start the farming- and the poultry project- to write- to teach- to prepare to pick up at the end of the day and be just a mom to these guys, to be the support, the back up, the ears they need, the arms they need, as they navigate their worlds with out me.

i just finished gifts from the sea.  anne morrow lindbergh writes a postlogue 20 years after the book was first published.  it was fascinating.  the book is about the stages of life for a woman, as a mother, a worker, a thinker and writer.  she writes using different shells as analogies for each stage.  in the epilogue she writes that she'd missed a stage - the stage of the empty shell.  the quiet, lonely season that happens after the children have gone, before the exciting, re-self discovery, definition phase.  a season she didn't anticipate- but would have been very helpful to have thought of  - during the crazy, busy, time-less, days and hours of child rearing.  it's so easy to be tired.  it's so understandable to want a break, to jump for joy when school starts, to roll our eyes at the whistling, or the whining, fighting, and yelling.  it makes sense that we are sick of stepping on legos and looking for tiny lego guys hats late at night, and changing wet beds, and reminding people to wear deodorant.  but.

how quickly it goes!  how soon we will miss the very things that drive us nuts.  we will long to wake up to the sounds of their feet on the floor - to hear someone ask "what do hives look like?" and "what does confluent mean?" and "are those good questions?"

i've enjoyed this silent cup of coffee and uninterrupted time outside on the porch.  but already it seems too quiet, already i'm missing their voices and  laughter.  already i'm wondering how their day is going, what questions they are asking, how they feel about their desk placement and if they like their snacks.

and that is love, i think.  loving being with them, and loving letting them go.  enjoying alone time, but eagarly anticipating reunion.  yin and yang.  there is balance there.  i want to hold it- the awareness of the empty shell in my future.  so i can treasure the fullness of today. 

mustard seed

that little thing is a mustard seed

Jesus said that faith the size of a mustard seed, can move a mountain.  have you seen a mustard seed?  they are tiny, and mountains, well, they are huge.  sometimes i think that Jesus said that, and matthew wrote it down, just for me.

i used to think that faith was like patience- either you have or you don't- either you spend your life working on it, or you've been blessed. i have not been given the gift of patience- i struggle with it daily, okay hourly- but faith, i've always thought i was pretty solid on that. but. i'm finding that faith is more like love. love is something that everyone has for someone or something - in varying degrees, for varying situations, and people and seasons.  faith is like this- well for me.  maybe there are people who have it more universally- but for me, it changes in strength and size and amplitude with each different circumstance.

with zoe- it's only the size of a mustard seed- on a good day. 

school starts in two days.  i can feel it shrinking.  this morning poor mike got back from his run and was faced with my fine coffee ground size faith.

"mike she is never going to make it in school. we are CRAZY. we ARE crazy. WE are crazy." 

i recounted her educational history- her IEPs- her work- her attention- the issues- the recommendations- the challenges at special schools where the zoe's of the world are their raison d'etre. i worried that i hadn't done enough prep work with her, or the school.  that everybody's expectations wouldn't be met.  that everyone would be disappointed.  (maybe mostly me).  because it feels like the more times something fails, the greater the let down- there is more riding on the hope of it working.  

i know all of this banter is pointless.  she's going to school in two days even if that means all of my greatest fears coming true- desk hiding, ear covering, screaming out in frustration or the sight of a vacuum, speaking in whatever foreign language seems appropriate based on the way someone looks to her, whistling through her day, flapping and force laughing at a funny joke, announcing in class that she's having a hard time because she has a "non--ver-bal--learn-ing-dis-ord-er" or because she's "turning 13 soon and is growing... you know...." while pointing to her chest. 

oh. dear.

"i mean i do have faith.  it's there.  somewhere."  i said finally, but i'm not sure it brought much relief to either of us.

this does feel like a mountain. one i've been looking at for a long time.  one i've been climbing up, trying to understand: why it's so high, and bald in some places and forest like in others. why it's so steep, why there are desert parts even.  why i don't have the right equipment, why no one told me i needed crampons and an ice pick.

but what is "working" anyway? what does "making it" look like?  and is this even about her? is it perhaps about me letting her go? releasing her to the one who told me i only need a tiny speck of faith for big things to happen, for the world to shake, for change, for the impossible to become possible.

so i grabbed my mustard seed and my girl and we headed out to face the music- to have a day together and to go see her teacher and her classroom.  it was delicious.  our mountain hasn't moved- but i felt  a tremble. 

we started at the salon, because i had an appointment. zoe was her charming self and they offered to wash and style her hair for fun (and for free). 

"yeah right!" i thought. she has sensory issues. she hates getting her hair washed and brushed and dried. 
but no- she wanted to- and. she. was. fine.

and then she was thrilled. so thrilled that she danced around the salon to the club music, looking in every  mirror she passed. then we went for our lunch date. sushi. like old times. she tried to speak japanese to the tagalog speaking sushi chef, thankfully the japanese branch of the UN were dinning there too so zoe was able to both salute and impress them with her greetings.

girls day out

 

then we stopped by school, she saw her new classroom, and her teacher, and the desks and book nook, stuffed frog, and other fun items.  she saw her cubby, and asked some questions. 

there was no magic and it wasn't a 'perfect day'- there was a quick shriek at the hair salon when she couldn't get something to work, some mild frustration as she attempted to use chopsticks, and some ear covering when she heard a drill at school. but it was delicious because of the words quick, mild and some.  it was delicious because this day reminded me that Jesus never tells us how the mountain will be moved or who is doing the moving, or when it will be moved.  maybe the mountain moving process matches our faith.  for me, with zoe, at this place in life, it might be moved one pinch of dirt at a time.

part of my mustard seed faith is knowing this, and being okay with this, and trusting that what i have faith about -will happen.  our mountain will move- but most likely by a means that i never dreamed of, in a time period that i will find frustrating, with help that i never thought would come my way.

i have faith that zoe will be happy and not afraid (most of the time).  i have faith that zoe will know and love God and other people.  i have faith that zoe will love herself as. she. is.  i have faith that zoe  will someday leave my house, for her house.  these are the things that i want for her.  but i have no idea what any of that looks like.  all i know is that it probably looks nothing like my happy, my not afraid, my leaving, or my house- and that is okay.

mustard tree

so i will plant my small mustard seed.  and this giant tree will grow.  and the mountain will move- somehow, someday - and i will smile and get my hands dirty and wait to be surprised.

being inside someone else's moment

last night was date night.  we were on a roof top patio eating spring rolls in a mostly expat crowd, when someone who appeared to be celebrating her birthday, got a phone call. a phone call that would change her world forever.  in slow motion, we watched this older woman unravel, and then her older daughter too.  there was "no! no!" and a lot of gasping and crying then questions,  "when did this happen?" and "are your sure?"  then more "no!" and falling to the ground or into restraining arms of husbands- as the daughter quickly caught on that her brother was dead.  that her mother had just lost her son in a car accident. 

it was awful. there was no where to go.  there was nothing to do.  it was like watching someones insides fall out- hearts breaking- years and words spinning- anger, denial, agony- on a beautiful evening that was meant for a celebration- a rooftop at sunset- it was out of context- it didn't belong there.


the patio stopped- froze.  time stood still, as we were stuck in someone else's life changing moment, witnessing something awful, something that didn't belong to us, but is such a universal part of life.

i have been at the bedside of many dying patients.  i have held many hands of daughters losing parents, or sisters losing brothers.  i have been the one on the other end of that phone or in the waiting room- giving that horrible news- knowing that in those few seconds, worlds change. 

'he's gone.'
'you have cancer.'
'it's HIV'

wishing i could wait, buy someone an ice cream sundae, let them go see a movie and laugh hard- before they fall to bits. before i share something that will brand that date forever in their mind, before sounds they had never noticed - the ticking of a fan- become forever linked with their diagnosis, or the second they lost their son.



saturday night is necessary.  it's the highlight of the week on many levels, mostly because it's set aside to give each other focused attention and processing time, and there is more to process here, living in another culture, away from what has always been home- we need to be more for each other here. last night in those eternal minutes of forced exposure, at the uninvited viewing of another family's extreme vulnerability- i began to cry too as it unfolded. 


because we all know those calls- those seconds -  when life as we knew it, is no more.  we all have our ticking clocks and tommy bahama ties and the smell of OR gas, or the song that was playing.  we all know loss, or can imagine it, and fear it, and hold our loved ones tighter when we think of it.


even though it felt like forever- the call was only a few minutes.  soon the mother and father, the sister and her husband got their bags and began to leave. people were quiet, as the family walked to their cars and drove away.  and then the world started up again.


the people on the patio drank their beer and laughed and shouted about the soccer game.  the scene had ended.  they were strangers. it's saturday night.


this added to our need for alone time- this added to the list of things to be processed.  thankfully i'm married to a guy who gets this, and me, so we quickly paid our bill and went for dinner. in the car we prayed for the family, whoever they are, where ever they are from, and for the one they lost.


the sushi restaurant was quiet, the sun had set, and the evening was cool.  it was windy where we sat outside- mike said we could have been anywhere.  he said when you move up on a hill or a mountain or into the sky- it becomes progressively windier.  the world from up there, from the blowing sky, looks smaller- and more the same. that view smooths over our differences that can scream loudly at ground level.


what does it matter that i know God? or try to? does it change those frozen, life changing moments?

yes and no.  they are there, and always will be.  but the perspective is different- the understanding of time is different, and purpose, and meaning.  those minutes and the news that makes them so awful and gut-wrenching,  are still just as painful- but there is also, an undeniable, and unfathomable peace that follows at some point.  that sits beside the sorrow- not removing it, but providing that breeze of promise- you will breathe again, you will even smile again, you are not alone.

it's hard for me to imagine those moments with out the context of a God who loves us- with out that peace that quietly whispers.  the darkness must be much darker, the agony even deeper. so i pray it for them- that for this family, who i accidentally witnessed hearing the worst news a mother or sister can hear,  somehow a light will shine, they will feel the everlasting arms,  the warmth of a sheltering sky, and the breeze of promise.

finite

from my porch right now, life feels exquisite. the morning light, the breeze, the clarity of dry air, the promise of another day. another week.  the week of transition.  the end of the summer, the beginning of a new school year. another meeting about rose- zoe in a classroom.  a lot to could happen this week- or nothing- and things i have no idea about will unfold, or begin, or end.

yesterday bryn asked when God was born.  i had a moment.  one of the moments when you try to wrap your mind around something outside of your mind- when you try to imagine infinity- when you try to remove the bounds of time and step out of this dimension. 

'God wasn't born bryn, he just was, always.'

he looked appropriately puzzled, but it registered as very possible.  because when you are five- you can still engage in the mystery.

how can something not begin? and not end? starting and finishing is all we know.  time is. it moves. again i felt my smallness- that there is so much we don't know, or understand, or even have the capacity to grasp.  i guess that is why we so often choose not to believe. belief is risky. admitting we don't know is threatening. keeping our system closed - keeping things in this world- limiting them to our understanding- that maintains our sense of control, kind of.

but then we let go of the mystery. we lose embracing possibility and space and timelessness. so i choose to hold my smallness, to be okay with my limitedness, to trust that deep knowing that whispers inside: there is more. 

here we are.  today we live in this time, in these bodies, and we still must ask the question- what will we do with our one wild and precious life?  with this wild and precious day?


The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
- mary oliver

traversing mars

right now, somewhere very far away in space, a vehicle is traversing mars.  it's searching the ground, the landscape, and the rocks,  for signs of life.  i'm not a fan of sci-fi, or being high off the ground- so while i can appreciate it - it's not that exciting for me- besides i'm too concerned with traversing my own mars- life with zoe.

in a few hours i'm meeting with her teacher, because school starts next week, and well, we kind of need some sort of a plan.  so i've "prepared" a list of topics to discuss.  they are mostly in the form of questions.  questions that i don't have an answer for.

- uniforms? yes? no? depends on the day? will my specially ordered "SOFT" clothes be okay if in school colors? because we have sensory issues.  tags or seems or something too tight, or too loose, can send her to the moon- it can distract her (and therefore everyone else)- it can unravel her.

- homework?  i know there is homework in 6th grade.  but please don't torture me!! won't 6 hours of school be enough? but what about fitting in to the class? perception? participation? do we just do less of it?

-scheduled breaks? we are talking the attention span of a goldfish.  will breaks help? will they cause more distraction in the breaking and re-entering?

-'engine helpers' ?  she likes to fiddle, to hold small toys in her hands. this helps her feel less anxious.  but what if she starts talking to junior asparagus? or what if she throws him in frustration because she didn't get the answer right?

- tests?  oh dear.  what happens there? is she timed? does she get help?

as we were making this list- i began to panic.  i began to think that we are CRAZY.  that this plan is DOOMED.  that we are set up for DISASTER.  i began to feel sick for everyone involved- zoe, her teacher, her classmates, me.   and then i began to do what i always do after i panic- i began to grapple for control- to put up armor to protect us - to make plan b and c and d.  but.  we live in uganda where options are severely limited.  so then i did the most logical and helpful next step- i opened the flood gates of fear and regret.  what were we thinking! moving here? during teenage years? with zoe, a neuro-atypical kid? where are our supports? where is barbara mcclure? and social group? and her psychiatrist? and her sensory gym? and my mom?

suddenly life in africa began to look a lot dirtier, grimier, smellier, and eternally frustrating. on the drive in, the traffic appalled me, the trash piles revolted me, the cow walking at me in traffic really annoyed me- the potholes, the diesel fumes, the broken chin strap on the boda driver- all of it screamed of disrepair, and lack, and hopelessness.

i don't like to wallow.  i don't like to look at life that way.  so i moved on to compartmentalization. leave the zoe box for a while, leave the messy africa box, go to your work life box- open up that one- remember your purpose, your mission.  i had been called by 'reach out' clinic today asking what my plans were, i'm due for a meeting with 'action for the needy' and we go to luweero for mobile clinic in a few weeks, i need to find some land to get farming, i need to sign up for the medical boards re-certification exam. 

but then i remembered that compartmentalizing your life with a special needs child is (like everything else) - different. the work box, depends on the zoe box, because zoe touches everything. there is no 'arriving', no guarantees, no non-pull-able rugs.  and. this. is. hard. it's hard hard.

so i closed my eyes and indulged the wallow for a minute.  in my mind i sat in my leather seated pilot with the steering wheel on the normal side of the car and listened to the functional car stereo.  i drove down smooth roads, and i took myself to starbucks and ordered a hot, to-go latte and organic horizon vanilla milk for the kids  from my car window- just because i could.  then i drove with the windows down, because the cars have intact exhaust systems, and smelled fresh air.  there wasn't even any traffic, so i drove to wholefoods. oh. my. word.  they had gluten-dairy-free everything!! they had normally priced peanut butter and nutella, and the lights were on in the store so i could see! they weren't out of milk! they had free samples! and it was air-conditioned.  then we went to the emory pool, where there was no broken glass at the bottom of the deep end, and there were life guards, and enough seats for everyone, and of course we ran into our friends- because we always do.  i called my sister, because we're on the same network and it's free even though she lives across the country.  we went to sensations therafun- a special sensory 'gym' for kids like zoe and everyone else, and we connected with other families who have kids that don't like tags and vacuums.  then i drove to my friends house, and our kids played, then watched a tevo-ed happy, educational cartoon on noggin, while we sat outside and drank cold white wine on her porch and laughed and didn't even appreciate how easy and nice life is.  i got a moquito bite- but with no risk of malaria. zoe was super well regulated because she just finished a few weeks with learning on the log- a summer program for kids like her- one of many programs, that become available only after you have enough food to feed your country, and medical care that keeps most children alive past age 5.

STOP. that is not my life right now.

am i enough for you?
do you trust me?
i will give you joy- to the fullest.
you don't need to compartmentalize- you need to take baby steps.  
you need to take- today.  to take this hour.  to just go to that one meeting with her teacher. that is all.
you don't need to extrapolate your fear into regret of where you are.  don't let this be about road conditions and unlit supermarkets. 
let this just be what it is, where it is, right now.
breathe. 

"now to Him, who is able to do exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think.."

i need exceedingly.
i need abundantly.
i need above all.

that is a lot of promise.

then i remembered the last 40 years.  i remembered especially the last 13 years. i remembered darker days, and months, and seasons.  i remembered that it's true. sometimes i can't even see- but i can still walk. by faith. empola, empola. slowly by slowly. just into today.  just to that meeting. then back home- past cattle and red dirt and broken.  i get to walk back into the steadying arms of mike; to jude who's very life screams of the truth in that promise; to bryn's toothless smile; to beautiful muzungu-karamajong rose- born on these dirty streets; and to that blossoming girl of almost 13, who despite making me feel like we are traversing mars- is true to her name- zoe- life to the fullest.

and that is a lot of promise too.