I traveled nearly an hour for my mommy group. It's a far drive by any account but in Joburg traffic, up the N1, it can be particularly beast-like. I get to see a lot of things in that hour. People shaving their heads in the car, people talking on their phones, endless advertisements. It's an early drive, usually too early for the people who tirelessly offer you paper advertisements through cracks in your car window. I was making the trek a few weeks ago when a billboard caught my attention. It said, "Don't let Christians stop you from coming to church" and then stated the church's details of services and all that. It made me laugh out loud. The same laugh-out-loud reaction I had when I saw the sign at my kids' swimming class that said "Unattended children will be given a free puppy and an espresso." The idea of both seemed so absurd that it was laughable to me.
Truth be told though, there are many, many people who would adamantly agree Christians have put them off Christ. I'm not sure when or where, but I feel this. I'm in that space where I find I've deeply opened myself up and been rubbed in such a way that says, "This isn't right. This isn't how it's supposed to be." In much the same way that an American teenager going to Mexico over Spring Break on a church mission trip can pray to see with Jesus' eyes and then gets rubbed by the widow neighboring a church who has been totally overlooked by said church. They've opened their hearts and are then rubbed the wrong way when they see something is off from the Gospel they know and believe.
Some people will never pray a "thy will be done" type of prayer. It's a hard and brave thing to really carve out time, sit down and claim the footprints you're standing in. It's hard to not want to be over there, further along, or not shamed by how much further it is to the finish line. Every time I've found myself wanting to hide away because I just feel like I'm failing my Lord, I'm comforted by the fact that every single writer, theologian and contemporary I value, trust and look up to say the same thing; I'm not there yet. I'm here.
My here isn't very pretty at the moment. It's total transition of heart, mind, and soul. I struggled so much when we got to South Africa because for twenty years, I'd felt called to be a missionary (in Africa if I'm brutally honest) and then I arrived and went, "Now what? Now what do I do?" Then Jesus and I had to go a few rounds for me to be able to see the purpose. My anchor of someday being a missionary was severed because I was a missionary. My context had to change. My dependence and focal point had to change in order for me to open myself up to the things Jesus had for me. And while it was changing, while my heart was open, it was rubbed. In some ways I wish I'd opened myself up more, been more available to see with eyes wide open. Even still, I now ache at times: words said in haste, missteps along the way by others, dreams that have been a bit tattered and tarnished. Because the billboard is true. Those that take on the mantle of being called a Follower of Christ are real human beings who have issues and faults and often operate from their own strength. I'm the most at fault in that respect. I worked for so long from a place of pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. Frankly, it's exhausting. I remember the point where I realized that I simply could not operate in my own strength any longer. Once I gave it up to God (as a last-resort), oh the places I could go!
But I had seen the dark side of my own heart, and I could sporadically recognize it in others. And it rubs. It hurts. It aches. Because living life open to other people will always be less than it was supposed to be. Ask anyone who has been married longer than five days and they'll tell you, giving grace to your spouse, over and over and over... and over, is hard. They hurt you. They disappoint you. They make decisions that downright anger and infuriate you. And the Church, not the buildings, not the individual congregations of people who more or less look and speak the same, but the big, broad sense of all the people who are following hard after Christ, is the same way. My here is that space. I'm where I see and feel the hurt, the disappointment, the decisions I feel were and are still wrong and that make me angry.
We were missionaries for five and a half years and we then left Africa. We went back to the US and the decision is such a complicated mix of right and horribly, terribly, gut-wrenchingly wrong. We did not leave because of any one thing except this: God released us from South Africa for something else. That's it. There's no earth-shattering revelation, no grand fan fair, just the simple truth that we learned or did or whatever it was that we came to South Africa for and now it's time to leave. I didn't want to go... I still desperately want to go back. I feel like there's so much left unfinished, but even as I say that I see in my mind's eye my four-year-old who screams and fights going to bed because there's still so much more playing to do. I'm angry. I'm disappointed. I'm hurt. But I also know this is right.
I was honestly dreading going back to the good ol' US of A. I dreaded it for a thousand big and small reasons. Big like, how do you keep your child rooted and grounded in the culture that is theirs by birthright when you don't live there? And many of you won't get that but others of you know that that's why, even after leaving the US you still celebrate Thanksgiving or even after leaving the UK you still have Boxing Day traditions- for your kids, so they will know. Small like the fact that I'll never have the overwhelming canopy of vibrant purple jacarandas trees overhead as I make the drive across town. My heart has found roots. Deep roots for the amount of time we called Johannesburg home. Roots that have been nourished and roots that are protesting the transplant. I dread the people who make trite comments of how everything will turn out fine without caring to enter the space we're in. I know it will be fine. I am so, so glad that I can say honestly and sincerely that this is well with my soul. But that doesn't make the transition any less of a transition. And it doesn't make the rub hurt any less.
There are things, I think, that will always rub me. Walking into a church and being told the seat is "taken" or people doing church rather than learning how to be church. I can't put my finger on it but somewhere I've changed, and I can't go back. I can't go back to being busy and focused on just me, just my family, just my circle of other people who look and think and talk like me. Right now, I'm so incredibly tempted to run from the hurt, hide my head in the sand, circle the wagons and take care of me and mine... only. I've done it in the past and I know it's the swiftest way out. But it won't serve in the long run. I was built for community. I was created to participate in the messy and complicated lives of those God has placed around me. Sometimes, I get to bring help and peace into their lives, other times, God uses them to bring peace into mine. I've been chastised a few times for some of the company I choose to keep, but the truth is, I'm learning so much about my God and His Church through so many people who would be shocked to learn that a God they're not sure they believe in, is teaching me grand things through them. I pray for these friends, every single day. By name. I pray for my church-going friends every single day. By name. I've found, especially here, in a place of hurt, that healing can come from so many different venues. I don't have to be in a church listening to a preacher to find Christ, because He's here, with His creation, in every interaction if I'll let Him. I've also learned that when I enter into someone else' life, when I'm invited into their chaos and messy Saturday mornings or sick Thursday nights, Christ is there too, and those are the moments I cherish, because more than any sermon ever could, those are the moments where healing, honesty and peace enter in. If I have to take the rawness of being rubbed in order to have the peace that has flowed so freely, so generously than bring on the rubs and bumps and scrapes.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
The Marathon of Parenting
Three o'clock yesterday and it was all hands on deck. Four kids who needed extra large snacks, then showers. Wet, squirmy little bundles of excitement because Santa is coming, tumbled out of the bath and into new clothes, only added to the excitement. But we manage, we all get cleaned up, bundled up, and in the car to go to Christmas Eve church service. We went to a Moravian church that we'd never been to before. Nothing has felt 'right' lately but the kids were so cute and it was snowing as we drove up to the church. Why not give it one more go, right?
We walked in as the orchestra (yep, orchestra) was setting up in the balcony. The church is historic-old and was stunningly decorated. We found enough seats near the back for all of us. Even getting to the church 15 minutes early for the service, we barely managed to get seats. The couple next to us, and the lady in front of us, were so forgiving of the kids' loudly whispered questions and excited "Oh look!" comments. The chandeliers, the orchestra, the pipe organ, the two trees, the massive Moravian star, all of it was so overwhelming for the kids.
Then the music started and Zora was done. She was done being held. Done sitting down, done being quiet. She was done with not being able to see and done with having no one new to play with. And still, the strangers graciously forgave, entertained with buttons on sweaters and toggles on purses. They played silent peek-a-boo with their paper programs and didn't grumble when Todd had to take Harper to the bathroom... again. And then I had to take Cooper, with Em and Zora and diaper bag to the toilet because a four year old unsupervised with foaming hand soap is dangerous. They kindly smiled and chuckled as questions flew about the music and the festivities and questions about the pastor's seat and trying to see the advent wreath by standing on the bench. When the Lovefeast food was passed, they helped me struggle with three kids by myself (Todd was in the bathroom with a kid, again, because American food and South African-fed babes don't go well together). When the candles were passed out, each child, down to Baby Z, were given a candle to hold, but only Em's was lit. I'm so thankful for people who embrace the marathon of parenting. Who sat and gave grace, made space, and helped when they could see a slightly frazzled mom of four juggle holiday newness in a formal setting. I never got one look of judgement for letting my baby suck on the beeswax candles. No one audibly sighed (but there was some chuckling) when the third child of the night loudly whispered (in the middle of a prayer), "I have to make a poo!" And no one stared disapprovingly and whispered when my child got upset, pouted, or threw her dress over her head... again.
We started at three o'clock getting ready. We only finished the celebrations just before seven. Four hours. Four hours of being on, being patient. Four hours of pretending I wasn't hungry or thirsty or mentally exhausted from answering the relentless barrage of questions. Four hours of counting kids and coats and herding the zoo from house to car, car to coat closet, coat closet to seats, seats to toilets, toilets to chairs, chairs to coat closet, closet to car, car to house. Four hours of non-stop. And in the middle of the familiar family shepherding and the carols of my childhood, I stumbled onto something new. The Lovefeast. It's apparently a Moravian sacrament, much like Communion but instead of celebrating Christ's love and actions on the cross, it celebrates the love and actions of His believers within the community. The bread, which was fluffy, sweet, was perfect. It's purpose was to represent the community and all I could think was how sweet it is when you are surrounded by friends, by family, and by family-by-choice to celebrate. Celebrate a birthday or anniversary, a graduation or wedding. As part of this sacrament we also had coffee, and again, I felt it was perfect. Here I am, running my parenting marathon of don't-mess-up-your-new-clothes-or-else and keeping kids happy and quiet in an effort to not look as disheveled, as rumpled, and as wrinkled as I feel right now. What else do you need when you're coming together, after the monumental task of coming together (the preparing of kids, hair, food, clothes, and all the trappings) than coffee? Coffee to warm the hands, liven the heart, drink in preparation for the future or sip while talking over the day's events.
We may never set foot in the church again, but I'll still remember the sweetness of that bread, and those dear people who didn't make me feel unwelcome with my noisy zoo, my crew of stable-dwellers if you will. I loved the formality and pomp of an orchestra in a historic building and the warmth and familiarity of drinking coffee in the "living room" of the church, the very hearth and home of the church body. And while I still feel wrinkled and rumpled, a few of my crumpled edges were ironed out in that simple act of welcome.... Welcome to my zoo. Welcome to our noise. Welcome to our here-and-now and in the end, that's what this time of year is about, right? A noisy barn with smells and animals and a babe that inconvenience the whole thing but somehow, manages to iron out the hurts, the rumples, the stiff and wrinkled places.
We walked in as the orchestra (yep, orchestra) was setting up in the balcony. The church is historic-old and was stunningly decorated. We found enough seats near the back for all of us. Even getting to the church 15 minutes early for the service, we barely managed to get seats. The couple next to us, and the lady in front of us, were so forgiving of the kids' loudly whispered questions and excited "Oh look!" comments. The chandeliers, the orchestra, the pipe organ, the two trees, the massive Moravian star, all of it was so overwhelming for the kids.
We started at three o'clock getting ready. We only finished the celebrations just before seven. Four hours. Four hours of being on, being patient. Four hours of pretending I wasn't hungry or thirsty or mentally exhausted from answering the relentless barrage of questions. Four hours of counting kids and coats and herding the zoo from house to car, car to coat closet, coat closet to seats, seats to toilets, toilets to chairs, chairs to coat closet, closet to car, car to house. Four hours of non-stop. And in the middle of the familiar family shepherding and the carols of my childhood, I stumbled onto something new. The Lovefeast. It's apparently a Moravian sacrament, much like Communion but instead of celebrating Christ's love and actions on the cross, it celebrates the love and actions of His believers within the community. The bread, which was fluffy, sweet, was perfect. It's purpose was to represent the community and all I could think was how sweet it is when you are surrounded by friends, by family, and by family-by-choice to celebrate. Celebrate a birthday or anniversary, a graduation or wedding. As part of this sacrament we also had coffee, and again, I felt it was perfect. Here I am, running my parenting marathon of don't-mess-up-your-new-clothes-or-else and keeping kids happy and quiet in an effort to not look as disheveled, as rumpled, and as wrinkled as I feel right now. What else do you need when you're coming together, after the monumental task of coming together (the preparing of kids, hair, food, clothes, and all the trappings) than coffee? Coffee to warm the hands, liven the heart, drink in preparation for the future or sip while talking over the day's events.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Anchors in the Storm
I remember having a question posed to me, at some point in the last decade or so, about what I would run back into a burning building to save (inanimate objects only). I think Todd asked it and I think it was one of those times where you don't want the date to be over, and you don't want to say good night, so you just keep talking, even as the twilight settles in deeper and the minutes tick away until you have to wake and be ready for class. I'm not sure what I answered that night, but like so many other things, I came back to it. I'm not sure if I'd run back into a burning house to save many things. My wedding pictures are all digitally saved in two remote locations, so reprints aren't a problem. I have a cherished picture of my great-grandmother (whom I'm named after) that I might consider, but I'm sure someone in the family has another copy. Of course I have trophies and plaques that I worked hard for, but they mostly collect dust now. But I told Todd then about a book I wish I had, so that if I ever had a chance to run back into a burning building to save something, I'd have that one to save.
See, I'm a book-ie. My favorite days in teaching were the ones in which a solid block of time was set aside to just read- for both the kids and me. In fact, when I switched schools and didn't have that "set aside" time, I started a 7am Friday morning book club, just for that purpose. I like all kinds of books. There's something about reading, or hearing a story, that makes it part of your consciousness. I believe in the power of words but I also believe that some books become more than just books. They become living, breathing... a part of you like a favorite old blanket that's done LIFE with you. Books have the power to help you see through a situation clearly, experience wisdom and perspective, and can give voice to thoughts and feelings you simply could not have expressed.
Todd asked me why this book, this small book with less than 50 words in the whole thing was so important, and I told him. I told him its because that book was dutifully read to me, no matter if it was the first or hundredth request to hear it. It was the first book I could "read" (although I'd really only memorized the words) and it was the first book that made me want to share the pages with others. It was a small little children's book with dark and slightly droopy pictures, but I loved it. Now, that book is lovingly packed away, safe and secure in a crate within a shipping container somewhere over the Atlantic. And once again, I come back to my book.
Because in so many ways, I feel exactly like that book right now. Packed in solidly so even if I want to move, forward, backwards, doesn't matter, there is no place to go. Stuck. And like that book, I'm amidst comfortable, familiar surroundings. I've known this furniture, those kids, these friends, that mini-van for over a decade. Todd and I have washed these pots and pans while dating, before kids. Emmerson slept in a laundry basket in the office closet. It's not like we're completely devoid of love and familiarity. And yet, I feel so adrift wishing I had something to anchor my soul. I'm feeling so incredibly useless, like your left foot when you drive an automatic car. I know this is a season. I know that things will change. But right now, as my heart is going through the ups and downs of missing home, missing my way of life and my friends and MY pots and pans to make MY family's Christmas Eve-Eve extravaganza meal, I'm wishing I was somewhere else. I'm wishing I was in a better space. I'm wishing my heart would stop hurting and I'm wishing I could just get out of this funk, this groove that seems to be getting deeper. Because I want to look up, look forward with excitement to so many things. And right now, I simply cannot do that. All I can do is hold fast to a verse God gave our family, and strangely, that's enough.
Hebrews 6:19
We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul,
a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain,
Eugine Peterson put it this way...
We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline,reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God
Just as reading my book out loud to my kids will never be the full measure of love and warmth I felt listening to it next to my Grams, it's enough to hold on to the memories of what that book represents. It's enough to remember the warmth of her lap, the sound of her voice. And it's enough to hold on to the hope that someday, maybe my kids will have the same warmth and affection for my book as I did... because I loved it enough to read it to them. I loved them enough to share the memory. I loved enough to cling to that book, those memories, that place of goodness and safety when I didn't feel very good, or very safe... just as I cling to the promise that this isn't it. This plodding through life isn't enough, and there is more, oh so much more in store. I can anchor my soul to that.
Because in so many ways, I feel exactly like that book right now. Packed in solidly so even if I want to move, forward, backwards, doesn't matter, there is no place to go. Stuck. And like that book, I'm amidst comfortable, familiar surroundings. I've known this furniture, those kids, these friends, that mini-van for over a decade. Todd and I have washed these pots and pans while dating, before kids. Emmerson slept in a laundry basket in the office closet. It's not like we're completely devoid of love and familiarity. And yet, I feel so adrift wishing I had something to anchor my soul. I'm feeling so incredibly useless, like your left foot when you drive an automatic car. I know this is a season. I know that things will change. But right now, as my heart is going through the ups and downs of missing home, missing my way of life and my friends and MY pots and pans to make MY family's Christmas Eve-Eve extravaganza meal, I'm wishing I was somewhere else. I'm wishing I was in a better space. I'm wishing my heart would stop hurting and I'm wishing I could just get out of this funk, this groove that seems to be getting deeper. Because I want to look up, look forward with excitement to so many things. And right now, I simply cannot do that. All I can do is hold fast to a verse God gave our family, and strangely, that's enough.
Hebrews 6:19
We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul,
a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain,
Eugine Peterson put it this way...
We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go. It’s an unbreakable spiritual lifeline,reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God
Just as reading my book out loud to my kids will never be the full measure of love and warmth I felt listening to it next to my Grams, it's enough to hold on to the memories of what that book represents. It's enough to remember the warmth of her lap, the sound of her voice. And it's enough to hold on to the hope that someday, maybe my kids will have the same warmth and affection for my book as I did... because I loved it enough to read it to them. I loved them enough to share the memory. I loved enough to cling to that book, those memories, that place of goodness and safety when I didn't feel very good, or very safe... just as I cling to the promise that this isn't it. This plodding through life isn't enough, and there is more, oh so much more in store. I can anchor my soul to that.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Zoo In Progress
I played soccer in college. I was actually pretty decent at it too, and I loved nearly everything about it. There were some things that I disliked... a lot. I loathed the timed two mile (I never, in my life made that time, even when I was 12 and running cross-country, let alone at the ripe old age of 22). I also hated when the coach would make us come up with goals. Life goals. Physical goals. Goals. I'm not a "big picture" person. One of the reasons why I married Todd was so that he could do that for me because big picture is totally in his tool bag of strengths. But seriously, I don't make resolutions, I don't have benchmarks, and don't even think of asking me to set a deadline. I'm terrible at endless possibility like an open calendar to just "pick" from. I like boundaries, structure and frameworks. I work well with the scaffolds of life firmly in place.
I recently joined a 'private' online group of mommies from all over the place. I didn't realize when I was invited that I, with a 5 year old, would be one of the more senior moms in the place. Some of the comments I've read have made me laugh out loud because after four babies, there's not much that ruffles my feathers anymore. Other posts simply break my heart. Not because they are so outrageous but because many of these moms with babies mere weeks old have more figured out than I did with two kids sitting on my pregnant bump. How are they so much further down this parenthood path than I am? How did they figure out the secrets to being a good mom in days, when it took me years?
And then, the question that is always asked when new moms get together came: What do you wish you'd known before having kids? There were the usual responses about sleep and spit-up and body changes. But I sat and thought about this question that has honestly eluded me for half a decade. My answer has nothing to do with sleep or kids or nappies/diapers or feedings or body-anything. My answer: I wish someone had taken me by the shoulders, shaken me a bit to get my full attention, and then forced me to plainly describe three things.
1. What do you want your child's character to look like in 10 years? 15?
What behaviors, activities, attributes and types of friends do I want them to have? How will you go about fostering those in said child? For instance, if I want my kids to be readers, what am I going to do in the next ten years to help bring out the reader in my child?
2. What do you want your family to look like in 10 years? 15? Or how would you describe it?
This one would have changed a thousand decisions, big and small. For example, if I'd actually realized I wanted more than one kid, I would have taken a second look at those strollers that can adjust to fit two kiddos. But it also would have changed my expectations from myself, my husband, and my yet-unborn child. If you know you want to be a family known for being relational, laid-back, and hospitable, I wouldn't have stressed for two years about my "routine" (because I wasn't one of THOSE mothers who put their kid on a schedule, oh the horror... who was I kidding?!).
3. What do you want your children to say about you to their friends?
I still get hit between the eyes on this one. I'm not so great at it. I wish they would say A,B, and C. While I think we've moved away from X, Y, and Z, I still think we're somewhere in the second middle of the alphabet. Strangely, most of the things stated in #1 would be things I would want repeated here.
But how do you get there? Because, well, let's face it, I'm a slacker mommy. I started this journey with the best of intentions. But here, now, four kids and four year later (it doesn't matter how many times I admit to that, it still sounds so irresponsible to me!) I think I've come to embrace my inner slacker. So this is me, publicly professing to being a slacker. I slack on schedules. I relish with a delight unknown outside of the realms of chocolate-love when the kids are on school holidays and lazy mornings. I love when a child asks what we're going to do that day and I can answer, "I don't know. What do you want to do?" I slack on housework. I slack on getting back in shape. I slack on the educational stuff too, because, sometimes, I like for things to just come up.
This morning, I was moving (although not really awake )and I had counted a dozen questions already. I had to instate a new rule. Mommy gets to finish breakfast before the barrage of inquires begin. I spent most of the day trying not to go insane from the tugging, screaming, whining and wailing that comes with a three snot-nosed preschoolers in confined quarters with a 5 year old who is so over everyone with the surname of Leslie... unless she can scheme someone else into trouble while angelically telling on said sibling. But even then, in the midst of the dark underbelly of chaos that is our household, I thought of it again. What do I want this family to look like? I want it to look like avid readers... and so, we read. And Em poked at my eye brows the whole time she wasn't sticking her head between my face and the book. We read and Cooper built a train track out of books for a matchbox-sized toy train. We read and Harper snuggled with her daddy. And when my two chapters from the chosen book were over, and I was so irritated that the kids weren't even LISTENING, Em starts asking questions... about the book. She asks about the characters and the storyline and then, she snuggles in and gives me one of those big wet kisses, the kind you have to school yourself not to wipe away because of the sheer volume of moisture. That's when the unbearably tedious task of keeping this zoo of ours in order becomes something more... it became a snapshot of the the family I'd hoped for. The family I'd wished for. The family I had prayed for.
Some of these new moms from this internet group seem to have it. They have their family ethos mapped out (see, despite what our family planning habits may point to, I did go to college). In some ways, I envy them for knowing where they want to steer their ships. Maybe if I had worked just a bit harder in college to get the whole discipline of goal-setting down in my soccer days my motherhood path would have been a bit smoother. But even so, I wouldn't change what we're doing right now because I love my fellow zoo keeper more than anything and, I love our animals. I think we may, possibly, have the best zoo-in-progress ever. Maybe.
I recently joined a 'private' online group of mommies from all over the place. I didn't realize when I was invited that I, with a 5 year old, would be one of the more senior moms in the place. Some of the comments I've read have made me laugh out loud because after four babies, there's not much that ruffles my feathers anymore. Other posts simply break my heart. Not because they are so outrageous but because many of these moms with babies mere weeks old have more figured out than I did with two kids sitting on my pregnant bump. How are they so much further down this parenthood path than I am? How did they figure out the secrets to being a good mom in days, when it took me years?
And then, the question that is always asked when new moms get together came: What do you wish you'd known before having kids? There were the usual responses about sleep and spit-up and body changes. But I sat and thought about this question that has honestly eluded me for half a decade. My answer has nothing to do with sleep or kids or nappies/diapers or feedings or body-anything. My answer: I wish someone had taken me by the shoulders, shaken me a bit to get my full attention, and then forced me to plainly describe three things.
1. What do you want your child's character to look like in 10 years? 15?
What behaviors, activities, attributes and types of friends do I want them to have? How will you go about fostering those in said child? For instance, if I want my kids to be readers, what am I going to do in the next ten years to help bring out the reader in my child?
2. What do you want your family to look like in 10 years? 15? Or how would you describe it?
This one would have changed a thousand decisions, big and small. For example, if I'd actually realized I wanted more than one kid, I would have taken a second look at those strollers that can adjust to fit two kiddos. But it also would have changed my expectations from myself, my husband, and my yet-unborn child. If you know you want to be a family known for being relational, laid-back, and hospitable, I wouldn't have stressed for two years about my "routine" (because I wasn't one of THOSE mothers who put their kid on a schedule, oh the horror... who was I kidding?!).
3. What do you want your children to say about you to their friends?
I still get hit between the eyes on this one. I'm not so great at it. I wish they would say A,B, and C. While I think we've moved away from X, Y, and Z, I still think we're somewhere in the second middle of the alphabet. Strangely, most of the things stated in #1 would be things I would want repeated here.
But how do you get there? Because, well, let's face it, I'm a slacker mommy. I started this journey with the best of intentions. But here, now, four kids and four year later (it doesn't matter how many times I admit to that, it still sounds so irresponsible to me!) I think I've come to embrace my inner slacker. So this is me, publicly professing to being a slacker. I slack on schedules. I relish with a delight unknown outside of the realms of chocolate-love when the kids are on school holidays and lazy mornings. I love when a child asks what we're going to do that day and I can answer, "I don't know. What do you want to do?" I slack on housework. I slack on getting back in shape. I slack on the educational stuff too, because, sometimes, I like for things to just come up.
This morning, I was moving (although not really awake )and I had counted a dozen questions already. I had to instate a new rule. Mommy gets to finish breakfast before the barrage of inquires begin. I spent most of the day trying not to go insane from the tugging, screaming, whining and wailing that comes with a three snot-nosed preschoolers in confined quarters with a 5 year old who is so over everyone with the surname of Leslie... unless she can scheme someone else into trouble while angelically telling on said sibling. But even then, in the midst of the dark underbelly of chaos that is our household, I thought of it again. What do I want this family to look like? I want it to look like avid readers... and so, we read. And Em poked at my eye brows the whole time she wasn't sticking her head between my face and the book. We read and Cooper built a train track out of books for a matchbox-sized toy train. We read and Harper snuggled with her daddy. And when my two chapters from the chosen book were over, and I was so irritated that the kids weren't even LISTENING, Em starts asking questions... about the book. She asks about the characters and the storyline and then, she snuggles in and gives me one of those big wet kisses, the kind you have to school yourself not to wipe away because of the sheer volume of moisture. That's when the unbearably tedious task of keeping this zoo of ours in order becomes something more... it became a snapshot of the the family I'd hoped for. The family I'd wished for. The family I had prayed for.
Some of these new moms from this internet group seem to have it. They have their family ethos mapped out (see, despite what our family planning habits may point to, I did go to college). In some ways, I envy them for knowing where they want to steer their ships. Maybe if I had worked just a bit harder in college to get the whole discipline of goal-setting down in my soccer days my motherhood path would have been a bit smoother. But even so, I wouldn't change what we're doing right now because I love my fellow zoo keeper more than anything and, I love our animals. I think we may, possibly, have the best zoo-in-progress ever. Maybe.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Scales of Big
We ventured out as a whole family this past weekend. A home store. Grocery store. Back. I always get irritated when I hit "overwhelmed" in shops here because, well, Joburg is massive on a totally neutral scale. It's not massive for South Africa (although it is that), it's not even massive for Africa (again, it is), but it's just plain massive. It's a huge city spread over a huge area. We have huge shopping centers, malls, markets and the likes. I could go to an all-organic farmers market or I could run down to the Quick Mart around the corner. I should be fine going from there to here.
Here's the thing: I'm not.
We went to a neighborhood party last night. As we walked across the street, I had this moment where it all made sense to me. Joburg is big, but America is obscene. Let me explain. As we were traveling those few steps to the neighbors home, I saw a newer version of Todd's car back home, a VW Golf. When I would see that car in the parking lot of Clearwater Mall, in Johannesburg, it was actually an excellent example of an average sized vehicle. I have grown accustomed to routinely seeing a Chevy Spark, a SmartCar, Mercedes A180, Mini Cooper and other compact cars not as tiny little toys but as practical, viable cars for families. As we were walking across the street, I saw my "normal" sized car, one that was dear to my heart in South Africa, had been driven around with all three kids' carseats in the back, and loved until my belly got too big to fit behind the wheel. The difference was that this VW was in suburban America and was parked right next to a brand new Dodge Ram pick-up truck, complete with lift kit and tires that were bigger than any of my babes. It was then that I fully understood why Todd broke out into a cold sweat in the home-goods store and I had struggled to catch my breath and tried so hard not to cry in the shops. We've had big, but what we're adjusting to isn't big, it's behemoth with it's own scale of "bigness"... and this time, we're not going back.
And there my struggle lays. I'm so desperately sad that my daughter is waiting for snow in December because all I want is to go out and use the grill I bought Todd for Father's Day three years ago to have hamburgers and corn and sliced watermelon (*Claude: under no circumstance are you allowed to feel guilty for doing just that - I'm so glad to know someone is putting our braai to good use!). I'm missing my house, my routine, my dog. The nostalgia and homesickness are kicking my behind in ways jet-lag can't even touch. I find myself trying to explain to strangers and giving up before I start because it just feels so pointless. At best, the checker at the counter will be polite when I accidentally hand her a R2 coin instead of a quarter, and at worst, she'll be highly irritated. I seem to get highly irritated more often. And yet, I can't bring myself to ditch that coin that's technically useless here. So I carry on, write my shopping lists so that when I do have to go out, driving on the wrong side of the road in cars that seem as big as bulldozers, I can go straight to what I need and then get out before critical mass is reached.
When this whole thing started, I vowed to myself I'd be here, be in the midst of all of it, and let myself have the time and space to just feel what I'm feeling. No rushing through, no stuffing emotions, no cutting corners. Taking the time to do the work. I feel like I'm slipping, like I'm putting my head down and just looking at my own two feet for the familiarity and comfort of it. Saying goodbye to dear, precious friends was so hard, but at least there I had someone who felt the same way I did, heartbroken. And we'd hug and order some cake and coffee and talk. Explaining this... this homesickness for a place that most people don't consider our 'home' is so much harder than I anticipated, even after reading up about repatriation and the likes. Here, I don't have that friend who is in it with me to hold my hand. Here I have friends who are so kind and compassionate but are not going through the waters of chaos we are... and so I sit at the computer, and type. I surround my family with as many things that remind us of Joburg as I can- the Advent Calendar from Ulrika, the candle from Martina, the candy from Woolies, the necklace from Leigh, the shoes with Afrikaans words from the Bryanston Market. I'm trying to keep my head up, keep looking around and not just going into survival mode. My kids deserve better than survival. I deserve better than survival, but I'll be really honest, it's rough.
Here's the thing: I'm not.
We went to a neighborhood party last night. As we walked across the street, I had this moment where it all made sense to me. Joburg is big, but America is obscene. Let me explain. As we were traveling those few steps to the neighbors home, I saw a newer version of Todd's car back home, a VW Golf. When I would see that car in the parking lot of Clearwater Mall, in Johannesburg, it was actually an excellent example of an average sized vehicle. I have grown accustomed to routinely seeing a Chevy Spark, a SmartCar, Mercedes A180, Mini Cooper and other compact cars not as tiny little toys but as practical, viable cars for families. As we were walking across the street, I saw my "normal" sized car, one that was dear to my heart in South Africa, had been driven around with all three kids' carseats in the back, and loved until my belly got too big to fit behind the wheel. The difference was that this VW was in suburban America and was parked right next to a brand new Dodge Ram pick-up truck, complete with lift kit and tires that were bigger than any of my babes. It was then that I fully understood why Todd broke out into a cold sweat in the home-goods store and I had struggled to catch my breath and tried so hard not to cry in the shops. We've had big, but what we're adjusting to isn't big, it's behemoth with it's own scale of "bigness"... and this time, we're not going back.
And there my struggle lays. I'm so desperately sad that my daughter is waiting for snow in December because all I want is to go out and use the grill I bought Todd for Father's Day three years ago to have hamburgers and corn and sliced watermelon (*Claude: under no circumstance are you allowed to feel guilty for doing just that - I'm so glad to know someone is putting our braai to good use!). I'm missing my house, my routine, my dog. The nostalgia and homesickness are kicking my behind in ways jet-lag can't even touch. I find myself trying to explain to strangers and giving up before I start because it just feels so pointless. At best, the checker at the counter will be polite when I accidentally hand her a R2 coin instead of a quarter, and at worst, she'll be highly irritated. I seem to get highly irritated more often. And yet, I can't bring myself to ditch that coin that's technically useless here. So I carry on, write my shopping lists so that when I do have to go out, driving on the wrong side of the road in cars that seem as big as bulldozers, I can go straight to what I need and then get out before critical mass is reached.
When this whole thing started, I vowed to myself I'd be here, be in the midst of all of it, and let myself have the time and space to just feel what I'm feeling. No rushing through, no stuffing emotions, no cutting corners. Taking the time to do the work. I feel like I'm slipping, like I'm putting my head down and just looking at my own two feet for the familiarity and comfort of it. Saying goodbye to dear, precious friends was so hard, but at least there I had someone who felt the same way I did, heartbroken. And we'd hug and order some cake and coffee and talk. Explaining this... this homesickness for a place that most people don't consider our 'home' is so much harder than I anticipated, even after reading up about repatriation and the likes. Here, I don't have that friend who is in it with me to hold my hand. Here I have friends who are so kind and compassionate but are not going through the waters of chaos we are... and so I sit at the computer, and type. I surround my family with as many things that remind us of Joburg as I can- the Advent Calendar from Ulrika, the candle from Martina, the candy from Woolies, the necklace from Leigh, the shoes with Afrikaans words from the Bryanston Market. I'm trying to keep my head up, keep looking around and not just going into survival mode. My kids deserve better than survival. I deserve better than survival, but I'll be really honest, it's rough.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Of Music and Men
As far back as I can remember I have wanted a handful of things with every part of my being. I've wanted to be a mamma. I've wanted to be married (not in that order though). I've wanted to be a missionary. I've wanted to be able to sing.
Music has always been one of those things for me. I was in the first grade, in my first Christmas pageant, and I was the angel who held the star, because as our children's choir director put it, that would be a bigger blessing than my singing. I became very aware of my inability to carry a tune, hit a note or really, even make a joyful noise in that pageant when I was six, turning seven. Being the obstinate, stubborn middle child that I am, though, I sang all the louder, to irritate those naysayers and mean people. Eventually, my desire for acceptance drowned out my own loud voice, but I always, always wanted to be a part. Because music is so much bigger than anything else. Music can transform people, can speak to the soul in ways words never can.
When Todd and I first got married, he asked me what I wanted most to do on a date. For the record, we had zero money. My monthly "allowance" for coffee dates with friends, home decorating, clothing and the likes was $10 (about R100). Monthly, not weekly. Our dates were to Target (say it with a french accent, it sounds so much more sophisticated) to 'dream shop'. He had asked though, so I told him that I desperately missed hearing the symphony.
When I was small, I often went to the opera. My mom's second husband was trying to make it in the classically-trained musical profession and I was enthralled. Not so much with the singers (I'm still not a fan of sopranos, sorry girls), but the costumes, the music, the plush seats and the culture that comes with professional music. As a kid, it felt like the music could become that thick smell of warm deliciousness from the kitchen on a cold day that I could smell and taste and see. I remember sitting in the red crush-velvet seats of some theater in San Francisco and realizing that I wasn't fidgeting, I wasn't having to battle to pay attention because I was simply enthralled. I'm not sure I ever really told any of this to Todd because it simply never really came up when we were dating. So when I answered, he was rather taken aback and I still remember the look of dread on his face, like I was now going to announce he had to get a penguin suit and go be miserable for hours on end after spending copious amounts of money all in the name of love. I briefly explained, but again, we had no money so I thought nothing of it.
Months later, he told me we were going on a date and I found myself being treated to McDonalds for dinner (again, no money so this was big) and then the Chicago Symphony. It just happened that the day Todd picked was the day when Lang Lang was there. Most of you probably don't know who he is, but he's big. Seriously big. Beatles big. President big. Queen of England BIG. And I remember looking over at my husband, who had dragged himself up to the upper balcony and bought expensive tickets for me and me alone, and I watched him fall in love. That's the power of music. That's the power I'd always wished I could at least participate in.
I read this book recently called Wine & Bread and I love how Sauna Niequist, the author, puts it: "I love that we have a steady stream of musicians in our home, a community of people who believe that art and creativity and soul really matter, that making something out of nothing and telling your story- through lyrics or essays or anything at all- is noble work."
There is a nobility in music. A passion and focus that I can only dream of. A friend put this video on Facebook recently. It made me cry. I had just finished putting on the last few touches to our family Advent Calendar. Side note, but totally related, I love Christmas and not in the I-want-to-decorate-before-Thanksgiving kind of way, this is an I-pray-for-Christmas-music-in-May kind of way. Love. For our Advent Calendar, there is a verse and a symbol for each of the 25 days leading up to Christmas. I have put a lot of work into the thing, and each year it's a little different, but it always does what Christmas is supposed to do: shine a spotlight on the Cross, not the baby. The video was so profound for two reasons. First, when I watched it it was THAT day. That day in November that I wait for like I do for the labour pains of each of my babes. The day when the sun hides behind the clouds, the temperature is cold enough to go and dig out a sweater, and it feels like the Christmas of my childhood. This is normally the day when I break out my treasured Yankee Candle Co. Christmas scents, put cinnamon sticks and cloves and oranges and allspice in water to simmer on the stove, and the kids and I decorate. I'd love to say I religiously wait for Todd, but I don't. I get so excited that I can barely wait for the kids to finish school at 12:30.
This year, though, that day fell on the day when my living room looked like the Good Will had vomited on my lounge and my chair-and-a-half and my hutch. Every flat surface was completely covered in stacks of literally every piece of clothing we own. There were piles to be packed into crates and shipped to the States. Piles to be packed and weighed for the airplane. Piles of things that needed to be scrubbed to see if I can get the stains out and save them. Piles of things we've outgrown. Piles of piles of piles. It was not exactly uplifting and it was not exactly encouraging. In fact, it was downright disheartening, and overwhelming and it made me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.... until I watched the video. If you notice, there's a day stamped in the corner, 19 May. This symphony was preparing in May. And then, there's that beautiful little girl in the red who clamors up the light post that just needs a bit of dusting and it will be exactly out of The Chronicles of Narnia, who starts to participate by conducting. I can participate too. I have been called to enter into the music, taste it, smell it, touch it, sing it. I can be changed forever by the music, brought to tears and embraced by a song written so long ago, and yet is exactly what my heart needed at just this moment. I realize this isn't specifically a Christmas song, but it always has been for me. So on a day of realizing that Christmas as I've known it for the last half-decade will be no more, when I sat and wallowed in a bit of self-pity and overindulged in brownies at 10 o'clock in the morning, I rest in the music.
Mortals, join the mighty chorus
Which the morning stars began;
Love divine is reigning o'er us,
Binding all within its span.
Ever singing, march we onward,
Victors in the midst of strife;
Joyful music leads us Sonward,
In the triumph song of life.
Music has always been one of those things for me. I was in the first grade, in my first Christmas pageant, and I was the angel who held the star, because as our children's choir director put it, that would be a bigger blessing than my singing. I became very aware of my inability to carry a tune, hit a note or really, even make a joyful noise in that pageant when I was six, turning seven. Being the obstinate, stubborn middle child that I am, though, I sang all the louder, to irritate those naysayers and mean people. Eventually, my desire for acceptance drowned out my own loud voice, but I always, always wanted to be a part. Because music is so much bigger than anything else. Music can transform people, can speak to the soul in ways words never can.
When Todd and I first got married, he asked me what I wanted most to do on a date. For the record, we had zero money. My monthly "allowance" for coffee dates with friends, home decorating, clothing and the likes was $10 (about R100). Monthly, not weekly. Our dates were to Target (say it with a french accent, it sounds so much more sophisticated) to 'dream shop'. He had asked though, so I told him that I desperately missed hearing the symphony.
When I was small, I often went to the opera. My mom's second husband was trying to make it in the classically-trained musical profession and I was enthralled. Not so much with the singers (I'm still not a fan of sopranos, sorry girls), but the costumes, the music, the plush seats and the culture that comes with professional music. As a kid, it felt like the music could become that thick smell of warm deliciousness from the kitchen on a cold day that I could smell and taste and see. I remember sitting in the red crush-velvet seats of some theater in San Francisco and realizing that I wasn't fidgeting, I wasn't having to battle to pay attention because I was simply enthralled. I'm not sure I ever really told any of this to Todd because it simply never really came up when we were dating. So when I answered, he was rather taken aback and I still remember the look of dread on his face, like I was now going to announce he had to get a penguin suit and go be miserable for hours on end after spending copious amounts of money all in the name of love. I briefly explained, but again, we had no money so I thought nothing of it.
Months later, he told me we were going on a date and I found myself being treated to McDonalds for dinner (again, no money so this was big) and then the Chicago Symphony. It just happened that the day Todd picked was the day when Lang Lang was there. Most of you probably don't know who he is, but he's big. Seriously big. Beatles big. President big. Queen of England BIG. And I remember looking over at my husband, who had dragged himself up to the upper balcony and bought expensive tickets for me and me alone, and I watched him fall in love. That's the power of music. That's the power I'd always wished I could at least participate in.
I read this book recently called Wine & Bread and I love how Sauna Niequist, the author, puts it: "I love that we have a steady stream of musicians in our home, a community of people who believe that art and creativity and soul really matter, that making something out of nothing and telling your story- through lyrics or essays or anything at all- is noble work."
There is a nobility in music. A passion and focus that I can only dream of. A friend put this video on Facebook recently. It made me cry. I had just finished putting on the last few touches to our family Advent Calendar. Side note, but totally related, I love Christmas and not in the I-want-to-decorate-before-Thanksgiving kind of way, this is an I-pray-for-Christmas-music-in-May kind of way. Love. For our Advent Calendar, there is a verse and a symbol for each of the 25 days leading up to Christmas. I have put a lot of work into the thing, and each year it's a little different, but it always does what Christmas is supposed to do: shine a spotlight on the Cross, not the baby. The video was so profound for two reasons. First, when I watched it it was THAT day. That day in November that I wait for like I do for the labour pains of each of my babes. The day when the sun hides behind the clouds, the temperature is cold enough to go and dig out a sweater, and it feels like the Christmas of my childhood. This is normally the day when I break out my treasured Yankee Candle Co. Christmas scents, put cinnamon sticks and cloves and oranges and allspice in water to simmer on the stove, and the kids and I decorate. I'd love to say I religiously wait for Todd, but I don't. I get so excited that I can barely wait for the kids to finish school at 12:30.
This year, though, that day fell on the day when my living room looked like the Good Will had vomited on my lounge and my chair-and-a-half and my hutch. Every flat surface was completely covered in stacks of literally every piece of clothing we own. There were piles to be packed into crates and shipped to the States. Piles to be packed and weighed for the airplane. Piles of things that needed to be scrubbed to see if I can get the stains out and save them. Piles of things we've outgrown. Piles of piles of piles. It was not exactly uplifting and it was not exactly encouraging. In fact, it was downright disheartening, and overwhelming and it made me want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head.... until I watched the video. If you notice, there's a day stamped in the corner, 19 May. This symphony was preparing in May. And then, there's that beautiful little girl in the red who clamors up the light post that just needs a bit of dusting and it will be exactly out of The Chronicles of Narnia, who starts to participate by conducting. I can participate too. I have been called to enter into the music, taste it, smell it, touch it, sing it. I can be changed forever by the music, brought to tears and embraced by a song written so long ago, and yet is exactly what my heart needed at just this moment. I realize this isn't specifically a Christmas song, but it always has been for me. So on a day of realizing that Christmas as I've known it for the last half-decade will be no more, when I sat and wallowed in a bit of self-pity and overindulged in brownies at 10 o'clock in the morning, I rest in the music.
Mortals, join the mighty chorus
Which the morning stars began;
Love divine is reigning o'er us,
Binding all within its span.
Ever singing, march we onward,
Victors in the midst of strife;
Joyful music leads us Sonward,
In the triumph song of life.
Sunday, December 1, 2013
The Wrong Wedding Dress
There is a phrase that Todd and I have used over the last 8 years: "I/You bought the wrong wedding dress." See, most little girls dream of their wedding day, but I apparently missed the whole decision-making part of that course. I loved to play dress-up, don't get me wrong. I loved to make believe that my sister's ballet costumes were my wedding dress and all that and marry a friend's little brother, or my brother, or the dog. But I missed the part where you dream of the actual dress. I got to the part where you shop for said wedding dress and just froze. I had friends and my mother and we ended up buying a lovely, simple white satin number. Everyone else agreed it was stunning. They loved it. Problem was, talking to Todd about it that evening on the phone, he realized that it wasn't my "dream dress." Not that I had any idea what I did want but that I knew what I did not want- the one I picked.
Since that time, we've come to realize that I process things differently. Slowly. Sometimes at a snail's pace. I cannot make quick decisions. If it's about someone else, no problem. If it's organizing something, I can do that. But if something comes down to me making a final call, it will freeze me exactly where I'm standing. Do you want this dress or that one? I honestly don't know, ask me in a week and I might have an answer.
Many people have been asking our plan. It's pretty basic. Find jobs. Move somewhere near said job. Buy a car. Sort out everything else, like beds and schools and church. In that order, actually. Tomorrow, we take the first step in that plan. We leave our home at 4am EST to go to Joburg's O.R. Tambo airport. We fly from there to Doha, Qatar, on to Chicago O'Hare and then finish up in Philly. Our dear friends, Peter and Cynthia live in the Nazareth, PA area and have been gracious enough to open their home to all of us, in the middle of the holiday chaos. At the moment, I have nothing planned except getting all six of us through the 42 hours of travel it will take to get from our home here in Johannesburg to their home in Pennsylvania and praying for no delays... cause 42 hours seems long enough to me.
This whole thing has taken five weeks. We've known for five weeks that we were leaving Africa. Tomorrow, we leave our home of the last 4 years 332 days for good. That might not seem like much but we've had three babies here. My children have learned to walk, to talk, to swim and to play here. Em has learned to read. I've learned how to mother, and, I've learned how to be a friend. We've found deep, heart-embracing friendships. The kinds of friendships that lighten your soul, remind you how much our Creator loves and cares for me, just me. We've learned new cultures and how to navigate those cultures and our own, in our everyday lives. I'm desperately sad and I feel like, once again, I've bought the wrong wedding dress. There are so, so many things I know I need to say but I literally cannot process quickly enough with how fast everything is moving. I can't process the friendships I'm stepping away from and I can't process the life-changes that are happening. Part of me is glad that it's so fast. Sometime maybe in March or April, I'll start getting a handle on the last five weeks. But part of me is really, really angry that my brain takes so long, because by then, I won't get to hug the kids' teacher one more time and tell her what I really want to say. I won't get to run up to the car pulling away and give one more kiss on a dear, dear cheek. My heart knows that God is taking care of my family- He's been so real, so incredibly big through this whole thing. But that doesn't mean it's easy, that doesn't mean I'm not shattered by this, and it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn what was, what is, and what could have been. Sitting here, after five weeks of tearful and heartfelt goodbyes, my arms ache... Not to hold my babies close and shut the world out, but to hold my friends close and remind them how much they mean to me. The dusty soil of this beautiful land will be long gone from underneath my fingernails before I can put words to my feelings.
Today, though, I at least bought a dress. It's not the right dress. It's not the best fit, or the most suited, because I'm not there yet. But I've said what I could, let my tears fill in where I couldn't, and I did my best. Some footprints are deeper than others in life, but the footprints of South Africa- the people, the lessons, the story of our family here and how that story is woven so beautifully into the lives of others we leave behind, I know, will be deep... lasting... and at times even, gaping. I weep for the friends I know I'm losing to the awful and horrendous realm of "Facebook friend." I weep for the times when I cannot bring over brownies, or food, or pick a child up when a friend needs it. I weep out of my own selfishness for wanting to be important to my friends, my people, because they are so dearly important to me. I weep because I'm a triangle going back to a land of circles. I weep because my heart wants to... because words fail... because I have lived and loved so fiercely here and now I will have to live and love fiercely from afar, and I'm not sure how to do that. And yet, in the midst of pain... And yet in the midst of not understanding... And yet in the midst of goodbyes that threaten to overwhelm my soul, I hope. I love that poem by Emily Dickinson about hope because she gives words where I have none.
Since that time, we've come to realize that I process things differently. Slowly. Sometimes at a snail's pace. I cannot make quick decisions. If it's about someone else, no problem. If it's organizing something, I can do that. But if something comes down to me making a final call, it will freeze me exactly where I'm standing. Do you want this dress or that one? I honestly don't know, ask me in a week and I might have an answer.
Many people have been asking our plan. It's pretty basic. Find jobs. Move somewhere near said job. Buy a car. Sort out everything else, like beds and schools and church. In that order, actually. Tomorrow, we take the first step in that plan. We leave our home at 4am EST to go to Joburg's O.R. Tambo airport. We fly from there to Doha, Qatar, on to Chicago O'Hare and then finish up in Philly. Our dear friends, Peter and Cynthia live in the Nazareth, PA area and have been gracious enough to open their home to all of us, in the middle of the holiday chaos. At the moment, I have nothing planned except getting all six of us through the 42 hours of travel it will take to get from our home here in Johannesburg to their home in Pennsylvania and praying for no delays... cause 42 hours seems long enough to me.
This whole thing has taken five weeks. We've known for five weeks that we were leaving Africa. Tomorrow, we leave our home of the last 4 years 332 days for good. That might not seem like much but we've had three babies here. My children have learned to walk, to talk, to swim and to play here. Em has learned to read. I've learned how to mother, and, I've learned how to be a friend. We've found deep, heart-embracing friendships. The kinds of friendships that lighten your soul, remind you how much our Creator loves and cares for me, just me. We've learned new cultures and how to navigate those cultures and our own, in our everyday lives. I'm desperately sad and I feel like, once again, I've bought the wrong wedding dress. There are so, so many things I know I need to say but I literally cannot process quickly enough with how fast everything is moving. I can't process the friendships I'm stepping away from and I can't process the life-changes that are happening. Part of me is glad that it's so fast. Sometime maybe in March or April, I'll start getting a handle on the last five weeks. But part of me is really, really angry that my brain takes so long, because by then, I won't get to hug the kids' teacher one more time and tell her what I really want to say. I won't get to run up to the car pulling away and give one more kiss on a dear, dear cheek. My heart knows that God is taking care of my family- He's been so real, so incredibly big through this whole thing. But that doesn't mean it's easy, that doesn't mean I'm not shattered by this, and it doesn't mean I'm not going to mourn what was, what is, and what could have been. Sitting here, after five weeks of tearful and heartfelt goodbyes, my arms ache... Not to hold my babies close and shut the world out, but to hold my friends close and remind them how much they mean to me. The dusty soil of this beautiful land will be long gone from underneath my fingernails before I can put words to my feelings.
Today, though, I at least bought a dress. It's not the right dress. It's not the best fit, or the most suited, because I'm not there yet. But I've said what I could, let my tears fill in where I couldn't, and I did my best. Some footprints are deeper than others in life, but the footprints of South Africa- the people, the lessons, the story of our family here and how that story is woven so beautifully into the lives of others we leave behind, I know, will be deep... lasting... and at times even, gaping. I weep for the friends I know I'm losing to the awful and horrendous realm of "Facebook friend." I weep for the times when I cannot bring over brownies, or food, or pick a child up when a friend needs it. I weep out of my own selfishness for wanting to be important to my friends, my people, because they are so dearly important to me. I weep because I'm a triangle going back to a land of circles. I weep because my heart wants to... because words fail... because I have lived and loved so fiercely here and now I will have to live and love fiercely from afar, and I'm not sure how to do that. And yet, in the midst of pain... And yet in the midst of not understanding... And yet in the midst of goodbyes that threaten to overwhelm my soul, I hope. I love that poem by Emily Dickinson about hope because she gives words where I have none.
"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
Friday, November 22, 2013
Season of Love
We had this chapel speaker when I was at college. I actually think they were talking about the differences between boys and girls, but what was said finally put words to something I felt for a long time was just sand through my fingers. He said that girls are like spaghetti and we think like spaghetti, everything connected, everything stopping and starting with something else. One big mess of yumminess. Cue lightbulb over the main character's head here. That's it! That's why, when driving down the road, I could think about cows, chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches and my best friend all in a single breath AND explain how one thought led to the next. The way I think, the way I process life is always, forever, connected.
So last night I found myself in a small school auditorium listening to songs, ideas, that were once again giving voice, words really, to ideas that had been scratching the surface for a while, but to no avail. We have very dear friends here in South Africa who are actually Americans. Both the husband and wife work at the American International School here in Joburg. The wife, a phenomenal musician, was part of the four-person band for the high school's musical production, RENT.
I love RENT. It was the very first musical I ever saw, in a small theater in San Fransisco when I was really young, somewhere around 8 or 9. I have no idea how I managed to go as I can't see my mom ever approving of this outing, but I remember going. I remember hearing the music and (looking back) not really understanding any of the actual production. The local cast here was great, the female vocalists were outstanding. I know some people will find it hard to believe that I could hear the voice of my Maker in a production that has sexuality, drugs, AIDS, poverty and a myriad of other topics, but I did. I sat and listened to this idea that you absolutely have to be present or you will miss some of the best moments... here, listen.
There's only us, there's only this
Forget regret or life is yours to miss
No other road , no other way
No day but today
We must let go to know what's right,
No other road, no other way
No day but today
I can't control my destiny
I trust my soul, my only goal
Is just to be.
There's only now, there's only here
Give in to love or live in fear
No other path, no other way
A long, long time ago, I gave in to Love and my life has never been the same. In a recent podcast I was listening to, the pastor said that over 50% of young people in the church cannot articulate their parents' faith story. The truth is, mine has always been really hard to me to say. I was six in a small church and I heard in my soul Love asking me to participate with Him in His creation. It was so easy to say "yes".
Many, many times over the last few years, Todd and I have been put on a different playing field by others, Christian or not. People hear "missionary" and they think of some unrealistic sacrifice that they couldn't possibly make. Or they think crazy die-hards who do nothing more than sit around reading the King James Bible and speak in "thees" and "thou shalt not." But for us, the reality is this: We are just people. We're people who are following hard after Love because He first loved us. "No other road, no other way... Give in to LOVE or live in fear." For me, it's really that simple.
My favorite song in the whole production, Seasons of Love, was actually my ringtone for a while. For me, it's always been a reminder that the measuring stick of life isn't paychecks, loads of laundry finished, how many parenting books I read or how clean my home is. It doesn't matter how many awards I won in college, what size and brand of jeans I wear, or the number of charity runs I complete. I don't want to ever look back and think I could have been a better friend or mother or neighbor or human being but instead I chose dishes or picking up toys or driving the car pool. Last night, very poignantly, I was brought back again to what seems to be the emerging theme of my life right now- be present, be available, be open and honest and Love- true, deep, meaningful love from the very Maker of love, the Lover of my soul, will pour forth.
So last night I found myself in a small school auditorium listening to songs, ideas, that were once again giving voice, words really, to ideas that had been scratching the surface for a while, but to no avail. We have very dear friends here in South Africa who are actually Americans. Both the husband and wife work at the American International School here in Joburg. The wife, a phenomenal musician, was part of the four-person band for the high school's musical production, RENT.
I love RENT. It was the very first musical I ever saw, in a small theater in San Fransisco when I was really young, somewhere around 8 or 9. I have no idea how I managed to go as I can't see my mom ever approving of this outing, but I remember going. I remember hearing the music and (looking back) not really understanding any of the actual production. The local cast here was great, the female vocalists were outstanding. I know some people will find it hard to believe that I could hear the voice of my Maker in a production that has sexuality, drugs, AIDS, poverty and a myriad of other topics, but I did. I sat and listened to this idea that you absolutely have to be present or you will miss some of the best moments... here, listen.
There's only us, there's only this
Forget regret or life is yours to miss
No other road , no other way
No day but today
We must let go to know what's right,
No other road, no other way
No day but today
I can't control my destiny
I trust my soul, my only goal
Is just to be.
There's only now, there's only here
Give in to love or live in fear
No other path, no other way
A long, long time ago, I gave in to Love and my life has never been the same. In a recent podcast I was listening to, the pastor said that over 50% of young people in the church cannot articulate their parents' faith story. The truth is, mine has always been really hard to me to say. I was six in a small church and I heard in my soul Love asking me to participate with Him in His creation. It was so easy to say "yes".
Many, many times over the last few years, Todd and I have been put on a different playing field by others, Christian or not. People hear "missionary" and they think of some unrealistic sacrifice that they couldn't possibly make. Or they think crazy die-hards who do nothing more than sit around reading the King James Bible and speak in "thees" and "thou shalt not." But for us, the reality is this: We are just people. We're people who are following hard after Love because He first loved us. "No other road, no other way... Give in to LOVE or live in fear." For me, it's really that simple.
My favorite song in the whole production, Seasons of Love, was actually my ringtone for a while. For me, it's always been a reminder that the measuring stick of life isn't paychecks, loads of laundry finished, how many parenting books I read or how clean my home is. It doesn't matter how many awards I won in college, what size and brand of jeans I wear, or the number of charity runs I complete. I don't want to ever look back and think I could have been a better friend or mother or neighbor or human being but instead I chose dishes or picking up toys or driving the car pool. Last night, very poignantly, I was brought back again to what seems to be the emerging theme of my life right now- be present, be available, be open and honest and Love- true, deep, meaningful love from the very Maker of love, the Lover of my soul, will pour forth.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, a year in the life?
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, a year in the life?
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?
Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
It's time now, to sing out
Though the story never ends
Though the story never ends
This move is rough, I'm not going to lie. Over and over and over again, though, I'm hearing the same thing in different words from so many sides. "I've got this but you, you have THAT." Yes, this is a monumental move that very few people will ever understand. That said, we all face battles that very few other people ever understand fully. We aren't here to compare because, well, it's pointless. At the end of the day, we will all have to account for ourselves. Our own actions. Our own storehouse of love and how we spent it. I recently stumbled across a blog that made my heart ache. A mama I've never met who lives in Colorado is dying. She has four babes, just like me. But her words to me, to my heart, are the echoes of the words from the musical, from the Advent Calendar I've just finished, from the devotional a friend gave me two years ago.
Be here.
Be alive.
Be present... or you're going to miss these flowers.
You're going to miss these babes.
You're going to miss the One who created those flowers and these babes, you're going to miss
Love Himself.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Invisible Giants
There are certain things that cannot be described in words, only lived, possibly just survived. Moments when you've sat in the darkest corners of your soul, of humanity, and lived to see the dawn. We have friends- dear, wonderful friends who took their four month old, their first, into an ER because they thought she was dehydrated. She was immediately seen, and then immediately taken by helicopter to a specialty hospital, one that could care for her better... give her better chances.
When Todd and I got the email from these friends, telling us what they knew, which was very little at that point, I experienced something I'd never really understood before. I'd always heard that the Body of Christ was messy, but I honestly thought that meant church politics and people complaining about the air-freshener in the bathroom being the wrong scent. This was not that type of situation, and yet, half a world away, this crisis moment in friends' lives was messy... but we entered as best we could.
Over the last five years, I've made some incredible friendships. And as we've grown together: as friends, as moms, as women. I've learned many of their giftings. I have one friend who is the organizer. When we found out we were leaving, I sent out an email and in no time she came back with a day, a time, and a venue for having a group farewell for the whole crew and I thought for the hundredth time, "Where were you when I had to plan my wedding?" I have another friend who is the foodie. I think she has a hidden freezer of wonderfulness for 'just in case' because she seems to always have a freezer meal, or five, ready for a new baby, a friend who is sick the exact week their husband is away and everyone in between. I have one who is an encourager. She always seems to know when to be righteously indignant on your behalf, when to encourage and when to get goosebumps with you. It is fabulous, I promise. And on, and on the giftings go.
When our friends' little baby went into hospital, I immediately started cooking. I was the foodie in that group. I'm terrible with encouraging words. I always say the wrong thing like, "don't cry sweetie." I'm not so good about the 'effectual, fervent prayers' either because of my ADOSS (Attention Deficit... Oh Something Shiny!) but I can make you a mean brownie, with chicken noodle soup on the side. Halfway through cooking, though, I realized that they still lived in Chicagoland. My soup wasn't going to make it that far. And that's where it got really messy. You see, I couldn't do what comes natural to me in those situations- drop off food, tell them to call if they needed anything, and then walk away. I couldn't cook, couldn't go do a few loads of their laundry, couldn't go scrub their floors. And the entire ordeal, 4 heart surgeries and countless other procedures over 67 agonizing hospital days felt so helpless because what they were up against was monumental and I couldn't do anything. I could only pray.
Only. I remember sitting one day, after Em was napping, to check my emails and we got this desperate cry for prayers because their baby girl wasn't responding well. I was pregnant with Cooper and totally hormonal so I naturally fell apart weeping. I remember emailing back saying that I'd sit and listen if they needed an ear, I'd sit in silence if they just needed company, and if they found themselves in a place where they had no words, I'd pray for them. It sounded good at the time, and I meant it with all my feeble heart, but writing it seemed so weak, so small, in the face of the giant they were up against.
A little over a year ago we had a bit of a hiccup. Thankfully, by the mercies of God, everything was sorted out, but as we were facing a period of uncertainty, I emailed. This same friend whom I felt I had completely let down because I could only pray, because I could only send a few measly words to, wrote me back. I was stunned by what she wrote, because she literally sent me back my own email from years before. Suddenly, what seemed like months of helplessness and crippling unknowns on my part and a total disconnect because I couldn't give a hug, couldn't nourish them physically, became the words my heart needed to hear.
I had a friend.
I had a friend who didn't exactly understand but understood enough to pray.
I had a friend praying because she could form words at that moment and I simply couldn't.
My heart had been stunned silent. I had entered a space and I had friends who had been before me there, a place where there are no words, only the groans of your soul crying out in a deep, primal language you don't understand. And in that place, I had friends who spoke that language and to them my groans and cries made perfect sense. They knew they couldn't 'fix' because for some things, there is no fix. They knew there were no words. But they came to stand next to me anyways, even though they didn't 'get it' just as I didn't "get" how tiny a baby could feel in the massiveness of a pediatric intensive care unit room, even though they felt helpless and under-qualified because I was fighting a giant they couldn't see.
Five years ago, I struggled with people back in the US telling me that they "totally understood" the culture shock I was going through because they'd done this move or that short-term mission trip. A good part of me wanted to kick them in the shins. I'd moved from the stunning foothills of rural Northern California to a southern suburb of Chicago, just next door to the flattest cornfields that I thought were the stuff of movie sets. I'd done culture shock then. It was NOTHING compared to an international move and trying to find my new 'sea legs'. Can I just say that sometimes, the cavern between empathy and sympathy is simply enormous. At the same time I was feeling so frustrated with some people, others where coming along side, saying such lovely phrases as, "I can't even imagine" or "You must be so homesick" or "I'm praying for you." Validating my giant, even when it was invisible to them. Coming into my messy life, my messy emotions and just pulling up a chair and sitting with me there.
I'm now in that place again, where my heart is very quiet most days and the vast majority of people just don't understand. We've started to box things up and Cooper is throwing more fits, Em is getting more quiet and Harper is unpacking boxes we've just packed. This isn't a move across town or across the country. This is huge on a whole different level. I don't understand a lot these days and I'm not in a place where I really want to understand yet. And I have friends who have been before me. Friends who have said, "I'll organize that final playdate." Friends who've said, "I'm praying for you Britts and I'm going to miss you." Friends who have said, in a thousand big and small ways that they don't fully understand the giant our family is facing, but they do understand that walking into our mess, helping us wade through the wreckage, holding our hands and encouraging us with words and actions, is being the face of my beautiful and glorious Jesus... and it means the world right now.
When Todd and I got the email from these friends, telling us what they knew, which was very little at that point, I experienced something I'd never really understood before. I'd always heard that the Body of Christ was messy, but I honestly thought that meant church politics and people complaining about the air-freshener in the bathroom being the wrong scent. This was not that type of situation, and yet, half a world away, this crisis moment in friends' lives was messy... but we entered as best we could.
Over the last five years, I've made some incredible friendships. And as we've grown together: as friends, as moms, as women. I've learned many of their giftings. I have one friend who is the organizer. When we found out we were leaving, I sent out an email and in no time she came back with a day, a time, and a venue for having a group farewell for the whole crew and I thought for the hundredth time, "Where were you when I had to plan my wedding?" I have another friend who is the foodie. I think she has a hidden freezer of wonderfulness for 'just in case' because she seems to always have a freezer meal, or five, ready for a new baby, a friend who is sick the exact week their husband is away and everyone in between. I have one who is an encourager. She always seems to know when to be righteously indignant on your behalf, when to encourage and when to get goosebumps with you. It is fabulous, I promise. And on, and on the giftings go.
When our friends' little baby went into hospital, I immediately started cooking. I was the foodie in that group. I'm terrible with encouraging words. I always say the wrong thing like, "don't cry sweetie." I'm not so good about the 'effectual, fervent prayers' either because of my ADOSS (Attention Deficit... Oh Something Shiny!) but I can make you a mean brownie, with chicken noodle soup on the side. Halfway through cooking, though, I realized that they still lived in Chicagoland. My soup wasn't going to make it that far. And that's where it got really messy. You see, I couldn't do what comes natural to me in those situations- drop off food, tell them to call if they needed anything, and then walk away. I couldn't cook, couldn't go do a few loads of their laundry, couldn't go scrub their floors. And the entire ordeal, 4 heart surgeries and countless other procedures over 67 agonizing hospital days felt so helpless because what they were up against was monumental and I couldn't do anything. I could only pray.
Only. I remember sitting one day, after Em was napping, to check my emails and we got this desperate cry for prayers because their baby girl wasn't responding well. I was pregnant with Cooper and totally hormonal so I naturally fell apart weeping. I remember emailing back saying that I'd sit and listen if they needed an ear, I'd sit in silence if they just needed company, and if they found themselves in a place where they had no words, I'd pray for them. It sounded good at the time, and I meant it with all my feeble heart, but writing it seemed so weak, so small, in the face of the giant they were up against.
A little over a year ago we had a bit of a hiccup. Thankfully, by the mercies of God, everything was sorted out, but as we were facing a period of uncertainty, I emailed. This same friend whom I felt I had completely let down because I could only pray, because I could only send a few measly words to, wrote me back. I was stunned by what she wrote, because she literally sent me back my own email from years before. Suddenly, what seemed like months of helplessness and crippling unknowns on my part and a total disconnect because I couldn't give a hug, couldn't nourish them physically, became the words my heart needed to hear.
I had a friend.
I had a friend who didn't exactly understand but understood enough to pray.
I had a friend praying because she could form words at that moment and I simply couldn't.
My heart had been stunned silent. I had entered a space and I had friends who had been before me there, a place where there are no words, only the groans of your soul crying out in a deep, primal language you don't understand. And in that place, I had friends who spoke that language and to them my groans and cries made perfect sense. They knew they couldn't 'fix' because for some things, there is no fix. They knew there were no words. But they came to stand next to me anyways, even though they didn't 'get it' just as I didn't "get" how tiny a baby could feel in the massiveness of a pediatric intensive care unit room, even though they felt helpless and under-qualified because I was fighting a giant they couldn't see.
Five years ago, I struggled with people back in the US telling me that they "totally understood" the culture shock I was going through because they'd done this move or that short-term mission trip. A good part of me wanted to kick them in the shins. I'd moved from the stunning foothills of rural Northern California to a southern suburb of Chicago, just next door to the flattest cornfields that I thought were the stuff of movie sets. I'd done culture shock then. It was NOTHING compared to an international move and trying to find my new 'sea legs'. Can I just say that sometimes, the cavern between empathy and sympathy is simply enormous. At the same time I was feeling so frustrated with some people, others where coming along side, saying such lovely phrases as, "I can't even imagine" or "You must be so homesick" or "I'm praying for you." Validating my giant, even when it was invisible to them. Coming into my messy life, my messy emotions and just pulling up a chair and sitting with me there.
I'm now in that place again, where my heart is very quiet most days and the vast majority of people just don't understand. We've started to box things up and Cooper is throwing more fits, Em is getting more quiet and Harper is unpacking boxes we've just packed. This isn't a move across town or across the country. This is huge on a whole different level. I don't understand a lot these days and I'm not in a place where I really want to understand yet. And I have friends who have been before me. Friends who have said, "I'll organize that final playdate." Friends who've said, "I'm praying for you Britts and I'm going to miss you." Friends who have said, in a thousand big and small ways that they don't fully understand the giant our family is facing, but they do understand that walking into our mess, helping us wade through the wreckage, holding our hands and encouraging us with words and actions, is being the face of my beautiful and glorious Jesus... and it means the world right now.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
From the Mouth of Babes
This little slice of blogger-dom is typically about the kids and our family. The last week or so has been out of character, to say the least. Thank you, for whomever you are that continues to read and especially for the encouragement and prayers. They are greatly felt.
This past week at the kids' pre-school, they had graduation for the Grade 0 (here, said as Grade Not). In the US, this is the Kindergarten equivalent. Our school year runs from January-December. Em has been going to Hilltop for almost four years. She started a bit early but it was the exact school she needed to be in, small (a dozen or so kids, plus or minus here and there), committed teacher, great friends and she has proven to be the kid who thrives under the Montessori method. This graduation, which was rather a large group for our small little school (5 total graduates), was deeply felt by my girl. Many of her long-standing friends said their goodbyes to 'little school'. Here is Em, practicing her graduation poem. Even though she didn't graduate and neither Todd nor I have grown since last fall (unless you count pant size), I found this particularly applicable at the moment. You know what they say, from the mouths of babes...
This past week at the kids' pre-school, they had graduation for the Grade 0 (here, said as Grade Not). In the US, this is the Kindergarten equivalent. Our school year runs from January-December. Em has been going to Hilltop for almost four years. She started a bit early but it was the exact school she needed to be in, small (a dozen or so kids, plus or minus here and there), committed teacher, great friends and she has proven to be the kid who thrives under the Montessori method. This graduation, which was rather a large group for our small little school (5 total graduates), was deeply felt by my girl. Many of her long-standing friends said their goodbyes to 'little school'. Here is Em, practicing her graduation poem. Even though she didn't graduate and neither Todd nor I have grown since last fall (unless you count pant size), I found this particularly applicable at the moment. You know what they say, from the mouths of babes...
Friday, November 8, 2013
Conversations
I just finished a conversation with a good friend. It was a helpful conversation. An enlightening conversation. A conversation where things were clarified and my heart was heard, which helps in the healing process.
The truth of it all is this blog, this little corner of the internet world, is my conversation with myself. I'm so glad I can share with others because sometimes, I've been told, this blog has been helpful. Sometimes, I've been told, this blog has been useful for others to process.
But when all is said and done, I write for me. I write for my sanity. I write when I have a really, really bad day and I need to remember that my babes are beautifully and wonderfully made, not made to simply irritate and anger me. I write when I'm wrestling God, even if, like Ester, His name is never mentioned. I write when I'm thrilled. I write when I'm proud as a peacock and can't wait to shout about something wonderful that's happened. But I also write when I'm sad. I write when I'm hurt. It's my outlet, my means of taking a step back, gaining perspective, collecting my thoughts.
I don't write about anything and everything indiscriminately. There are some things that are too personal, at least at the moment. There are things I hold all to myself, never to be published... about my husband, my kids, my marriage, my ministry. This path I'm walking right now, this life transition that doesn't exactly make sense has many, many areas, many paths that I simply can't walk down just yet. Not because they don't need to be dealt with (they do) but because my heart is too open, my wounds too fresh and those topics are just salt being rubbed in.
It's so much easier to mourn the loss of my city, my friendships, my plans than it is to mourn the loss of my heart, my passion, my ministry here. Because at the end of the day, the city will still be here. I can return in 20 years and there will still be jacarandas in the spring. There will still be veld fires in October. There will still be a sparkling city just waiting to wink her eye at me at night just after an afternoon rain. My friends may move but even if they don't I will still have Facebook, I'll still have email, I'll have Skype and all the rest. I can make new plans, talk my kids through school in a different place, walk them through the next stages.
But... But... But I can't return to my ministries. The quote attributed to Heraclitus of Ephesus is exactly right: You could not step twice into the same rivers; for other waters are ever flowing on to you. I could return to Joburg in a year, in two years, in ten years. I would still know the streets, still participate in all the activities and heartbeat of this city that has unfolded before me. I cannot return to the same place of ministry, the same depth of investment. I've poured five years, five long, hard, difficult years of on-my-knees-praying to get to a place where my ministry, my passion, my Jesus are seen. I'm not trying to say I do the work, I don't. God goes before me, behind me and everywhere in between. I fervently pray that even as we prepare to leave, He has already paved the path for others to come along and take over.
But... But... But I'm still not ready to face the reality that I'm not going to be around to see the fruit of the labour. It's selfish. It's totally and completely and inexcusably selfish. I wish I could say I was ready to meet this challenge head-on. I'm not. I wish I would say that I'm in a good place, a place where there has been a natural break, a good closing chapter. I can't.
I'm not ready. In many ways I feel as if I'm being cheated out of the best part, that some spoiler alert just popped up when I'm at the best part of the book. I'm not ready to leave my heart, my calling, the things that made me want to be a missionary nearly 25 years ago. I waited two decades to be here, to get the chances I've been privileged to have. I know God has things, big and small things, wherever we go next. I get that. But the mourning of my current position, my current heartbeat... well, I'm just not there yet. I'm sorry if that disappoints, I'm sorry if there are those who want to hear more about that. Maybe someday. But today, today is not that day.
The truth of it all is this blog, this little corner of the internet world, is my conversation with myself. I'm so glad I can share with others because sometimes, I've been told, this blog has been helpful. Sometimes, I've been told, this blog has been useful for others to process.
But when all is said and done, I write for me. I write for my sanity. I write when I have a really, really bad day and I need to remember that my babes are beautifully and wonderfully made, not made to simply irritate and anger me. I write when I'm wrestling God, even if, like Ester, His name is never mentioned. I write when I'm thrilled. I write when I'm proud as a peacock and can't wait to shout about something wonderful that's happened. But I also write when I'm sad. I write when I'm hurt. It's my outlet, my means of taking a step back, gaining perspective, collecting my thoughts.
I don't write about anything and everything indiscriminately. There are some things that are too personal, at least at the moment. There are things I hold all to myself, never to be published... about my husband, my kids, my marriage, my ministry. This path I'm walking right now, this life transition that doesn't exactly make sense has many, many areas, many paths that I simply can't walk down just yet. Not because they don't need to be dealt with (they do) but because my heart is too open, my wounds too fresh and those topics are just salt being rubbed in.
It's so much easier to mourn the loss of my city, my friendships, my plans than it is to mourn the loss of my heart, my passion, my ministry here. Because at the end of the day, the city will still be here. I can return in 20 years and there will still be jacarandas in the spring. There will still be veld fires in October. There will still be a sparkling city just waiting to wink her eye at me at night just after an afternoon rain. My friends may move but even if they don't I will still have Facebook, I'll still have email, I'll have Skype and all the rest. I can make new plans, talk my kids through school in a different place, walk them through the next stages.
But... But... But I can't return to my ministries. The quote attributed to Heraclitus of Ephesus is exactly right: You could not step twice into the same rivers; for other waters are ever flowing on to you. I could return to Joburg in a year, in two years, in ten years. I would still know the streets, still participate in all the activities and heartbeat of this city that has unfolded before me. I cannot return to the same place of ministry, the same depth of investment. I've poured five years, five long, hard, difficult years of on-my-knees-praying to get to a place where my ministry, my passion, my Jesus are seen. I'm not trying to say I do the work, I don't. God goes before me, behind me and everywhere in between. I fervently pray that even as we prepare to leave, He has already paved the path for others to come along and take over.
But... But... But I'm still not ready to face the reality that I'm not going to be around to see the fruit of the labour. It's selfish. It's totally and completely and inexcusably selfish. I wish I could say I was ready to meet this challenge head-on. I'm not. I wish I would say that I'm in a good place, a place where there has been a natural break, a good closing chapter. I can't.
I'm not ready. In many ways I feel as if I'm being cheated out of the best part, that some spoiler alert just popped up when I'm at the best part of the book. I'm not ready to leave my heart, my calling, the things that made me want to be a missionary nearly 25 years ago. I waited two decades to be here, to get the chances I've been privileged to have. I know God has things, big and small things, wherever we go next. I get that. But the mourning of my current position, my current heartbeat... well, I'm just not there yet. I'm sorry if that disappoints, I'm sorry if there are those who want to hear more about that. Maybe someday. But today, today is not that day.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Figuring Out How To Thrive As Me
I'm a feminist. I'm not the boot-wearing, I'll-trek-1,000-miles-just-to-prove-I'm-better-than-any-man type. My boots are more like hippie sandals showing off my chipping salmon-pink nail polish. Regardless of my footwear and what statement they do or do not make, I still proudly claim any young woman can do anything she wants and strongly believe every little girl should have a role model in any chosen profession. I celebrate my uniqueness as a female - that is my feminist mantra.
That said, it took a pretty powerful man to give me the tools and vocabulary to find that mantra. It took a man who was strong enough to listen, brave enough to let me stew and sift ideas for weeks, even months on end, and daring enough to love me even when I didn't love myself.
I never liked the movie Jerry McGuire. I didn't get it, didn't think it was romantic, and I loathed that scene where Tom Cruis says, "You complete me." I don't need anyone to complete any part of me, let alone all of me.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I told the ultra sound technician doing the scan that I didn't want to know the gender because I had this fear that I was pregnant with a boy, and I would spend the next five months lamenting and brokenhearted that SHE was really a HE. I wanted a little girl so badly and for reasons I still, to this day cannot put into words. I wanted a girl because I wanted her to see she could do and be anything. I didn't want a girl so I could raise her to feel inadequate, or somehow lacking because she didn't have some big, great love story to back her up. Todd was fine with not knowing the gender, he was fine with my fears and I think he secretly prayed for a little girl as well. Not because he wanted someone just like his wife (cause that would have been a seriously scary thought) but because his heart wanted to be wrapped around some little nothing of curls and tutu frills and shinny, sparkly shoes.
In the eleven years I've been with this man of mine, I've learned a kind of quiet confidence. A slow and powerful roar that says, "I am woman. I can do and be whatever I want... even when I don't know what that is or means." It comes from evenings when he has loved how I look in his old sweats. It's come from his encouragement to embrace some new role I swore I'd never do before. It's from years, literal years, of silently taking a step back, putting in an approving nod when needed, and always, always, always being there to catch me if I fell. And the thing was, I didn't fall. I didn't fall. My own fears held me back for the better part of my life. Fears of failure, fears of not being enough. Fears that so-and-so wouldn't approve. Fears that I would be too much. Too much drama, too much emotion, too much energy, too much whatever. Fears that I wasn't enough of a nurturer, friend, companion, planner. Fears that I didn't look right, that I was too fat or too thin. Too "athletic" or too "plain." Through all the fears over the last decade, he was there. I never became his project. I was never something for him to 'fix' because, I think, on some level he realized one of two things. 1) I wasn't broken or 2) His carpentry skills to fix me were seriously lacking. Either way, he just chose to walk, with me, next to me, holding my hand when I let him, and bumping my shoulder when I didn't... just so I'd know he was still there.
I'm infinitely grateful for the marriage I have today. It's been a hard fight, and I by no means think we've made it. I do, however, realize that what I have is worth more than all the riches in all the world. My marriage made me realize that I'm a force to be reckoned with, me, just me. My marriage made me realize that I'm free to make any choice I want. My marriage made me stronger, more resilient because it showed me the strength of team to build up an individual. The solidity of coming at an enemy in numbers. There's something profoundly amazing when you realize that you CAN do something on your own. Even more astounding though, is when you realize that you can accomplish whatever because you've been given the gift of love and friendship to explore, discover, and grow into that person who can do that thing... that person you thought you could never be.
There is an idea that you can 'pick yourself up by your bootstraps' and 'just suck it up and do it' but here's the thing about girls: We don't want to just endure. We don't want to just survive. We want to thrive. We want to make things beautiful in a way that invites others into our celebration. Not to lord it over someone that we think we're pretty amazing and they're less, but because (I think) we want others to experience the mountain tops with us.
I saw this video a few days ago and it resonated with a very deep part of me. Yes. I agree. Entirely.
In this crazy space we find ourselves in, I've been able to see things more clearly, more poignantly. I was sitting in a meeting today with two friends, listening to them talking and I realized that we're all doing what we think is best, striving for our best. Best for us as moms, best for us as wives, but ultimately, best for us as individual women. Someday, not long from now, the kids will be gone. When that day comes, I want to still be comfortable in my own skin. Comfortable enough to hear my own voice saying the things I think, the things I believe, the things I feel.
Are there moments when I feel inadequate, ill-equipped and simply not enough for the task at hand? Absolutely. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a woman. I'm going to feel less than capable for the monumental job of raising, shaping, and moulding the babies before me because, well, I am. But I no longer feel defined as a person by the number of kids I have, the size of my pants or the letter on my bra. I'm not defined by my husband's salary or the size of my home or how meticulously (or not) my house has been decorated. I no longer feel like I'm ONLY what that person says I am, or this person wants from me.
"We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God" (Hebrews 6:19)
I think, somehow, in the random snippets of time with God between feedings, peanut butter bird feeders out of toilet paper rolls, scrubbing the mud encrusted face of a child and trying not to eat one more thing that will just go straight to my thighs and force me to return, once again to my husband's sweatpants, I have somehow started listening to the One who made the birds, the mud (and that sweet face) and even those thighs... and sweatpants for that matter. He said I'm enough. He made us and with us, He declared "it is good"(Genesis 1:31). He said He'd be my anchor... and He sent me a physical foundation for those times when my knees would buckle and I'd need a bit more than just a promise on a page in a 2,000 year old text. I'm so thankful for a God who provides, in advance, so that when I'm in need, my need is met. I'm so thankful for a God who knew the only way I'd learn some lessons would be through an amazing partner who would walk just behind me, never thinking to scream from rooftops, jump on a couch, or see the need to tattoo my name on his chest... because that would irritate me. A lot. I'm thankful that I'm a woman. I'm thankful that I'm strong, independent, and so much in love with my husband and the Father who have both showed me how truly amazing I am, all by myself... even in my hippie sandals with chipping salmon-pink nail polish.
That said, it took a pretty powerful man to give me the tools and vocabulary to find that mantra. It took a man who was strong enough to listen, brave enough to let me stew and sift ideas for weeks, even months on end, and daring enough to love me even when I didn't love myself.
I never liked the movie Jerry McGuire. I didn't get it, didn't think it was romantic, and I loathed that scene where Tom Cruis says, "You complete me." I don't need anyone to complete any part of me, let alone all of me.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I told the ultra sound technician doing the scan that I didn't want to know the gender because I had this fear that I was pregnant with a boy, and I would spend the next five months lamenting and brokenhearted that SHE was really a HE. I wanted a little girl so badly and for reasons I still, to this day cannot put into words. I wanted a girl because I wanted her to see she could do and be anything. I didn't want a girl so I could raise her to feel inadequate, or somehow lacking because she didn't have some big, great love story to back her up. Todd was fine with not knowing the gender, he was fine with my fears and I think he secretly prayed for a little girl as well. Not because he wanted someone just like his wife (cause that would have been a seriously scary thought) but because his heart wanted to be wrapped around some little nothing of curls and tutu frills and shinny, sparkly shoes.
In the eleven years I've been with this man of mine, I've learned a kind of quiet confidence. A slow and powerful roar that says, "I am woman. I can do and be whatever I want... even when I don't know what that is or means." It comes from evenings when he has loved how I look in his old sweats. It's come from his encouragement to embrace some new role I swore I'd never do before. It's from years, literal years, of silently taking a step back, putting in an approving nod when needed, and always, always, always being there to catch me if I fell. And the thing was, I didn't fall. I didn't fall. My own fears held me back for the better part of my life. Fears of failure, fears of not being enough. Fears that so-and-so wouldn't approve. Fears that I would be too much. Too much drama, too much emotion, too much energy, too much whatever. Fears that I wasn't enough of a nurturer, friend, companion, planner. Fears that I didn't look right, that I was too fat or too thin. Too "athletic" or too "plain." Through all the fears over the last decade, he was there. I never became his project. I was never something for him to 'fix' because, I think, on some level he realized one of two things. 1) I wasn't broken or 2) His carpentry skills to fix me were seriously lacking. Either way, he just chose to walk, with me, next to me, holding my hand when I let him, and bumping my shoulder when I didn't... just so I'd know he was still there.
I'm infinitely grateful for the marriage I have today. It's been a hard fight, and I by no means think we've made it. I do, however, realize that what I have is worth more than all the riches in all the world. My marriage made me realize that I'm a force to be reckoned with, me, just me. My marriage made me realize that I'm free to make any choice I want. My marriage made me stronger, more resilient because it showed me the strength of team to build up an individual. The solidity of coming at an enemy in numbers. There's something profoundly amazing when you realize that you CAN do something on your own. Even more astounding though, is when you realize that you can accomplish whatever because you've been given the gift of love and friendship to explore, discover, and grow into that person who can do that thing... that person you thought you could never be.
There is an idea that you can 'pick yourself up by your bootstraps' and 'just suck it up and do it' but here's the thing about girls: We don't want to just endure. We don't want to just survive. We want to thrive. We want to make things beautiful in a way that invites others into our celebration. Not to lord it over someone that we think we're pretty amazing and they're less, but because (I think) we want others to experience the mountain tops with us.
I saw this video a few days ago and it resonated with a very deep part of me. Yes. I agree. Entirely.
In this crazy space we find ourselves in, I've been able to see things more clearly, more poignantly. I was sitting in a meeting today with two friends, listening to them talking and I realized that we're all doing what we think is best, striving for our best. Best for us as moms, best for us as wives, but ultimately, best for us as individual women. Someday, not long from now, the kids will be gone. When that day comes, I want to still be comfortable in my own skin. Comfortable enough to hear my own voice saying the things I think, the things I believe, the things I feel.
Are there moments when I feel inadequate, ill-equipped and simply not enough for the task at hand? Absolutely. I'm a mother. I'm a wife. I'm a woman. I'm going to feel less than capable for the monumental job of raising, shaping, and moulding the babies before me because, well, I am. But I no longer feel defined as a person by the number of kids I have, the size of my pants or the letter on my bra. I'm not defined by my husband's salary or the size of my home or how meticulously (or not) my house has been decorated. I no longer feel like I'm ONLY what that person says I am, or this person wants from me.
"We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope reaching past all appearances right to the very presence of God" (Hebrews 6:19)
I think, somehow, in the random snippets of time with God between feedings, peanut butter bird feeders out of toilet paper rolls, scrubbing the mud encrusted face of a child and trying not to eat one more thing that will just go straight to my thighs and force me to return, once again to my husband's sweatpants, I have somehow started listening to the One who made the birds, the mud (and that sweet face) and even those thighs... and sweatpants for that matter. He said I'm enough. He made us and with us, He declared "it is good"(Genesis 1:31). He said He'd be my anchor... and He sent me a physical foundation for those times when my knees would buckle and I'd need a bit more than just a promise on a page in a 2,000 year old text. I'm so thankful for a God who provides, in advance, so that when I'm in need, my need is met. I'm so thankful for a God who knew the only way I'd learn some lessons would be through an amazing partner who would walk just behind me, never thinking to scream from rooftops, jump on a couch, or see the need to tattoo my name on his chest... because that would irritate me. A lot. I'm thankful that I'm a woman. I'm thankful that I'm strong, independent, and so much in love with my husband and the Father who have both showed me how truly amazing I am, all by myself... even in my hippie sandals with chipping salmon-pink nail polish.
Home, Always and Forever
I sat at the computer this morning to sort my emails (yuck) and eat a stolen spoonful of chocolate chip-less chocolate chip cookie dough (chocolate chips are gold in my house, so we ration, even now!). Harper came as I was reading this blog post. I love her writing. I love how she expresses herself. And best of all, I love how real she is and how that speaks to the hearts of other moms slogging it out, day-in, day-out like me.
I was reading and could not take my eyes off the screen. Harper wandered onto my lap with an armful of dollies and asked if she could have some of my Rooibos tea. Without a second thought, I pulled my two-and-a-half year old onto my lap and let her share my morning tea and rusk with me. I begrudged her the rusk but only because I'm selfish sometimes. And then, it struck me.
I was reading a blog post about a South African woman who is homesick for the country I am still living in, still trying to sort out. The country I cherish. The country I love deep down in my marrow, because in so many ways, I feel it is the country where I was born. I technically became a mother in the US, but my "mama"-ness was birthed here. My voice, my passions, my callings and my Heavenly Father's voice were all reborn in my heart here in a way I can't even describe.
I'm a middle child. I was told once that middle children often feel "rootless, groundless, homeless" in some ways and I totally get that. But here, in a place that so very much resembles the California of my childhood, the California of summer wild fires, hot, dusty red clay and endless hills to climb. The California that has fresh avocado and strawberries, fresh meats and good seafood. The California that has diversity and multiculturalism in its very blood. The California that has immigration, too many languages to learn and hundred nuances and differences that make it unique. THAT is what I find here. I find a country that has 11 national languages and rather than shrinking from that challenge, embraces it. I find a country that is trying to sort itself out through the awkward early 20-something phase where following anyone else's footprints but your own to be just useless. I find a country brimming with culture and history and passion and art and such amazing food I still wonder how I ever fit into the plane seat each time we fly.
So I read this post about the Karoo and the jacarandas and the hadida and all I can think is, "Will my kids miss this place like that?" Often times, I hear things about how MKs (missionary kids) feel 'transient' or 'out of place' because they never really were from the culture they grew up in, but they didn't grow up in the culture of their passport. The brutal truth for Todd and me, and it is fairly brutal (especially to our families and loved ones) is that we call South Africa home. We will miss our small little slice of the End of the Earth as I call our section of Jozi. We will miss our bed and our piles of dirty laundry. We will miss our garden and Woolworths coffee dates.
We are adults though. We can sort out the differences- driving on the opposite side of the road, drinking coffee rather than tea, wearing mittens and scarves instead of sandals and shorts at Christmas. But the kids are small. They get out of sorts and seem to long for their home almost as soon as we land at the airport. They dislike having their accents pointed out and sometimes, worse, made fun of. They miss food that doesn't hurt their stomachs and they miss the playgrounds at every single restaurant. Please don't get me wrong, we all love seeing friends and family, reconnecting with people and spending time catching up. One day, though, are they going to look up and realize that they have no "home?" Are they going to feel just as out of place wanting melktert or koeksister as I feel missing peppermint ice cream and semi sweet chocolate?
I've recently come to realize that if I'm not intentional about being unapologetically me, then my kids will get a haphazard version of mixed messages in life that I just don't want for them. I desperately don't want them to carry MY baggage with them through life. I want them to carry their own. The baggage they will someday sort out hopefully. And I'm sure I'm giving them dysfunction, and I'm okay with that because at least when I lay my head down at night, I can know that the dysfunction they are getting isn't by default, it's not inherited but rather just the dysfunction that comes from having an imperfect mama who messes things up, including them, sometimes.
I don't want those issues to come from a place of feeling lost though. I want them to know, deep in their souls KNOW where they come from, who they are, and the love of the Savior that led our family to here and then back again. I want them to embrace their heritage as South Africans by birth, but not citizenship, even if all they remember are snippets and stories I will tell them. I want them to embrace their love of gumboots and know where that name came from, even when everyone around them calls them rain boots. I want them to fondly long for Christmas Eve when they get a new bathing cozy (swim suit) instead of flannel pajamas. I want them to know that the emblem on their passport, the number of stamps within, or the address of their mail does not define them. They don't have to defend their love of veld fires and potjiekos and vors with chutney or the accent of their childhood, the voice of their dreams. They don't have to defend any part of the things they love and hold dear because they will have realized who they are: my baby, my precious child, always and forever. No matter what.
I was reading and could not take my eyes off the screen. Harper wandered onto my lap with an armful of dollies and asked if she could have some of my Rooibos tea. Without a second thought, I pulled my two-and-a-half year old onto my lap and let her share my morning tea and rusk with me. I begrudged her the rusk but only because I'm selfish sometimes. And then, it struck me.
I was reading a blog post about a South African woman who is homesick for the country I am still living in, still trying to sort out. The country I cherish. The country I love deep down in my marrow, because in so many ways, I feel it is the country where I was born. I technically became a mother in the US, but my "mama"-ness was birthed here. My voice, my passions, my callings and my Heavenly Father's voice were all reborn in my heart here in a way I can't even describe.
I'm a middle child. I was told once that middle children often feel "rootless, groundless, homeless" in some ways and I totally get that. But here, in a place that so very much resembles the California of my childhood, the California of summer wild fires, hot, dusty red clay and endless hills to climb. The California that has fresh avocado and strawberries, fresh meats and good seafood. The California that has diversity and multiculturalism in its very blood. The California that has immigration, too many languages to learn and hundred nuances and differences that make it unique. THAT is what I find here. I find a country that has 11 national languages and rather than shrinking from that challenge, embraces it. I find a country that is trying to sort itself out through the awkward early 20-something phase where following anyone else's footprints but your own to be just useless. I find a country brimming with culture and history and passion and art and such amazing food I still wonder how I ever fit into the plane seat each time we fly.
So I read this post about the Karoo and the jacarandas and the hadida and all I can think is, "Will my kids miss this place like that?" Often times, I hear things about how MKs (missionary kids) feel 'transient' or 'out of place' because they never really were from the culture they grew up in, but they didn't grow up in the culture of their passport. The brutal truth for Todd and me, and it is fairly brutal (especially to our families and loved ones) is that we call South Africa home. We will miss our small little slice of the End of the Earth as I call our section of Jozi. We will miss our bed and our piles of dirty laundry. We will miss our garden and Woolworths coffee dates.
We are adults though. We can sort out the differences- driving on the opposite side of the road, drinking coffee rather than tea, wearing mittens and scarves instead of sandals and shorts at Christmas. But the kids are small. They get out of sorts and seem to long for their home almost as soon as we land at the airport. They dislike having their accents pointed out and sometimes, worse, made fun of. They miss food that doesn't hurt their stomachs and they miss the playgrounds at every single restaurant. Please don't get me wrong, we all love seeing friends and family, reconnecting with people and spending time catching up. One day, though, are they going to look up and realize that they have no "home?" Are they going to feel just as out of place wanting melktert or koeksister as I feel missing peppermint ice cream and semi sweet chocolate?
I've recently come to realize that if I'm not intentional about being unapologetically me, then my kids will get a haphazard version of mixed messages in life that I just don't want for them. I desperately don't want them to carry MY baggage with them through life. I want them to carry their own. The baggage they will someday sort out hopefully. And I'm sure I'm giving them dysfunction, and I'm okay with that because at least when I lay my head down at night, I can know that the dysfunction they are getting isn't by default, it's not inherited but rather just the dysfunction that comes from having an imperfect mama who messes things up, including them, sometimes.
I don't want those issues to come from a place of feeling lost though. I want them to know, deep in their souls KNOW where they come from, who they are, and the love of the Savior that led our family to here and then back again. I want them to embrace their heritage as South Africans by birth, but not citizenship, even if all they remember are snippets and stories I will tell them. I want them to embrace their love of gumboots and know where that name came from, even when everyone around them calls them rain boots. I want them to fondly long for Christmas Eve when they get a new bathing cozy (swim suit) instead of flannel pajamas. I want them to know that the emblem on their passport, the number of stamps within, or the address of their mail does not define them. They don't have to defend their love of veld fires and potjiekos and vors with chutney or the accent of their childhood, the voice of their dreams. They don't have to defend any part of the things they love and hold dear because they will have realized who they are: my baby, my precious child, always and forever. No matter what.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
A Letter to My Girls
To My
Beautiful and Sweet Daughter,
When I was
in high school, a song came out that has touched a place in my soul in a way
I’m not exactly sure how to convey.
I wanted that song for me.
I wanted that song for you, even back then before I knew you. I wanted the deep, soul-stabilizing
roots that the song spoke about. I
wanted the lifetime of history and memories and smells and tastes from a
particular location that would be so deep in your soul, no matter where you
were in the world, a certain smell could buckle your knees with all the
memories or the taste of something could transport you back to a childhood
moment in time. The song spoke
into existence things that would help ground a person in the storms of life and
the uncertainty that is growing up.
I wanted that for you.
So here,
for you, my beloved child, is part of my deepest desires for you- only part of
your song because remember, this song is only the background music to part of who you are, only one track in the
soundtrack of your life. I am miserable at rhyming and this will not be able to be put to the music of the original, but I
think you’ll get the picture, because I love you more than words, and you know
that.
If I live to be a hundred, and see only my Seven Wonders
That’ll be alright.
If I don’t make it to the big leagues
If I never get published, never sing in front
of millions, never stand to receive my medal
I’m gonna be just fine
Cause I know exactly who I am
I am GG’s great-granddaughter
The spitting image of my mother
And when the day is done my mamma and daddy
are my biggest fans
Sometimes I’m clueless, I’m clumsy, and I
don’t exactly understand all the social contexts because I’m a star in a circle
or square or triangle world
But I’ve got friends that love me
And they know just where I stand
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am
So when I make a big mistake
When I fall flat on my face
I know I’ll be alright
When my tender heart gets broken in this vast,
big world with its injustices, cruelties and idiotic boys
I will cry those teardrops knowin’
I will be just fine
Cause nothing changes who I am
I am GG’s great-granddaughter,
I come from a long and glorious line of women
who have tried with all their might to not just survive but thrive as best they
can
I’m the spitting image of my mother
And when the day is done my Father is my
biggest fan.
Sometimes, I’m awkward and don’t understand
because I’m exactly what my passport says
But I’ve got friends that love me and
understand my need to swim on Christmas, my yearning for Rooibos or my occasional slip of accent
And they know where I stand.
It’s all a part of me
And that’s who I am.
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