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.

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?

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?

How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in 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?

In truths that she learned
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

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. 

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.  

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.

Choosing to Look Up

Em came to me this morning and asked me when she’d be big enough to do something.  6?  7?  8?  Surely 9, right?  She was doing what we all did, looking up.  Looking out.  Looking forward to something. 

I did this in high school.  I looked forward to college and moving out of the house and keeping my own schedule and driving my car when I wanted.  I had plans for how and where I’d make all my future best friends.  Then I got to college and I looked up and out, forward to the end of the exams and the seemingly insignificant and very mundane papers. I made plans to get a job that would put into practice all these theories I was learning.  I looked towards a job and a classroom of my own.  Making my own lesson plans.  Choosing my own rules.  Setting my own pace.  I looked forward to all the new people I’d meet and all the new friends I’d have.  When Todd and I were dating, and I knew in my bones that he was my partner, in every way, I started to make plans.  Not really for the wedding, cause I really only wanted good food and pretty flowers (which we had, but not much else) but for the home we’d make, the pictures I’d hang, the walls I’d paint.  I planned the family I’d have and all the things we’d do together. 

Then I got that job, and I relished the accomplishment.  I got that apartment flat and I enjoyed every part of decorating it and making it my own (except the no-money part, that, I thought, I could have done without).  I got that husband and I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.  I got that kid and the world, I promise you, stopped rotating. 

Funny thing is, it didn’t seem to return to rotating.  With everything else, I could relish, enjoy and bask in the accomplishment while enjoying the actual activity or person.  With my daughter, though, I suddenly couldn’t look up.  I couldn’t think 5 days from now, let alone five years (unless it was to be gripped by fear that we weren’t saving enough for college).  I couldn’t remember what it felt like to plan, have a to-do list, or even get a shower every day.  It was as if the world had literally shifted on its axis and I couldn’t sort out how to walk on the new angle. 

My life was suddenly looking down.  Down at the floor as I bounced a baby, waiting for a burp.  Down at the cereal crunching beneath my feet.  Down at my little bundle rolling over, crawling, walking.  Down at the endless piles of laundry.  Down at the floor littered with bits of choking hazards.  Down at the wet diaper, the soiled clothing, the dirty bib.  Down at the toys that threatened to end my life.  Down at the strewn pile of pots, pans and Tupperware. 

Down.  Always, it felt like, down.  I couldn’t sort out more than a few days ahead of right now.  Just making it through until Daddy got home became my mantra.  Just.  Keep.  Going. 

It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t glorious.  It was nothing like the magazine catalog pictures of a pristine mom playing on a pristine floor with pristine kids and neatly organized toys in a stunning playroom.  This was messy.  This was dirty.  This was smelly, and worst of all, this was MY LIFE. 

I thought I’d made it to mothering purgatory.  And people with all the best intentions would say things like, “Enjoy EVERY MINUTE of this because it goes so quickly!”  I honestly wanted to kick them in the shins.  My days felt endless.  ENDLESS.  And enjoy?  Seriously?  What is there to enjoy in a collicy baby who has reflux, always wanting to be fed, and is constantly hurling milk measurable distances and thinks sleep is for people who live in ANY OTHER house but ours?  What was there to enjoy about scrubbing baby clothes too small to get your hand into or try and juggle a toddler and an infant car seat in a grocery store leaving room enough for a loaf of bread and nothing else? I kept wanting to scream that this isn't living, this was existing and I didn't want to just survive my children, I wanted to THRIVE.  For them, but mostly for me.  

And so, we made some changes.  We got a list of family priorities and I felt okay with knowing that if it wasn't on that list, I didn't need to stress about it.  I still had bad days, but I was able to start scheduling playdates, I was able to look forward to that holiday or this season.  I was able to, once again, look up from the half meter in front of my own two feet.  

Now, I'm finding myself in a season where I again feel the tendency to look down.  To look down at the growing lists, to look down at the unruly piles of everything because some things are in boxes, some need to be put in boxes, and some need to be put into piles to sell or give away.  I feel that all-too familiar tightness of claustrophobia setting in, like the walls are coming down around me.  In truth, it really does seem like all the walls are crumbling, but I learned my lesson before.  I learned that looking down only makes it worse.  I'm not making plans for what to do with Em and school on that side of the globe.  I'm not making plans for what city we'll live in, which jobs we should take, or what church to settle into.  I'm simply looking up.  I'm looking at all that's around me, the amazing friends who were there the first time around helping me gain perspective are still there.  We're still making playdates.  We're still giving hugs and chatting about life, even if that topic does seem a bit heavier.  I refuse to survive this transition.  I refuse to just exist in this massive life-move.  I don't want to look back and see that I was only spinning my wheels, with the mantra of 'just keep swimming'.  When the final goodbyes come, I want to be present for them.  I want to savor every hug, every kiss, every scene.  This isn't like a wedding that I can have a videographer there so I can look back on it.  It's just me and my ability to BE in the moment.

I get the feeling that I'm not alone out there.  That there are others who are frustrated by always waiting... for the right house, the right job, the next friend or project or kid.  I  think because this season in our lives is so all-consuming, so all-or-nothing, our path is much more clearly marked, black or white.  There's this amazing song that Jason Mraz sings, entitled "I Won't Give Up."  I'm sure many will say it's a love song, or maybe a song between a parent and child.  But for me, right now, this is a song to be sung in front of the mirror, me singing to my own heart.  So I'll leave you with some of the lyrics that are reminding me that I too, shall bend.  This won't break me, this won't burn me, it will just become part of me, if I expereince it, if I allow myself to really feel.

We got a lot at stake, 

And in the end you're still my friend, at least we did intend

For us to work

We didn't break, we didn't burn

We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in

I had to learn what I got, and what I'm not

And who I am!

I won't give up on us, God knows I'm tough enough

We've got a lot to learn and God knows we're worth it.  

Packing List

It's the middle of the night and I've tried three times to get back to sleep, but it's no use.  So I come to my computer to find comfort, find solace, find a way to release and quiet all the voices in my head screaming for attention.  Because tonight, the voice that's yelling the loudest is the one racing away at a speed of 120 km/hour shouting all the things I want to pack up, right now, to take back to America with me so that I don't forget a single one.

I want to take the smell of the sweet rain on the hot asphalt in January.  The pungent heaviness of the jacaranda canopy in October.  The way the entire city vacates in December and I feel like Joburg is my own personal playground.   The richness of Em's deep, thick, coloured, straight-from-the-township-of-Eldorado-Park accent when she says a Bible verse.

I yearn to take the mint ice cream from the Bryanston Market and the croquets from Moemes cafe and the impossibly rich butternut and feta quiche my friend Jenny made for a baby shower that one time.  I want to wrap myself in the complicated, delicate and robustness of the people, the history here that's beautiful and messy and gives me so much hope watching this genuine and gorgeous story of daily triumph unfold.  

I'm already missing the broad shade of the acacia tree and the brilliance of a winter brush fire creeping across the veld.  I wish I could take the glistening sparkle of the entire city after the first rains have come, each raindrop laden with the dust and dirt and dark coldness of winter.  I want to take the impossibly smooth melkterts I still haven't managed to make properly and the wonderful taste of Tizer that makes me feel like I'm 10 years old, pretending to drink a grown-up beverage every time.

I feel a deep need to uproot and take the wild olive trees Todd bought me for Christmas three years back from the fabulous little indigenous nursery that is a sanctuary in a concrete city and the naartjie tree that I've transplanted four times and yet it manages to continue to grow.  I want to take the view from my kitchen window, the only flat in the entire complex with a view of anything besides bricks, of my tender lime tree against a backdrop of impossibly purple jacaranda flowers.  I want to package the sound of all the kids in the complex playing hide and seek on the common lawn in the summertime while all the adults stand around and make impromptu plans for dinners together.

I wish I could keep the gritty feel of the springtime before the rains come and soothing feel of homemade lotion on my kids' skin when it's so desperately, desperately dry.  I want to take the fire pit I dug for Todd and wrap it up like a birthday present, along with all the friends we've gathered around it.  The view of the city, the city from my perspective not the skyline, all twinkling and sparkling with newness, freshness, just-built realizations of homeownership and growing families and new schools from that little hill you pass just before descending into the hidden valley at our end of the Earth on the West Rand.  I want to take the little cafe just around the corner from my midwife's office, and my midwife for that matter, because they're both warm and cozy and maternal in a way that makes you instantly feel like you are home.

I want to take the biting, tart flavor of a Woolworths frozen lemonade and the familiar smile of Presca bringing it to me or the way Todd smiles whenever he drinks a passion fruit and lemonade, so much the boy I dated years ago.  The way a Christmas braai tastes and the textures of the holiday season in shorts and slip-slop shoes and the smell of sweaty children and mud and chlorine.

I want to package up into a box the soothing familiarity of the long drive up north to a friend's house or my MOPS group or the church with Granny Anne sitting at the front desk.  I want to take the thrill of the hunt for one random ingredient I need for some recipe I want to make and the inexplicable sense of victory when, after months and months of searching, I find exactly what I'm looking for.

I want to take the incredibly earthy and unbelievably intense flavor of the mushrooms and the way my kids say 'portobello' with a soft accent, not quite South African, but totally not American.  The impossible silence of living in a city this big but not hearing a siren for weeks and the unearthly racket of the hadida at 5am just outside my bedroom window.  I want to neatly fold up and keep in my back pocket my kids' teacher so that when I get homesick, because I will, and am desperate for a bit of South Africa, I can pull her out and hear the sweet, lilting sound of her voice saying, "Ack, you know what...?" and be comforted.

Adventures and Lists

I have a confession to make.  I'm a total list-maker.

I have another confession to make.  I never remember my lists.

See, I make grocery lists, but if by some miracle they end up in the car with me on the way to store, I'll still manage to forget them by the time I've gotten INTO the actual store.  It's a true gifting.  I also make lists of things that need to get done in a day, but as I get zero satisfaction out of crossing things off my list, I usually forget about them by 9am until I clean off the counter and find today's list, yesterday's, and last week's.  Point in fact, I found nine different lists from the last week alone this morning while cleaning the kitchen.  Again I say, I have a gift.

Don't get me wrong, I think lists are good and useful, I'm just not one of those people who find them particularly HELPFUL.  I find them good for organizing my thoughts, making me feel accomplished because my lists are long, they're prioritized, and (usually) they're color coordinated, which makes them PRETTY, and that is the true definition of good, right?

Thing is, I married a list guy.  If there's a list, he has to finish every last thing on it before drinking a cup of coffee, reading a book to a kid, or taking out the garbage... unless that was on the list, in which case he will dutifully accomplish the task, tick it off the list, and move on.  For him, lists are like an army drill sergeant and there is no way of NOT doing everything on them.  I learned about his list compulsions early on.  For me, lists are just pretty, inanimate objects that help me organize my plan of attack, but never much beyond that.  For him, lists are dynamic, compelling things that regulate every moment between now and when that list is finished.

Todd was gone for a whole week a bit ago.  I did all the washing in the whole house, three times.  I did not, however, put said clean clothes away.  They sat, folded and ready, I just kept forgetting the last step.  I'm terrible with the final follow-throughs.  I don't see a problem, though, in getting clean underpants from the laundry baskets as opposed to the underwear drawer.  I know my husband though, and a week of that would have driven him nuts.  So before Todd got home I sat with a coffee I had already reheated four times, to start actually tackling THE LISTS.

As I sat, writing out page after page (literally, because these were color coded, thus each general activity, household DIY, cleaning, kids, etc, needed it's own page- duh!), it struck me that these lists will do two things: 1) suck up at least an hour of my day because I'll be tormented I forgot to put something on some list, and then forget them in the corner by the desk and 2) Todd will inevitably find them and then have heart palpitations because there are things on there that ARE NOT DONE.

So instead of continuing writing my lists with all my pretty colored-pens, I ate a scone and sat with Harper, going through pictures and writing this, because writing was WAY more fun than lists.  Harper is learning letters and so typing is a great joy with her right now.  Well, it is for about the first dozen questions, then it's just an exercise in self-restraint.  But as I sat here, thinking of all these things, lines from a Jason Mraz song came to my mind:

And just like them old stars
I see that you've come so far
To be right where you are

Right where we are is good.  It's next to each other.   Actually, clinging would be a better descriptor.  We're sorting through some things.  Things that are tough, things that feel impossible, but things that need to be sorted and we serve an impossibly good God.  The lists will very, very soon start to flow, and this time, we'll have to stick to them.  Lists of what to pack and what to sell, which friends we still need to connect with and what we still need to buy at a particular store because, you see *deep, deep breath Britts* we're moving.  For a thousand big and small reasons, we will be returning to the United States next month.  We don't know much of anything beyond that statement.  First on the list:  Find a destination to land.  Second on the list:  Find a job (two if we need to but I'm still begging God to let me stay with my kids, especially in the transition).  We have no clear direction in any particular way, nothing urgent hurrying on our return.  We just know that we're in the center of God's will, we have His peace and that's all we need.  This is right, even though it's worse than hard and no one is looking forward to leaving.  I'm sure there will be more posts, more explanations, more conversations.  For now, though, I'm taking a break before the lists threaten to overwhelm me to gain a bit of perspective, and a bit of support.  We have a month left in South Africa and I know there will be tears and battles and kicking and screaming, and not all will be from the kids.  Would you come alongside us and pray with us, for us when we can't?  Because we're in that place... that place where prayers are made up of tears and the sound of your heart ripping in two or ten or 2,367 pieces and it'd be nice to know that we're loved, supported, prayed for and that even when we can't, His will and way are being sought for on our behalf.

If you commit to pray with us through this, please, please remember these little babes through all the upheaval coming their way... in the middle of winter no less when they have been looking forward to summer (we've only had winter/spring for over a year) and swimming and riding bikes and hiking and climbing.