The CEO of Urban Mattress and his wife, Allison, were in San Francisco this past week. Todd knew they were coming and of an invitation to go to dinner with them, if Todd could make it back in time from his cross-country trek. Todd worked hard (smart, but really hard) and managed to get into town with enough time to make the dinner date. I'd never met either of them before so I didn't really know what to expect. As happens when people get together who have never met, many questions were asked.
I felt in good company. Allison and I both have a hard time leaving our children in anyone else's care, and neither of us see this as a major personal fault or defect. She has six children, the youngest being 9. I was able to ask a lot of hands-on questions that come with raising a larger family. How do you manage that many car seats when even a mini van really isn't equipped for it to be actually hauling the number of people it was built for. *Side note to all you car makers out there: For future consideration, if you are building a car specifically designed to primarily be used by young families, don't put an analog clock on the dash that has a button which changes the time so easily a one-year-old can manage the task. (Sorry, that's been in there a long time!) Over the course of the night, questions came up about how long we'd been together, how we'd liked living abroad, and so on. Towards the end of the night, Allison says to me: Wow ya'll have been to a lot of places.
On the ride home, Todd and I were talking about it. From my perspective only, I didn't see anything particularly "exotic" or "romantic" or "adventurous" about what we've done. We've lived the life we believe was designed for us, for our family, for our hearts. There was nothing exotic about finding out I was allergic to chocolate and air in Santiago, Chile. No joke, that was the actual diagnosis, allergic to air. Nuh-thing. But at the same time, I was on Pinterest and I stumbled across a travel website with the Top 12 Places to Visit in South America. I realized I'd seen three of them, and all the others were in countries I hadn't been to. Better still, I agreed with each estimation. The colors and vibrancy of Valpariso, Chile are unrivaled still, even after all the places I've been to between here and there. The majesty of Cotopaxi, Ecuador on a crisp and clear day is truly one of God's great wonders. Picturesque and noteworthy.
So it all got me thinking about what makes an "adventurous" or "exotic" life. I started to google and pin my home town, the cities I've lived near, and my country of origin. Have you ever done this? Have you ever stopped to actually look at all the places near where you live? Places tourists pay serious money to see? Places that you'll find on Instagram and Pinterest, but places that are (potentially) so common to you it doesn't register as adventurous or exotic?
My life here, even in freeloader purgatory somewhere between employed and with a permanent address and still mostly broke and without a place to call my own, let alone stuff to put inside said place, looks very similar to my life in South Africa. Key points are missing, like an oven I understand because we've duked it out for years and I came out victorious, familiar grocery stores and remembering that I can turn into traffic even if the light is red. Those things are missing. But I still wash my diapers every second night. I still fight the good fight against laundry and tantrums and sweets and the necessity to wear sunscreen and why it's not okay to hit. I still have that nagging feeling that the dishes multiply while I'm otherwise occupied and I still have a creeping suspicion my children think they're smarter than me. I'm still stopped by complete strangers who comment on how sorry they are that I have my hands "so full with so many" and I still get to battle the grocery store which seems so full and yet never seems to have what I need before my child/children have a complete melt down because he's touching the exact place I want to touch! All those mind-numingly crucial daily details of my life are the exact same.
I see the validity in what may seem crazy exotic or fabulously romantic or noteworthy or that life there is somehow more important than life here... but in the end, I just don't see it. My heart doesn't miss the romance of a Home Affairs visa line or the adventures in pothole dodging, especially when those potholes could and would swallow my mini van whole if given a fraction of a chance. My heart misses people. My heart misses the beauty of place that you love, that you call home, that you hold and cherish in your soul. Looking back, I realize that Joburg with my pokey little flat, well below street level so anyone walking or driving by could have a picture-perfect view of my backyard and living room was my Green Gables. It was the first place I allowed myself to put down roots in a way I'd never done before. In a relatively short while, I had three babies, celebrated the births of scores of others, helped myself and helped other women learn how to mother without the voices of guilt and shame and doubt screaming louder than the voice that says this is good, this is right! And I think I've come to realize that the friendships you build "in the trenches" of whatever war you're fighting- addiction, depression, parenting, newly wedding, recovering, whatever, those friendships are irreplaceable. Because you'll never go back and need someone else in the same way you needed those people you barely knew when you showed up with a 17 month old and a 2 month old and were in throws of shell shock.
Just before we found out we were leaving South Africa, I purchased an artisan necklace from an amazing market in downtown Joburg. It was the shape of Africa with a tiny heart over Johannesburg. It was hand oxidized and it matched another friend's... two sentiments in one I figured. Zora recently broke the chain on this necklace so I took it to the family jeweler here in town that sorted out my wedding rings, my 18th birthday jewelry, all my mother's jewelry and a few things from Todd over the years. Somewhere between me explaining to the lady there and her explaining on a ticket which went to the master jeweler, the "oxidized on purpose" part was lost. When the store called to say I could pick up my necklace, I was thrilled. I'd felt a bit naked without it and more than a little nostalgic and homesick, because without realizing it had somehow become a security blanket of sorts. When I went to pick it up, the company had diligently worked to buff out the 'imperfections' of my silver pendant and the artisan oxidation, which I had spent over an hour picking just the one I liked, was gone. In it's place was a shinny, silvery outline without depth or soul and my heart, for the four-hundred-and-ninety-seventh time in the last 7 months, audibly cracked and formed a crevasse. I left bruised and defeated, feeling alone and like somehow, my time in South Africa would always be chaulked up to just a "good visit," an "exotic trip," a "romantic time" in my life and that, just like my necklace which had labored and born countless exhausting physical changes to get it to the beautiful state it was when I bought it, somehow all that could be polished out, the creativity and sweat buffed and forgotten. Who wants tarnish and etch marks and imperfections anyways? Who wants baggage of a person whose life isn't all together, who is still holding on to a few things that used to be? Who has time for that??
I don't think my life has been extraordinary. I think my life has been completely and perfectly mundane, totally without any more or any less high points, fabulous pictures, amazing stories to tell around a camp fire of Remember that one time? Maybe I'm a bit jaded by all the media here, maybe I'm just a bit cooky. Either way, I think every life is exotic and every story romantic and every person full of adventure with unique moments of plot twists and cliff hangers and long-awaited loving embraces... because every life is totally individual, totally yours. I don't want any life other than mine, not because I cherish the stamps in my passport or the pictures on the wall, but because I cherish the people I met, the lives who changed me. I'm going to stick my neck out here but I honestly think it's true. I think I'm always going to miss those trench friends I had in Joburg. The ones who were there when I needed, I mean really needed people. My necklace, which is still in rehab but I've given up hope of it ever being what it was, has been replaced by a cross that a fellow Tantrum Fighter gave me. It reminds me of her and her fight against society to let her kid find his path to toilet trained victory. It reminds me of exhausted, crumpled playdates at Papachinos because I needed the coffee and sugar boost... and the additional witness of a friend because my children were driving me batty. It reminds me of the thousand big and small moments that made up my backup platoon-- that time I moved you in and you couldn't get past the guard gate and our one-year-old girls learned the words "open" and "closed" by jumping their legs open and closed by said guard shack for almost an hour. That time we went to the bird sanctuary and had 6 kids to our two adults. That time you counted down from 35 the days to your husband's return but you still made me a meal because you knew I needed it. That time when you made spaghetti bolognese when Zora was days old and Todd was away on business and it changed the way I make spaghetti for life. That time you trusted me to make your kid's first birthday cake and I had to fight Harper tooth and nail to make it happen, and it nourished my soul to be included like that.
My life isn't exotic, it's real. Messy, mundane, diaper-filled and real, here or there doesn't matter. And I'm so incredibly blessed by the women who shared in that mundane, that mess, that diaper-filled void of sleepless nights and endless amounts of baby spit up and developmental milestones that often gets reduced to a picture of perfectly flat-tummied mamas holding sweet, plump little babes in perfect lighting who, no doubt, smells amazing. I know that those pictures, the ones of those mamas in that moment of beauty and the ones of that moment of outdoor adventure in an exotic locale is just that: a moment. It's not the whole story, it's not even a significant portion or even a fraction of it. I know that and I touch my necklace. My cross given by another Tantrum Fighter. A Tantrum Fighter who needed me and opened herself up to make space enough for me... and my neediness... and my mess... and my kids' mess... A Tantrum Fighter who declared allegiance to the same platoon of other tantrum fighting mamas who had gone before us. I touch my necklace and I'm thankful for the incredible gift of knowing so many who fought, are fighting, or will fight with all the bravery and valor and passion described by Shakespeare. Because at the end of it, I'll remember the names of each, and I'll consider myself blest to be able to show the mothering battle scars, the etched places, the scratched and dented, discolored and not-so-shiny silver places that brought me from there to here, gave me a flavor and depth and soul I couldn't have manufactured. I miss my comrades. I miss our trench. I remember. I know you by name. I pray over you by name. My mammahood isn't cheap, it's come at a cost, a high cost, and I'm glad you helped make it so valuable, so meaningful, so worthy of the fight.
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say “These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.”
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
-Henry V, Act IV
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Monday, May 12, 2014
A Story
I'm a storyteller by nature. So let me tell you a story about what happened this past Tuesday.
Todd and I were sitting in a small family-owned cafe in a little section of Berkeley (California). We were keeping the kids occupied with snacks and babyccinos (steamed milk with vanilla) awaiting Doug. A few weeks ago, when we'd come into the city to dream and make plans and find a place to open the new store Todd has been working on, we went into a coffee shop near a farmer's market to get caffeinated. While there, we saw a guy with three kids. We noticed him because he had three kids and we had noticed, that really wasn't the norm in the Bay Area. True to form, Todd struck up a conversation about the kids and local schools and how great a find this little coffee shop was. Turned out the man Todd was speaking to was Doug, the owner of the shop, and he and his wife had lived in the areas of town we were looking into, he knew all the small business ins-and-outs that Todd was navigating, and his youngest will be starting Grade 1 in September, same as Em. This was the hand of Providence in the unlikely form of a new friend, Doug.
So we're waiting for Doug and the kids see some ladies with a dog. They ask the dog's "mommy" if they can pet him. The ladies look somewhere in the early to mid 70s and like they've been best friends through many a storm. There is a wisdom and ease with which they carry themselves and a genuineness that is rare to find. As her father's daughter, Em starts a conversation that leads to a grown up conversation with Todd and me. Doug and his coffee appear somewhere in the midst of this new conversation and the kids, Doug and I take off down the street towards a park. Todd is still chatting, and Doug and I are chatting. No big deal. It's small and slightly irrelevant conversations-- where's home? how long have you been here? what does your wife do?
By the time our coffee date with Doug is over, he gives me a hug, a proper hug and says, "Give me a call, day or night, if you need anything. And send me a message about the house hunt, I'd love to help you out." The thing is, he means it, and my heart is eternally grateful because he's BEEN there, he's DONE that, and to have someone to ask about it all, it's just sits well in your soul.
On the ride home, Todd sends his new girlfriends an email, then googles her, only to find out that she (who loved the kids names and knew each author, which never happens) is an award-winning poet. She volunteers in the local schools teaching poetry and is an acclaimed psychologist. She and Todd had spoken briefly about the store he's opening, the concept, how it all came about and why it's bringing our family to Berkeley. This morning Todd gets a message from her asking after sheets, because if his store will sell them, she'll wait until August.
The point of this story is to reveal, in some small part, our hearts. We've always been "mission minded" (or some might say global-minded) but our missional living has been the thing that has brought us the most joy. Todd and I have both come to realize that if we genuinely interact with people and relevantly invite them into our lives, our mess, we are better people for knowing them... and maybe, just maybe, they're better for knowing us. We found in South Africa that our hearts would come alive from interactions with PEOPLE, so we met and interacted with a lot of people, from different races, ethnic backgrounds, economic levels with a diversity of education. There was a 'right'ness we felt in those interactions, with people of our own faith and people who weren't. In some ways, that tired old line from Jerry Maguire is true: You complete me. Only for us, we found that "you" was broad and included many, many people because in big and small ways, each of those people have shown us a new picture of our Creator, and even if they didn't mean to, I'm so thankful for each snapshot.
I'm still heart-sick about being here and not there, both physically and metaphorically. I'm sad that I'm needing to navigate schools for Em and that she has completely missed, in it's entirety, kindergarten/grade 0. (Seriously, think about it- no "first day" pictures, no graduation at the end, no proper opening or closing of this section of childhood, this opening of educational doors... no transition for her, and nothing for her mama to help find some footing, ease into this new world of "big school.") At the same time, I'm thrilled to see my husband with that fire in his eyes, that hitch in his giddy-up about life because it's been a long time. So to the nuts and bolts. There's a terribly long and fabulous story about how and when and where, but Todd connected with the owner of a company (Urban Mattress) and is opening a store in Berkeley, California. They signed the lease agreement on a store in a great location last week. We're still trying to figure out how to open a small business and move to a highly competitive housing market and enroll Em in school all before August 1... among other things. But first and foremost, we're extremely grateful to have a job, have a trajectory in life that fits with our hearts and are praying for a place to lay down our heads... on our own sheets... with our own towels, even if that's on a floor in some rental in a new city we haven't yet discovered the wonders of.
Todd and I were sitting in a small family-owned cafe in a little section of Berkeley (California). We were keeping the kids occupied with snacks and babyccinos (steamed milk with vanilla) awaiting Doug. A few weeks ago, when we'd come into the city to dream and make plans and find a place to open the new store Todd has been working on, we went into a coffee shop near a farmer's market to get caffeinated. While there, we saw a guy with three kids. We noticed him because he had three kids and we had noticed, that really wasn't the norm in the Bay Area. True to form, Todd struck up a conversation about the kids and local schools and how great a find this little coffee shop was. Turned out the man Todd was speaking to was Doug, the owner of the shop, and he and his wife had lived in the areas of town we were looking into, he knew all the small business ins-and-outs that Todd was navigating, and his youngest will be starting Grade 1 in September, same as Em. This was the hand of Providence in the unlikely form of a new friend, Doug.
So we're waiting for Doug and the kids see some ladies with a dog. They ask the dog's "mommy" if they can pet him. The ladies look somewhere in the early to mid 70s and like they've been best friends through many a storm. There is a wisdom and ease with which they carry themselves and a genuineness that is rare to find. As her father's daughter, Em starts a conversation that leads to a grown up conversation with Todd and me. Doug and his coffee appear somewhere in the midst of this new conversation and the kids, Doug and I take off down the street towards a park. Todd is still chatting, and Doug and I are chatting. No big deal. It's small and slightly irrelevant conversations-- where's home? how long have you been here? what does your wife do?
By the time our coffee date with Doug is over, he gives me a hug, a proper hug and says, "Give me a call, day or night, if you need anything. And send me a message about the house hunt, I'd love to help you out." The thing is, he means it, and my heart is eternally grateful because he's BEEN there, he's DONE that, and to have someone to ask about it all, it's just sits well in your soul.
On the ride home, Todd sends his new girlfriends an email, then googles her, only to find out that she (who loved the kids names and knew each author, which never happens) is an award-winning poet. She volunteers in the local schools teaching poetry and is an acclaimed psychologist. She and Todd had spoken briefly about the store he's opening, the concept, how it all came about and why it's bringing our family to Berkeley. This morning Todd gets a message from her asking after sheets, because if his store will sell them, she'll wait until August.
The point of this story is to reveal, in some small part, our hearts. We've always been "mission minded" (or some might say global-minded) but our missional living has been the thing that has brought us the most joy. Todd and I have both come to realize that if we genuinely interact with people and relevantly invite them into our lives, our mess, we are better people for knowing them... and maybe, just maybe, they're better for knowing us. We found in South Africa that our hearts would come alive from interactions with PEOPLE, so we met and interacted with a lot of people, from different races, ethnic backgrounds, economic levels with a diversity of education. There was a 'right'ness we felt in those interactions, with people of our own faith and people who weren't. In some ways, that tired old line from Jerry Maguire is true: You complete me. Only for us, we found that "you" was broad and included many, many people because in big and small ways, each of those people have shown us a new picture of our Creator, and even if they didn't mean to, I'm so thankful for each snapshot.
I'm still heart-sick about being here and not there, both physically and metaphorically. I'm sad that I'm needing to navigate schools for Em and that she has completely missed, in it's entirety, kindergarten/grade 0. (Seriously, think about it- no "first day" pictures, no graduation at the end, no proper opening or closing of this section of childhood, this opening of educational doors... no transition for her, and nothing for her mama to help find some footing, ease into this new world of "big school.") At the same time, I'm thrilled to see my husband with that fire in his eyes, that hitch in his giddy-up about life because it's been a long time. So to the nuts and bolts. There's a terribly long and fabulous story about how and when and where, but Todd connected with the owner of a company (Urban Mattress) and is opening a store in Berkeley, California. They signed the lease agreement on a store in a great location last week. We're still trying to figure out how to open a small business and move to a highly competitive housing market and enroll Em in school all before August 1... among other things. But first and foremost, we're extremely grateful to have a job, have a trajectory in life that fits with our hearts and are praying for a place to lay down our heads... on our own sheets... with our own towels, even if that's on a floor in some rental in a new city we haven't yet discovered the wonders of.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Warmth and High Cholesterol
I pitched up (aka attended), two kids in tow, with a sweet, strawberry jam roll with unrefined sugar on top. I'd made it three times because I hadn't yet figured out centigrade or my oven or the high altitude. I'd made it three times because the first wasn't "pretty" enough and the second had caramelized jam making the edges sticky. I'd made it three times because I was scared and this dish was my safety blanket, my soothing balm, my excuse for being an outsider. It smelled of warmth and high cholesterol, therapy and desperation.
That was then...
I was baking with the older two kids earlier. I needed something to be right in the world and the kitchen was the surest place to find it. As Em was mixing in the cinnamon and allspice to our oatmeal cookies she looked up at me and commented that the mixture smelled like home, smelled like South Africa. I agreed. I usually had a pot simmering on the stove with cinnamon sticks, allspice, and cloves. Then, in all the seriousness a 5-year old with the soul of a 76 year-old former Hollywood starlet can muster, she said, "Mommy, our home in South Africa was wonderful because you made it lovely." I asked her what she meant by that and her response made my knees buckle. "I mean that you always made the home smell lovely, you made the things inside lovely and we had lovely friends in South Africa."
Over the years, I've done food for friends... a lot of friends. I've baked for gatherings and teas, birthday parties and backyard braais. I've cooked for new babies, family losses, and no reason at all other than it's a Tuesday and no one wants to make dinner on a Tuesday. Food is my default language. It's my offering of peace or friendship or ignorance or assistance and my way to scream at disparity or discomfort or loss. It's my Song of the South and my language of love. It's my poetry that says that life, like food, is meant to be full-bodied, decadent, savored, enjoyed and gulped down so that you can shove more in before you get too full and have to stop.
This is now...
So I walked that strawberry jam roll into the group of women that I barely remembered from the previous meeting, praying that it would be accepted as the peace offering it was. Because I needed those women to like me. I needed them to be my friends. I needed reassurance that being an outsider was okay as long as they liked my food, because then something would still make sense. Something like food or friendship or familiarity.
That was then...
I was baking with the older two kids earlier. I needed something to be right in the world and the kitchen was the surest place to find it. As Em was mixing in the cinnamon and allspice to our oatmeal cookies she looked up at me and commented that the mixture smelled like home, smelled like South Africa. I agreed. I usually had a pot simmering on the stove with cinnamon sticks, allspice, and cloves. Then, in all the seriousness a 5-year old with the soul of a 76 year-old former Hollywood starlet can muster, she said, "Mommy, our home in South Africa was wonderful because you made it lovely." I asked her what she meant by that and her response made my knees buckle. "I mean that you always made the home smell lovely, you made the things inside lovely and we had lovely friends in South Africa."
Over the years, I've done food for friends... a lot of friends. I've baked for gatherings and teas, birthday parties and backyard braais. I've cooked for new babies, family losses, and no reason at all other than it's a Tuesday and no one wants to make dinner on a Tuesday. Food is my default language. It's my offering of peace or friendship or ignorance or assistance and my way to scream at disparity or discomfort or loss. It's my Song of the South and my language of love. It's my poetry that says that life, like food, is meant to be full-bodied, decadent, savored, enjoyed and gulped down so that you can shove more in before you get too full and have to stop.
This is now...
So I walked that strawberry jam roll into the group of women that I barely remembered from the previous meeting, praying that it would be accepted as the peace offering it was. Because I needed those women to like me. I needed them to be my friends. I needed reassurance that being an outsider was okay as long as they liked my food, because then something would still make sense. Something like food or friendship or familiarity.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Details
I've been asked a number of times over the last few days/weeks what we're doing and where in the world we are. So here are some details...
We finished our time in Denver with a truly gifted counselor who is absolutely a God-gifted man that spoke prophetic words into our hearts, words we desperately needed to hear but didn't realize it at the time. He connected us with a potential (a very strong potential) for a job but that will take a few months and a SERIOUS amount of God's leading and direction in the details of it all. We came back from Denver in time for an engagement party for one of my dearest and oldest friends in the world. It was such a great time of fellowship. It was one of the few times we've gotten to "live life" with friends and family in a long time. We've missed so many babies, so many weddings, so many funerals and so many birthdays, it was a true blessing to be there, be celebrating with the couple, be loving on them in a very real, very physical way.
The next day, Todd left for Haiti. He was gone a little over a week on a short-term mission trip. A former pastor and dear friend had a spot open up and he called Todd up to ask if he would join the team. About 26 people went and Todd really enjoyed the time. Time away from the kids to process our two weeks in Denver, time to remember what face-to-face service can look like, time to sort of get 'back to his roots' and all in the company of good friends, new and old. He was due to come back in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. The Saturday before, while he was still away, a good friend phoned me up at my parent's house.
I've known Bill and Connie for about as long as I can remember. They have been mainstays in my childhood church and somewhere in my teens/early 20s, Connie and I became true friends. A few years back, Todd and I might have hypothetically started a chain of events that would eventually lead to Bill and Connie spending nearly 8 months in Madagascar for some missionaries who were on furlough. A few years later, they did it again. That Saturday, Connie and Bill were furiously preparing for yet another trip to Madagascar, this time for 5 months. They were due to leave Tuesday, just hours before Todd would get back. The phone call was because they thought it over and wanted to offer the Leslie Zoo their house while they were gone. It took a bit to get connected with Todd but the decision was made to take the offer, rather than drive back to Pennsylvania (and all our stuff) because there really was no point. We could be hunting for jobs out there, or hunting for jobs in Auburn, California with ease.
We're still reeling a bit from it all. We came out West with a week's worth of clothing for each of us packed, because we had every intention of being back to our temporary 'base' in Pennsylvania by early March. There's been a bit of scrambling, and still, to some degree, there is more to come of finding some temporary items. But my fabulous cousin lent us a high chair and my mom lent us her pack-n-play. Everyone seems to have an overflow of toys and books, so we never hurt for either. The kids are all situated in beds and are truly loving Connie's soaking tub. The four of them were a tight squeeze in a regular tub but they insisted on all being together, and at least for now, the problem seems to be solved. Tonight at dinner, after an afternoon celebrating my second cousin's 8th birthday (can you follow that one?) 9 deer pranced across the front of the house. It was one of those moments where you breath a heart-felt "thank you" heavenward. We're still not 'settled', we still don't have a job per-say, still have no idea what the next year will hold, but for the moment, at least, we're here, trying to find some footing and doing the best we can to move forward in what feels like a very thick mud of waiting.
Some details we know. We'll be in Auburn (barring a move to a permanent location) until about July. That means we'll be around for 3 Leslie family birthdays, 5 family birthdays, and (hopefully) two second cousins' birth days. Some details we still don't know... like a job or address or permanent housing or school to register Em for the upcoming school year. For now at least, we're doing well. We're trying to find a rhythm, trying to get back into the groove of being a family on our own terms. We may not have our own things yet, but I brought my blue pot, I've got car seats in the mini van, and the rest, we can sort out as it comes I guess.
Thanks for asking. Thanks for making us feel loved and cared for. Thanks for not forgetting that this is seriously one of the hardest things we've ever done, each step being a massive step of faith. Thanks also, for not expecting us to be "normal" or have things sorted and settled "by now." This timing is not my idea, it's not my ideal, but we know we're doing this exactly as we should be, in His timing, and because of that, we have confidence. So very often these days I find myself singing that song from The Sound of Music (the movie, not the musical because the musical version didn't originally include the song) when Maria has left the Abby and is going to the Von Trap family house and trying to convince herself she'll be wonderful, she'll do great, and above all, that she knows she's up to the task before her. I take great comfort in the wisdom of the songwriter because she does do wonderfully, she is great, and she is more than adequate for the task at hand.
Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack
The courage to serve them with reliance
Face my mistakes without defiance
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me
So, let them bring on all their problems
I'll do better than my best
I have confidence they'll put me to the test
But I'll make them see I have confidence in me
...
I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me
Strength doesn't lie in numbers
Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!
It tells me all I trust I lead my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone
We finished our time in Denver with a truly gifted counselor who is absolutely a God-gifted man that spoke prophetic words into our hearts, words we desperately needed to hear but didn't realize it at the time. He connected us with a potential (a very strong potential) for a job but that will take a few months and a SERIOUS amount of God's leading and direction in the details of it all. We came back from Denver in time for an engagement party for one of my dearest and oldest friends in the world. It was such a great time of fellowship. It was one of the few times we've gotten to "live life" with friends and family in a long time. We've missed so many babies, so many weddings, so many funerals and so many birthdays, it was a true blessing to be there, be celebrating with the couple, be loving on them in a very real, very physical way.
The next day, Todd left for Haiti. He was gone a little over a week on a short-term mission trip. A former pastor and dear friend had a spot open up and he called Todd up to ask if he would join the team. About 26 people went and Todd really enjoyed the time. Time away from the kids to process our two weeks in Denver, time to remember what face-to-face service can look like, time to sort of get 'back to his roots' and all in the company of good friends, new and old. He was due to come back in the middle of the night on a Tuesday. The Saturday before, while he was still away, a good friend phoned me up at my parent's house.
I've known Bill and Connie for about as long as I can remember. They have been mainstays in my childhood church and somewhere in my teens/early 20s, Connie and I became true friends. A few years back, Todd and I might have hypothetically started a chain of events that would eventually lead to Bill and Connie spending nearly 8 months in Madagascar for some missionaries who were on furlough. A few years later, they did it again. That Saturday, Connie and Bill were furiously preparing for yet another trip to Madagascar, this time for 5 months. They were due to leave Tuesday, just hours before Todd would get back. The phone call was because they thought it over and wanted to offer the Leslie Zoo their house while they were gone. It took a bit to get connected with Todd but the decision was made to take the offer, rather than drive back to Pennsylvania (and all our stuff) because there really was no point. We could be hunting for jobs out there, or hunting for jobs in Auburn, California with ease.
We're still reeling a bit from it all. We came out West with a week's worth of clothing for each of us packed, because we had every intention of being back to our temporary 'base' in Pennsylvania by early March. There's been a bit of scrambling, and still, to some degree, there is more to come of finding some temporary items. But my fabulous cousin lent us a high chair and my mom lent us her pack-n-play. Everyone seems to have an overflow of toys and books, so we never hurt for either. The kids are all situated in beds and are truly loving Connie's soaking tub. The four of them were a tight squeeze in a regular tub but they insisted on all being together, and at least for now, the problem seems to be solved. Tonight at dinner, after an afternoon celebrating my second cousin's 8th birthday (can you follow that one?) 9 deer pranced across the front of the house. It was one of those moments where you breath a heart-felt "thank you" heavenward. We're still not 'settled', we still don't have a job per-say, still have no idea what the next year will hold, but for the moment, at least, we're here, trying to find some footing and doing the best we can to move forward in what feels like a very thick mud of waiting.
Some details we know. We'll be in Auburn (barring a move to a permanent location) until about July. That means we'll be around for 3 Leslie family birthdays, 5 family birthdays, and (hopefully) two second cousins' birth days. Some details we still don't know... like a job or address or permanent housing or school to register Em for the upcoming school year. For now at least, we're doing well. We're trying to find a rhythm, trying to get back into the groove of being a family on our own terms. We may not have our own things yet, but I brought my blue pot, I've got car seats in the mini van, and the rest, we can sort out as it comes I guess.
Thanks for asking. Thanks for making us feel loved and cared for. Thanks for not forgetting that this is seriously one of the hardest things we've ever done, each step being a massive step of faith. Thanks also, for not expecting us to be "normal" or have things sorted and settled "by now." This timing is not my idea, it's not my ideal, but we know we're doing this exactly as we should be, in His timing, and because of that, we have confidence. So very often these days I find myself singing that song from The Sound of Music (the movie, not the musical because the musical version didn't originally include the song) when Maria has left the Abby and is going to the Von Trap family house and trying to convince herself she'll be wonderful, she'll do great, and above all, that she knows she's up to the task before her. I take great comfort in the wisdom of the songwriter because she does do wonderfully, she is great, and she is more than adequate for the task at hand.
Oh, I must stop these doubts, all these worries
If I don't I just know I'll turn back
I must dream of the things I am seeking
I am seeking the courage I lack
The courage to serve them with reliance
Face my mistakes without defiance
Show them I'm worthy
And while I show them
I'll show me
So, let them bring on all their problems
I'll do better than my best
I have confidence they'll put me to the test
But I'll make them see I have confidence in me
...
I have confidence in sunshine
I have confidence in rain
I have confidence that spring will come again
Besides which you see I have confidence in me
Strength doesn't lie in numbers
Strength doesn't lie in wealth
Strength lies in nights of peaceful slumbers
When you wake up -- Wake Up!
It tells me all I trust I lead my heart to
All I trust becomes my own
I have confidence in confidence alone
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Sheets... and Home Smells
About two weeks ago now, my parents' phone rang later in the evening. Todd was in Haiti on a Work and Witness team with a friend and pastor from South Carolina. I was busy trying to forget the day and how sub-par I'd been as a parent. I was wallowing in homesickness and sleep deprivation when the phone was handed to me. I tried really hard to understand what was being said because the friend on the other end of the line, I thought, had just offered me her house. Part of me was instantly sick because I immediately thought of the thousands of ways my children would ruin her beautifully kept home. The other part of me was relieved that we might actually know where we would be washing our clothes for longer than two weeks. Gypsy life isn't for everyone and I'm certain it's most definitely not for me. I relish washing my sheets in my laundry detergent and hanging them on my washing line. I love making my beds just right and tucking my babes in to the sheets I've worked so hard with for just that particular moment when they snuggle down, put their arms under the covers, and smell the sweet freshness of momma's hard work. I've been deeply missing that moment of domestic accomplishment because, as I've been realizing more and more, I love my family through small, finite measures of hard work that go mostly unseen.
I distinctly remember the time period after Todd and I got engaged but before we were married when I felt like a kid in a candy store. I wasn’t giddy about bridal dress shopping but because we got to go into stores and were handed what I might consider the world’s BEST toy: the registry gun.
Now some might argue that it’s great until you don’t get something you really wanted, but I beg to differ. My opinion is that you use that thing so much, and on so many different things, that you completely forget 90% of what you shoot with that gun because you can point-and-scan anything. Two different sets of 4 glass ramekins? Yes, they look pretty and I like them both (totally didn’t cross my mind that I may want to, oh I don’t know, STACK them someday). Three different types of cream colored towels? Cream is a neutral so they’ll match anything (and will show ALL the dirty, skuzzy, grim that builds up rather quickly when you’re coaching soccer).
The one thing I do think I managed to get right, by the grace of a wonderful friend who had the foresight to see the issues in my registry and took it upon herself to get what she knew I NEEDED and not what I thought was “pretty” at the moment, was sheets (just like Polly and Kim who knew that EVERY woman, married or not, NEEDS a crock-pot and recipe book for it- bless you!). Just before our wedding, I was given a set of towels and a set of sheets for my bridal shower. After the shower, I was pulled aside and told that I had made a few mistakes and to listen to someone who’s “been there.” Problem number one; I hadn’t registered for sheets. When I protested this saying that Todd already had hand-me-downs from his parents, I was led to point number two; nothing makes you feel more grown-up and good than a NICE pair of clean sheets that YOU think are wonderful and decadent. Three; thread-count matters and no college hand-me-downs would ever have more than a 300 thread-count. She then opened the packaging of the most gorgeous white sheets I’d ever seen outside of a really nice hotel and shoved my hand directly into the middle of them. I tell you what, for a tactile person like me, you’d have thought I just discovered the most luxurious fleece straight from the dryer on a cold winter’s night. I don't recall exactly what they were, and looking back they had to be no less than 1,000,000 thread-count of Egyptian something-or-other, but all I knew was that I was NEVER letting them go!
The only thing no one warned me about was how bruised and battered sheets can get over the years. Also, that once you’ve had soft and silky, it’s hard to go back. Not impossible, but hard. Sadly, we were in South Africa less than 6 months when another wedding sheet set ripped (irreparably). Then one night Todd and I were going to bed when we heard a noise that broke my heart a little… tell-tale ripping. Sure enough, upon inspection, our beautiful white sheets had not one but 3 holes and 4 spots the size of a small pillow that would tear in the next wash or two.
I was sad. Very, very sad. Those sheets had seen us through half a decade and 5 moves. They’ve snuggled my first two babies and washed so easily when my babies weren’t too nice. They served as the backdrop to all my at-home-wanna-be-professional portraits of Em and Coop. Em loved when I pull them straight from the dryer and snuggle her in them on the couch. After the nostalgia and lethargy from losing my sheets wore off, I decided I was going to make something useful, and came up with a super-cute Christmas dress for Em.
That was two babies ago and tonight, for some reason as I'm sitting in a massive blessing in the form of an actual house where all four of my babes are sleeping in a bed, I'm reminded that once again, I'm still emotionally tied to my sheets. I'm tied to that part of me that wants to settle in to the smell of home. I miss it. My heart longs for the day when my child snuggles down and buries their face into sheets and says, "I smell the spring in my bed Mommy!" I'm so glad to be in a house, able to wash dishes at my leisure, but deep down, I know it's only temporary. I know this stage of transition isn't over and part of me wishes I could just take a nap for the next 18 months because I just want to fast forward to wash day as I'm hanging up my sheets, knowing that night, I'll be able to snuggle down into them and smell the smell of wash day, the smell of momma work, the smell of home.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Fake It Til You Make It
I was walking through my favorite South African grocery store (Woolworths for those that care) a few years back for some true necessity. Because of this domestic emergency, I dragged myself out of the house when all I wanted to do was call it a day at 2pm and go to bed. And in that shop, my child, who had been making me daydream of torture, because that would be so much more enjoyable than dealing with her, turned on all her fabulous charms and managed to have no less than five strangers come over and tell me how well behaved she was and how sweet she looked. It was in that maddening moment of wanting to scream at some previously unknown granny-type "Do you know that the Devil incarnates that child and did so no less than ten minutes ago!?!?" The elderly woman gave me a sweet smile as she picked Em up out of the shopping trolley it clicked in my head that sometimes I need to gain a different perspective of my circumstances. This child, who could beguile strangers with just a sweet-faced wave of her pudgy little hand, who made me properly understand the motivations behind the need for a 'mommy time-out' was really trying to conduct her own special symphony. Her symphony could sometimes feel like a noise specifically calibrated to drive me to the brink of madness, but in the smile of this stranger, I saw the reminder that her life was actually an artfully orchestrated masterpiece.
I learned long ago that when I get to those areas nearest my breaking point, if I'm not in a public place, I need to get to one. Not because I'm going to harm my children, but because they are my children, and thus can get people in said public place to remind me, much like the granny in the shopping center, that my children are wonderful, that I always love them, mostly like them, and do in fact want to keep them 100% of the time.
Those facts bring us to the present. We recently drove a 12 hour road-trip in an incredibly efficient 15 hours. This had to do with many circumstances but it mostly had to do with the fact that (many) people had to use the toilet (mostly 30 minutes after the last sibling cared for their desperate need) … and wanted to wiggle their toes (on, near, and at someone else)… which all was irritating me (beyond belief!), and therefore I needed a Starbucks intervention, creating yet another stop. We finally arrived, unloaded kids, laundry baskets of dirty clothes, and a one-year old who decided to start cutting a tooth in this cacophony of madness.
Which brings us to the day-after. I was running on 4 hours of interrupted sleep with a clingy baby whom I didn't particularly like and by 8am it was clear: today was an "in public" kind of day. As I was pushing the shopping cart through the endless aisles of Target with a babe on my back, another in the cart, two fidgeting on the sides, and all that they were doing literally driving me crazy, a thought went through my head: "Where is my sweet old lady to remind me I love these hooligans!?!"
I think I, like so many of my peers, have been fed this lie that motherhood is something it's not... or at least something it isn't all the time. My third child, no matter the clothes, always tends to look like she stuck her finger in an electrical outlet and simultaneously robbing the entire missionary donation barrel. No joke. She is not the picture of a sweet, pristine white-shirt clad child diligently asking for more broccoli please. She's a mess, mostly emotionally, and always irrational. Somewhere along the line I was tricked into thinking that the pictures framed and matted in the family home or posted online were true representations of LIFE. No one tells you about the amount of effort and stress and crying that went into that one singular picture. Because at the end of it all, no one is coming along side you saying, "this is your best lighting over here," or "hey, your kid's bone structure is more compatible with natural scenery." We each have to find our way. And we each have to find our kids. I have to open my eyes and tune myself in such a way that I play the background music of their lives not to MY tune, MY pitch but to theirs, so that they can be the absolute, very best to perform in the music of their life.
My children recently have started spitting back phrases we've said a thousand times, but I'm suddenly hearing it from the other side. Phrases like, "I don't need this Mommy, I just want it." Things I've said over the years in an attempt to help us distinguish between the necessities of life and the wants of the moment and yet, here are my children repeating it back to me when they see a toy that's shinny and sparkly and pink. I sometimes forget they're watching. I sometimes forget that my intentionality (or lack thereof) and my generosity makes all the difference. I forget that my children need to hear me say, while looking into their eyes, that I love them and that my love is not conditional on my mood or my schedule. I forget that I have to take the time to snuggle with the poky and boney and incredibly wiggly 5 year-old as much as the snuggly and squishy baby-fat-of-a-sleeping-one-year-old.
So I'm standing in Target, trying to process the crunch of Gold Fish cracker under my feet and wonder if it's a moral obligation to find some way of stopping our little parade to pick up the broken orange fish because it was my kid, after-all, who had dropped said cracker while trying to give it to her littlest sister who can't see her but instinctively knows that there are three crinkling bags of wonderfulness that she is missing out on. I stop the cart, nearly in tears because this zoo of mine can feel very, very large sometimes. I take three deep breaths, hunt down the wipes and fake my way through a good parenting moment while squatting to redeem my broken, golden prize... Harper, how wonderful of you to share with your little sister! Great job sharing my girl! Next time, tell Mommy and I'll make sure to stop so Zora can see you and the cracker you were wanting to give her, okay? And then, it happens. A bustling, hurried Target employee blazes past us and stops. In my head I'm thinking, there's no way we accidentally stole something because we haven't left the building yet (yes, it's happened). But, bless her heart, she stops and turns to the three kids she sees saying, as if on cue, how precious they are and how well behaved they are and how lucky their mamma is because they are such sweet little things.
Thank you Jesus. Thank you for reminding me that I'm going to make mistakes, thousands of them. I'm going to mess these babes up because I'm their mamma and I've got issues. But thank you that when I'm at the end, cleaning up smashed Gold Fish crackers and trying to 'fake it till I make it' at parenting, that you love my babes through grannies in Woolworths... through Target... through unexpected places... like me.
I learned long ago that when I get to those areas nearest my breaking point, if I'm not in a public place, I need to get to one. Not because I'm going to harm my children, but because they are my children, and thus can get people in said public place to remind me, much like the granny in the shopping center, that my children are wonderful, that I always love them, mostly like them, and do in fact want to keep them 100% of the time.
Those facts bring us to the present. We recently drove a 12 hour road-trip in an incredibly efficient 15 hours. This had to do with many circumstances but it mostly had to do with the fact that (many) people had to use the toilet (mostly 30 minutes after the last sibling cared for their desperate need) … and wanted to wiggle their toes (on, near, and at someone else)… which all was irritating me (beyond belief!), and therefore I needed a Starbucks intervention, creating yet another stop. We finally arrived, unloaded kids, laundry baskets of dirty clothes, and a one-year old who decided to start cutting a tooth in this cacophony of madness.
Which brings us to the day-after. I was running on 4 hours of interrupted sleep with a clingy baby whom I didn't particularly like and by 8am it was clear: today was an "in public" kind of day. As I was pushing the shopping cart through the endless aisles of Target with a babe on my back, another in the cart, two fidgeting on the sides, and all that they were doing literally driving me crazy, a thought went through my head: "Where is my sweet old lady to remind me I love these hooligans!?!"
I think I, like so many of my peers, have been fed this lie that motherhood is something it's not... or at least something it isn't all the time. My third child, no matter the clothes, always tends to look like she stuck her finger in an electrical outlet and simultaneously robbing the entire missionary donation barrel. No joke. She is not the picture of a sweet, pristine white-shirt clad child diligently asking for more broccoli please. She's a mess, mostly emotionally, and always irrational. Somewhere along the line I was tricked into thinking that the pictures framed and matted in the family home or posted online were true representations of LIFE. No one tells you about the amount of effort and stress and crying that went into that one singular picture. Because at the end of it all, no one is coming along side you saying, "this is your best lighting over here," or "hey, your kid's bone structure is more compatible with natural scenery." We each have to find our way. And we each have to find our kids. I have to open my eyes and tune myself in such a way that I play the background music of their lives not to MY tune, MY pitch but to theirs, so that they can be the absolute, very best to perform in the music of their life.
My children recently have started spitting back phrases we've said a thousand times, but I'm suddenly hearing it from the other side. Phrases like, "I don't need this Mommy, I just want it." Things I've said over the years in an attempt to help us distinguish between the necessities of life and the wants of the moment and yet, here are my children repeating it back to me when they see a toy that's shinny and sparkly and pink. I sometimes forget they're watching. I sometimes forget that my intentionality (or lack thereof) and my generosity makes all the difference. I forget that my children need to hear me say, while looking into their eyes, that I love them and that my love is not conditional on my mood or my schedule. I forget that I have to take the time to snuggle with the poky and boney and incredibly wiggly 5 year-old as much as the snuggly and squishy baby-fat-of-a-sleeping-one-year-old.
So I'm standing in Target, trying to process the crunch of Gold Fish cracker under my feet and wonder if it's a moral obligation to find some way of stopping our little parade to pick up the broken orange fish because it was my kid, after-all, who had dropped said cracker while trying to give it to her littlest sister who can't see her but instinctively knows that there are three crinkling bags of wonderfulness that she is missing out on. I stop the cart, nearly in tears because this zoo of mine can feel very, very large sometimes. I take three deep breaths, hunt down the wipes and fake my way through a good parenting moment while squatting to redeem my broken, golden prize... Harper, how wonderful of you to share with your little sister! Great job sharing my girl! Next time, tell Mommy and I'll make sure to stop so Zora can see you and the cracker you were wanting to give her, okay? And then, it happens. A bustling, hurried Target employee blazes past us and stops. In my head I'm thinking, there's no way we accidentally stole something because we haven't left the building yet (yes, it's happened). But, bless her heart, she stops and turns to the three kids she sees saying, as if on cue, how precious they are and how well behaved they are and how lucky their mamma is because they are such sweet little things.
Thank you Jesus. Thank you for reminding me that I'm going to make mistakes, thousands of them. I'm going to mess these babes up because I'm their mamma and I've got issues. But thank you that when I'm at the end, cleaning up smashed Gold Fish crackers and trying to 'fake it till I make it' at parenting, that you love my babes through grannies in Woolworths... through Target... through unexpected places... like me.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Center of the Compass
I learned a long, long time ago on a primary school playground that the phrases people teach you to deal with life aren't always true. I remember being told:
Sticks and stones
May break your bones
But words will never hurt you
It's not true, words can hurt immensely more than a broken finger or wrist. And I'm finding myself putting the same skeptical wisdom to the adage: Home is where the heart is. I'm sure I can eventually make that true, but I'm finding it extremely difficult at the moment because I simply feel lost.
So I write.
I feel quiet.
So I write.
I feel frustrated at some unknown and unnamed dark shadow lurking in the corners.
So I write.
This blog is simply me trying to work through something. Me trying to put the world right again after the storms of life. Sometimes I feel like my life, my heart more accurately, looks like those pictures of natural disaster devastation where a woman in her bathrobe is picking through her flattened house trying to find something familiar, something important. Nothing seems to be where I left it. No relationship has been untouched by the last 10 years of life.
And so... I write.
I write uncensored and from my bones. I used to write to deal with little things, small frustrations and a bit of perspective. Those writings had lots of pictures. These days, I find there are fewer pictures, more tears. I'm not writing out to anyone in particular. I'm writing to my own heart, my own reflection, as if this blog was turned into a representative mirror so I can see myself clearly. I need to get these things out, but I'm not saying that to anything or about anyone in particular. It is often true that something will happen to spark a thought that takes me down a rabbit trail. A conversation. A song. A poem. A play. It's me processing, sometimes things I've been holding on to for years. Todd doesn't understand how it can take me days, weeks, or years to deal with things. I'm slow like that. I don't forget, I'm not vindictively holding on to things to be later used as ammunition against someone. I just simply am slow to process, slow to excite, slow to action because... it works for me. I'm trying rather desperately in each piece to be at peace in my own skin, at home in my own heart.
Sticks and stones
May break your bones
But words will never hurt you
It's not true, words can hurt immensely more than a broken finger or wrist. And I'm finding myself putting the same skeptical wisdom to the adage: Home is where the heart is. I'm sure I can eventually make that true, but I'm finding it extremely difficult at the moment because I simply feel lost.
So I write.
I feel quiet.
So I write.
I feel frustrated at some unknown and unnamed dark shadow lurking in the corners.
So I write.
This blog is simply me trying to work through something. Me trying to put the world right again after the storms of life. Sometimes I feel like my life, my heart more accurately, looks like those pictures of natural disaster devastation where a woman in her bathrobe is picking through her flattened house trying to find something familiar, something important. Nothing seems to be where I left it. No relationship has been untouched by the last 10 years of life.
And so... I write.
I write uncensored and from my bones. I used to write to deal with little things, small frustrations and a bit of perspective. Those writings had lots of pictures. These days, I find there are fewer pictures, more tears. I'm not writing out to anyone in particular. I'm writing to my own heart, my own reflection, as if this blog was turned into a representative mirror so I can see myself clearly. I need to get these things out, but I'm not saying that to anything or about anyone in particular. It is often true that something will happen to spark a thought that takes me down a rabbit trail. A conversation. A song. A poem. A play. It's me processing, sometimes things I've been holding on to for years. Todd doesn't understand how it can take me days, weeks, or years to deal with things. I'm slow like that. I don't forget, I'm not vindictively holding on to things to be later used as ammunition against someone. I just simply am slow to process, slow to excite, slow to action because... it works for me. I'm trying rather desperately in each piece to be at peace in my own skin, at home in my own heart.
Home is not simply a mark on a map anymore than a river is just water. It is the place at the center of the compass from which every arrow radiates and where the heart is fixed. It is a force that forever draws us back or lures us on. For where the home is, there lies hope and the future waits and everything is possible.
-Call the Midwife (Season 2, Episode 7)
I'm searching for the very center of my compass. That point from which everything, every other interaction can be drawn back to. I was looking before we went to Africa. I'll be looking long after I've moved into a home in the U.S. because I think that the pursuit of that one truth that holds all together will be the journey of my life... the adventurous story of me. I know some may try to flippantly and casually say that the fixed point is Jesus Christ. I think that's true but I'm not talking about knowing in my head the Truth of my Savior. I'm seeking to find Him and how He works and moves in my life through each interaction, each conversation, each book I read. Because as long as I keep pursuing, keep processing, keep seeking, I'll keep finding... and each discovery is such a wonderful love song to my soul, such an anointing oil to my spirit that I can't just sit back and live like I can be satisfied to simply know. I need to feel, in my marrow and down to my toes that Christ is the center of my compass... that He's my heart... that He really is my home.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
This is the Way Everywhere
I was hunting for a towel to stop my screaming babe from, well, screaming. In the five years I lived in South Africa, I startled, scared, and was reprimanded for 'wearing' my children on my back. In the US, it's an odd costume, not because people think it's wrong per say, but because most of the moms who buy baby carriers never figure out how to put said baby anywhere but on their front. My belly soon got in the way of that. And I saw. I saw these women, everywhere putting children, big and teeny tiny on their backs with towels. They did this in cold and rain, they did it in the heat of summer. So, I braved embarrassment and judgement in the middle of the Apartheid Museum when Em was still so small. I asked someone who knew how to put a kid on her back and said, "teach me." I'm not sure Sister Jos would remember that moment, but it was a poignant moment in my parenting journey.
In that moment, I realized that this is what mothers everywhere do. Not really strapping babes to their body so that they can go about their work. Every culture throughout the world has some way of doing this. But more than that, mothers across the globe get stuck with some momentary dilemma, like how to get a baby to sleep in the middle of the Apartheid Museum, and they figure out a way to make it right. This is the way of motherhood. We stumble, we get overwhelmed, then we find a way. Our way. Some way out. Out of the sleep deprivation. Out of our daughters desperate need for sparkly-sandals-in-the-middle-of-winter battle. Out of the I-refuse-to-brush-my-teeth moment. Out of the days when laundry and chores, kids and homework threaten to swallow us whole.
I feel there. Like a thousand small things are going to swallow me whole. The insistent questions of "when am I going to go back to school" and "what are we going to do today" are going to be the end of me. My heart is pulling. Edges are wearing. It is hard, so very, very hard to see the fraying edges on my children. I wear Big Girl Shoes so I can deal with the fall out of everything that has happened in the last two months. Two months. That's all it's been. Two.
My kids, though, are little. They understand but don't understand why. They don't understand what's going on and frankly, they will most likely never understand what has happened. I know that kids are resilient. I know they're young. I know they'll be just fine. But this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
We worry. We worry before they're born. Am I the right person for this child? Am I prepared for the task at hand? How is this going to change me? Change my relationships? What if I mess this up? What if they blame me for... This is the way of motherhood everywhere.
We protect... some more than others but we chose the things we feel are important. Don't touch the hot stove. Don't eat food you may choke on. Don't walk near moving cars by yourself. Don't say foul words. This is the way of motherhood, everywhere.
I fear I've ruined everything. My kids went from a normal, stable situation to instability and upheaval. Todd and I can't seem to find up from down, east from west right now. And really, what's the point of moving when you don't know which direction to move? So we've been standing in our own footsteps, trying to find a point of reference, gain some bearings. I don't think God has been quiet so much as I've just been trying to quiet the loud voices inside my own head, in my own heart. There are moments in motherhood when we listen to the wrong voices. The voices that say we're not good enough, not patient enough, not kind enough, or working too much. The voice that says to put the sleeping baby down because a floor needs to be scrubbed or the voice that says you're a horrible mother for going to work. The voice that says you're a terrible mother for not having it all together or the voice that says you're not doing enough. It's an insidious voice and a voice that persists, a lot. One I have listened to too often in this mothering journey.
The one I listen to because I forget. I forget that The Voice that spoke the universe into being also looked at me and said YOU ARE GOOD. I forget that The Voice that spoke the first Love and Light into the world also spoke love and light into my heart. The Voice that calls me to show that same Love, that same Light to my children. I've forgotten that in the past few weeks, and I've lost my mothering way... again. And I feel like even here I can claim that this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
I'm not the only one who has felt lost, alone, without someone who understands. I'm not the only one who is up at zero dark-thirty because I forgot to listen to Truth and started listening to the lies that plague mothers everywhere. So here, in these footprints of uncertainty, with doubts and worries all around, I'm reaching out in the darkness because I know there will be a hand next to me of the mother with her new baby thinking that she's overfeeding or underfeeding her baby, that she's ruined her child's life (and her's) because her 17 month old is still not sleeping, that her four year old will never forgive her for having another baby or the mom who isn't sure she is a mom because she has no babe in her arms. This is the way of motherhood everywhere. We hold on to Truth, even if its nameless, faceless hope from generations past, present, or future because this job is huge. This job we face is monumental and it's bigger than age, race, ethnicity, language, creed or situation. But we hold on, for our children, for us, for the very fabric of our souls because we know the Truth. The One who gave us these kids loves them more than we do, He cares for them better than we ever could, and He gave them to us to teach us, instruct us, and mold us into better, wiser people. Because this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
In that moment, I realized that this is what mothers everywhere do. Not really strapping babes to their body so that they can go about their work. Every culture throughout the world has some way of doing this. But more than that, mothers across the globe get stuck with some momentary dilemma, like how to get a baby to sleep in the middle of the Apartheid Museum, and they figure out a way to make it right. This is the way of motherhood. We stumble, we get overwhelmed, then we find a way. Our way. Some way out. Out of the sleep deprivation. Out of our daughters desperate need for sparkly-sandals-in-the-middle-of-winter battle. Out of the I-refuse-to-brush-my-teeth moment. Out of the days when laundry and chores, kids and homework threaten to swallow us whole.
I feel there. Like a thousand small things are going to swallow me whole. The insistent questions of "when am I going to go back to school" and "what are we going to do today" are going to be the end of me. My heart is pulling. Edges are wearing. It is hard, so very, very hard to see the fraying edges on my children. I wear Big Girl Shoes so I can deal with the fall out of everything that has happened in the last two months. Two months. That's all it's been. Two.
All four ready for the first of three flights to get us back to the US of A.
My kids, though, are little. They understand but don't understand why. They don't understand what's going on and frankly, they will most likely never understand what has happened. I know that kids are resilient. I know they're young. I know they'll be just fine. But this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
We worry. We worry before they're born. Am I the right person for this child? Am I prepared for the task at hand? How is this going to change me? Change my relationships? What if I mess this up? What if they blame me for... This is the way of motherhood everywhere.
We protect... some more than others but we chose the things we feel are important. Don't touch the hot stove. Don't eat food you may choke on. Don't walk near moving cars by yourself. Don't say foul words. This is the way of motherhood, everywhere.
The one I listen to because I forget. I forget that The Voice that spoke the universe into being also looked at me and said YOU ARE GOOD. I forget that The Voice that spoke the first Love and Light into the world also spoke love and light into my heart. The Voice that calls me to show that same Love, that same Light to my children. I've forgotten that in the past few weeks, and I've lost my mothering way... again. And I feel like even here I can claim that this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
I'm not the only one who has felt lost, alone, without someone who understands. I'm not the only one who is up at zero dark-thirty because I forgot to listen to Truth and started listening to the lies that plague mothers everywhere. So here, in these footprints of uncertainty, with doubts and worries all around, I'm reaching out in the darkness because I know there will be a hand next to me of the mother with her new baby thinking that she's overfeeding or underfeeding her baby, that she's ruined her child's life (and her's) because her 17 month old is still not sleeping, that her four year old will never forgive her for having another baby or the mom who isn't sure she is a mom because she has no babe in her arms. This is the way of motherhood everywhere. We hold on to Truth, even if its nameless, faceless hope from generations past, present, or future because this job is huge. This job we face is monumental and it's bigger than age, race, ethnicity, language, creed or situation. But we hold on, for our children, for us, for the very fabric of our souls because we know the Truth. The One who gave us these kids loves them more than we do, He cares for them better than we ever could, and He gave them to us to teach us, instruct us, and mold us into better, wiser people. Because this is the way of motherhood everywhere.
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