The earth has been coughing up dust. All that should be green or brown or black is camouflaged by a thin layer of red. The land cruiser zooms down Kiggo Road kicking up a cloud. You want to close your window, but if you do the heat is stifling. The dust is inescapable.
"When was the last rain?" we ask.
"Maybe Christmas," Joe answers from the passenger seat. "But next month...next month I think it will rain."
In December heavy rain along with hail beat down on our fields of beans and banana plantation. The plants were crippled; then they were parched. These crops supply Ranch with much needed food. They were crying for rain.
Yesterday as we were eating lunch I watched heavy gray clouds roll across the suburban hillsides, lightning cracking over the clay rooftops. A sign of hope...but no water.
Then last night I woke to the sound of the wind cracking into our windows. The metal bars shook until I heard a sound so desired, so foreign...the patter of little raindrops. Then the patter gave way to a heave and the thirsty ground began to gulp the flowing current. A cleansing tide for every tree, shrub and signpost.
The smell of a rain-washed world is heavenly. It is at the same time musky and fresh. Everything here is breathing again.
This will be a good day for going into town. The air won't be as thick. Martha and Mark are pining for a special lunch out before they return to school tomorrow. So we've promised them a family adventure on their last day of freedom.
Just pray I can survive it. I think I ate something that has caused a violent upset in my stomach. I seem stable now, but am hesitant to consume anything apart from soda. I'm determined, though, not to spend my days cooped up in our little hotel room. I want to be with everyone. I want to be with Uganda.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Kyamagero
(Martha Kamara, Janet, Margaret, Joan and Ernest with Vivian)
Her name means "miracle." Not the name we call her everyday, but the one in the middle. The special one. It was given to her when she was no bigger than a grape deep inside of me in Africa.
"Kyamagero."
"Miracle."
In light of the last three years I often wonder if her naming was prophetic. If she is, in fact, my miracle child. I know that every mother thinks her child is special, but I don't think I am exaggerating too much when I say that Vivian Nora Kyamagero Laslo is an unusual type of child. It is as if she were hand tailored to participate in this crazy international life of service we lead. She never ceases to astonish me.
She is not a simple girl. She is always bursting with something. With passion, joy, anger or zeal. But her charisma draws in everyone...everyone. And her thoughts, words and expressions are so unique and captivating that she never needs to command an audience. The audience is always there waiting on her. Vivian lives as if the entire world were waiting to love her and waiting to be loved by her. And as I watch her encounter the world day by day it seems to me that she isn't too off base in her belief.
Africa, to her, is just another corner of the world to capture. And what an adventure it has been. Though she has been here before, she remembers nothing, and every experience is fresh and thrilling. Seeing Uganda through her eyes is marvelous.
Each morning as the light streams in through our curtains she is ready. Ready to throw on her dress, her crocs and her backpack to embrace Africa. There are no strangers here, only new friends to be had. She talks to everyone...regardless of whether they understand her English...or if they even speak English at all! She waves, she smiles, she dances. She doesn't understand that there are significant differences of language, culture and environment.
"Look, mommy!" she shouted on our first morning as a large bird of prey swooped over the roof of our guest house. "Can he come land on my finger?" And as we ate our first lunch on the veranda of the dining hall she laughed uncontrollably as flies swooped around, aiming for our bananas. She made up a song, "Bugs are everywhere." The lyrics are the same as the title and she sang it over and over smiling from ear to ear.
She sees no danger in wild African birds...or bugs...or monkeys. If given her way she would capture one and bring it back to our room. Thankfully there are some creatures she IS allowed to touch...the rabbits at Ranch on Jesus.
As soon as the Land Cruiser brakes inside the gates she springs from her car seat exclaiming, "Matthew, Matthew let's go chase the bunny rabbits." Matthew, the Kamara's nearly three year old son lives in awe of her, this domineering chattering white girl who holds his hands and won't let him out of her sight. It seems not even language or culture will keep two preschoolers from their games.
So together they lift their clumsy legs high, jumping over the dusty ridges and hills of the compound as they hunt for bunnies. The rabbits easily flee and the toddlers laugh and laugh as if nothing were funnier than a hopping animal. Or perhaps Matthew is laughing more at Vivian's laughter than he is at the rabbit...The baby bunnies are easier to capture. I hear Vivian shouting so I glance up from my notebook only to see her walk proudly into the dining hall clasping a young rabbit firmly by the ears. I fear for the creature's life and chide the children to make sure she carries it properly. I also chide them NOT to let her go in the hen house again...please.
The children discuss matters among themselves.
'"Mommy," Vivian giggles quietly as if telling me a silly secret, "the kids are speaking SPANISH!"
She is utterly different, yet also somehow one of them...picking up "African Spanish" along he way. I have given up hope of being able to keep an eye on her every minute. I HAVE to trust. I have to allow her to go and run and explore and live. She has fallen down countless times, but each day when she returns to me covered...COVERED...in dust and band-aids she is joyful. I have to trust that the same God who gave me this miracle will preserve her as we do His will. Because she isn't just a miracle for me, but a miracle I hope to be used in the hand of the Lord.
JOY is Vivian's gift. She feels it in everything and she freely gives it away. Watching her spread joy to others is the joy of my life. What we are giving her, this adventuresome life, I pray will only increase her joy and make her a wise and loving lady.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Hello, Goodbye
I love flying into Entebbe in the dark. The world is black apart from small blinking lights on the wings of the airplane. The ground and the sky are blended and inseparable. You wonder when you will feel the skidding of wheels on the asphalt, but then you look down again and beneath you you see small flames tucked into the hillsides. Around them you know there are families preparing their dinner.
In nineteen months much changes, and much doesn't. Uganda is a familiar friend. The smells, the sights, the sounds are all as I remember. But little things happen. New signs. New shops. New buildings. I am getting reacquainted.
It is the same with the children. I still recognize each one of them. But the little girls have become big girls and the big girls have become little women. Joan, Janet, Teddy are all curved now. And Joyce, my little monkey, grew seven inches. I caught my breath at the first glimpse of her kicking the soccer ball across the yard. A tall, muscular creature now lumbers over the dusty ridges of Ranch. I wanted my little scampering child, but instead I must learn to love the woman she is quickly becoming.
Yesterday was a day of binding up, of rediscovering connection and love. Of conversations and embraces. The dearest part of being gone so long is the joy of reuniting. Maurice held me tight, almost as if to keep me from ever leaving again. Agnes lunged and knocked me backwards in her joy. Too long, they all told me. Too long, mommy!
Yes. Too, too long. How can I leave them? How can I ever leave them again? The thought of goodbyes is terrible.
But even as I considered a future parting with my children, my body, so quietly and quickly was making a goodbye of it's own.
After a long day of beautiful hellos I returned to our room covered in dust. I hurried to the kindness of a shower and as I stood under its soothing warmth I watched as blood red hopes swirled around and around my feet sinking down deep into the Ugandan drain.
I have known since Monday. I knew when there were no symptoms. No nausea. No exhaustion. I knew. The blood Wednesday night confirmed it. Then yesterday it was finished.
I sobbed into the cold tile of our tiny bathroom, but layered between the sadness there was something deeper. There was gratitude. In an answer to my earnest prayer I found mercy.
In November my OBGYN slipped me a card for a fertility specialist. I hesitated. Our insurance is so basic. It could cost a lot, and I wasn't convinced that my repeat miscarriages were anything apart from a unique tragedy. I asked God to make it clear and show me what I needed to do.
In a matter of weeks I was pregnant again. And before six weeks had even passed the baby was gone in the most painless way. I never felt sickness. I never felt tired. I didn't have to wait anxiously for weeks on end. I didn't suffer. He allowed this all to happen in the place where my heart is happiest. A place where I can wake in the morning and gaze out across the lushness and warmth of a sun soaked garden. Where the wind from the lake makes everything cool and light. Where my little girl chases monkeys and laughs as we drive along the bumpy roads. I am with those who love me most and who I treasure beyond anyone. For all the sadness wringing my heart, it cannot overcome the true joyfulness I feel in my Uganda.
My loss was tenderly wrapped in grace. My answer has been made clear in the gentlest way.
I woke this morning sore, tired, heavy...but hopeful. Within this day I have purpose, those who need my love now. Their hands and smiles and embraces are real. There is much to accomplish, so my heart forces my body forward. I am full. I am bright. I am grateful.
And soon I will write more.
In nineteen months much changes, and much doesn't. Uganda is a familiar friend. The smells, the sights, the sounds are all as I remember. But little things happen. New signs. New shops. New buildings. I am getting reacquainted.
It is the same with the children. I still recognize each one of them. But the little girls have become big girls and the big girls have become little women. Joan, Janet, Teddy are all curved now. And Joyce, my little monkey, grew seven inches. I caught my breath at the first glimpse of her kicking the soccer ball across the yard. A tall, muscular creature now lumbers over the dusty ridges of Ranch. I wanted my little scampering child, but instead I must learn to love the woman she is quickly becoming.
Yesterday was a day of binding up, of rediscovering connection and love. Of conversations and embraces. The dearest part of being gone so long is the joy of reuniting. Maurice held me tight, almost as if to keep me from ever leaving again. Agnes lunged and knocked me backwards in her joy. Too long, they all told me. Too long, mommy!
Yes. Too, too long. How can I leave them? How can I ever leave them again? The thought of goodbyes is terrible.
But even as I considered a future parting with my children, my body, so quietly and quickly was making a goodbye of it's own.
After a long day of beautiful hellos I returned to our room covered in dust. I hurried to the kindness of a shower and as I stood under its soothing warmth I watched as blood red hopes swirled around and around my feet sinking down deep into the Ugandan drain.
I have known since Monday. I knew when there were no symptoms. No nausea. No exhaustion. I knew. The blood Wednesday night confirmed it. Then yesterday it was finished.
I sobbed into the cold tile of our tiny bathroom, but layered between the sadness there was something deeper. There was gratitude. In an answer to my earnest prayer I found mercy.
In November my OBGYN slipped me a card for a fertility specialist. I hesitated. Our insurance is so basic. It could cost a lot, and I wasn't convinced that my repeat miscarriages were anything apart from a unique tragedy. I asked God to make it clear and show me what I needed to do.
In a matter of weeks I was pregnant again. And before six weeks had even passed the baby was gone in the most painless way. I never felt sickness. I never felt tired. I didn't have to wait anxiously for weeks on end. I didn't suffer. He allowed this all to happen in the place where my heart is happiest. A place where I can wake in the morning and gaze out across the lushness and warmth of a sun soaked garden. Where the wind from the lake makes everything cool and light. Where my little girl chases monkeys and laughs as we drive along the bumpy roads. I am with those who love me most and who I treasure beyond anyone. For all the sadness wringing my heart, it cannot overcome the true joyfulness I feel in my Uganda.
My loss was tenderly wrapped in grace. My answer has been made clear in the gentlest way.
I woke this morning sore, tired, heavy...but hopeful. Within this day I have purpose, those who need my love now. Their hands and smiles and embraces are real. There is much to accomplish, so my heart forces my body forward. I am full. I am bright. I am grateful.
And soon I will write more.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Extra Cargo
"I'm not," I said and turned to walk out of the room.
"You sure?" Scott asked.
I shrugged, shaking off my disappointment.
"Wait, Jame. Jame, I think it's actually positive."
And that's the conversation we had last week as we watched one little blue line turn into two. I can't believe I am pregnant again! I am sure you all can imagine how excited I am, but I am sure many of you can also imagine how nervous I am. I've lost my last two babies before the first trimester ended. My heart wants to be hopeful, but I'm catious.
I share this news with you all now because tomorrow at 5:30 pm our family gets on a plane and leaves for Uganda. Today Vivian had a slight fever, Scott looks like he hasn't slept in a week and I am starting to feel rough as well. We need prayer. I need an extra measure of grace to physically get through our travels and accomplish the work awaiting me in Uganda.
This will not be my first time to be pregnant in Uganda. In 2007 I spent the second two months of my pregnancy with Vivian there. I was pretty miserable. But I learned a lot during those 8 weeks. And a lot has changed between 2007 and 2011. In 2007 I stayed in a large, loud house with 40 colleges students. We didn't have any privacy or access to personal transportation. This year our family will be traveling alone, staying privately and moving freely around town with the Kamara family. I am hopeful that these factors and the flexibility of our schedule will make the illness I feel during pregnancy much more endurable.
It will still be challenging, but I am ready to trust that God has a reason for leading me down this path again. The challenge I find most daunting is NOT the physical one, but the emotional one. My heart is struggling hard not to wonder and wander down the path of fear. I have seen that little blue plus sign 4 times. I have only given birth to one child. Part of me feels that I cannot bear to face another lifeless ultrasound.
"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" (Luke 12:25) And what woman by worrying has ever added an hour to the life of her child? Worry gets me and my baby no where. God knows. So I am taking each day at a time. This is a difficult discipline, but so rewarding. Rather than dwelling on what I want in the end: a healthy, happy baby...I am trying to dwell on what I can gain NOW: patience, hope, trust, dependence on the Lord.
This is, after all, what I said I wanted to learn to do in 2011.
So please, y'all, pray for me on this new adventure. Pray for my dear husband who will now have to expend some extra energy to care for me and Vivian over the next few weeks. We are excited and thankful that God has once again entrusted us with another life. We will keep you posted as we enter into ministry in the heart of the Pearl this week!
"You sure?" Scott asked.
I shrugged, shaking off my disappointment.
"Wait, Jame. Jame, I think it's actually positive."
And that's the conversation we had last week as we watched one little blue line turn into two. I can't believe I am pregnant again! I am sure you all can imagine how excited I am, but I am sure many of you can also imagine how nervous I am. I've lost my last two babies before the first trimester ended. My heart wants to be hopeful, but I'm catious.
I share this news with you all now because tomorrow at 5:30 pm our family gets on a plane and leaves for Uganda. Today Vivian had a slight fever, Scott looks like he hasn't slept in a week and I am starting to feel rough as well. We need prayer. I need an extra measure of grace to physically get through our travels and accomplish the work awaiting me in Uganda.
This will not be my first time to be pregnant in Uganda. In 2007 I spent the second two months of my pregnancy with Vivian there. I was pretty miserable. But I learned a lot during those 8 weeks. And a lot has changed between 2007 and 2011. In 2007 I stayed in a large, loud house with 40 colleges students. We didn't have any privacy or access to personal transportation. This year our family will be traveling alone, staying privately and moving freely around town with the Kamara family. I am hopeful that these factors and the flexibility of our schedule will make the illness I feel during pregnancy much more endurable.
It will still be challenging, but I am ready to trust that God has a reason for leading me down this path again. The challenge I find most daunting is NOT the physical one, but the emotional one. My heart is struggling hard not to wonder and wander down the path of fear. I have seen that little blue plus sign 4 times. I have only given birth to one child. Part of me feels that I cannot bear to face another lifeless ultrasound.
"Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?" (Luke 12:25) And what woman by worrying has ever added an hour to the life of her child? Worry gets me and my baby no where. God knows. So I am taking each day at a time. This is a difficult discipline, but so rewarding. Rather than dwelling on what I want in the end: a healthy, happy baby...I am trying to dwell on what I can gain NOW: patience, hope, trust, dependence on the Lord.
This is, after all, what I said I wanted to learn to do in 2011.
So please, y'all, pray for me on this new adventure. Pray for my dear husband who will now have to expend some extra energy to care for me and Vivian over the next few weeks. We are excited and thankful that God has once again entrusted us with another life. We will keep you posted as we enter into ministry in the heart of the Pearl this week!
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
T-minus One Week
A week from today I'll be zipping up my suitcase and getting ready to drive to the airport. Just thinking about it gives me butterflies in my stomach. I'm so eager to go back to Uganda, but also really nervous. I haven't been since June 2009. Many things have changed. I'm overwhelmed by all I want to and need to accomplish while I'm there.
I keep making lists, some vague, some detailed. I feel like I'm scrambling around, gathering little pieces of a puzzle and trying desperately to make it all "fit" before the 25th. Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I actually do scream and cry. I don't ever remember trip preparations being so overwhelming. Maybe I'm rusty.
Two nights ago I had a dream that when we arrived in Uganda I had forgotten all of the child sponsor's letters on my desk in the office. I had also forgotten our sunscreen. The entire town of Mutungo looked different...less rural, more like Kampala. The children had all grown, especially Kenneth, who appeared to be roughly seven feet tall as I hugged him. I woke in a panic, then melted as I realized I still had a week to get my act together.
I think the majority of my problem is psychological. And emotional. And spiritual. The enemy is just feasting on all my fears, worries and doubts. I doubt I am capable enough to organize and run my child sponsorship program. I am worried that others will see my inadequacy and be disappointed. I fear failing our donors, our sponsors, and most importantly our kids. I sort of just want to curl up under a rock and stop trying completely.
I need to take a deep breath. I need to take a deep breath and quiet my heart. Yes, it actually is true that I'm inadequate. It's true. But Satan uses this to depress me rather than turn me to the Adequate One. The Adequate One doesn't expect me to be perfect or organized before I come to Him. He just wants me to come and do and keep going and trust that His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
Thank you, Jesus.
I'm going to go do some of those errands now and dig the sunscreen out of the linen closet. I still feel overwhelmed, but I'm going to stop listening to the lies and feed on the truth. I'm going to feed and feed and feed and feed until the truth overwhelms me more than my fears.
I keep making lists, some vague, some detailed. I feel like I'm scrambling around, gathering little pieces of a puzzle and trying desperately to make it all "fit" before the 25th. Sometimes I want to scream. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I actually do scream and cry. I don't ever remember trip preparations being so overwhelming. Maybe I'm rusty.
Two nights ago I had a dream that when we arrived in Uganda I had forgotten all of the child sponsor's letters on my desk in the office. I had also forgotten our sunscreen. The entire town of Mutungo looked different...less rural, more like Kampala. The children had all grown, especially Kenneth, who appeared to be roughly seven feet tall as I hugged him. I woke in a panic, then melted as I realized I still had a week to get my act together.
I think the majority of my problem is psychological. And emotional. And spiritual. The enemy is just feasting on all my fears, worries and doubts. I doubt I am capable enough to organize and run my child sponsorship program. I am worried that others will see my inadequacy and be disappointed. I fear failing our donors, our sponsors, and most importantly our kids. I sort of just want to curl up under a rock and stop trying completely.
I need to take a deep breath. I need to take a deep breath and quiet my heart. Yes, it actually is true that I'm inadequate. It's true. But Satan uses this to depress me rather than turn me to the Adequate One. The Adequate One doesn't expect me to be perfect or organized before I come to Him. He just wants me to come and do and keep going and trust that His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
His power is made perfect in my weakness.
Thank you, Jesus.
I'm going to go do some of those errands now and dig the sunscreen out of the linen closet. I still feel overwhelmed, but I'm going to stop listening to the lies and feed on the truth. I'm going to feed and feed and feed and feed until the truth overwhelms me more than my fears.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Practicing What I Preach
It has been two whole weeks since I've been able to post anything up here on the blog! Scott's folks were here last week. They did a good job of helping me in my "pre-Uganda trip regiment" of gaining weight. I always lose at least 5 or 10 pounds when we're there, so I try to gain a little weight before we leave so I don't look like a wire coat hanger when we return. I started going to Uganda seven years ago. I am now 35 pounds lighter than I was then!
I meant to get a few things posted this past week. I even had a couple things of half written. But we had a freak southern ice storm which canceled school and kept Vivian and I housebound. Then Tuesday as I cleaned up our breakfast dishes, the power went out. And it didn't come back on again until 6 that night. Thankfully my kind husband came home from work and escorted us to the mall...where the heat was also partly broken...but warmer than our house.
It was an unexpected week of family togetherness, which I suppose is pretty nice, although I got nothing done.
Yesterday Vivian finally went back to school, I finally went back to the office and I thought life was getting back to normal. As I stood searing chicken over the stovetop I could hear the long overdue rumbling of the washing machine beneath me in the basement. Then-everything went dark. Everything except the glowing blue flames under my skillet and pot. After a few moments of silence, I heard Scott open a drawer and begin distributing candles.
I could NOT believe this was happening again. Again! Ridiculous. And this time it was late and bedtime was right around the corner. I imagined Vivian shivering all night in her bed like a tiny rabbit. I wanted to be upset, but as I stood in the dark squinting into a giant skillet of chicken and mushrooms, I felt this little bump in me that said "consider this an opportunity..."
An opportunity to practice some patience, perseverance and self control AND an opportunity to cultivate some compassion.
You may remember my series: Cultivating Compassion from 2010 and a particular post I did about learning to walk a mile in other's shoes. Well, it was time to practice what I preached!
My first inclination when the power crashed again was to complain and get frustrated. It was inconvenient and uncomfortable. I like the reliability of light and heat. But as I felt them rise up, I decided to smash my foot down on those selfish feelings and try really hard to use the opportunity to think and pray for others. For those who do not have electricity to light and heat their homes. For women who build fires and fetch water to cook meals outside for their families. Those who have no homes to sit in in the dark. Those who have no food. Those who have no family.
I was reminded what a spoiled American girl I really am at heart, but tried to use the opportunity to think more of others than myself. Our family huddled up on the couch. I decided to put my fleece bathrobe on over my clothes, which Vivian thought very silly. We watched Charlie Brown Christmas on the laptop in the candlelight. And eventually the power did come back on. Maybe from now on I won't take it so for granted.
I was also extremely thankful that I hadn't started making Vivian's strawberry cake when we lost power. That could have been a real mess. Yes, I am making a pink strawberry cake for my little girl who turns three years old today. Three years old! I have a lot to say about that. So I think later I'll write a little something just for her.
I suppose I should also tell you when we're leaving for Uganda. OK. More posts to come...
I meant to get a few things posted this past week. I even had a couple things of half written. But we had a freak southern ice storm which canceled school and kept Vivian and I housebound. Then Tuesday as I cleaned up our breakfast dishes, the power went out. And it didn't come back on again until 6 that night. Thankfully my kind husband came home from work and escorted us to the mall...where the heat was also partly broken...but warmer than our house.
It was an unexpected week of family togetherness, which I suppose is pretty nice, although I got nothing done.
Yesterday Vivian finally went back to school, I finally went back to the office and I thought life was getting back to normal. As I stood searing chicken over the stovetop I could hear the long overdue rumbling of the washing machine beneath me in the basement. Then-everything went dark. Everything except the glowing blue flames under my skillet and pot. After a few moments of silence, I heard Scott open a drawer and begin distributing candles.
I could NOT believe this was happening again. Again! Ridiculous. And this time it was late and bedtime was right around the corner. I imagined Vivian shivering all night in her bed like a tiny rabbit. I wanted to be upset, but as I stood in the dark squinting into a giant skillet of chicken and mushrooms, I felt this little bump in me that said "consider this an opportunity..."
An opportunity to practice some patience, perseverance and self control AND an opportunity to cultivate some compassion.
You may remember my series: Cultivating Compassion from 2010 and a particular post I did about learning to walk a mile in other's shoes. Well, it was time to practice what I preached!
My first inclination when the power crashed again was to complain and get frustrated. It was inconvenient and uncomfortable. I like the reliability of light and heat. But as I felt them rise up, I decided to smash my foot down on those selfish feelings and try really hard to use the opportunity to think and pray for others. For those who do not have electricity to light and heat their homes. For women who build fires and fetch water to cook meals outside for their families. Those who have no homes to sit in in the dark. Those who have no food. Those who have no family.
I was reminded what a spoiled American girl I really am at heart, but tried to use the opportunity to think more of others than myself. Our family huddled up on the couch. I decided to put my fleece bathrobe on over my clothes, which Vivian thought very silly. We watched Charlie Brown Christmas on the laptop in the candlelight. And eventually the power did come back on. Maybe from now on I won't take it so for granted.
I was also extremely thankful that I hadn't started making Vivian's strawberry cake when we lost power. That could have been a real mess. Yes, I am making a pink strawberry cake for my little girl who turns three years old today. Three years old! I have a lot to say about that. So I think later I'll write a little something just for her.
I suppose I should also tell you when we're leaving for Uganda. OK. More posts to come...
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Chasing Time
It is December 5th, the day of my sister's baby shower. In February she will have a boy and his name will be Asher. The tables are stacked with baby toys and the steps in the fellowship hall cascade with pastel wrapping paper. I watch my sister, round and smiling, unwind yard after yard of tissue. She is nearly 25 years old, but to my eyes she is no more than 5 with an adorable Dorothy Hamill hair cut. It was impossible to me that she should ever be old enough to go to the homecoming dance, drive a car or get married. It seems even more impossible that she will soon be a mother. I'm only 22 months her elder, but at that moment I am eating almond cake and feeling close to 100.
There is so much joy and estrogen chattering in the room. I am chatty and happy too, despite the bags under my eyes. Several people ask me if I am feeling well. I know I must look rotten. I am sleep deprived and fighting a pensive, sentimental disposition. Yes, I am happy. But I'm also somehow sad. I can't help but remember that December 5th was the due date for one of my babies.
Our van packed up and our tummies full, Vivian and I strap ourselves in for the 3 hour drive to our home. It is late afternoon. As we drive toward the sun it dips lower and lower toward the earth, glowing like an amber pearl. Though it is dimming, it is piercing. Blinding almost.
In her car seat, Vivian is a thoughtful portrait. She silently watches trees and clouds blur together through her tinted sun shade. Her legs are now long enough to kick the seat in front of her which she does almost rhythmically. She asks me a question. I answer; somehow surprised to hear us conversing like two individuals. When she was no bigger than a basketball I used to dream of the day when she'd be old enough to laugh and sing with me on these trips down the highway. Time crawled then. I wanted to run.
I look at her now, a long haired beauty behind me and want to press pause, to freeze her just as she is: plump, wide eyed, slurring her sentences with peanut butter stains on her chin. I want to preserve her, this little piece of perfection, knowing hopelessly that tomorrow she will have changed just a little and the next day a little more until one day she will be a round, smiling woman opening packages wrapped in pastel paper.
I think of other little changes. Of the wrinkles spreading on my parents' faces. Of my childhood best friend, also about to have her first baby. I think about college. I wonder where my wedding pearls are now. In a pawn shop? On a woman's neck? I try to remember how Uganda smells and the exact tone of Kamara's giggle. I think about the babies I've lost, and how different life might have look now if I hadn't.
We keep driving. If I drive fast enough would it be possible to outrun it? Could we press westward so faithfully that we would actually move against time, always going backwards, making it so that the sun would never set on us?
As a girl I was always occupied with the idea of time. In middle school I would sit very still on the end of my bed and hold my breath. I realized that while I had the power to say and do many things, I could do nothing to time. It was an untouchable governor, ticking and tocking, evenly, faithfully. It wouldn't be bribed or budged for anyone. Even while I was sitting perfectly still, it was moving. While some people might dream of heaven with anticipation or relief, for me it was riddled with terror. I couldn't conceive of eternity, of going on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on…. A world without end. No stop. No close. No death. I wondered if I was the only one secretly frightened by this.
Our lives are so distinctly defined by time. Most of us are either wishing it would move faster, or praying it would slow down. Maybe we're not thinking about it at all.
Dwelling on the immovability of time as I used to do could make my chest tighten in a panic. Still there was a strange comfort in it. Though time can feel like a smothering, constricting ruler, it's mastery is also a relief. Because it is all we have ever known, time, less a prison and more a womb, is as natural and necessary as breathing. Moving toward a conclusion can be calming, satisfying even because it is so certain. We can all be assured of death.
Each of our lives are unfolding continually. The story being played out with its highs and lows. Although we cannot change the fact that time marches us forward, we are never it's victims. Time is there for us to live in. For us to use.
Two weeks ago I walked out of the kitchen to see Scott and Vivian dancing together in the living room. Nearly three years earlier I had found them in the same spot, Vivian wrapped in a hospital receiving blanket, and Scott wearing the proudest expression. She was no bigger than a basketball. He swirled and twirled her around the room with style. Now she twirls herself, clutching onto his finger the way she has seen a princess do. I pause and imagine them years from now dancing this way when she is as tall as me and hopefully more graceful.
I reach for the moment, but it is like raking my hand through a cloud. We have these treasures when we are inside of them. No picture or video will ever recover them, not as they really were. It will only be a shadow. A memory. Something to reflect upon as we continue to be carried along by time.
But my looking ahead is also a vapor. All speculation. All mystery. It is like waiting to exhale. And holding your breath this way denies your body what it needs to really live.
2010 has left me tender and hurt the way a wrestling match would. But I find that I am sorest not because of what occurred in the space of those 12 months; I ache most because of who I was…or wasn't in light of those moments. I spent too much of 2010 gazing backward, dwelling on what was and regretting what couldn't be altered. And I worried too much about a future that never materialized as I imagined. I did too much coasting. Too much waiting. Too much biding time instead of abiding in it. I spent too much energy consuming everything that was while waiting too passively for the next thing that I thought would make me happy.
Learning from the past, treasuring what it gave us and savoring it does bring a richness and depth to our lives. Dreaming and setting goals for the future can be fruitful as well, but these things are hopes that cannot be bought or insured by our own wishing. If we are always looking back or forward we cannot fully be where we are. And where we are now, who we are and what we are able to accomplish, learn, change, and love is our responsibility. What I have now is the time I have been given. I want to spend that time fully and fruitfully. Fully living each moment, being in it with all my heart, using it wisely and well. "Making the best use of the time, because the days are evil." Eph. 5:16
Today I am no longer afraid of heaven. I am intimidated by eternity, yes. I am uncertain of what it evens means to exist without a conclusion. But I was designed to live inside of time and as long as I inhabit it I can know nothing else. I live, trusting that once I am brought outside of its boundaries I will need no more explanation.
Psalm 90 (my favorite psalm)
1Lord, you have been our dwelling place
in all generations.
2 Before the mountains were brought forth,
or ever you had formed the earth and the world,
from everlasting to everlasting you are God.
3You return man to dust
and say, "Return, O children of man!"
4For a thousand years in your sight
are but as yesterday when it is past,
or as a watch in the night.
5You sweep them away as with a flood; they are like a dream,
like grass that is renewed in the morning:
6in the morning it flourishes and is renewed;
in the evening it fades and withers.
7For we are brought to an end by your anger;
by your wrath we are dismayed.
8You have set our iniquities before you,
our secret sins in the light of your presence.
9For all our days pass away under your wrath;
we bring our years to an end like a sigh.
10The years of our life are seventy,
or even by reason of strength eighty;
yet their span is but toil and trouble;
they are soon gone, and we fly away.
11Who considers the power of your anger,
and your wrath according to the fear of you?
12 So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom.
13 Return, O LORD! How long?
Have pity on your servants!
14Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love,
that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
15Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
and for as many years as we have seen evil.
16Let your work be shown to your servants,
and your glorious power to their children.
17Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us,
and establish the work of our hands upon us;
yes, establish the work of our hands!
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