I remember well a scenario I experienced a few times in my life. A significant moment as our family faced an important change and transition. In the last weeks of a pregnancy, as I faced the reality that a new baby would soon be here and that our family would forever be changed by his presence, I would get a little scared.
Each time we grew, it worked out well ;-)
I would look at my youngest and ask what the heck I was thinking forcing him out of his position when he was still just a baby. I would look at our home and wonder how we were possibly going to maintain any kind of order with another little person to care for. I would think about the daunting task of birth and recovery ahead of me, and, quite frankly, I would freak out a little.
Suddenly, what I had waited for and hoped for and prayed for was so close. And it loomed too large. It became scary in its significance.
My little tucked away mountain place
I find myself in a similar emotional state these days for a totally different reason. In the next six days, we will pack up the house we have called home for the last year and a half here in Costa Rica. We will bid our neighbors goodbye as we move on to a new phase in our lives and ministry here. We will, the seven us, step on to a plane here and a few short hours later, set our feet down on the ground in the place I call home that is no longer home.
I will feel the embrace of mother and sister and brother and friend. I will watch my boys bask in the joy of reunion. I will eat King Cake and shrimp po-boys and yell "Throw Me Something Mister" with all my might. And I will feel strange doing it. Because a bigger part of me is not the girl from the Big Easy than the part of me who is. And that is hard to process.
Then I'll kiss those boys and hand in hand with my beloved cross the ocean to the continent long dreamed of in my heart. I'm going to Africa. For the first time. I know Africa in my mind the way I knew my babies before they were born. Details dreamed of, scents unknown yet already familiar. A soft halo of light surrounding a face I've longed to know.
And just as my babies have done, I am sure Africa will break me with its cries and its need and its utter longing to be loved.
And then it will be time to gather up the merry band of brothers and return to this place, this land, that is home but not home too. To a new house, in a new city. With a growing ministry and an expanding vision and a shift in responsibilities.
And, friends, what one month ago or even a week ago, seemed just a move to a nearby house and a trip home and with a surreal hint at Africa sandwiched in the middle, now seems so big. So significant.
And every day, my chest hurts a little more because I know God is on the move here. I know this is bigger than the logistics make it seem. Every moment in His Word, every minute in my prayers, every deep conversation with someone I love makes my bones rattle just a little, because I feel the vibration of His movement.
And I find myself grieving just a little in the final days of my little hidden life in a little mountain village where all is familiar and yet quiet and small. And comfortable.
And that is the answer right there. Change comes to us who love God and seek to serve Him so we do not get too comfortable, so that we forever feel the ache and the need and the dependence on Him. So we always walk with the weight not knowing exactly where home is on the earth because we know it is not here at all.
We run our race and we walk toward our purpose with hearts restless to rest in Him. And He moves us. And we get a little scared. Because we cannot imagine how we could be significant to His story. And this, this is good.
Because just like the nearing of the coming of a new little one feels significant and draws us to our littlest ones and draws them to cling mightily to the safety and security of us, so this moment of life feeling a little too big for me draws me to God, clinging and crying out for Him to hold me. And Him? He runs to me, grateful for the chance to hold me.
The earth is pregnant with His plan for its salvation. The time draws near. His children cry out to be held and know that they are loved. It feels big because it is big. But nothing is too big for His love.
It's so simple in the moment. Just love. This one. Right here. Right now. That is His grand purpose for us.
So I will bid goodbye to the geographical place I have found myself hidden and comfortable in the next week. But I will not say goodbye to my hidden life, the life I have in His arms. Because it is my only chance to walk in the bigness and the realness and the significance of life with the Most High God and not be paralyzed by the reality.
I will labor well, I hope, because I will rest in Him. And I can rest easy, because I am known and in His arms, I am home.
So I was right. This Pinterest planning idea is pure genius! Well, it's working anyway. The post has had a lot of hits, but more importantly, it inspired a great week in our house. I'm looking forward to seeing if it keeps us on track for the week ahead too. Here's where I hope we're headed this week based on the board above:
School Stuff:
I wanted to dig in a bit to how solar energy works with the kids and some of the amazingly cool products featured here but we just didn't quite get there last week. It is science that is pertinent to my kids since when we visit our Cabecar friends in their homes in the reserve, there is no electricity. A few friends have solar panels. I wanted my boys to understand how that works. Who knows maybe one day they'll be the ones coming up with an innovative solution for a need they see in their friends lives. I haven't found a video that I think is perfect to explain the concept yet, but I am digging more this morning and hopefully we can spend some time on this this week.
I'm writing lesson plans for a Survival School unit that will cover many subjects, so you'll start seeing lots of pins for that. I'm trying to take advantage of my boys obsession with those survivor shows and the fact that Daddy is willing to take this and run with it if I write the plans.
My boys thoroughly enjoyed our jaunt through Beowulf with H.E. Marshall, and were quite entertained by this reading of the Old English. We all were amazed at how much it reminded us of the native language our Cabecar friends speak. I want to get the Heaney version eventually, but I think we'll play around with Chaucer this week.
Some good math stuff happening here lately but I want to give it another week. I'll highlight next week.
Creative Stuff:
I have been trying to make some type of creative activity available to the boys most days. They have joined the Rainbow Loom craze so that and modeling clay (I just had to type that in Spanish and translate because I couldn't remember what it was called in English) worked well for daily creative fun.
For an art project, we tried a version of these foil owls but did it our own way. The end results were mixed but everyone really enjoyed the process and I think the boys benefited from a project that was done in stages and did not give them immediate gratification. So for this week I think we'll try a version of this project that I found at the same blog when I went searching for the foil owl pin link.
Faith Stuff:
This Ordinary Time pin is chock full of good stuff. Like overwhelming kind if full. But I found the gem of the Acts of Faith, Hope and Love in there, and I think we will aim to memorize those during Ordinary Time.
I've been using the pin from Jessica's book list to remind myself what saints to read about from the volumes we have. St Thomas Aquinas' feast is around the corner and he is my Evan's patron, so I'll be searching for some pins to celebrate in a special but simple way.
I'm trying to decide whether to get the boys in on the Scripture memorization project or just let it be a "me" thing. I know that sounds terrible but a mom needs some stuff, even in the spiritual realm that is just for her, right? We'll see what I decide to do this week. Maybe I'll just invite but not insist on participation.
Home Stuff:
There are a few black bean recipes pinned there. I hope to try something new this week. We've been obsessing over butternut squash lately (finding something new in the grocery store is exciting) and our new missionary volunteers at the orphanage are vegetarians, so I think this soup would be great to cook on the day they come to hang out and have community time this week.
I really want to bake bread this week. Ditching an old pin that has been hanging around a while and hoping that one will provide the inspiration I need.
And it looks like we might be passing around a nasty cold for the duration so I'll be digging up some of those natural cold remedy pins this week.
A weekend internet outage kept me from posting about Voice at Velvet Ashes this week but I hope to get that post out tomorrow since it's taking up much needed space in my head.
Kid Stuff:
I didn't do much digging through boards this week as I had a lot pinned to go on, but I realize that I don't have much fresh inspiration there for just fun kid stuff. So I'll look around a bit and see if I can find something to bring a little playfulness to our house this week.
And maybe look for some other conversation starters as I'm not finding these grab my attention very much.
Other Stuff:
Still finding lots of good marriage building material in this pin.
Eucharisteo:
708. Inspiration for mindful living
717. Friends I can count on for prayer
720. An American boy and a Cabecar boy sitting on the kitchen table painting a paper volcano
725. Ordinary Time
729. Feeling relaxed in my skin
730. MAIL!!!!
and a full seven gifts thankful for one variety of visit or visitor or another. Truly the thanks of an extorverted missionary's heart.
I'd love to hear about it if you started your own Pinterest board for planning! What's inspiring you for the week ahead? What are counting thanks for, feeling blessed by, friends?
The life I live here in missions is a life that places me, for the most part, totally dependent on the Lord, His provision, His timing and His holy will for our lives. It is good. It is the way I really, truly desire to live.
However, it is totally contrary to my personality. I am a girl who likes to have a plan. I wake up in the morning and within the first two sips of coffee could easily tell you how I would prefer the day to play itself out in 15 minute increments. I can plan a vacation in my head complete with packing list at the mere mention of it over a dinner. I am the kind of girl who makes lists for fun, who would willingly pack for someone else simply because I enjoy the opportunity to organize. I once spent the night at a friend's house after a recent move. Our husbands were both out of town for work. There were boxes everywhere and she was totally overwhelmed. By the time she woke up in the morning, I had moved all the boxes to the correct room, labeled her closets and unpacked her kitchen and bathrooms. She had to call me for months afterwards to ask me where things were. It was some of the best fun I have ever had.
So you see, this life I lead can be hard for me at times. The trust it takes to leave timing and planning in God's hands is a huge leap of faith from my natural temperament. So is having five sons, but that's a story for another day. At the time that we left to take up our mission here in Costa Rica as the St. Bryce Foundation, one of the greatest challenges for me personally meant that it left leaving my oldest brother and his wife and his children and the rest of my family as we united with him in his fight against ALS. It was a sticking point for me with God.
My big brothers and I on our first night back in the States
February 2013
But my brother had always one of the most faithful servants of God I have ever met, and I knew he, more than anyone else, would want me to do what God was calling me to do. He assured me of this himself. Shortly after we arrived in the field, he entered into a medical emergency that threatened to end his life. I was horrified that it would happen that way, that God would take Him home just as I had left. That all my family would be there at his side and I would not. He did not go home then. He fought back, chose life and kept battling.
So many days it hurt that I did not get to pick the timing of things. That I didn't get to be there when I would've chosen. But I did get there. Last July, we spent quiet evenings together enjoying my sister-in-law's kick ass cooking and holding hands and watching So You Think You Can Dance. We had Skype sessions where I laughed at him sipping Red Stripe through a straw and he laughed at me sitting on a tree stump to get good internet reception. In February, we launched our candidacy for the papacy (There is no logical way for me to explain this to anyone who did not know my brother. I can only be sorry for you that you missed out. It was big fun.)
And in March, I headed home to see him again, this time with my whole gang at my side. Our first full night home we went out to dinner. Both my brothers and their families and us. It was glorious and heart wrenching at the same time. I was so happy to meet my sweet niece for the first time, to hold those big brother hands again, to hear my sister-in-law's laugh, to watch my boys giggle maniacally with their cousins, to share quiet conversation with the man who is my first nephew and open my eyes to what a stellar human being he is.
Cousins at dinner
But it ripped me up inside to watch my brother fight for every breath, to see the look of panic in his eyes, and to realize how tired he was. I went back to our guest house that night knowing deep in my soul he was ready to go home soon. And with a panic in my heart. I was there. Then. But I would leave again soon. What if the timing God chose happened to be the one that left me far away in that moment? What if I would have to leave knowing I would never see him again here on earth? And I was angry about the lack of control my life demanded of me.
Cousin Dinner
In the days that followed, my brother entered the hospital and we began to realize that his battle with ALS was drawing to a close. Difficult conversations had to be had. Hard decisions made. A birthday had to be celebrated. And seafood had to be eaten. And a family had to come together to figure out how to live, laugh, love and say goodbye. And do you know what? If God had said to me, "Colleen, I am going to take your brother home and you have no choice in that matter, but all the other details, I will let you plan", even in my eager to plan brain, I could not have come up with a more perfect scenario as we experienced in the days surrounding my brother's going home.
So many of the details are too intimate. Words are great tools to express certain things, and for others, they are cheap. So much of what happened would be cheapened by them in this case. But here is what I would like to share. I do not have a family that has followed a cookie cutter path. We touch every point on the spectrum when it comes to personalities and temperaments, life choices, and religious, spiritual and moral orientations. But I am blessed beyond belief with a family who knows without a doubt how to love fiercely and stand in unity despite those differences. And I believe a large part of our ability to do that was won as we watched my brother live and fight his battle with ALS with that as his only priority -- to love well, to point people to the love of Christ, and to live with unbounded joy.
These apples don't fall far from the trees, y'all
Cousin Shenanigans
So in the moments surrounding his going home, that is what we did. We laughed loud and loved strong and teased relentlessly. We drank too much and ate too much and talked too much (so much so that we were "shushed" by the ICU nurses while we were still outside in the waiting area). We cried and we embraced and we figured out where our strength lay. So that in the moment that Kevin ran into Jesus' arms, we could leave all of our differences behind and stand hand in hand singing. And cheering him on his way. I have no absolutely no words to describe what that moment felt like. It is forever suspended in time for me. The woman my sister-in-law was in that moment has forever changed me. Being the daughter who first lost a child of a mother who now sent her little boy home is the most breakingly beautiful title of womanhood I now carry. Standing in the embrace of my remaining siblings is a moment I will take with me forever. The faces of nephews and nieces and their expressions of love for their father and their uncle and the love shared by our children, the great big band of cousins that make up this family is for me a joy beyond all belief, a hope for a future that shines with radiance. These young people that we raised? They are good, y'all. So, so good. You will thank us one day for our procreative gifts. I promise you.
Celebrating Kevin's birthday in the ICU waiting room the day before we cheered him home to heaven
Me with some of my favorite people on earth, my sister, my niece, and my cousin
I look back on that time and feel overwhelming gratitude to my God. I didn't want my brother to have ALS. I don't want him to be gone. But these are things God does not consult me on. However, I did want to hold his hand and be next to him when that moment arrived. And I was. I did want to feel a tight part of my family circle and share that experience with my mom and my siblings. And I did. I did want to see him one more time outside of the hospital when he was still "well" and I did. I did want to be able to tell him all the reasons I loved him and was so proud of him and I did. I did want to celebrate with joy when at last he had beat the beast and won the crown. And I did. I did want to sing to him the songs that had beat in my heart for him while I was far away and I did. I wanted my sister-in-law to know how deeply beautiful she was and how much I appreciated her. I wanted to say out loud to her that we supported every choice she had made in this difficult journey and we supported her as she began a new phase of life. And we supported her relief that the battle was over. I got to say those words. And I did want to laugh and have a good beer and eat fried stuff from the Gulf and talk in my New Orleans accent. And I did. I wanted a piece of my brother to take with me forever. He left me that. That man, he knew how to live well, and you know what, because of that, he knew how to die well. I know that sounds weird, but anyone who witnessed it would unequivocally agree with me, I know.
Crawfish and beer. It's how we live. It's how we love. It's how we roll.
I didn't really know how to write a to-do list for my brother's death. I didn't want to. But when the moment came, I knew, he knew, we all knew, how to live it. And if I got to pick, this is how it would have been. If I get to write the script for my own going, I want it to be just like his.
And just to keep reminding me that this was just a sweet tender mercy and not to let myself get used to it, God went back to his usual ways and put me back in my place of humble submission, when, on the morning of the funeral, I found myself late and lost and in the midst of an utter panic attack, screaming at my older sister on the phone for help. And then the brunt of the pastor's joke as I walked into the church having scorned my poor family into beaten little pulps in my grief and pain and the anxiety of things being out of my control again. Crying and laughing at myself, and seeing that once again, He had worked it all for good even when He didn't give me a say. And me, back to my sheepish little apologies and promises of greater trust in the future.
And do you know what? I'm pretty sure I could hear that man, my big brother, giggling at me from heaven. And I think he might have been tying my baby's hands to his shoes too. But that, too, is a story for another day.
I'm not going to be joining my big, beautiful family around the Thanksgiving table this year. I won't take in the endless games of football and glasses of wine and snarky comebacks and too-loud laughter and the rich abundance of culinary grace that I have come to call Thanksgiving. I won't end this day so full of food and drink and family that I want to curl up in a corner and sleep for days and dream it all over again.
And I could be really, really sad about that, because truly, Thanksgiving-- the reality, the history, the whole notion of it-- is one of my most favorite things ever. But I'm not. Because you know what? I won't have any of those festive Thanksgiving moments today, but I am still full. Full. Full. Full. Chock full and over stuffed with blessings and grace and beauty and joy in this life that I live and this life that I love.
I type to the cadence of a familiar piano tune. The tune that plays in the lovely online home of my friend Ann. The tune I open up when I need to remember grace, need to remember slow, need to remember thanks, need to say long and loud and live it on repeat, eucharisteo. The thanksgiving word, the word that says it all at once, speaks of what it really means to give thanks, to be thankful, to live full. To break bread, to be broken so that you may be shared, to recognize Him in the broken bread and to sit in continuous awe of His presence.
This is the life I get to live every. single. day. Hand in hand with my beloved, surrounded by the exuberant noise of the blessed band of brothers, I go out, Christ in my heart, Christ in our hands. And we kneel in His presence with our brothers and sisters whom we may never have met this side of heaven without this call. And we worship. And we are broken and beautiful and we are full. So, so full. Of His tender mercy and of the life of common grace at the ends of the earth.
And I watch as families living a faraway life in a faraway native culture descend from the mountains, babies strapped tightly to their backs, machetes at their sides, coffee baskets in hand. Their poverty and their timidity and their pride and their tight family core all evident in one glance. And the fullness of it spills over and we call the spilling zeal because it makes me want to run with it, this dripping, leaking grace called eucharisteo. And I want to run out into the dirt roads and grab their hands and shout with joy to them that hope is theirs and love is theirs and mercy is theirs and that there is a forever life that looks so very different from this hard life they live and that even in the emptiest, ugliest moments of sickness and wetness and coldness and hunger, there is a bread that fills, a living water that quenches and that they too can feel always full. Full.
Yesterday I walked in my husband's rubber boots up the sloping mountain road to church and met a group of women there who had come to study English with me. Their shy smiles turned to wide laughing before our time together was through. We entered unsure what to say and left holding hands and patting heads and wishing we didn't have to go just yet. Among them was my sweet old friend, Dona Lilian, a life nearly used up, happily confused about reality and in love with everyone she meets. Broken and beautiful. She interrupted us more times than I can count to tell us that she will bring cookies next time. The bread of the broken. Offered in worn hands. And I am full.
Dona Lilian, she brought me some shoes. Just like she had promised when she called me at 6:15 that morning. Some shoes given to her by someone wanting to bless, to give thanks, to live eucharisteo. They don't fit her, so she passed them to me, just like she passed to me the book from Mount Vernon she had in her home since some time in the 1960s I think and the missal from church from 2007. Long-lived and broken in thought, but whole in love that Dona Lilian is. The shoes, they're, well, old lady shoes. Old old lady shoes. That fit me.
And I will walk to church in them tonight. And this will be my Thanksgiving. Walking in her shoes to break bread with her at the altar of our God. Partaking in the only meal that really fills. Living in the blessed and the broken and the giving and the receiving, in the slow cadence of a beautiful song that sings, "Give thanks and all things rejoice, because He has made you glad, sweet one." And I am full. So, so full the grace leaks straight from eyes in a river of joy and gratitude.
This life is a life of giving up. But it is not a life of want. It is a life of need filled by abundant grace and fed by Love Himself. The banquet has been served for me, and me, I shall have my full.
Happy thanksgiving, friends. Happy, happy, broken and full eucharisteo.
I wrote recently that I have been processing a bit about our past missionary experiences compared with this one and why I seem so much more able to cope this time. I wrote a little about how how I've grown up a bit since our first mission last week.
Another reason I think I'm coping a bit differently this time is that the experience I've had in losing my sixth son Bryce 3 three years ago and suffering two subsequent miscarriages since then has changed me. I am a different woman in many ways that I was before. But I think the thing I have seen most in our time here in this mission post is that grief has taught me how to be lonely.
This mission life is an inherently lonely life. No we are not the missionaries of old who waved goodbye to their families, stepped onto ships and were fully prepared to never to see their homeland or families again. I mean, just since our last spell in missions six years ago, the availability of internet, Facebook and Skype have drastically changed communication. I can daily peek in to life back home and check on a family member in the hospital or a friend about to give birth to twins. I can readily communicate with supporters and people helping to meet the needs of our ministry. It is a huge difference in the level of isolation we feel.
However, regardless of how much easier communication is now, the missionary life is an essentially lonely one and battling feeling lonely and forgotten is part of the daily struggle of this life. I think it is in God's design for this life, really, because that daily hunger for something that you can't quite put your finger on (and not the hunger for a bacon cheeseburger and margaritas -- that's a different issue altogether) can, if you let it, keep clinging to the grace and the love that is meant to fill you with only good things, that is the only way to keep walking this missionary road without completely falling apart. Ideally, the loneliness should draw you to prayer, and into the heart of your marriage if you are a married missionary, which I am. Ahem, let me stress, ideally.
You leave behind a lot when you go to the mission field, including real face-to-face contact with your family and having the encouragement of a friend a text message away. You also leave behind the happy chatter with your sister on your drive home from the grocery store and the chance to recharge from a stressful day by hanging with mommies on the sidelines of the football field or the lobby of the play rehearsal for a couple hours. Days are long and stressful and often lonely. You chat with your neighbors and it helps, but it's not the same. You feel the terrible sting of disappointment in your friends because, well, their lives go on and are not all about keeping you happy on the mission field. And then you get over it. Ideally. Ahem, let me again stress, ideally.
Because, you see, last time, six years ago, I never really got over it. I am an off-the-charts extrovert who has long dealt with stress and trial by seeking a little socialization and the company of others. A laugh with a friend, or to be quite honest, a perfect stranger, is like pushing the reset button in my brain. And it can be a good coping strategy. However, there have been times in my life when I have clung to that need like it was oxygen. Like I would die without constant contact with others. In times of difficulties, sorrow, or trial, I am tempted to use the company of others to placate the wounds.
I didn't quite have the self-awareness I do now six years ago. I couldn't put my finger on that hunger and call it loneliness and tell myself, "This is you looking to cope with stress in the way you are accustomed to, and that's not going to work here. Slow down, settle in, you'll figure out how to cope." Instead, I became increasingly panicked about that nagging feeling that something wasn't right. I frantically searched out the company of others. I built resentment toward my husband that he couldn't fill this growing thing inside me. And I was completely ignorant of what it really was and that it was and would always be an inherent struggle for me.
In the growing up I've done in the past six years, I've come to see this tendency in myself. I can't say I've learned to rein it in. It's still a daily struggle for me. But when I was plunged into grief after the loss of Bryce three years ago, I was plunged into a lifelong sense of loss and loneliness that I have had no choice but to learn to live with. And that has made the transition back into missionary life a bit easier to live with this time around.
Don't get me wrong, the loving support of family and friends was essential to my survival after Bryce's death and my subsequent losses. But the truth is, grief drives a wedge into your heart that leaves you always feeling a little disconnected from the rest of the world, always a little bit apart from everyone else. Your internal dialogue is constant and intense and it's not something you can articulate regularly to others without risking getting a reputation for being the new crazy lady in town. I mean, when the phone rings and a friend's voice rings out sincerely, "How are you? What are you doing today?" you can't well answer, "Well, I just convinced myself to take the last ten breaths! In a row! And then shook each of my kids in their beds to make sure they were breathing. Now I'm cooking breakfast and counting to 100 while I stir to try to shake my brain free of horrific images. What about you?"
So you give away little pieces of your heart to make sure you don't implode. But you come to live with the reality that this is an essentially singular process. And that the hunger and loneliness you feel is largely for the person you lost and the future you won't have and, well, that's not going away no matter how many good conversations with friends you have or how you fill up your days with constant interaction.
However, if you can look at yourself honestly and recognize the hunger for what it is, it can drive you to honest communication with your Heavenly Father, a real clinging to grace, and to baring the most vulnerable parts of your heart to your spouse, which is how it should be.
I think in my initial grief, I did pretty well with this. As time went on and I experienced the two miscarriages and the pain of reality became a little much to bear, I slid back into old habits, filling life with hustle and bustle and laughter and joy, but leaving my real interior living and processing, and the chance to heal, on the back burner. And running from the very person for whom I should have reserved that vulnerability, my husband.
But an incredible grace accompanied me into this mission along with that new grown self-awareness. I knew I was going to be lonely. I knew it was going to be terrible intense. I knew I would battle a rising hunger, a craving nothing could seem to meet, and I knew what it was. Loneliness was no longer foreign to me. I surrendered to it this time around and admitted that, if I was honest, I had paid the price of clinging to others to feed that hunger and it just wasn't worth it. I'd rather be lonely than disappointed, hurt, and betrayed, which are the inevitable results of giving too much of yourself away in the search for the company of others.
That's not to say I haven't felt its pangs here. I have. Desperately at time. I've cried for loneliness and I've laid myself at the feet of Jesus over and over again. But what is different is that I have not rushed headlong into the frantic illusion that it can and must be fixed. When I throw a lifeline out to a friend via e-mail and get no response, I cling to the grace to sit in that pain. When I feel the temptation rise to run after the response of others, I strap on my shoes and pound it out into the pavement with a long walk or run. When I need to spill it all out somewhere, I grab my journal and head to a rock on the river's edge.
We've been here almost a year now. I've spent a lot of that time living the dull ache of loneliness day in and day out. And it's a familiar ache. And it doesn't scare me the way it once did. Because, in all truthfulness, it's been long coming that I let go of the illusion of belonging, of fitting in. I used to look for that in places like homeschooling communities, circles of like-minded friends, mommy buddies. But, really, where does the women who has turned birth into death three times in the last three years fit in those circles anyway. Pictures of pretty cupcakes and cure crafts don't really bridge that gap, if you know I mean. I've been long recognizing that the diet of spiritual cupcakes I used to feed myself on in loneliness, the company and approval of others, wasn't enough to give me the strength to recover from the enormity of these losses, from the desperate hunger for love and intimacy it has evoked in my soul. In His grace, the Lord used missions to force me to fully surrendered to this gift of wisdom He had long been growing in my heart.
Yes, I've spent the better part of the last year feeling the dull ache of loneliness. And I've realized it is not a panicked, haunting feeling for me any more. It is a familiar, albeit occasionally unwelcome, friend. And in surrendering to it, I've learned a little more how to cope. I've felt the gaping wounds of grief close a little tighter in my heart as I lean in to the embrace of the Savior and the ready arms of the man I love. And I've learned to settle into it when the hunger just won't go away and let it be what it is. Not something to fix but something to carry, in cupped and careful hands, because it is the work He is doing in my soul and it is sacred.
And I am daily singing myself a new song. This one. And reminding myself daily to settle down. It'll all be clear. To pay no mind to the demon of loneliness that can fill me with fear. Because He's going to make this place my home.
Some of you know that before our arrival here in Costa Rica in January, we had spent two years serving as foreign missionaries about six years before that. I have been thinking a lot lately about how different an experience that this year has been for me compared to those years and examining why. I want to know what has made it so much easier this time around. Not because I want to pat myself on the back (okay, it might be a temptation, but it's not the main reason) but because this life highlights so many of my hardest struggles. If I can get it right here, I need to know the formula so I can use it to get it right in the big, interior battles that I still lose far too often.
Here's what I think it comes down to. First, I have grown up an awful lot in the last six years. Second, grief has changed me. And third, grace. Just grace. Today, I am thinking about growing up.
On Growing Up
First, let me say that it is not lost on me that this time around my youngest child is the same age as my oldest child was when we left for our first missionary post. I was eight weeks postpartum with a five year old, two year old and newborn when we left for St. Vincent and the Grenadines. Life is easier in some ways with this band of brothers growing older and a little less dependent on me for their every need. It is also harder in a lot of mundane ways. More laundry. More food to buy, store, cook, prepare and clean up after. 5 people to have up and out the door, dressed and ready for school by 7 am each day. Media use to monitor. Emotional and spiritual needs to consider. When they were all little, it was exhausting. Now they're bigger and it's exhausting in different ways. But it may well be a bit easier.
The truth, though, is that I even though I had just had my third child and was five years into the journey of motherhood, I was still all too naive those six years ago about the cost of motherhood, the daily sacrifice of it all, that it was fun and joyful, yes, but that it was an awful lot of not-so-pretty hard work.
You see, I had spent my early mothering years assuming that the main part of my job was to have fun with my kids. I went to play group and library story time and the park and the play place. We had fun. More often than not, that meant that the laundry didn't get done and the dishes stayed in the sink and I forgot to think about what was for dinner. Y'all, we showed up at my big sister's house unannounced and stayed for dinner. All. The. Time. It is a credit to the kind of woman that she is that she never once looked me in the face and told me to march my spoiled butt home and cook dinner for my family. You see, that's just it, I entered marriage fresh from the role of the baby of the family. And it took me about 8 years to realize I wasn't the baby any more. No one was supposed to care of me. It was my job to do the care taking. Yeah, so I'm a little dense sometimes. I told you, the point was to recognize the faults.
So, what does all this have to do with mission? Well, it was hard work. And there were no play groups or library story times to run away to. And I was ill-prepared for it. It was hot and there was walking to be done. Food had to be cooked, over and over again every day. There were no chicken nuggets and my sister wasn't around the corner. Laundry and cloth diapers had to be hand washed and hung on the line (eventually I admitted I was lost cause at hand washing clothes and sourced help. And even though I claim to have grown up, I will confess, I am still untterly inept at hand-washing. Women in the third world amaze me with this skill on a daily basis.) Floors had to be mopped or else flies would invade. Water had to be warmed for baths. There was a lot to do. And suddenly, I realized, it was me who was supposed to be doing it.
I'd like to say I rose to the challenge, but the truth is, I caved under the weight of it all. Not right away, I was determined to be valiant about it at first. But eventually, a short eventually, it got to me. I felt the burden of never being done. Of it never being enough. My all or nothing tendencies got the best of me. I fought the urge to shut down and give up altogether. We were sick. Often. It made things harder. And about three months in, I started to look for early exit strategies to my one year commitment. To justify the need to go home and regroup, sure that if I just had my washer and dryer back, I could get this right.
This realization of the hard work ahead of me, the tendency for the daily sacrifice that stretches before me for years on end, my lack of perseverance in the face of it, it dogs me daily still. It followed me into two more mission posts and ate away at my zeal for this life over and over again until I convinced myself I couldn't do it, I wasn't cut out for it.
But you know what? I went "home" to my comforts -- a pretty house , a washer and dryer and dishwasher, a big car. And guess what? More babies came and all those things were still my job and life was still hard and it got harder. And I finally began to realize that this is what life is -- it's hard work. All the time. Never done. And if we live it intentionally, then we are always choosing one thing over the other, choosing the snuggle time on the couch over folded laundry, choosing dinner cooked and floors washed over an afternoon at the park, choosing football practice over a quiet evening at home. Always choosing. Always working. Never done. This is the life I signed up for when I gave my hand to my husband and my child-bearing potential to my God and made a commitment to take what came. What came was the joy of house full of boys and an awful lot of hard work. And a chance to battle back my worst faults and tendencies and seek holiness in the sacrifices those gifts presented me with. It seems an interesting choice for an all or nothing girl who was used to being the baby. Who is dogged by the tendency to give up when one day of perfection is drowned by a million days of mess and chaos and getting it wrong.
The tendency follows me still. On the days I get grumpy and fussy about the floors needing to be swept and mopped again. On the days I close the door on the bed full of laundry waiting to be folded and pour a cup of coffee instead. On the days I push the weight of it all off onto my husband and make it his fault that it's never done.
But I have done some growing up in spite of the temptations that I still battle daily. I am under no illusion that life is anything but hard work. I have, for the most part, learned to do what I can with what I have where I am and let it be enough. I have learned to accept that it won't ever be perfect, but that perfectly folded laundry one day can be savored and enjoyed in the moment, that cake and ice cream for dinner are okay sometimes, that an afternoon reading aloud that means dishes piled in the sink til the morning is sometimes worth it. I have learned to let the choices be intentional and to let myself be enough. I have learned to ask for help rather than build resentment. I have learned that sometimes chaos reigns and there is very little I can do about it. And I fail at these lessons over and over again even though I have learned them. I have learned that joy is not something that happens outside these things, when I have the chance to put them all aside and pursue an adventure, an outing, a break. But that joy is here, if I choose it, in the sudsy sink and the clean pajamas and the early morning risings and the interrupted sleep. Joy is here because life is here. And life is the gift I chose above all in choosing this vocation, the gift I begged for and hoped for and yearn for still. And I have learned that failing doesn't mean we pack up and go home, seeking an easier way. It is an opportunity to seek forgiveness and begin again.
I remember reading this post on Katie Davis' blog and thinking I knew a little (not 14 times worth, but a little) of what she meant. The daily life of a mom in mission is not that different than the daily life of a mom anywhere else. I cook and cook again. I wash and fold and put away. I sweep and mop and sigh at the footprints that appear before I'm done. I tuck in and wake up and dress and bathe. I burn the used toilet paper. Okay, maybe you don't do that. But you get the point. And you know what, with the exception of the occasions on which I get a little cranky about it all, I am pretty much okay with the fact that this is how I spend the majority of my life. And that it is good.
I was not shocked by the piles of laundry that followed me into this mission post nor the messy bathrooms nor the dirty floors. These are my life. They are my life in the middle of suburbia and my life in the mountains of a developing nation. And they are my sanctity. They are the things that keep my faults ever before my eyes and keep me clinging to grace. And they are my joy. The constant joy and satisfaction brought by serving those most important to me in the most important of ways -- food, clothing, shelter -- home.
Yes, I'd say I'm good and grown up. A grown up sinful mess who still gets it wrong far too often? Yes. But a grown up nonetheless. And because of that, I am still here almost a year later. Not ready to run from the hard work, but instead, falling on my knees before the Lord and saying, "You want to do more? For more people? But you promise you'll help? That the grace will be there? Then, bring it, Big Guy. I'm ready."
And that, my friends, is a humbling place to be for the spoiled baby girl who'd rather sip coffee and read than mop the floors.
So in between loving the orphans and widows in His name, in between the long journeys and the busy days full of Church activities, a whole lot or ordinary, every day family life goes on here. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes and teaches school. Family movie night. Working. E-mailing family and friends. Afternoons at the river. Kicking the soccer ball around the plaza. And lately, a lot of fort building on the front porch.
I am committed to maintaining the atmosphere of family first here in the missions. My kids did not come all this way to be exhausted in service. They are as hungry for the love of Christ as anyone else I might meet here. And it is my primary duty to give that love generously. One way I attempt to do that is by being a "yes" momma, as often as I can saying yes to their requests for my attention: "Can you take us to the river?" " Can we paint today?" "Can we make cookies tonight?" Yes, my loves, I can. We can. Because in the midst of all this service, you are the most important people in my life. I will stop for you. I will rest a longer because you have curled up next to me. I will sing " The Ants Go Marching One by One" one more time. I will. Because you are precious to me and precious to your father and precious to the Lord. And you are loved.
I love to see how happy my kids are here. And I love to see how much they truly appreciate it when they get to Skype their cousins or see photos of friends. They are elated to be remembered. And the so the joy that ensued when one sweet friend and her children waltzed their way to us via care packages that arrived this week was truly memorable.
Even after a few tries, I couldn't get squirmy excited boys to stay in place long enough for you to really see our message, which reads MUCHISSIMAS GRACIAS FAMILIA _______!
Balls, baked goods, peanut butter, Nutella. The good stuff. And for a mom's heart? Dark chocolate, sharpies and a table cloth from pretty girls who know how to make things lovely. I hope these smiles tell the story of our gratitude, because we were pretty over the moon. Kolbe turns 5 this Wednesday and he has picked the Marble Cake Mix for his cake. You made our hearts happy, dear friends. And we thank you. Grace in a box. What a lovely gift!
My husband dubbed our recent trip to Nicaragua to renew our visas "Mission Within a Mission". My oldest son found this quite humorous and re-dubbed it "Mission-ception". Because it has been five weeks since he has been here with us and I miss his quirky humor tremendously, I have stuck with that.
The trip was so blessed and I am still trying to process all that happened and wade through photos, mental images and journal entries in order to share some coherent thoughts. The problem is that it was also utterly exhausting and we are all still trying to recover and at the same time keep life going here with a mild sense of order (and I use the term loosely).
Today, as I say by the river with my prayer journal and looked at the quick day-by-day notes I made on the trip, it struck that it was interesting in its own right and might make a good introduction to where we went as I start to share more about the trip. So here it is, the Mission-ception run down.
Tuesday, April 10th:
Bus from Grano de Oro to Turrialba (2 hours)
Bus from Turrialba to San Jose (3 hours)
Bus from San Jose to Ciudad Quesada (3 hours)
Bus from Ciudad Quesada to Aguazarcas (30 minutes)
Overnight visit with an amazing missionary family and group from St. Thomas More High School in Lafayette
Wednesday, April 11th
Bus from Aguazarcas to Cuidad Quesada (30 minutes)
Bus from Ciudad Quesada to La Fortuna (2 hours)
Two days at the cabins of an old friend in the shadows of Arenal volcano, enjoying one of our favorite spots in Costa Rica--swimming pools, thermal waters, picnincs, pizza, birthday celebration for Dina Estrella, our landlady who accompanied us on our trip
Friday, April 13th
Cab ride from La Fortuna to El Tanque (30 minutes)
Bus ride from El Tonque to Penas Blancas (6 hours)
Crossing the border on foot and clearing both immigration offices (1 hour)
Bus ride to Rivas, Nicaragua (1 hour)
Cab ride to port of San Jorge (30 minutes)
Lunch on the beach
Ferry ride to Ometepe Island (1 hour)
Taxi Ride to CICRIN (Christian Infants and Children's Center in Nicaragua)
Warm welcome by the staff and children of CICRIN
Saturday, April 14th
trip into the town of Moyogalpa to see a bit of the Island
chore time and play time with the CICRIN kids
Swimming in Lake Nicaragua
helping in the kitchen
movie night under the stars with a lap full of kids
Sunday, April 15th
8 am Mass at Santa Ana Church in Moyogalpa
Birthday lunch at a hotel in town
Swimming at the Oja de Agua with the CICRIN kids
Relaxing evening swinging in the hammocks in the rancho and playing with the kiddos
Monday, April 16th
More hammocks, kitchen help, chores, and playing
A trip to town to buy a pinata
The most amazing birthday celebration ever at CICRIN
Tuesday, April 17th
Ferry ride from Ometepe to San Jorge (1 hour)
Cab ride to Rivas (30 minutes)
Breakfast in Rivas
Cab ride to border (30 minutes)
Border crossing with fellow bus passengers and lots of other various waiting (3 hours)
Bus from border to San Jose (6 hours)
Pizza Hut
Sleep over at the apartment of Dona Estrella's daughter
Wednesday, April 18th
First hot shower in a week
Bus ride from San Jose to Turrialba (3 hours)
Wandering around Turrialba trying to find Greg (we got inexplicably separated and our phones were wonked out from the trip)
SNOWBALLS with condensed milk in the park!!!!!
A quick grocery trip
Bus ride from Turrialba to Grano de Oro (2 hours)
Walk from bus stop to home dragging huge suit case, back packs, exhausted kids, and a sack of groceries in the rain
Sleep. In our own beds.
I hope this will make the upcoming storm of photos and reflections make a little more sense. And explain why I need to recover a bit before hashing it all out. Be back soon to share more!
Hola! Bienvenidos a nuestra casa misionera! For you gringos, that's "Hi! Welcome to our missionary home!"
Would you like to come in for a little tour and see what our house looks like here in Grano de Oro?
Well, okay, come on in through the side gate. You'll find yourself in the breeze way that connects our open-air kitchen to the rest of our house. We use it for a casual every day eating area.
See that picture hanging on the back wall? it's a puzzle I brought with us. We built it to celebrate Mardi Gras even though we were far from my beloved NOLA. It's Rex turning down Canal Street!
If you turn to your right from here, you can come in and see our kitchen! It is separate from the house and enclosed in lattice work.
Small Sink
Larger Cement Sink, Woodburning Stove, and Pot Storage
Cabinet/Pantry Space, Counter Space, Oven
Fridge, Laundry Area
(I use that wall as additional pantry storage.)
Well, that's about it for the kitchen. Shall we head over into the main area of the house? The bathroom? Sure, it's right inside the door.
Oh, make sure the you don't throw toilet paper in the potty. The plumbing here is not made for that. That's what that trash can is for. All done? Okay. Let's head over here.
I think this room was destined to be an indoor kitchen at some point, but was never completed. It makes great storage and display for all our school stuff, shoes and other items for coming and going.
Let's go see what Quinn is up to. I think he's in his room.
Yep. There he is. His is the only room downstairs. It's a nice little spot and gives him the chance to display some things that make it feel a little more homey.
I saw an idea on Pinterest using embroidery hoops and fabric to decorate a wall. I thought it would be cute to do with t-shirts. And wooden hoops were inexpensive, light and easy to pack. I'm pretty satisfied with the result.
This is the, um, dining room....where I am folding today's laundry. Some things about a mother's life never change. This nice table does make a nice folding spot and a great space for spreading out for school work or board games or puzzle building. Let's keep walking out that door in the corner. It's really nice out on the patio.
That chair is one of my favorite spots in the whole house. I sit there early in the mornings with my coffee, bible and prayer journal and watch our little town wake up. Tea and knitting in the afternoon. The Kindle and a blanket in the evenings. Yep. I like this spot a lot. And the kids have found it to be a nice play room too.
Would you like to come upstairs? Okay, follow me.
Here's our little "sala" or living room at the top of the stairs. I've always wanted to live in a log cabin home. I love that the upstairs of this house feels just like a log cabin. Take a peek in that door over there. That's the boys' room.
I love their sweet room. Right now the little boys are using mattresses on the floor to sleep, but we plan to get another double bed for this room. Their football jerseys and team pictures make such the room cozy and personal, and they were easy to pack too.
More football paraphernalia. And thanks to Drew Brees double duty as inspiration and cover up for the random Rasta man painted on the wall there. Well, only one room left on our tour. Our bedroom is right over here on the other side of the sala.
Isn't it sweet and homey? I spent the months before we left pinning pretty vintage quilts and granny afghans laid out in old barn style homes to my home inspiration board and kind of laughing at myself. I mean, really, where did I think I was moving to? I packed a few things to try to make our new home feel like "us" but quilts and afghans were a bit much. I resolved to use the things we were given and only buy the things that were not made available to us when we arrived. Imagine my delight in the Lord on the night we arrived when I found this quilt and afghan tucked in the stack of blankets I was handed.
God loves us so well, doesn't He? Right down to all the little details.
Add in the amazing views out of our windows....
A little vintage pretty that I brought from home...
A place to store clothes ( yes, that is our shared dresser and closet)
Some lovely art to look at on the walls and a little corner for the computer and we have all we need to feel comfortable, happy, and at home in our house here. I hope you've enjoyed your little tour. As you can see, we have plenty of space, so come visit us any time!
