Alone

Loneliness 

You capture me. Your smiles and laughter. Feeling as though it were a dream that I can only remember when triggered by a smell, a word. A sixth sense. 

Campfires. Flannel. Wine. You pull me in. Entice me with the flame of a bond I am not sure I once felt. I am but an observer of your warmth. I ebb and flow, in and out of your circle. But only as an unnecessary part. The circle remains complete without my presence. 

But we enjoy one another.

Friends that are family. I have longed for you. And yet I sit upright, smiling and chatting, pretending I am not a prisoner in my soul. 

I reject the thought that I am too much. That my love overwhelms. My acceptance absurd. I beat my mind into an unbalanced form of submission. I hold onto hope; meanwhile wondering if my ideals were released long ago, like a child's balloon. 

Meanwhile. The flame of your love lets off warmth, invites the coldness of my feet to come closer. 

Isolation's comfort pulls me back in. It lies to me with the thread count of its sheet. It covers me and gives me a space in which to hide. 

It must be me. 

I know by now. After these years that pass, I know that the community for which I long is only a foreshadowing in this life. But still, its warmth. Its hidden language, woven in and out of laughter and silence, wrapped up in blankets of knowing and being known. It draws me in. 

And yet my smile and my laughter and my independent  spirit pull me away from the brightness of vulnerability in which I once basked.  Overcome by what I once believed was my place, I find myself a hopeless wanderer. Grounded only by my children. As they grow and become more independent, I wonder what will ground me next. 

Or will I drift away, like a child's balloon, identified only by my muted colors, floating freely above the earth. 

Alone. 

I Will Never Drop You.

The mauve and teal-striped wallpaper, leftover from the 90’s and budget cuts from government programs, pealed from the corner of the bathroom stall as I sat on the toilet trying desperately to pull myself together.  My therapist, who rents an office space in a government-run building, needed to be out of her office by 8:00 p.m.  It was 8:05, but the tears wouldn’t stop. 

When they started running down my face, I had assumed it had everything to do with the fight my husband and I were having in her office during our session.  But once I made my way to the bathroom stall, I began thinking about my clients: the children with whom I do therapy each day.  And I began to see their faces as babies and then as toddlers.  Preschoolers.  First graders.  I thought of the neglect some of them had experienced.  The beatings.  The sexual abuse.  And just as I cannot stop the tears from running now, I couldn’t make them stop in that moment.  I kept thinking about my babies.  How I would literally do anything for them; but that these teenagers have often not been afforded that opportunity.

And then I heard his words.

 The same kid who had sworn off meeting with me and who had cursed at me during our first session, had become comfortable with meeting me and in fact, has frequented my office daily, calling me “pretty lady” and begging me to go a day without makeup so that I won’t look like a clown. 

I heard the words he said the other day, as he opened a bag of Cheetos and played an Uno card. 

“Are you going to drop me?” 

“What do you mean?” I asked, still confused about the context. 

“Like, if I’m bad…will you drop me…like not meet with me anymore?” 

“Of course not,” I assured him, “If I didn’t get upset the day you told me to leave your house and not the the door ‘hit ya where the good lord split ya’ then why do you think I would stop meeting with you now?” 

“I don’t know,” he said.  “What if I hit you or said something really mean?”  At this point, all I could think about were the many books I had laid in bed and read to my kids where the baby animal asks the mom “Will you stop loving me if…”  to which the mother animal always replies, “Even if…I will never stop loving you.”  I wondered if his mom had ever read to him.  If she had ever whispered the words “I love you,” before pulling the covers up over him.

“Well, if you hit me, I probably couldn’t meet with you alone for awhile, just to make sure I’m safe.  And if you say mean things to me, well, I can probably handle it.  You do remember our first meeting, right?”  He laughed and reached across my desk, barely touching my shoulder.  “I hit ya, see?”  We laughed together and I looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m your therapist for the whole year.  I’m not going to drop you.  Okay?” 

“I know.  I was just playin’,” he said, tucking away the neglected little boy who lives inside.  “It’s your turn.”  I laid my card and followed his lead in changing the subject.  But his question let me in to a deep part of his heart and mind. 

His question left me in a bathroom stall feeling like I could cry for days for all of these kids whose stories were in some way similar to this one. 

When I was in grad school, the phrase “self-care” became a buzzword that every professor drilled into us.  I remember thinking how ridiculous it would be to stop taking care of myself when having such an emotionally draining job. 

But as suddenly as my life flipped upside down when I got a full-time job, my friendship circles have decreased, I have been terrible about working out, I don’t belong to a religious community, and my interest in making any of those things happen is null. 

I don’t have the energy to initiate with people.  I don’t want to fabricate community.  And I don’t feel like drive-thru Sunday church is going to make my life any better, though I am willing to partake.

But I do know that I have three little people who count on my love; who deserve my attention and my time.  Little people who have dance parties and rap sessions and who love inline skating and playing basketball with their mommy.  I have a husband who does the dishes and the laundry and who cooks like nobody’s business, (especially when he pisses me off).  And I have extended family I know I can count on whenever I need them. 

While I know my deficits are many right now, maybe I just needed to cry in that bathroom as a way of caring for myself in order to get real and honest with God, letting him know that I know I need Him in order to effectively care for all the people in my life, both personally and vocationally. 

I have cursed at God.  And I’m 99% sure I’ve thrown some punches.  But this I know: God will never drop me.

Desperation: The Pathway to Peace

As I lay in bed with her, our heads resting on the lap of Big Murphy, her oversized stuffed bear, I stroked her face, silently begging Jesus to help me to help her.  “Heal her. Make it better.”  Meanwhile, my mind doubted His willingness to do so.  After all, at 34, I have my own bouts of anxiety and depression.  As her heartbeat raced, I could feel my own begin to speed up.  “It’s going to be okay,” I said, trying desperately to believe my own words.

I silently wondered, as I have many other nights, if it truly would be okay.  Or would she succumb to vulnerabilities marked by low self-esteem, low self-confidence, poor body image, and extreme intuition and worry?  I have battled these demons for years; but I truly thought that THIS would be the generation where it would end.  I wrongfully thought that parentally encouraging her in her gifts, telling her she is beautiful and a child of God, of trying hard to let her be unique in whatever ways she chooses to express herself (with limits of course), and focusing on her intellect, would save her from the distress of those susceptibilities mentioned above.

But perhaps this is the generation where we finally have a name for it:  A medical diagnosis of anxiety and depression.   

However, those terms are only a starting point, as now I must advocate for her, constantly, in order that this diagnosis would be taken seriously.  Over the past year, I have been blamed for poor mothering, lack of structure, and lack of spiritual guidance (which I do not doubt are true at times…but grace…where is grace?).  Meanwhile, she has been labeled stubborn, dangerous, dramatic, and overly sensitive. 

I cannot blame others though.  One’s paradigm is given to him by his ecosystem and through a lack of education on current societal issues.   I have had to come to terms with the fact that maybe they will never understand.  I do not need their approval of a diagnosis in order to move forward with her healing.  I do not need their affirmation in order to advocate for her.  This is where the rubber truly meets the road though.  This is where I must press in, lean in, and call the shots.  The caveat to this is that calling the shots does not come natural to me.  I must step outside of my passive, people-pleasing skin and stand up for what I believe is essential to my daughter’s well-being.  I tell myself each time that if I did it while living in Italy, in a foreign language and amongst their extreme cultural ignorance, I certainly can do it here. 

And so I move forward.  One step at a time.  With many a breakdown in between. 

As mothers, we carry the weight of our children’s hurts literally on our chests.  I feel it when I think of her future. I feel it when she wakes up in the morning and I know she cannot stop the thoughts, no matter how hard she has tried before making her way to breakfast.  I feel it when I think of her going to bed late because she couldn’t stop worrying about school the next day.  All of the coping skills in the world (and as a children's therapist, I know many), do not help in that moment.  Her reddened cheeks and shortened breath. The dark circles and sweaty palms.  The stomach aches. The headaches.  I want to sweep her up in my arms and turn her into a baby again…controlling every moment of her day and her environment.  I want to watch her sitting in the cart at Target as a baby, smiling at strangers as they pass by.  I want her to be 18 months, singing in her bed in the morning, shouting intermittently, “Momma….Mommmmmmma!  I wake!”  I want to take her to the park and push her in a swing.  I want to watch her dress up in princess costumes and dance around in circles.  Carefree.  Not a prisoner to her mind. 

Watching my children suffer from mental health issues is something I never considered when dreaming of a family.  I thought of babies and toddlers and preschoolers.  I thought of curly hair and chubby legs and little feet. I thought of tutus and baby dolls and dance classes.  I never considered my daughter standing outside of her gymnastics class, telling me the reason she won’t take off her shorts like all of the other girls is because her thighs are too fat.  I didn’t think about how she would ask me every few minutes if she looks sick.  I didn’t consider moments of rage, of helplessness, of her wanting to die.  

But here we are.  Caught somewhere between desperation and hope; between sorrow and joy.  I have learned to observe more...to rejoice when I see her playing as a child should.  As a photographer, I have learned the beauty of capturing these moments...because I need often to return to them, in order that i can remember that it is NOT all bad.  I have learned that therapy is a necessity for me, if only to process this pain.  I have also learned that I cannot be a therapist for my daughter. This is a release for me and I am so thankful for so many people who have reminded me that it's okay to be her mommy and not her counselor.  Grace for myself does not come easy; but I'm learning it is necessary in order to extend grace to her, particularly in the moments of rage.  

I believe the journey through anxiety and depression with my daughter is one whereby God can intervene in a way that gives depth to her relationship with him.  On a good day, I see hope for her.  I can see how strong she is and how this weakness has the capacity to make her even that much stronger.  

The Serenity Prayer hangs on my refrigerator, as a reminder of the balance between acceptance and change.  Through this journey with my brave, amazing, and sweet daughter, I am learning to allow difficulty to be present and to not fight against it.  I am learning to ask for wisdom to know when I need to help her press in and when it's simply okay to let up.  

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.  Living one moment at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace."

Why Church Planting Sucks... (and other shitty things about ministry)

   

It was 2007 when we sat at a senior banquet at my husband’s alma mater in Chicago.  Some young hipster looking guy was the guest speaker and he was going on and on about how some people make a difference and other people are world changers.  I had always wanted to be the latter.  And his words only solidified our plans that had been set in motion from the day Thomas and I met.

Rewind to 2006 when Thomas took on an internship in Africa.  At the time, I thought for sure that our little summer excursion would confirm that we were to move to Rwanda and become missionaries.  I had enough third world experience to honestly see myself raising tanned, barefooted, wild haired children overseas.  And of course the plan would entail adopting at least one African baby. 

But that all changed once I set foot in the dry, desolate, dark, war-ridden land.  It was a horrific experience, though only in a first world way; not in a way whereby my reality was defined by looking for my next meal while staring down at a swollen belly, as was the condition for so many children we encountered.  But it was awful in the sense that I was completely isolated with two very small children while finding out two weeks into the trip I was pregnant with our third.  The only white girl (with dreadlocks, mind you) for miles, you can imagine the oddity I must have been while pushing a double stroller on dirt roads in order to reach the only American-like piece of architecture in the city, a nice hotel with a pool.  All this while Thomas was off in distant villages “preachin’ the word o’ God,” although to be honest I’m still not even sure what he did. 

I could go into more detail about that trip, but I will leave it at this: IT SUCKED.  And you know what sucks more than having two toddlers and being pregnant in a foreign land and totally isolated from civilization? Having two toddlers and being pregnant in a foreign land and totally isolated from civilization with NO MONEY.  And no capability to get money because they don’t do the whole ‘world bank’ thing in those parts…

But of course the trip ended and since what doesn’t kill you really does make you stronger, we chalked it up to a really, really expensive (and almost-marriage-ruining) way to KNOW that God was not calling us to change the world in Africa.

So back to the drawing board we went.  We now had three kids and we were living in a one-bedroom apartment up four flights of stairs in a not-so-great Chicago neighborhood.  Thomas was about to graduate and God soon led us to a small church-planting mission that recruited us to go be world changers in Italy.

So we had the awesome task ahead of us of raising our own salary in order that we could go do “God’s work” (yes, I’m being sarcastic).   And for some CRAZY, unexplainable reason…we actually did it.  So for a lot of grueling months, we awkwardly presented our schpeel while sheepishly asking people to pay our salary.  It was pretty much as awful as is sounds…except for the fact that God always showed up in some crazy way and made us able to do it, albeit once again sheepishly, time and time again.

So it was September of 2009 when we alas arrived in Italy with our then 2, 4, and 6 year-olds.  The first night, I had a panic attack in the basement of our teammate’s house, as we were boarded there with a few blankets and some cushions of which we were to make a bed for ALL FIVE OF US.   Red flag that maybe this whole team thing wasn’t going to go so well?  Perhaps.

The next day, we did EVERYTHING WE COULD to make the apartment we had signed the lease on a livable space, even though there was no electricity.  Our other teammates, two single girls, had electricity; so we ran an extension cord from their balcony to ours.  As we lived next door to them, we quickly bonded and became like family.  I still have memories engrained in my brain of our first trips via bus to Ikea, where we purchased furniture and MATTRESSES.  And ported them. ON A BUS.  WITH THREE SMALL CHILDREN.  I have nooooooo idea how all of that went down.  But again, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. 

So fast-forward two and a half years.  We were living in a different apartment; one that overlooked a daily market, was surrounded by shops and cafes and parks… and close to public transit.  We loved that place.  We homeschooled our kids that year and had good friends by that point.  And we had begun opening up our home for what we wanted to become a church plant. 

The thing for me about opening up my home to people is this: My home is the one tangible, material possession I can truly give someone.  It is a space that, if used in the right spirit, can make people feel a part of my family.  The ambience, the cleanliness, the food, the coffee, and the wine… they are all a part of showing love to other humans who have walked through the doors.  You have to understand.  I do not like to clean. I do not like to cook.  But part of serving others, of “ministry,” is laying down your life, your wants, your convenience, for the sake others.  And so, we did that, week in and week out.  Because we were called by God to do it. 

And then it imploded.  Bad things went down. People made some bad decisions. All of our egos got in the way.  And the whole “vision,” comprised of language and cultural blood, sweat, and tears, went crashing down like a 747. It was ugly and messy and it felt so, so incredibly unjust and wrong.  I wanted to grab the people who we had introduced into the community and lay claims to them, stating, “Remember how we served you?  How we gave you rights to the sacredness of our home…our family?  How we selflessly laid our lives down?”  Total pride. But totally how I felt. 

Fast forward to 2012.  After the epic implosion of “Team Torino,” we licked our wounds and moved back to the USA.  You know the really shitty part of coming off the mission field? No one really wants to hear that all of the money they gave you ended in a massive failure.  Sure, people who didn’t know Jesus were now walking with Jesus.  And if I’m honest with myself, I truly believe that all of that money was worth those few people knowing God on a relational level.  But church machines and entrepreneurs and church machine attendees want results.  They want big and flashy.  And all we had were understated tears and the classic missionary story of team failure.  

Total world changers.

In December of 2012, God kept putting it on my heart to once again open up our home, just as we had pretty much done for the past five years.  We would name it after a group we attended in Chicago: “Jesus Over Dinner.”  I liked the simplicity that was implied in the name.  There would be Jesus.  And there would be food.  The goal was community and soon our house was full of people who seemed to long for the same thing.  People began to get vulnerable.  The inconvenience of opening up my home was surpassed by the way people interacted once they were inside.  I loved standing back and watching people talk to one another, knowing that God had given us a space that could house the growth and nourishment of community. 

Fast forward to the summer where again, another community imploded.  It wasn’t as volatile as the first one had been; but it got a little ugly.  And there are still some wounds I’m licking from that experience.

Mix that in with the fact that coming off of the mission field is just super shitty in general (this article sums it up)…and you have all the ingredients in order to write a title for a blog post such as this. 

There are a lot of “cool” people out there who are like, “Yah, I’m gonna change the world bro.  We have this cool church plant…” and lalala.  But church planting isn’t for cool people.  It’s for ridiculously humble people who can truly take a beating.  It’s for people who eat and sleep and breathe Jesus’ words of servanthood.  True church planting is for people who aren’t afraid to give up their comforts. 

True church planting straight up sucks.

Sometimes you realize that you are not a world changer.

I am not a world changer.

If you look at my Instagram, you will find that it says, “In search of a quiet, simple life.”  That’s what I want.  I strive to affect the people in my circle of influence for the good, to advocate for those who do not have a voice, and to love people unconditionally.  

For me, that’s a big enough task for a lifetime.

Thirty Seconds and Band-Aids

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We have been using a lot of bandaids around our house lately.  It always seems someone is in need of one.  In fact, today I dreadfully went to Wal-Mart, the worst Wal-Mart in the world (on Emerson in Beech Grove, in case you ever want to experience the phenomenon…or get a contact high in the parking lot), to buy my one-dollar-sugar-free-vanilla-syrup that I cannot live without.  I put a tiny bit in my Lavazza cappuccino every morning and every single time I smile inside thinking about how that one shot would have cost me fifty cents at Starbucks.  In fact, when at Starbucks, I have begun simply ordering a skinny vanilla latte just to avoid saying “…and a shot of sugar-free vanilla.”  Because watching them ring it up always makes me re-think the shot and over-analyze my drink choice and of course that opens the part of my brain that screams, “Screw the man. Why are you supporting the machine? You should be at a local coffee shop supporting local business!”  So that just really f’s with my need for a good latte and thus the beauty of the Wal-Mart syrup. A whole bottle for a buck.  Who knew! 

Anyhow, so the bandaids.  I was over in the vitamin aisle searching for whatever vitamins the gorgeous girl in one of my social work classes had on her desk this morning.  Her skin is perfect and I thought maybe it was directly correlated to her little baggy of vitamins that, upon my inquiry, she listed as if calling Santa’s reindeer to attention. And they each looked so pretty.  Three purple chewable ones, two clear liquid ones, two pebble-sized aqua ones, and one flat pink one that resembled a Tums.  I thought, “Damn. Even her vitamins are pretty.” She offered me a purple chewable one and I politely declined, informing her that I was enjoying the lingering taste of my coffee in my mouth mixed with toothpaste.  Yes, I actually said that.

So it was while searching for perfect-skin-vitamins that I saw the bandaids.  My eyes scanned past Barbie, G.I. Joe, Hello Kitty, Monsters, Inc., and Despicable Me2 and landed on the 97 cent Curad flexi-strips.  Not only would I be saving two bucks, but also I wouldn’t have to answer to my kids’ complaints that they were too girly, not girly enough, or, in the case of my ten year-old, “dumb.” In addition, I wouldn’t be thinking about the twenty cents down the drain every time I found one, sticky and nasty side down, on my floor.  Win win.  Win. 

I brought them home and apparently left them on the counter because when I walked in the door tonight I found the little white strips all over the counter, as if the Chipmunks had invaded the box in order to bandage Alvin after one of his crazy stunts.

Here’s the thing about bandaids: It’s rarely about the bandage itself.  Really, I can count on one hand the times my kids really needed one (and usually those times were accompanied by stitches).  But the reality is that bandaids represent so much more.  They are a visual reminder that someone took the time out of their busy lives to address the pain, whether great or small. I have vivid memories of sitting in the bathroom as a kid while my mom peeled back half of the strip and then attached it ever so carefully to my scrape.  She would gently press it down on my wound and then slowly detach the other strip, adding, “Alright. All better now.” And I would jump off the counter and run back outside.

Everything was better.   In a matter of thirty seconds, I had been reminded that someone cared about my smallest pain.

The reality is that I usually can’t find our bandaids because our kids, okay, mainly one kid, is in the business of handing them out to neighbor kids. I typically get incorporated in this process.  It’s like she knows that these kids need thirty seconds of nurturing via beige plastic stickiness. 

So I have become the nurse of the cul-de-sac.  One of the little girls makes special trips inside my house to tell me whenever she gets hurt.  And then she tells me about another time that she got hurt.  And about the mosquito bite. And the twisted ankle that happened last year.  And I hear in her soft, sweet, six year-old voice, a desperation to be heard.  Sometimes I offer a bandaid, especially when I can find one; but more often, I offer her thirty seconds of my life.  I tell her how sorry I am about her scrape, cut, bruise, fall, headache, tummy ache, etc.  That’s it.  I don’t do anything super spiritual like asking to pray for her.  I don’t give out ice packs or popsicles.  I usually don’t even ask to see where she got hurt.  I just simply say, “I’m so sorry.  Are you okay?”  Every single time, she nods her head yes, smiles, and then runs off to play again. 

God says that he sets the lonely in families.  This verse dances in and out of my head every time a neighbor kid is at my table, on my porch, in my car, at my church.  I am certainly not special.  My kids often inform me that I don’t spend enough time with them, so it’s clear that I’m not giving neighborhood kids crazy amounts of my time.  I simply try to give them my presence, even if it means I’m busy cooking or working on a paper or folding laundry. 

No matter what I am doing, I can find thirty seconds to offer my ears and, sometimes, a bandaid.

Front Seat

I like photography because it freezes in time the moments I want to re-live forever and ever.

But sometimes a camera cannot capture the depth of a moment.  Because the moment is in itself far too simple.  Far too mundane.

These ordinary moments are the ones I never want to forget. The moments like today when I let my son skip school and hang out with me.  We ran some errands and he, taking full advantage of his 70 pounds of ten year-old life, sat in the front seat.  He discovered the little plug-in to my I-Phone and played various sorts of music, begging me to download "that I got twenty dollars in my pocket song," to which I explained that I am not sure if there's a clean version out there...to which he responded "What do you mean?" To which I responded, "Uhm, it says the F-word in the real song..." to which he began singing "...this is freakin' awesome."  There was more where that came from, as he has begun to call me "man" and "dude" and I can't help but laugh at how the southside of Indy has already gotten to him, even though we've only lived back in the USA for less than a year.   

But the moment frozen in my mind occurred when we were listening to a Christian radio station.  Two songs that he sang for his spring program came on and he was belting them so loud in this sweet non-pubescent boy voice.  "Your love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me..."  And of course I was singing along with him.  I didn't let him see me glance over at him.  I didn't let him know how I was praying in that moment that those words would stick with him forever.  That he would forever know that God's love will never give up on him, no matter how far in sin he may fall, no matter how far he may run.

Not that I am saying he will. 

But I know he will struggle.  Because we all do.  And I never want to be surprised by the fact that my children are sinners.

One of the proudest moments of parenting for me happened recently when Elias came to me to confess something he did.  He was so broken inside.  Tears streamed down his face as he cried out, "Just ground me forever..."

But we didn't ground him.  We praised him.  He could have hid his sin, like Adam and Eve hid in the garden.  But he didn't.  And I knew in that moment that this was the beginning of my relationship with a tween/adolescent.  And I felt the weight of my response.  I knew he would see Jesus' forgiveness of him in the way in which I would respond.

I breathed deep and allowed his confession to settle into my heart, into the parts of me that are broken too.  I related to him in a way I never had before.   Unbeknownst to him, I empathized with his shame.  With his guilt and his heartache.  And like going on stage for the first time, I performed a response that I had played in my head since I was a child.

I didn't react.  I didn't say a word.  I looked into his tearful eyes and loved that boy more than I had ever loved him, not believing it possible.  I cried with him, and after much silence, I told him I was sorry.  For sin.  For it entering the world.  For the struggle that robs us of joy and lures us into the darkness to hide...to believe the lie that His love does give up on us.  Does run out on us.

My son laying in bed crying in confession.  That same son belting out praises to God.  That same son singing "this is freakin' awesome."

This is it.  The human experience.

I don't want to miss a minute of it.  Those images are juxtaposed in my mind, intertwined into the fabric of my son's DNA: sin, confession, forgiveness, praise.  Those images are the ones my camera will never capture, but that will fade endlessly into eternity when they will become but a reflection of the glory of a sinless, struggle-less kingdom.

Until then, may I continue to be silenced by these little people.  As they teach me, from the front seat, about honest worship. 

Like a Pair of Angel Wings

Her pink lips matched the blankets surrounding her, reminding me of all of that pink fluff that she came home from the hospital in, as she was my first (and only) girl.

Her profile was backlit with a nightlight and the peace that carried her into what I prayed were good dreams was a grand contradiction to moments prior. Tonight was nothing outside of normal for a Sunday night, which in Keziah’s mind is the day before the dreaded day: Monday. Aka: the beginning of the SCHOOL week.

I have not written for a long time. While I believe God is using us in this country, I usually write from the part of my heart that is personal and is not work-related. And when it comes to my personal “heart” life…I have nothing new to offer. I still feel like what I think was my previous blog-post-title: “Spento.” Meaning I feel like I have nothing else to give.

Sure, my language skills have grown. Now I have the privilege of eavesdropping on conversations as well as understanding all of the things that I was blissfully unaware of, like being corrected for feeding my kids at the wrong time or allowing them to go outside without a hat when its only 65 degrees or speaking English while discussing with my child which pizza we should order. Ignorance was bliss for a while…then annoying...and now, it has turned into knowledge. And with knowledge comes a whole new reality: Choosing to love.

But that really isn’t the point of this post.

Keziah is six years old. I have said it before, but since this is my blog, I’m entitled to say it again…just as you are entitled to be annoyed and perhaps, stop reading. She is a special girl. She is giving to a fault, carries the burdens of others, intuitively understands the needs of those around her, and she has amazing ideas that involve lots of energy that I normally do not possess. I often feel it was not fair for God to give her ME as a mother and not some amazing woman who could really forge her gifts into this really great thing…or at least a mother that could sew or perhaps even a grandmother within 1000 miles that could teach her to sew. Oh…. there’s the guilt train a comin’…. I think I’ll pass on that (why did I rip my kids away from their grandparents?) ride.

Anyhow, she has spent the last six months hating school. Most people say kindergartners get over the “crying before school” thing by the third week. Not this kid. It is a very common scene these days to see Thomas or I carrying her into the school while she cries out, “Don’t make me do this!!!” It’s heartbreaking to some, annoying to others…and routine (and extremely wearisome) for us.

Yes, we have talked to the teachers. To the point that I think we are the brunt of every American entitlement joke. Here, this is the norm. Anything we say is outside of the norm. The school my kids attend does not know what to do with foreigners. They wonder why we don’t speak only Italian in our home. They don’t believe me when I explain that my daughter, while seemingly understanding everything they are saying, does NOT indeed understand everything they are saying. I’m a broken record. The whole scenario is a broken record.

I would have said it too: “Take the kid out of school! Don’t feed your kids to the wolves for the sake of ministry!”

Trust me, I have heard myself say the same words when hearing some missionary kid talk about how awful their schooling experience was as a child.

But here is the thing: I just don’t have the answer anymore.

I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, raised by parents who desired safety first and foremost for their children. They were inner-city school kids and didn’t want that for their own kids. So they did what many people of their generation did and moved outside of the city to a nice white neighborhood and built a nice house and all of that. It was a good childhood, my own…and there are days I’d do anything to live on a cull-di-sac, near lots of open space, with a big wooden playhouse (built by my dad)… away from traffic and pollution…away from people whose cultural norms resemble anything BUT my own.

But God hasn’t called me to that in this season of life…

And like Keziah, I have this wrestling match with my parent (Father God) almost every day. I do not want to go on here. It’s hard on so many levels. And yet, giving up never does feel like the solution either…although I do put it on my mental possibility list daily.

So what do I tell my daughter? Do I tell her to give up and teach her to walk away from this pain? That she, being an American, does not deserve to endure this? That just because the journey is hard, that quitting is the best answer?

Maybe it is. I have asked God 1001 times what He wants me to do about this. And yet all I hear is silence in return. Silence and perhaps a little nudge in the direction toward another school next year that ironically costs, as the Italians would say, “an eye out of your head.” More questions. More silence.

And I have asked my godly friends and family what they would do. And I have received every answer under the sun. And I am always left with a “this is my unique journey with God” kind of feeling. And while that sounds great and all, it’d really be nice to just know what to do.

Keziah fell asleep moments from tears tonight with me telling her that she has done something so amazing by going to Italian school and learning another language and NOT GIVING UP. I reminded her that she has a mommy who feels very much the same…but that we cannot just give up because we feel like it. This was no consolation for her. But for me, perhaps God was reminding me through my words that this journey wasn’t meant to be easy or burden-less or even understandable on every level. In fact, I can say with all honesty that lately this journey has really, really sucked.

I do not know the answer (as if that wasn’t obvious in my last 1500 or more words). What I do know is that by God’s grace, we will get through it and that there is something far beyond all of this that we were brought here for. God is not finished. I am going to choose to believe that God is at work in the hearts of my children, teaching them that He is their sustainer, provider, and their Daddy.

If only I could daily believe it for myself.

In the meantime, these words keep coming to my mind. They make me misty-eyed, especially when I’m in my car and sunroof is open and a warm breeze is blowing and I’m alone. Yes, those are the moments when I know He is truly the only One who can fix this.

“Fix this, it’s a broken heart.
It was fine, but it just fell apart.
It was mine but now I give it to You.
You can fix it…You know what to do.
Crying,…let Your love cover me, like a pair of angel wings.
You are my family. You are my family.”

-Dar Williams (Family)