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)
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)
