The Moment

The moment when you step off the plane and realize... They are here.

The moment you step out of baggage claim and all those next to you frantically look for their names on paper... And your eyes find your family.

The moment you realize that because of the fair and the traffic and an accident and your taxi stuck in the middle of it means your time with your kids may be cut short... It is surprisingly peaceful.

The moment you step onto the school property and are told, "Wait here" and so you begin your search for your babies from your assigned position... It is a stunted emotional high. 

The moment they see you and your eyes meet and they come bolting towards you so hard and so fast they nearly take the wind out of you when they hit you with their hug... It is perfect. 

The moment Deborah says, "Auntie, remember how at Auntie Katy and Uncle Bubba's how I couldn't swim? Now I am a good swimmer and even I know all the strokes!" ... You beam. 

The moment it's time to go and they are physically pulling you and won't let you leave... It is painful, for two reasons...

The moment Charity looks at your eyes and says, "Auntie let me wipe away for you your tears like you used to wipe mine," and gently catches your face and uses her thumbs to dry your cheeks... It is hilarious and can only result in more tears. 

The moment you walk away and know... Even though it was so short, it was totally worth it. 

leaving on a jet plane

It's that time again - that time when I pack my bags and peace out of town! 

For nearly two years I lived on a bus full of wonderful Africans.  Two groups of people that quickly became my second and third families.  I learned about their cultures, languages, tribes, cities, villages, families..... I realned how to tark with my L's and my R's arr mixed alound.  I learned to sing countless songs in languages I don't know and how to shake my cabina with the best of the white folk.

All the while, looking forward to the day when I could walk on their soil with them and experience their homeland as they have experienced mine. 

Well, friends....

the emotions of fall

I think about my children every day.

No, forget that.

Every hour.  My beautiful African babies that I was so blessed to spend 16 months with on the road.  I miss them terribly, and I have an extremely hard time accepting that it has been nine months since I have seen them.  Time flies by in ways I'm just not willing to accept.  Soon it will be one year since tour.  How does that even happen?

December 6, 2010 we North American Aunties and Uncle stood in the DC airport waving at the top of the escalator as our children disappeared out of sight, and we stood there. Helpless. Tears flowing, hearts full from our time together but completely empty as our precious babies were now on their way back to Africa.  It was cold outside - freezing actually. I remember walking around downtown DC in my ginormous Kermit the Frog coat, enjoying every last moment I had with the Aunties before we too parted ways.

December 6 was easily the single hardest day I've experienced.... maybe ever.

But the days leading up to it, the months, they were beautiful.  Wonderful.

Fall, 2010. It was the best.

Content

Content.

Read that word again.

Do it. Look up, and read it again.

How did you pronounce it?  What meaning does it hold for you right now, in this moment?  Content or content?

Interesting, eh? How those words are the same, yet, not.

Question: Are you content with the contents of your life, right now?

Hmm.  I dream a lot.  I don't mean daydream of things to be or what I want/wish for, I mean I dream, a lot.  Most of the time it's foolish nonsense like oodles of sawdust coming out of my mouth, flying frogs living in the tree house, or how I've become a world-renown baker because of my amazing chocolate cake.

But lately, I've been dreaming about other places.  Places I've been before - Asia, Haiti, Tour.  I'm talking obscene amounts of dreams about other places.  I regularly wake up wondering where I am - not an uncommon thing for me, since on tour I rarely knew where I was at any given moment of the day, let alone when I woke up.  But these dreams are so real, I feel so much like I'm in this other place... and when I realize I'm just at home I find myself disappointed.  Then I ask myself,

"Am I content?"

Truthfully, I don't even know.

Four nights ago I dreamt I was in Asia.  Once again visiting Missy & Carly, taking part in their daily tasks, joining in on the ministry and loving every second I got to participate in the work that they are doing.  We walked through the burned out section of town, talked with a few locals, I went to Russian with Carly, and went to another M's house for church.  When I woke up, I was lonely.

Three nights ago I dreamt that I was on tour again.  I was with our beautiful children of ACC 35, geared up for a concert in Colorado.  Together we had devotions, freaked out because one of the costume bags was missing (which wasn't uncommon in real life), and I made a concert order with Uncle Tony.  We then walked in our two concert lines to the sanctuary where hundreds of people had gathered to enjoy the beauty that is Choir 35.  When I woke up I cried - because it wasn't real.

Two nights ago I dreamt that the compound in Haiti where I lived was trying to integrate itself more into the town around it, and so they were selling the missionary houses, opening up the gates all the time, and putting in another community garden.  I had gone down with Missy to purchase the house I had lived in before, so that I could join in on the projects.  I walked around the house and found myself thinking back on the days when I called that place home - and was so peaceful knowing that I'd call it home again.  When I woke up I was sad.  What a lame adjective - but for the truth.  I was so sad.  I want to be there again.

Often I look around at the people here and I wonder how they don't get bored.  People that have done the same thing every day for years.  Even my dad just celebrated his 25th year at his work.  It's incredible - really, that doesn't happen very often.  But I can't imagine.  It's just not for me.

With all the struggles I endured in Haiti (you won't find them here, but ask me if you like) I thought I learned a piece of what it meant to be content.  In my own words:

It's times like these when the verse, "Be still and know that I am God" are what you need to hear the most, but want to hear the least. One of the biggest lessons I learned during my six months in Haiti was to be content. Content with what I'm doing, with what I'm not doing, with where I am, with where I am not. I spent a lot of time in my house while I lived in on that island: and was it in vain? Certainly not. God taught me more in those early morning hours, as the sun peeked through the palm trees behind my house and into my living room where I sat and read my Bible with a lovely cup of coffee. The warm Caribbean sun in its orange glowing beauty poking through the slats in my windows; God beginning yet another day with his warm breath gently blowing my curtains, whispering to me, "I have a plan... just you wait."

Pfft.  It's awfully poetic as I read it now, but honestly.  I'm not done learning that lesson, and I probably won't ever be.  I do know, however, that I'm more "content" when I'm overseas.  Missy has often said, "If I lived in the states, I'd be miserable." It's not what she's made for.  Built for.  She thrives, and I mean THRIVES when she's overseas.  Asia. Where she is now.  Thrives.  That's not to extinguish a desire to be "home" - with family, friends, in a "world" where people speak your language, you can buy fruits and veggies at the store even when they aren't in season, and where you can worship freely.  But it's just not where God has called her to be.  No sense pulling a Jonah and spending three days in a whale.  Gross.

I'm finding myself more and more realizing that desire and calling God has placed on me to be overseas.  And I know that it's not time to go yet.  And that, my friends, is paining me.  I'm struggling to be content in a place I don't ultimately want to be.  I'm learning how to be content in the waiting.

Content with the contents of life, right here, right now.


"Strength will rise as we wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord, we will wait upon the Lord..." 

Asia with Missy:

 ACC 35

 Haiti, with my Advanced English Class

You know if you...

... live in NY when there are only two seasons: winter & road construction.

You hate those lists too, eh?  They drive me crazy.  Mostly because they all list the same things, but are about a different thing.  Winter & road construction: True of just about any location north of 38º?  Exactly.

However, in my re-entry, I've thought, "I'm clazy.  Nobody here understands."

So I'm pulling the hypocrite card here and making my own, "You know if you've traveled with the ACC if..." list.  For us Aunties & Uncles out there, you know what it's like.  Now is when you nod in agreement.

Ready?  Alright.

You know if you've traveled with the ACC if:
1.  Long calls and short calls have nothing to do with the phone.
2.  "Countdown!" may be any assemblage of numbers 1-23, give or take a few, on any given day.
3.  You went to Vegas with your own poker chips, except you're cool, so you call them tokens.  You even signed them yourself - and they were used, and they were worth something.
4.  You start many sentences with the word "Even."
5.  "Bag checks" are not verbs, they are nouns. Running, skipping, singing, dancing, lovely wonderful nouns.
6.  You have shaken your cabina in praise to the Lord.
7.  You know what a cabina is.
8.  When you are asked, "Auntier may you pray with me?" you go find a game.
9.  You don't go shopping for khakis, you go shopping for travel pants.
10.  You can hold your susu for exactly two hours, as scheduled.
11.  You have slept in a luxurious bed, on a leaky air-mattress, a couch, a cot, a bus seat, a pew, & the floor, in one week.
12.  You have sung and danced to the same songs every day & night for 16 months straight, and you still love them, somehow.
13.  You were completely lost the first week you went without a minute-by-minute schedule handed to you on Monday.
14.  You had 23 children at age 23.
15.  You want to go to Africa.  Every day. Want to go to Africa.  Want to go... to Africa...
16.  Your current "address" has been two simple characters: V1, V2, V3, or V4.
17.  When asked, "Where are you?" the only answer you can give with confidence is "V1," "V2," "V3," or "V4."  And if you've recently switched, sometimes even that you don't know.
18.  You have translated English to... English.
19.  You have been greeted in the morning by dozens of warm, joyful hugs and asked, "Are you fine?"
20.  You were blessed, challenged, and loved, daily, by a beautiful group of little African children - and they meant, and mean, the world to you.

Yes?

around the world and back again...

And now I have culture shock.

ish?

Dear Peter Jordan, would you consider revising your Re-Entry book so as to include a chapter called "How to Talk to People You Might See Again"?

That's right, I've completely lost my ability to talk normally with those that I could potentially see on a regular basis. Tour life has conditioned my social skills in such a way that I've become excellent at talking to those whom I know I will never see again. Why? Because I don't have to remember what they say. Call me shallow? Okay. But I challenge you to stay in a different stranger's house almost every night for sixteen months and remember everything you hear. Ooooooo.

Now, quickly, if you're looking back on my last post and wondering what has happened to me in the past few months since my children went home... know that I miss them and the team more than I'd miss my toes if you cut them all off. There's a reason I didn't "blah-g" about it... okay? Okay.

But now that I'm home for good (mini-jaunt to Asia for a month post-tour was lovely but totally postponed my "re-entry" period), I feel like a fish out of water, or better yet, that bird from Rudolf that swims: I'm most comfortable/I belong on the island of misfit toys and yet Santa has taken me away to live in the real world! I'm completely lost in my own town.

So if you've talked to me in the past week or so, the conversation may have gone something like this:

You: "Amy! Hi! Are you back now?"

Me: "Hi. Yep, I'm home, this isn't a hologram."

You: (awkward laugh) "Well it's good to have you back."

Me: "Yep, good to be home.... "

You: (feeling a bit awkward due to the lack of normal conversation, you're probably wondering why I'm not asking you how you've been etc., but truth be told I'm probably so antsy in my fear of what you'll ask/say that it hasn't come to mind to ask you anything, let alone how you are) "Ooooh-kaaay... Well have a great day!"

Me: "yep, you too, k bye!"

----OR----

You: "Amy! Hi! Are you back now?"

Me: "Hi! I am back! So how long have you been around here?"

You: "Um... well I've been here since 1823..."

Me: "Oh good, good, so is your family around here too?"

You: "Um... my kids..."

Me: "That must be nice to have them close. How old are they?"

You: "Amy? Amy? Are you okay, Amy? You've known me since you were 5, Amy? Earth to Amy?"

Me: (run.)

Observations?

From the first:

1. I probably forgot your name. OR, I never knew you and you just saw my name/face somewhere and are kind and brave enough to come talk to me and welcome me home. Either way, I salute you. I apologize for my memory failures/lack of social courage.

2. If I forgot your name, or if I never knew you, I probably feel like at some point I knew your name and you, but, I've forgotten, therefore I'm afraid to ask questions that I may or may not be expected to know the answer to, and am therefore afraid that I'll offend you by exposing the fact that I actually know nothing about you.

3. I get really excited when I'm uncomfortable in a conversation and it ends. Don't be offended, please, Oscar the Grouch was less grouchy when he said goodbye, and it was nothing personal, it was just him.

From the second:

1. I've reverted into tour-mode.

2. You may wonder if I'm really listening to you. Rest assured, I'm listening. The conversation may have gone on for a while with me asking great questions. I am definitely listening. I may even say a prayer for you before I go to bed, I may remember some profound truth from the conversation and write it down. No doubt about it, I'm listening.

3. Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, I may not know you from Adam (or Eve).

So note: I believe I'm experiencing culture shock in an incredibly odd way. Please don't hold it against me that I might be awkward or rude or even stand-off-ish. I'm working up the courage to come and say hello to you, but I'm like the Cowardly Lion and I haven't quite reached the Wizard for my courage. I'll get there, the yellow brick road can't go on forever.

(Side note: If you know who I am but you know I don't know who you are, please, I beg you, pretend like you don't know who I am, or you'll just slow this whole re-entry process down and I'll probably pretend my phone is ringing or I'll suddenly really have to go somewhere or something will happen to get out of the conversation. Just so you know.)

ouch, my heart.

I successfully woke up at 4:58 this morning. I went to the boys room to greet, and went up the stairs wondering, "How? How does this go? How many times can I hug them before they actually have to get in the car?" Haha. Several hugs from ALL the boys and about 6 hugs from Jonah and Reagan later, the two piled into the car and I got in the driver's seat and said, "Who's ready to go to New York!" Jonah shouted out, "ME!" I wish. I stepped out and waved goodbye with tears in my eyes, as the rest of the chaps and I watched Uncle Craig pull away to the airport with two huge pieces of our hearts. Stacy and I then got in the van to start a mad shopping trip to fill all the holes in the children's suitcases. The combination of over exhaustion and being emotionally drained led to some very hilarious situations, for example... I laughed so hard I cried when Stacy didn't think Target was open because the lights on the sign weren't on. The sign doesn't have lights, and upon this realization, we spent 4 or 5 minutes sitting in the car laughing so hard I had to use two napkins from my bagel to wipe away my tears and blow my nose. We then walked in and noticed the phone books sitting next to the automatic doors, so we delivered them along to Customer Service. We also chatted it up with a man from the UK in front of the un-open Payless across from Panera. I asked him if he wanted to make the store clerk feel pressured to open up early with us as we stared in the windows, he just said that the store here wasn't as good as the parent store in the UK. Maybe that meant no?

All in all we had a successful shopping morning and the children are fully equipped to go home. Their bags are almost all packed, their things are getting in order, God is preparing all our hearts for the days to come. We can do it. We have been blessed with these children: to teach them and train them and love them so that they can go back to Africa and do the same to others.

Stacy also told me that the reason the pages in the book from last night were missing:

Some of the boys wanted to write Jonah and Reagan notes before they left. And they didn't have paper, but they had a Madagascar book.

I love our kids.

the end has come

The night should be over.

I should have been in bed hours ago.

I shouldn't be writing this right now.

I'm getting up in 4 hours to say goodbye to two of my children. And yet, it's like I can't go to bed. I sort of figure... that at this hour, if I sleep for more than 4, I'm going to get further into a rem cycle and it's going to be harder for me to wake up. It might however, be hard for me to fall asleep... as I've been sick lately and Nyquil makes the night so peaceful :) But I actually want to wake up to see the boys off in the morning.

I don't know how to say goodbye. I'm 24 years old and I'm about to experience an "empty nest" as I learn to adjust how to live without children that weren't mine in the first place. My face is stained with tears from this morning that I've been too busy to wash off. The house is a mess, there's a cake sitting out on the counter uncovered and the ant/fly problem in this house will automatically deem the ginormous platter of chocolaty sugar inedible by morning. It's okay though - we wouldn't have eaten it anyway. Just like the cake I made the other day... when I made two cakes instead of one. What was I thinking? And why do we use cake to celebrate? Fireworks are so much better. And how many people actually like cake? If it doesn't come with ice cream, why bother? And the ice cream just makes it soggy. But this is not about cake.

Tonight I went up to the boys room to say goodnight and I found myself climbing on the top bunk with 6 of the boys to read a "Madagascar" story book that at least three of the pages were ripped out of. The story made almost no sense, and it was part of a little kids mini series, so it didn't even end: the story just kind of.... stopped. It'd be like the story of the three little pigs, and the book ended on "He huffed and he puffed and he blew the." House down? What? No. The End. But the boys and I were nestled all in as I read the book, and I loved every second of it. Come Monday night, I won't get to read with them anymore. I won't get to climb onto the top bunk and be surrounded by six of the boys as I read a book that doesn't make sense. I don't know how to handle that.

I think about home and I am so excited to get there. I'm excited to sleep in my own bed. I'm excited to throw/give a ton of my stuff away (living out of a carry-on size piece of luggage has been lovely, and though I wish I had thought about the color selection a little more [almost all black....] ... simplicity is lovely.) I'm excited for Christmas at home. For freedom to do what I want when I want. Bathroom stops are no longer scheduled. Woah.

We are all ready to go home: but that doesn't mean it's easy. Aslan, it makes me think of Aslan. Is He safe? No, but He's good. Is it easy? No, but it's good.

Lord, give us the strength to get through these next few days. Help us persevere. Help us be strong examples for these little children we love so much, in our times of weakness see us through. Thank you for what you have given us. Thank you for Choir 35.

How many more?

Our tour has been incredible. It has been difficult. It has been filled with laughter, tears, pictures, "I love you Auntie" notes, and incredible growth.

Today I've been thinking about how this tour is so quickly coming to a close. We arrived here at Mirembe House on Tuesday - and counted joyously the high number of twenty days we had here together. How can it be only seventeen already?

Today Charity came to me and put her head in my lap and said, "Auntie, may you help me to remove from my hair the grass?" And as I picked the bits and pieces out of her hair I thought, "Often I feel like the mother monkey, if only I ate the stuff I picked..." Today I thought, "How many more times do I get to do this?"

Grace, my dear little Grace, has drawn me beautiful pictures two days in a row. On most days, her words are fairly harsh, and even in her playful laughter she tries her best to put on a tough tone. She's actually quite hilarious and very fun. She becomes the most tender, dear little girl when she secretly draws these pictures and does her best to get it to you - through others. Yesterday one of the other girls gave it to me. Today Harriet brought it to me. Both are covered in flowers and hearts and say "Auntie Amy" in giant letters, and "Grace" in tiny letters beneath. Give the girl a crayon and some paper and the rough exterior melts away and she's just a sweetie. How many more pictures will I get from her?

Brian, in devotions tonight, sat back with Stacy and I and did everything in his power to be close to us. He rested his head on Stacy's shoulder and picked up my foot and put it on his, played with my toes, was just close. Stacy and I both thought, "Brian? This is Brian? A bit odd for Brian... Brian?" But as he examined my toe-nail polish I thought, "Moments like this, they are special... and Brian, yes Brian, in all his rough and tough boy-ness knows that moments like this are special. And he's soaking them in." How many more of these moments will I have?

A few weeks ago the "Remember when's..." started flowing from our mouthes. "Remember when we convinced the children that salad was the greatest thing ever?" "Remember when we had to use a school bus to go to the 25th Anniversary Gala?" "Remember when we stayed in Uncle Gym?" "Remember when we spent an hour singing worship songs in the hall?" Often these are received with an, "Oh yeah!" from another and as we reminisce over the past 15 months on tour I am reminded of how thankful I am to have been on the road with these children and this team of chaperones. I know that it is all a part of God's plan, and the things that we've experienced over the tour have brought us to this time. Our beginning on tour was created so that the end could be even better. These children were brought to America so that they could go back to Africa. We have loved them, taught them, grown with them, disciplined them, tucked them in at night, prayed with them, sang with them, played countless games of Skip-Bo, Soccer, & matching game with them, driven across the continent with them, believed in them, and in a couple short weeks we will put them on a plane and pray that as they transition back into life in Africa the impact we have had on them will stay strong as they grow older. We pray that as they think back on their time in America, they will see God's hand stretched out over their lives and continually follow Him in all they do.

Time is coming to a close here, goodbyes are on their way. But it is good. We have been blessed to know one another. I have been blessed to be on Choir 35.

the beauty of names

Sometimes I find it completely fascinating to find out what names mean. In Choir 35 we have always known that Stella means "star" - and until recently, I didn't know what the other names meant. So I googled them... ah, dear Google.

So here we go, all of Choir 35:

John: God is gracious

Benson: Son of Benedict

Rogers: Warrior

Jonah: Dove

Reagan: Little King

Brian: Noble, strong, victorious

Derrick: Ruler of the people (Derrick has wanted to be a president for almost all of tour!)

Alex: Defender/Defending men

James: Supplanter

Charity: Love, generous

Brenda: Sword

Ruth: Friend, compassionate

Grace: Good will

Ritah: Pearl

Priscillah: Ancient

Faith: Confidence, belief

Stella: Star

Esther: Star

Deborah: A bee

Naomi: Beautiful, pleasant, delightful

Ivy: Ivy. haha.

Peace: Tranquility

Eunice: Good victory

I love it.

when two negatives don't make a positive...

I like rocks.

Priscillah Grace Nyambura. The girl loves rocks. Loves. And we've spent a decent amount of time trying to convince her that she doesn't need to pick up rocks. I think as of late, it's been a pretty successful mission.

But she's passed on her affinity for these rocks...

to me.

Currently, there are four little rocks in my coat pocket (the ACC coat pockets are deep - it's cause the manufacturers knew we have children?) Anyway. Four little rocks. And they are special to me. And for a while, I hid the fact that I had these little rocks in my pocket, because I didn't want Little Miss Prisc to regress into her habit, plus, I felt kind of silly keeping rocks in my pocket. My bags are heavy enough on their own, I don't need someone to pick up my coat too and say, "What, are you keeping rocks in here or something?" Because then I'd have to say yes.

But today, reading Joshua, I realized - liking rocks isn't so weird. And holding onto rocks that are special or symbolic to you isn't so completely bizarre. Why? Well, dear Joshua, tell us the story again, will you?

"And Joshua said to them, "Pass on before the ark of the Lord your God into the midst of the Jordan, and take up each of you a stone upon his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of the people of Israel, that this may be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, 'What do these stones mean to you?' then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it passed over the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. So these stones shall be to the people of Israel a memorial forever." (4:5-7)

Then, you see, it occurred to me: God used rocks to help people remember things. "Build a memorial" "make an alter" "sleep on this stone then name the place it rests on because of what happened here" and it goes on. God used rocks. And if I even recall correctly... the 10 Commandments were written on... um... pieces of plywood? Oh, no wait, rocks.

One dear little rock in my pocket is in the shape of an arrow. I found it the night that Faith, Priscillah, Naomi and I were on the bank of a river skipping rocks across the water. Or should I say, the night that Faith and I were skipping rocks across the water and Priscillah and Naomi were finding big rocks and hucking them about a foot into the water (their muscles grow bigger each day, rest assured). And this tiny rock in the shape of an arrow is special to me, because I think of those girls doing those things. It's also special to me because it reminds me of where I'm going. See, on this stay with these girls I had a mini-panic attack in that after tour, I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don't have a job, I don't have plans. I'm going to visit Missy, then... what? I don't know. Collect rocks or something stellar like that. Maybe open a rock shop and make all kinds of money - or rather, open a rock pawn shop. I'll trade you my pretty blue-ish rock for your pretty diamond rock. I'll be rich.

Seriously though. I have no idea what I'm going to do. And so this arrow-shaped rock reminds me that even though I'm completely clueless, God has a purpose and a plan. He knows which way I'm going to go. It's peace in a promise I'm reminded of constantly, thanks to this tiny little rock.

So. Rocks. Cool? Sure. Do I like earth science? Why, no. Not even a little. So why is one of the rocks that I carry white with a blue shimmer? I don't know. But I think it's pretty, and when I look at it, it reminds me of the time when Ruthie picked it up and said, "Auntie, a gift for you!" The same night that I was reminded of the beauty of God's creation as we walked along the shore of the Alaskan Pacific and saw a bazillion magnificently colored starfish littered across the rock wall of the ocean at low-tide (that was tonight... but doesn't it sound more epic if it's worded as though it was long, distant past?) I think so. So that little gifted rock from Ruthie stands to me as a "memorial" of this night.

And I no longer think it's weird, because God used rocks as memorials too.

Vaseline.

Ew. That clear petroleum jelly known for its moisture locking-in qualities, slimy gooey-ness that makes me think of dancers and teeth.

This is Faith.

Notice the shine on her lips? That's right, it's vaseline.

And today, my lips are just as shiny, because each time Faith stays with me in a host family, she makes sure I'm all glossed up. If it makes her happy, I'll dab that slimy stuff on for her. Dear Faith, I love you.

a holiday, of sorts

(I began writing this when I was home nearly three weeks ago, and just remembered it today...)

Unrest. Peace. Love. Hate. Joy. Sorrow. Goodbye. Hello. Fear. Calm. Worry. Trust. Excitement, anticipation: Relief.

All these things I have felt in the past month and a half - on extreme levels. Learning to trust God with more than what I ever thought I could even experience.

I sit here in my living room at home with my family, getting ready to join my African Children's Choir family tomorrow. For about ten days I have been on the East Coast, visiting my very best friend after she has left her side of the world - about as randomly as I left mine. Together we have laughed, nearly cried, gone canoeing, planned our lives and envisioned what life would have been like if things had actually gone the way we planned them to go. Thank the Lord that He is good and He knows what is truly best for us.

God never gives us more than we can handle - but he knows that we can handle a lot more than we think we can. In His strength we will soar on wings like eagles, we will run and not grow weary, we will walk and not grow faint. How true that is - when the world crumbles around us our strength found in Him never even falters. Matthew 5 and Psalm 91 continually remind me of that truth from Isaiah. Blessed are the persecuted, blessed are those who mourn, they will find shelter in the Lord's tent - all will be well.

I have experienced many things in the past couple years. The joys and sorrows of parenting children that had long, rough histories before I even knew about them is indeed rewarding as well as difficult. My heart burns for Mari Tarez, the dear girl I came to love so much in Haiti. My mind swirls each day with the children I am with now as well as with her. Jumbled in are thoughts and prayers for my best friend, my family, and what on earth I'll do when I get off tour. Fortunately as I soar on wings like eagles, God knows the plans he has for me - so He'll continue to push me with His powerful wind in the direction I need to go. Storms will come and go, the winds get rough and there are times when the skies are clear and the soaring is smooth.

Trials are what make us strong. Going through the fire. Rejoicing in the painful purification process because looking back we can see how far God has brought us. Those shiny spots of silver that were once tarnished reveal just a tiny bit more of the Silversmith's reflection in us.

So with a multitude of emotions, of things these past couple months have presented themselves with, I am thankful. All the time, God is good, and God is good all the time!

a world of strangers

I'm craving a life I'm not currently called to live.

Each night I climb in a car to go home with any number of complete strangers. We are introduced, but conveniently enough because of the children, 'Auntie' and 'Uncle' are the names they usually go by (which saves the embarrassment I have had in the past by calling tonight's host by the name of last night's host). It's a life full of strangers, every minute characterized by a very obnoxious, talkative worm that seems to live in my head - always saying things like "Why does it matter, when tomorrow you'll be gone?" There's a new kind of wall being built up around my heart - for better or for worse - because when I become "friends" with people I meet - in a matter of days or even hours, they go back to their normal life and I climb on a bus - and we'll probably never see or hear from each other again until we are together in Glory. Perhaps even, I think we've gotten along really well and as I'm contemplating giving my email address to them to keep in touch - they casually wave goodbye and once again I am a passing phase. It's not easy (being green - especially now, and yes, I use plastic water bottles, but thirty people on one bus - how many emissions are we saving the planet by carpooling across North America?) Anyway, it's not easy living this life. Almost every night a new house, a new family, a new set of names, a new bed, a new bathroom, and a new set of stairs.

Stairs. How bizarre that I notice the stairs. I'm one of those people that counts steps. Does that make me OCD? Perhaps. At home there are thirteen steps, a set of eight, a landing, then five more. And as I walked up the stairs at my host family today, arriving after a lovely day off - I carried my bag up to my room for three nights - and I didn't count eight and five. And as I counted I thought to myself, "This is something I always did at home. Got home from work, brought my bag up to my room, counted the stairs on my way, then went down to sit with my family." People I knew. People that when I sat around the table with, I could call by name. "Hey Miss, can you hand me the chicken?" instead of my now formal and impersonal "Excuse me Uncle, would you mind passing me the chicken?" My cordialness leaks a sense of oddity as my bag sits on a stranger's bed that's wearing sheets and a duvet cover littered in large, brightly covered flowers. I miss my solid colored walls and my snow white comforter at home - the lack of patterns and visual business that cloud my head and eyes with rainbow vomit. Who thought floral print was a good idea?

I think about all this today, because I had an absolutely lovely day off with very wonderful people I know from home. Though it's been a long time since I've seen them, it was a breath of fresh air and a taste of home. I climbed into the car with them this morning and immediately felt as though I'd stepped back into my other "life" - driving through the streets of "Canandaigua" with two friends that I have looked up to greatly for as long as I can remember. It was familiar.

"Familiar" I've come to learn is a very powerful, very important word. And how nice that it's so close to "Family" - Familiar. Family is familiar. The twenty-nine other people I live with and the bus we all live on right now is the only close "familiar" that I have - and they have become to me a very special family. Here. But every now and again I wish that when I got "home" at night I'd count the same eight and five and sit down with people I've known for more than nine months. Living through each day knowing exactly where I was and where I was going to rest my head that night. Someplace familiar.

And yet each night as I lay my head down in whichever house I happen to be in, I know that God has called me here for such a time as this. Though sometimes I think I'd give just about anything to go home to the familiar, I'm not willing to give up this family. I, along with eight others, are interim parents for these beautiful children and each day is an opportunity to teach and train them in the way they should go. The craving I have for a life of non-nomadic "normalcy" is significantly dwarfed by the craving I have to be with these people, these children: this family.

And so I pray, "Right now, Lord, here I am, for such a time as this."

Michael W. Smith!

Last night the choir got to sing with Michael W. Smith! They did fantastic a fantastic job, and we all had so much fun!

this always makes me smile.

My favorite part is Stella at the end... seeing what she would look like if she was large. This may be her only time to see that. Ever. And she's hilarious.

inspired

Today I watched a large portion of the movie "Julie and Julia" and though I'm still deciding if I actually like it enough to want to finish it, I'm feeling inspired to write on my blog. Cliche? Yeah, totally. My ways are changing. oi.

It's almost as though I've just finished watching "You've Got Mail" and the sound of Tom Hanks & Meg Ryan's voices slowly speaking as their fingers click through the words are luring me into typing away as though a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils really is that inviting.

Alas, here I am with what I feel is nothing too significant to write about. I cut my lip on a gum wrapper about an hour ago, and I believe that to be a sign of pure talent. I changed the layout of my blog (isn't it pretty?). And I spent almost the entire morning sitting on a couch in a church lobby frittering away my time in the best possible manner, as can only be done on a day off such as this.

The iron is sitting next to me with the sewing kit, two costumes, and a ripped pair of trousers -all begging for my attention. And I think, and think. Technically I suppose I don't know what I'm doing. I hear the church receptionist mumbling away words that surely mean something to those close enough to hear the consonants. The children are downstairs in school, and in an hour I'll have rehearsal with them. I love rehearsal.

There is a certain joy that comes in teaching. Especially when you teach things you love. Lately my main goal in rehearsals is to teach the children to love music. I've been playing songs for them - last time the variety went from Josh Groban singing Ave Maria to the Super Mario Brother's theme song. Training their ears to hear the perfect fifths and the majors and minors and the sevenths and the rhythms - the beauty of the invisible that captivates so many and pulls us into this world of perfect amazement. Like following the wind - you can't see it and you don't know where it's going but the breeze is lovely and carries with it this romance, giving you goosebumps and that breath of fresh air your lungs crave. Music.

Now I should watch August Rush.

I want them to love what they do. Every time they step onto the platform I want them to sing their hearts out - singing the same songs they've sung for a solid year with joy and adoration to the God that created the mystery of music and the beauty that is found therein. Love. Joy. Fascination. Amazement. I want them to have it - for music, and for God. I want them to love what they do.

So... now that I've written something and my inspiration is dwindling... there you have it. A point.

I want our children to love what they do.