Still

I've noticed
Over the last several years
how insecure I've become.

At first,
I couldn't tell you why.
If you know me,
insecure is not how you would describe me.

And then,
Sitting at my table
on a sunny Sunday afternoon,
While kids are napping,
I emailed a friend
and suddenly I felt it all.

All the newness
over the last 5 years.

New countries.
New languages.
New friends.
New boyfriend.
New fiance.
New husband.
New family.
New international move.
New friends.
New job.
New baby.
New church.
New friends.
New baby.
New job.
New move.
New home.
New church.
Making new friends.

It all hit me.
Really hit me.

I didn't marry until I was 37.
And so,
I was settled with myself for a long time.

Until I wasn't.
And I'm not sure what I'm good at anymore.

And I'm hoping that in the throes of all that is new
I can find that part of peace
in my soul
that whispers: I know who you are. Still.
And again the whisper: Be still. And know. I am.

Portland Composts...!

When we moved to Portland
we had no idea that
Portland Composts!

That's right.
Portland composts.
With an exclamation point. !
There's even a bucket given to encourage composting. !

In fact,
Portland Recycles!, too.

And trash?
Barely...
every other week.
Right.
Our trash is only taken every other week.
!

It does feel good to be doing something that's good for our earth
(although I doubt the many diapers we throw away in a two week period is any better for the earth than had they been taken every week).

Still, sometimes it just feels like more work.
Not to mention all the icky yucky ridiculously gross winged gnatty type bugs that fly out of the compost can outside when we dump our bucket every day.

So we compost and recycle and try to be careful of the trash we throw away because we don't want to fill our can too quickly and then I watch what I send down the disposal because most of it could be put into the compost bin and now I wash out the bucket and set it to dry but the stink of rotten fruit and coffee grounds never really leaves. All the food we've eaten and the drinks we've swallowed and the stuff we've wasted and the lives we've littered lie lingering in a can waiting to be opened and dumped.

So,
composting takes time.
And work.
And bugs.
And space.
And it smells.
It sits.
In it's special space.
It's stirred.
Water is added.
And stirred again.
And more sitting.
More space.
Decomposition.
Before it can be used.

The other night
I was dreaming dreams
of things I was anxious about.
And then I couldn't fall back to sleep.
For hours.

And finally,
I prayed.
Why can't I fall back to sleep? I asked.
And why do I keep going over the same dream again and again?
Calm my anxious heart.

And I heard:
You need space.

A place to sit.
And stir.
And wait.
And decompose a little.
Decompress
all that has happened and been and was and will be,
To be made usable.

Composting.

Portland Composts!

I slept then,
feeling the grace
of a space and a place
where what has been used
can be used again.

She told me she loved me

Friends from home 

came to visit

and left yesterday.

Today

I cleaned the house

washed the sheets

the towels

the floor.

Sweeping away the remnants

of them

and trying to straighten my life

back to the way it was before

they came

and left.

I ran an errand,

retail therapy,

as a way of forgetting

and bought a sugar bowl

so I'd have one for their next visit.

And 

in the middle of that store

in the middle of my missing

and wishing for another trip,

my Sophie-girl

stood in the shopping cart

wrapped her 2 year old arms around me and said:

I love you, mommy.

It was the first time she'd ever said it,

all on her own

without me saying it before her.

And

it all slipped away

the missing

the wishing

the hoping

the sighing

the tears.

In my arms

I knew

I held

the only memory

I really need.

Sometimes, it just takes time. Or: Sunday only comes once a week

What I didn't give much thought to,
was how much time it can take to find a church.

We've wanted to give a church at least three weeks of visits.
A church, that is, that we could call home.
Why three weeks?
Honestly, because a friend once told me that I should give a church three tries.

I imagine that after three weeks
one would have a good feel for the church.
Maybe hear several sermons,
get a sense for the worship,
understand different ministries offered.

And.
Calling a church home does have some criteria.
It needs to have sound doctrine, teach the Bible, create opportunities for community,
and be socially aware.
(Which, by the way, does not mean they have ice cream socials.
Rather, social awareness includes social justice...
the deep conviction that the Kingdom of God
is here and now and that all believers of the gospel of Jesus Christ
are meant to incarnate that gospel,
be the presence of Jesus to all people,
ensuring that all are treated equally and fairly
in order that all people may taste and see
that the Lord is good).

Yeah, not exactly an ice cream social.

And.
We wouldn't mind attending the occasional ice cream social, too.

We want to be a part of community.
Live life with others.
Do life with others.
We want to be known,
held accountable.
We long to laugh and play and dig deep.
We want our kids to be loved and known, too.
We hope to find a place that believes that investing in their little lives
is one of the most important things they can do.

And.
Sometimes, finding all of that just takes time.
Especially when Sunday only comes once a week.


What kind of community do you hope to find in a church?

Writing again...with gratitude

I thought I should start writing again.
I mean, it's been 5 weeks since we pulled up root and transplanted to Portland.

Which isn't very long.
And,
feels like a long long time.

I thought I'd wait to write until
everything was unpacked and pictures hung.
I thought I'd hold off putting down words
until we'd put down some roots
and maybe
then
there'd be more to say.

I've planted some flowers

hung curtains

and rolled out a rug.

But, I miss my friends...
and so does my little girl.
I hear her pretend to call them on the phone.

Still, our kids are doing so much better having some stability...
a room of their own,
solid naps,
a mama who isn't carting them to the ends of San Bernardino County doing social work.
They still hate going to a church nursery...so there is that familiarity.

We live 10 minutes from my sister, Auntie, and her husband, Jon,
who Little Girl is quickly coming to adore.
She says: I want auntie. Or: Where is Jon?

What would we do if they weren't here?

Truth is,
I want to make friends.
I want my kids to make friends,
I want to put down roots
and find a church and a small group and go on girl's night out.
I want to know where to find things at the grocery store
and not feel like a wild dog at Costco because heaven knows why they can't make every Costco be stocked the same...seriously! It's a big giant box of a store. Why can't they all keep the salad in the same place.

And.
I want to go home.

There it is.
I said it.

So.
Here's our story, our struggle, our journey,
as we settle into a new place
and mourn for the old one.

Please don't think me ungrateful...
my heart and mind and limbs and these roots we are planting are only strengthened because of gratefulness.
Gratefulness is causing me to dig in deep and hard and wide.
To settle for the long haul.
Gratefulness is leading me to open my heart and my arms and my mind to the new.

Gratefulness is teaching me to hold it all,
the longing and sadness and grief and joy and provision and little hands and big eyes and the wonder and the hope and the expectation and the memories and the wishing and the sighing and the tears and the laughter and turning it all with open hands to Him who was and is and is to come.

Him: our assurance in times of uncertainty.

Him: our love when there is grief.

Him: what remains when all else changes.

Join us as we learn what it means to find a new place.

Hello Old Friends

...There's really nothing new to say,
but the old old Story bears repeating,
and the same old Truth grows dearer everyday...
~Rich Mullins

It's been months and months since I've written.
I had a baby.
I went back to work.
And a lot of other stuff just had to wait.

And today,
writing should have to wait.
But as a brightening day hovers on the edge of gray,
I sit with my laptop
while my kids nap,
and I write.

When I began this blog
it was with the intention of processing my way through
what it means to plant the trees of our lives,
lives with roots that grow deep and offer shade and rest and protection for generations.
And now, those trees are being uprooted.

Again.

My husband, the one I plant with,
took a job with Word Made Flesh,
and with them we are moving to Portland, Oregon.

Just when we were feeling settled.
Just when we'd adjusted from our international move.
Just when it seemed everything was coming together...
the unpredictable happened.

In some ways the decision was a no-brainer.
I'd dreamed of what it would mean to one day bring our children to Kolkata
and introduce them to a place that had made Jesus more real to me.
We knew returning to Romania would always be part of our lives,
and so would the Center where we had served.
Working with Word Made Flesh would be not only a vocation for my planter guy,
but for our entire family.
Serving Jesus among the most vulnerable.

And.
This means leaving our home.
The one we made here...
friends and family and children and church and work and parks and restaurants and coffee and mountains and beaches and desert and neighbors and streets and palm trees and laughter and hugs and knowing and being known and dinners and lunches and errands and worship and community and I'll see you in an hour.

And when my little girl cries to play with a friend who no longer is just around the corner.
And when my heart aches at the little ones who I will watch grow from a distance, and not in the everyday when we almost don't notice how much they are changing because we see one another so much.
And when they say they adore my girl.
And when I don't know who will meet us for Taco Tuesday.
Or the church we will attend.
Or the friends we will make.
Or the Papa and Gammy who are far away.

When we aren't known and the struggle wasn't known and so the joy isn't as sweet.

I wonder if it's worth it.

My living room is littered with boxes.
Testaments of a life of blessing.
My children nap and their rest is full and their peace is deep
and I know that what I hope for them can lie here or there,
but mostly it resides in who we will be.

And the being
leads to the doing.
And the doing
leads to love.
And hope.

Hope that the testaments of a life of blessing are not boxes packed with our stuff,
but the sacrament of our lives...
the broken bread,
the poured out wine,
the Word made flesh.
In order that others may know Love,
that they will drink and never thirst again...
that they will taste and see.

We be and do and love and hope
and pull up our roots and pray
that the transplant takes.
That the new soil we plant in
will only make us grow deeper,
so that our trees grow taller
and our limbs bigger,
offering more shade and rest and protection
to a world deeply weary.

Knowing...so well,
that all we leave behind
strengthens and feeds and forms us,
for what lies ahead.

For this we are grateful.
And humbled.

Filled boxes are not the only testament of a blessed life.

So are our aching hearts.