Unexpected Separation

Visiting a school for the deaf outside Jos

My son is now the age I was, almost to the day, when I found out my dad had malignant melanoma and would be leaving Nigeria to seek help in California. I was 16, just weeks away from turning 17, and like Josiah, in my senior year. It was probably the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to me, and decades later, I continue to ponder the ramifications. 

My dad had first been diagnosed with melanoma when I was just a few years old. I have no memory of that experience. Now, as I parent children the same age as I was then, I can only begin to imagine how frightening and troubling that would have been to both my parents. My dad was a student and my mom cared for me and my baby brother full-time. Dad underwent surgery and, as far as we all knew, recovered fine. 

I didn't realize he was living on borrowed time.

We moved to Nigeria in 1991 when I was 14 and the first few years were uneventful. I made some dear friends at school and the other expat medical families who lived on the hospital compound with us came to feel like family. But in the fall of 1993 we received dreaded news. A spot on my dad's skin had been analyzed and showed evidence of melanoma, the most dangerous kind of skin cancer.

Everything happened in a whirlwind.

Within days, he and my mom were booked on flights back to the US, and my siblings and I each had a home (or more than one) in which to live while we were in Nigeria without parents. I don't remember those days very well. I do remember that I had a huge mix of feelings: fear for my dad, sorrow that I wasn't with them during such a scary time, joy in getting to live with my best friends, sadness as I missed my brother and sister who I now only saw briefly at school, passion for the boy I was in love with at the time. 

My first Easter without my parents and sister

It wasn't long until Christmas break came, and the three of us kids flew back to the US to spend the holidays with my parents. My brother was almost 15 and my sister was 11. I don't remember when decisions were made but I do know that after Christmas, my sister ended up living with my folks in CA while my brother and I returned to Nigeria to finish out the school year. I desperately wanted to graduate with my class and not miss my last few months in a country I'd grown to love.

                               

Back in Jos, my brother and I were hosted by a neighbor family who had a 2-year-old and newborn twins. In my mind and my memories, this was the beginning of my adulthood. I was prematurely severed from my family and my childhood, and I had just turned 17. Yes, that actually seems like old enough, in the grand scope of things. Girls around the world get married or have babies at that age. But for me, it wasn't expected, and it wasn't chosen.

The worst thing about the separation was that these were pre-internet days (especially in Nigeria) and thus I did not have good communication with my parents. Also I was caught in a barely survivable maelstrom of feelings and responsibilities. I was desperately in love and aware that I only had a few months left before my boyfriend and I parted for two different colleges. I frankly wanted to spend every minute with him! But I was living in a home that really could use my babysitting help and in fact, expected it. As parameters regarding babysitting hadn't been established at the beginning, I often felt "put upon." I also was struggling a bit in my dating relationship but had no dad to stay up talking to about it, no mom to check in with me and see how I was really doing.

With my best friend Jeanette at our Baccalaureate service

It was a hard time. I even became borderline anorexic. Thankfully a dear friend, who was my piano teacher and choir director at school but also my Bible study leader, recognized that I was falling apart. I still remember one Friday at school when she must have caught sight of me or heard me talk and became worried for me. She talked to the school principal about giving me permission to leave campus and drove me to her house where she gave me a bite to eat and then put me to bed. I spent the night there and ate more than I had in a while. We talked, she listened, my soul felt cared for, and I was better prepared to go back to my life at my neighbors' house.

In June, my dad came back to Nigeria to deal with some of our stuff and to see me graduate. My mom and sister, however, were unable to come. Dad was only in Jos a few days, leaving my brother and me to fly back ourselves a few days after he did. My boyfriend handed me a heartbreaking letter the morning I left, naming all the ways I had wronged him and was wrong for him -- just in time for me to be able to do nothing about any of it. I felt betrayed. It definitely was not the way I'd wanted to leave Nigeria.

With my best friend Amy just before graduation

My dad did a full twelve months of immunotherapy treatment and then was in remission. Mom, Saralynn, Jonathan and he returned to Jos in January 1995. After that painful semester of premature separation from my parents in the Spring of 1994, I did have a few summer breaks with them (though not the one after my freshman year of college) and did eventually have improved communication. But their home was Nigeria and I stayed in the US (and also lived in England briefly). We were never again a family unit in the way we had been my first 16 years.

Now Josiah is just the same age. I already dread the day that he and Naomi go off to college and our home is fundamentally changed without their presence. But for that to happen tomorrow, suddenly, with no choice and no warning ... my heart would be broken. I will try to treasure the time I have left.

Fifth Birth, part 3 -- Loneliness and Joy

There were probably many reasons why my final birthing experience was not nearly as positive as my fourth had been. I had hardly prepared, mentally or physically, and I was not as in shape or as well rested either. I had the stress of a recent overseas move and the newness of my location, as well as the stress of a recent change in delivery location and not having ever spent time with the midwives. There were language barriers and cultural uncertainties. And I also must have known that adding a baby to a family that already included both homeschooled high schoolers and a two-year-old was going to be challenging in ways I could only guess at. 

Thankfully there were also significant positive aspects to my fifth labor and delivery. One amazing unexpected blessing was that in Jerusalem, I was allowed (and encouraged!) to EAT while laboring. I was brought dinner on a tray the night of October 17, given packets of halva by my midwife to eat while in active labor, and brought breakfast on a tray the morning of October 18. 

In addition, my daughter Naomi (16 at the time) had already attended my fourth birth (at age 14) so was more prepared to help this time around. She held a fan to cool me off, encouraged me verbally, and was ready to do anything the midwife needed. The midwife helped me by recommending a position to take during the worst contractions and by offering me gas to breathe. She also, unbeknownst to me, defended me when a doctor came in and apparently complained that I was laboring standing up. She said I was doing fine and that I knew what I was doing. 

By 8 AM on October 18, I'd given birth to my fifth baby (standing up!) and learned that we had a sweet baby girl: Selah Marie. With my labor pains and excruciating delivery finished, I thought the hard part was over. 

Instead it was just beginning.

My family, including Steve, had to return home. I was recovering in a double room and the hospital had strict visiting hours. Because Steve's back was so bad, he didn't return that day, Thursday October 18. My roommate's side of the room was filled to bursting with family and friends during visiting hours. There was talking and laughing and eating food. I couldn't understand any of their words because everyone spoke in Arabic. But I could understand that she had visitors and I didn't. She had people happy about her new baby and I didn't. She had support and I didn't. 

Miriam still hadn't met little Selah so I was extra thankful that my nextdoor neighbor at Tantur was willing to briefly bring Naomi and Miriam by in her car that afternoon. It was too short a visit but I loved seeing little 2-year-old Miriam beam with joy at the sight of her new baby sister. The photo I have of her holding Selah for the first time is an image I'll always treasure. And after that most fleeting of "hello"s, I was back to being by myself in a foreign place.

I thought I had come prepared for this. I knew I would be by myself at the hospital for a few days. I had brought a laptop, assuming I could use internet, and I had a cellphone that I thought had plenty of money. But I never could get online, and my phone's minutes were gone after only a brief conversation with Steve. We simply weren't prepared enough. 

So during some of what should have been the happiest hours of my life, I was cut off from the world. And thus, I was also cut off during what ended up some of my loneliest hours. I couldn't chat with my family in America, sharing all the details of my fifth birth. I couldn't chat with my kids, just across town, to find out how things were going at home. In desperation, I eventually made my way to the nurses' desk to ask for a piece of paper and pen or pencil. They seemed very confused; I just wanted to be able to at least *write* what I was feeling since I couldn't talk with anyone. 

I loved snuggling with my precious newborn. I was acutely aware that everything was my "last." (As far as I'm concerned, anyway.) My last time to gaze into the brand new face of a completely unknown person. My last time to caress soft cheeks and slightly wrinkled newborn hands, knowing that I was the first person on the planet to ever do so. She was a miracle. My Selah Marie... [To be continued...]

Fifth Pregnancy, Part 2 -- Finding the Hospital

"If I don't deliver at Holy Family Hospital, where will I have this baby?" 

Eric, a Catholic priest friend of ours, also living at the institute, had mentioned a hospital in East Jerusalem (Palestinian, not Israeli). He'd said it was good quality for lower prices than Israeli hospitals. But how to even find it? We lived on the very southern edge of metro Jerusalem, and I had no smartphone, no car. I didn't know the geography of Jerusalem yet. I'd been utterly baffled by my first attempt at taking an Israeli bus, and though I felt more comfortable on the Palestinian buses, I still needed to know what bus to take and where to get off. That information was not available on Google Maps. 

I'm not sure people who have moved overseas with the military or a mission agency have any idea how completely different and overwhelming it is to move to another country without any of that framework and support. Every one of my adult moves abroad has been very stressful (though in different ways) because of the independence of them, and in none of them have I had access to a car. 

While our move to Israel in some ways was one of the easiest, given that housing and food were provided (what a gift!!), it did have huge stressors. The biggest obstacles were language and cost. When I lived in Jordan and Nigeria, places where English was hardly spoken, taxis were a great way to get around. They were extremely affordable and I could say one word and be taken right to my final destination. In Israel, though, taxis were expensive. So I not only had to use public transportation that involved more awareness of my surroundings and more self-sufficiency, but I had to do it with multiple language barriers (Hebrew and Arabic) and without a smartphone. 

Back to the pregnancy... 

I can't remember if we asked, or if Eric offered out of the kindness of his heart, but one morning, he took time out of his own research and writing to escort Steve and me to St. Joseph Hospital. We rode one Palestinian bus together to the bus terminus at Damascus Gate, and then he showed us how to walk across the street and around the corner to another bus terminus where we got on a second bus. This one took us on windy streets I'd never seen before, through neighborhoods I didn't know, and when we disembarked at the hospital, I had no mental image of where we'd just driven and moderate doubt that I would find it again! Instead of just dropping us off, Eric went inside with us and made sure we knew how to get to the maternity ward. He introduced us to the ladies at the front desk and found a midwife to take us around the facility. 

I'm forever grateful to Eric for his kindness to us at that moment. He was the only one in Jerusalem to offer that kind of help to me. I did have neighbors who offered to watch Miriam for me if things got going at night, and I'm grateful to them too. But regarding transportation, I knew no one who offered to drive me to appointments in a car, no one who volunteered to take me to the hospital if labor started at home, no one who offered to bring us home after the birth. To be honest, while taking the buses was an added stress, I did fine with them, and practically speaking, I didn't need access to a car. It was more of the feeling it gave me, to not at least have been offered help with a car in the event I'd need it. (Much later in the year, I finally had better understanding of where the hospital was located and discovered that I could have walked there from Damascus Gate without too much difficulty. I would have gained exercise and lost some stress!)

Prenatal appointments in Jerusalem were funny things. I'd been told that births were attended by midwives, which reassured me greatly (having given birth to 3 of 4 previous babies with midwives). I'd been told that natural birth was encouraged and especially at St. Joseph, interventions were not rushed into as I knew they were in many US hospitals. But my prenatal examinations were all done by doctors. And these doctors weren't very happy to hear that I'd previously given birth to a 12 lb. 10 oz. baby -- with shoulder dystocia. When I went in for my 39-week appointment (with Josiah as a companion), I was monitored for quite a while. They didn't like my baby's heart-rate. Things improved and they let me go home, but at the next check-up they did not. 

On October 17 (my due date), I again took two buses across town, this time with Naomi and a toothbrush. They again didn't like the heart-rate and asked me to stay so they could see if they could get labor going. I called Steve and he began making arrangements. Miriam would go to the neighbor's for the night (she was already asleep when he got my call), and another neighbor would drive him and the boys to the hospital. (Steve's recurring bad back had just flared up days earlier, making him dread the thought of walking and taking buses.) We gathered together in a labor and delivery room, the five of us feeling festive at first. We finished our read-aloud ("A Country Between") and the kids played card games into the wee hours of the night. Sometime after midnight, a midwife realized the kids would appreciate sleeping a bit and brought them some pads to put on the floor. Steve tried to snooze in the only armchair. I had no hope of sleeping... [To be continued.]

Fifth Pregnancy

Five years ago next month, I became pregnant with my fourth child, Miriam Joy. Despite it having been 10 years since my previous pregnancy (or maybe, because?), and despite my being almost 40 years old, being pregnant with and giving birth to her were amazing experiences. Really, it was incredible. 

I had spent the 12 months prior to getting pregnant losing 50 pounds and setting healthier habits. Even though I was 39, I was in better shape than I'd been for decades and it was by far my best pregnancy of the four. And then I had the most amazing delivery. It was spontaneous, fast, uncomplicated and with a quick recovery. 

At the time, in July 2016, I was part of a few homeschool groups and had just done a year's course with the C.S. Lewis Institute. Old friends and new friends and women I didn't even know flooded us with help and meals so that I didn't have to cook for the first 6 weeks of Miriam's life. Miriam was a happy baby who slept when held or walked outside in the stroller. She woke through the night for nursing but slept in our bed so I still got decent sleep. 

In addition to wanting a sibling for Miriam, loving being a mom and loving kids, I had such a positive experience with my fourth pregnancy and birth, that I was more than happy to do it a fifth time. February 2018 brought me the news that indeed, God had blessed us with a fifth baby -- I was ecstatic!

And then a month later, on the very day I had been to a massive children's resale and bought a few newborn items, Steve told me that he'd been granted a fellowship to go spend a school year in Israel working on his doctoral dissertation, beginning in September, and that housing and food would be provided for all of us. 

Whoa.

That meant I would be giving birth in a foreign country. Mere weeks after arriving there. Knowing nobody. Half a world away from my mom and my mother-in-law.

But this was my fifth! I knew how to have babies, knew how to nurse, knew how to parent. Most critical of all was my expectation that I would be living in community. Our accommodations in Jerusalem were to be at an "ecumenical institute" where other Christian families and singles lived, some for short times, others for longer term. We would be living next door to each other, sharing meals in the dining hall together. We would be foreigners together in a walled compound, and I thought we'd be sharing life. I thought we'd feel like family. I thought I would have support.

We moved to Israel/Palestine in September 2018, leaving Dulles on September 9 and arriving in Tel Aviv on September 10. I was due October 17.

While still in the States, I had Skyped with an American living at the institute, who had given birth to multiple babies there in Palestine. She had told me where she delivered (Holy Family Hospital in Bethlehem), what the care and cost were like (good and low respectively), and generally reassured me that all would be fine. I liked her responses and assumed that I too would give birth at Holy Family. Within days of arriving, I set off on foot for the hospital and had my first check-up. All the signs and literature were in Arabic and French, but the doctors and nurses spoke English and the facility seemed adequate. The care response I received, though, scared me. On the two visits I made in my first month there, I was told both times that I should expect to have a caesarean. I'd had a C-section with my 3rd and had no desire to repeat the experience. I'd also had a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean) with my 4th, so knew I could do another. My distrust of the doctors to let me try my very hardest for a natural delivery made me change my mind. Just a couple weeks from my due date, I switched gears and decided to birth at St. Joseph Hospital in East Jerusalem. [To be continued...]

Beautiful Difficult Gift

It was 2002 and I was expecting my first baby. My due date was a few months away. A couple in our young married Sunday school class was also expecting their first. We saw them at church on a Spring Sunday and the wife was glowing. She was just days from her due date and though I didn't know her well, I was excited for her.

Then a few days later, we heard the news: the baby was dead.

From church, this couple had gone to the hospital because the wife hadn't felt the baby move as much as usual. The doctors had discovered then that Baby Boy had died in utero (so close to his due date!!) and our friend had to deliver her precious stillborn son, surely anticipating the agony it would be to never hear his cry.

Weeks later my own labor began. I sat in my bathtub on the morning of July 3, knowing that if these were not real contractions, a warm bath might make them stop. And as I ran the water, I kept thinking of Baby Boy who had died. I thought of my own squirming adorable baby, who I'd only seen by ultrasound but was already in love with, and was suddenly terrified. I kept thinking, "I'm so close to delivery, but what if my baby dies? What if something happens and I don't get to meet this amazing person I've been growing for 9 months?"

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Even if I made it through delivery fine and got to meet a healthy baby, this would still only be the beginning of a lifetime of risk.

From now on, there would never be a guarantee that my child would live. Sure, I lived in a wealthy nation, known for decent healthcare, and I'd be able to give my child as good a chance as any. But beginning the journey of motherhood meant exposing myself to the risk of heartache. I would have to spend the rest of my life with my child (and later 4 more children) in open hands, knowing that ultimately they don't belong to me and I have no control over their hearts or their lives. The depth of my love for Naomi, Josiah, Ethan, Miriam and Selah is fathomless. I can only begin to imagine how heartbroken I would be if one of them died before me.

And so I treasure the moments. The moments of laughter and creativity, of bright intelligence and tender compassion, of shared wonder and new ideas. It's not all pretty, and it's definitely never easy, but they're worth it. I pray for my friends who have lost children, and whose children are struggling, and who wanted children but never had them. This womanhood, this innate desire for motherhood in so many women, is a beautiful difficult gift. 

Pandemic Ponderings: More of Us

Armed protestors storming the Michigan statehouse. Federal forces seizing shipments of medical equipment from states and counties. Wisconsin citizens being forced to attend polls in person despite the huge risk to their health. States being told that they won't receive help but should instead "file for bankruptcy." The president actually encouraging insurrection. Defunding WHO and coronavirus research teams. Blaming China, Obama, Biden, WHO, Democrats -- anyone he possibly can for the troubled state our nation is in -- instead of admitting he made BIG mistakes. And all the while, removing well-qualified career officials and installing loyalist cronies instead, as well as packing the courts with as many judges who believe in the unitary executive theory as possible, and really only caring about his re-election efforts, not the people he represents and swore to protect and serve.

I've heard a lot of friends say that they're severely reducing the amount of news they watch. I've also seen a lot of folks quote from Fox News, as if it's a news station (it's not). I've heard people echo the gaslighting propaganda that has marked this presidency since its beginning, and as much as I worry that we're not thinking enough about other countries whose people are suffering more from the virus and economic disaster than even we are, I also believe that in many ways we need to think more of us. We need to be careful to not turn off the news, but to stay aware of underlying currents that have been directing our country for decades and are now using this pandemic to put the final nails in the coffin of our democracy.

For the past few months, I've been reading daily letters by history professor and author Heather Cox Richardson. Because she's a historian, she looks more at the big picture than journalists do. She's not out to get elected. She's not tied to a certain politician. She's not looking for money or fame. She daily reads a lot of news, knowing where to look and what trends in history to link to, and then puts together essays that synthesize current events with her great store of knowledge. She's especially good at picking up on "smaller" news items that get lost in the fray and then revealing why they're not actually so small after all.

I am deeply afraid for my country. I'm afraid for the way minorities are being so much harder hit by this pandemic than other people groups, and I'm afraid for the way leaders actually imply that this is okay. I'm afraid for the integrity of our government who seems to be getting away with all kinds of rule breaking and general dishonesty and gaslighting, and I'm afraid for the ends Republicans will go to to stay in power. I'm afraid for our environment, whose protections get continually rolled back by the current administration, and I'm afraid for the future of scientific inquiry and medical excellence when conspiracy theories abound and science is denigrated and defunded.

My teens all want to leave this place. They're ready to emigrate tomorrow, if the opportunity arose. They're ready to leave what they know and love here because of disgust with their leaders and fear for the future of America. I tell them that other places have their own problems, and that nowhere is perfect. But that doesn't mean that America is better than other places, or that our problems aren't worth moving for. I wouldn't blame them at all if they left. I feel like leaving myself.

Pandemic Ponderings: Homeschooling Empathy

This time when schools have been closed and people have been working from home has been a gift to our homeschooling family in some unusual ways. After years of feeling so different and so little understood, now a majority of our friends are at home as much as we typically are, and finally seeing what it's like -- both the good and the hard.

It's interesting to hear others now speak of the great benefits of our normal lifestyle. They find the unrushed mornings a Godsend; they rave about the change from harried busyness to slowing down and doing things with their kids. They mention how nice it is to wear elastic-banded pants and not feel pressured about hair and make-up. They notice reduced commute times and increased family time. They bake and cook more from scratch, often out of necessity, but surely enjoying the fact that unrushed home-cooked food is often tastier than the alternatives. They've breathed great sighs of relief as they've spent more time outside and gone for family walks. They've even seemed to notice that yes, indeed, kids do grow and learn without constant adult oversight, especially without sitting-still-desk-work.

Can I just say how refreshing it is to finally hear people acknowledge and enjoy many of the reasons we love homeschooling? My teens love hearing from their friends, statements like, "Hey! It's fun doing school on my bed!" and "I didn't even get dressed til afternoon yesterday!" I love hearing people close to me say how much they like being with their kids all day. Even an article in Christianity Today had the writer admitting that she doesn't want to go back to "the way things were." Given this extended change of pace, she realizes how unhealthy and unhappy her previous harried existence was.

However it's not all cheery warm fuzzies, is it? I've also found it affirming and relieving to hear others finally get how HARD this lifestyle is. Admittedly it's a little difficult for me to feel sorry for folks when this has been my struggle for so many years. When I hear spouses moan about having their partner working from home all day every day, for just a few weeks, I want to scream, "This has been my life for the past six years!!"

Ever since my husband began his PhD program (and actually for a number of years before that, just not all consecutively), he has had nowhere he must be every day. He's had plenty of work, of course, but he's been in our home for much of the time. In fact, once his classes ended 4 years ago and the priority became preparing for comprehensive exams, researching, and writing his dissertation, he's been in our home almost every single day. We don't have a big house (no office, no basement). We don't have a second car. We don't live in an urban enough environment to easily walk places like a library. And I'm already home all day with homeschooling kids.

It has been tough.

It may have been the toughest thing about the past few years of our family life. The finances have been hard. The uncertainty has been hard. The high pressure of metro DC living has been hard. The stress of a PhD program has been hard. But being on top of each other in a small space has been super, super hard. For him, for me, for our marriage.

I know these are first world issues. The ability to work from home and teach my children has been a privilege. The fact that I moan about having my husband at home is also a sign of privilege. But it's my life. It's my joy and my pain. And now that the country is under "lockdown," I don't feel quite so alone.

Alone

So many ideas I once thought obvious, I once held as indisputable, have begun to make no sense to me. For decades, I listened and believed, listened and believed, thought and believed. And now I don't even know what I believe. The dots used to all connect but now they're scrambled, and I'm trying to see if I can untangle the lines.

I'm going it alone.

My questions are so fundamental, my struggles so deep, my foundation so cracking, that I can turn to no one. I would be seen as an aberration to anyone who's known me, if they heard my heart cries. I don't know how this will turn out. I don't know if I'll find the answers I need. I don't know what I will believe, or if anyone will love me no matter what.

It's a scary place to be. 

Nothing

Death and darkness
   overwhelm me
Pressed down
   pushed
      suffocated
I sink
   into
      the abyss

Twenty years
   of nothing
Twenty years
   of waste
Everything I held dear
   every goal I had
      every dream
Smashed in pieces

I am nothing --
   No, worse than nothing --
For I have taken the beautiful
    and sullied them
       destroyed them
Everything I have touched
   has failed

The abyss
   suffocates
      pushes
         pressing down
I am overwhelmed
    by death and darkness

Pandemic Ponderings: Less of Me

I've heard quite a few people talking about the positive side effects of the coronavirus lockdown. Some are grateful for a bit of rest, some are finding renewed creativity, some are seeing their kids blossom with less adult micromanagement, and many are grateful for time with family, especially to do activities they haven't done together for a while. Then there are, of course, the much-deserved praises and words of thanks being given to health workers and essential service providers. I frequently hear the rally cry to band together as humanity and work together for good. I hear the reassurance that this will not last forever and we will "win this fight."

That's all great.

But it's a very privileged view.

The facts that I still have money in the bank, food in my kitchen, gas in my car, and water and soap to wash hands show that I am part of a privileged group. But I would like to be done viewing this crisis through that lens. In fact, I've just "snoozed" a bunch of facebook groups that continuously post ideas of what to do during isolation for I realized that these just make me focus more on ME and US -- and I'm tired of it. 

I know people -- dear people -- in places like Jordan, Nigeria, and Palestine; places like my home city of Jos where the "big" hospital only has six ventilators; places like the Gaza Strip where people were already treated like prisoners with inadequate healthcare even before the spread of SARS-CoV-2 and subsequent isolation measures; places like Bethlehem that are low-income but completely dependent on tourism -- which isn't happening now or any time in the near future. When I hear that the situation in Bethlehem is dire and that Nigerian patients will just be left to die because there won't be enough ventilators, it hits me like a ton of bricks: I need to stop thinking of ME and start caring more about the "least of these." True, hardship is in some ways relative. And I do think that it's healthy for each one of us to name the ways we're under stress these days and see how we can find peace even in the lamenting. But it's also true that some hardships are just much harder than others. 

The problem with such a disaster as this, especially with it affecting the entire world pretty much at the same time, is that the tendency (and in some ways, the necessity) is to hunker down and care for our own. I ask, "Does my family have enough masks? Are we washing our hands enough? Do we have enough food?" Even, I hate to mention it, "What extra treats can I have on hand for us when we're missing family and friends?" I look at my country's statistics -- and my state's and my county's. And I would guess many do similarly. It's probably, in some ways, a survival technique. "I'm threatened so what do I need to do to make it? How do I protect my family?"

But in other ways, I'd venture to call it self-absorption and that's what I personally want to be done with. Yes, we're all suffering at the same time. Yes, our hospitals are also short on ventilators. Yes, we have the sick and dying here in America. But the danger is graver in these other places. The hospitals have much fewer resources, the people have less capital, the spaces are more crowded. I want my heart to be filled with love and concern for the least of these. I want my mind to be thinking of how to help or at least caring enough to listen. Less of me. Less of us.

Pandemic Ponderings: Surreal

From the news, the world seems to be falling apart around us. Millions of Americans have become unemployed, tens of thousands (or is it hundreds of thousands now?) have died from Covid-19, even more are at risk. Strange though it seems, it all feels surreal to my family right now. It's as if we're in a safe bubble -- at least momentarily. 

This pandemic gets compared to a war, but there are no fighter planes overhead, no bombs being dropped, no sound of gunfire. At the moment we don't know anyone ill and none of our loved ones have died. We're not in an epicenter and we have what we need. I'm not so naive to believe we'll be untouched by either disease or economic depression. It just hasn't happened yet. 

So for now, we try to get outside every decent day, often enjoying gorgeous spring blossoms and lovely birdsong. We carry on with our normal homeschool, and Steve keeps plugging away at his dissertation. We shoot baskets and play with playdough. We read aloud and play board games. We watch movies and cook dinners, just as always. For three weeks I've exercised daily by jogging in place while watching a Netflix series my sister recommended. 

Our only significant changes are worshipping at home on Sunday mornings and not being able to have friends or family round for meals and games. Steve can't escape our home chaos by studying at IKEA anymore, and I can't escape for a rare evening to a mom's night out. I shop less and think harder before I do. The girls can't play on playgrounds. But these are minor and life carries on.

I try to be grateful and peaceful, holding these gifts in open hands. I know that at any moment it could all be torn away.

Pandemic Ponderings - Personal Loss

So many people are suffering hugely because of this virus. Tens of thousands have lost loved ones. Doctors and nurses are working like mad and are under great stress. Some folks are stuck in foreign countries, other folks are "stuck" in nursing homes and unable to receive visitors. Many are at risk of losing their small businesses, and even more have been laid off or are otherwise struggling financially.

In the grand scheme of things, we're doing just fine -- for now.

Since our family homeschools and since Steve was already working from home as he's in the last stage of writing his dissertation, we've hardly had to change our normal rhythm at all. I'm used to the kids being around all day (not that I find it easy!), used to feeding 7 of us three times a day. The kids are used to reading, playing musical instruments, drawing, playing our many board games. Steve is used to writing and translating with the background noise of giggling or crying children.

Still, this is hard. We feel the pain of a few losses right now, and know that others are still to come. I'm glad we don't know the future. At the moment, we're hurting from:

• Not seeing family. My sister and her kids moved from CA to VA last summer to be near us and we've tried to get together every week or two. We can still chat by phone, but it's not the same. My kids aren't phone people -- they like to be with those they love. The boys play board games and tag and shoot baskets and play on playgrounds. The girls dance and chase and snuggle. Being apart is hard. Also Steve's parents live 3 hours from us and we were enjoying seeing them every month or two. I don't know when we'll get to visit again. 
• Not meeting with church. We just began going to Pathway Vineyard Church in September and were grateful each Sunday morning we got to worship there. It's a small church with incredibly friendly people. We miss worshiping with others. We miss the hugs. We miss seeing people who ask how we're doing and offer to pray for us. And we'd just begun hosting game nights at our house for church folks and friends. Now that's all on hold.
• Not seeing the few friends we have. For many, this is a blip in time. The need to socially distance won't last forever. But our time here is short. Our lease is up in July and we're not staying. Steve's program will be done and he'll no longer receive a student stipend. So the thought of not getting to see our dear friends during our very last few months here is quite heartbreaking. 

And in the coming months there will be more:

• Naomi not getting to have a high school graduation ceremony or party. 
• Naomi not getting to perform in the play "Matchmaker" that she has been practicing with Metropolitan School of the Arts.
• Steve's job possibilities drying up because universities are delaying their hiring.
• Steve not getting to have a graduation celebration.
• Steve's job interviews and teaching demonstrations being done remotely instead of on campus.
• Moving away from DC without getting to cram in a few months of last-minute visits to historical sites and museums. And we never did get to greet Nancy Pelosi or Adam Schiff in person and ask for their autographs as we intended.

Most of the time, I feel lucky and know I don't deserve the ease with which we're facing such a pandemic. Most of the time, I'm grateful. But our losses are real, however small they are compared to the world's, and I hope I can help my family grieve them.

Pandemic Ponderings - Gaza

This was day 10 of our family's self-isolation and day 1 of hearing the virus is in Gaza. My heart and mind are so full and churning that I've decided to try to write as often as I can. Not to be read, but just to process, and to provide a record I may someday find valuable.

Gaza is one of the most densely populated spots on earth, and one of the poorest with the least access to healthcare. They're also cut off from the world and the rest of their country by the Israeli government, so I'd hoped beyond hope that perhaps the novel coronavirus wouldn't reach there. My heart broke today to learn it has.

It's hard to explain how horrible a situation Gazans are already in. They effectively live in an open-air prison. Their water supply is unclean. Their people are bombed and shot at, and if they don't immediately die, they lose limbs or die later because of a lack of care for these wounds. Their medical system is already overwhelmed.

And now this.

The Israeli government is a cruel one. When children with cancer or other severe health issues need specialized medical care and are "granted permission" to leave Gaza for a city in their own country with better hospitals, often their parents aren't allowed to accompany them. This has sometimes meant a child dying without mom or dad at their side, or an infant being taken for care by a grandma since the breastfeeding mother isn't permitted to go.

I would like to hope that Israel will ease restrictions in order to let Gazans in respiratory distress from COVID-19 get the help they can. But I don't think it's likely. I feel like the Gaza Strip has just been given a death sentence. I see you, Gaza. I'm sorry.

Struggling with Prayer

Prayer and faith are tricky issues for me these days. Admittedly prayer has been tricky for a very long time, maybe even since my dad got cancer when I was 17. But it's proving especially troublesome these days.

The people I'm around at church and in extended family pray so assuredly, so confidently, that many would say they're showing great faith. But how do they know the mind of God? And what happens when things don't turn out the way they've prayed? Even Jesus prayed, "Remove this cup from me if it's possible, but your will be done." And as we all know, the cup of suffering -- at least in terms of physical pain and death -- was not removed from him. He still was crucified.

So how come more of our prayers aren't worded likewise? Why don't folks admit that what they're asking for is what they want, and add that in their finite understanding, they think it's what God might want too but His will be done. And for that matter, I feel like Ike what I (and many others) should be praying perhaps more than anything is for grace to accept whatever God answers and discernment to know the difference between a roadblock and a "no."

The prayers of my church are so forceful as they pray especially for physical healing, and sometimes I can hardly stand to listen. It's not that I disbelieve in miraculous or medicinal healing. But what of all the ailments that remain? What of the deaths due to cancer?

Additionally the prayers of family are often just as forceful but regarding things like direction and next steps. Again, what of the "closed doors"? Or even the open doors that end up causing so much pain and dysfunction? Must we step through a door simply because it's open and we prayed that it be so?

When I see someone crying out, weeping real tears, because things didn't go the way they trusted they would, prayed in great confidence they would, I have to question how we're going about this business of prayer. And in the meantime, I admit it: it's hard for me to pray with others.

Smeagol

In the Lord of the Rings books, Smeagol (aka Gollum) is a character who used to be a normal hobbit but after finding the Ring, retreated to the depths of a mountain and lived a shadow of his former life hidden in a cave.

I feel like I am Gollum.

I hear talk of continual growth and increasing wisdom (especially early on in a new year), hear song lyrics like "It's day one of the rest of your life, day one of the best of your life" and cringe, knowing these don't apply to me. I look at where I was 20 years ago, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago, and do not share any of the optimistic sentiments that my life is improving or that my heart and mind are growing.

Au contraire, I feel like I am continually dimming. My life today is a shadow of what it once was. My light has dimmed and is close to being snuffed completely out. I am not in a physical cave in a literal mountain. I do not possess a Ring of great power that is corrupting and obsessing me, as Gollum did. But I am not who I once was, and I'm far from who I want to be. I am tired and angry, hurt and lonely, distrustful and sad, busy and overwhelmed. I still take joy in many of the activities that always brought joy before, but I struggle to make time for those, and crud seems to often overwhelm any hint of contentment.

I'm trying to get help -- seeing a therapist and taking meds -- but don't have great hopes. I would so very much like to reverse this trend, to blossom instead of shriveling. Maybe it will happen yet...