A year later

"All of my life I have been changing...  Everybody has to change, or they expire.  Everybody has to leave, everybody has to leave home and come back so they can love it again for all new reasons.  I want to keep my soul fertile for the changes, so things keep getting born in me, so things keep dying when it is time for things to die.  I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago, because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same page recurrently."  --Donald Miller, "Through Painted Deserts"

A year ago, I climbed aboard a one-way plane from Kenya.  Though I'd asked to come back a year early, the actual date of my leaving was decided on suddenly and made the leaving that much harder.  There were times during the days leading up to my departure that I thought surely my heart couldn't take any more, and would just give up beating in my chest out of exhaustion.  Leaving Kenya was, without a doubt, the hardest thing I've ever done.

Yet here I am, a year later.  I am.  It was a trying year at times, and I didn't always handle it gracefully.  I shut people out a lot when I first came back.  I drank more than I should have.  I complained all the time, both out loud and silently.  I hated that I wasn't in Kenya, I hated that I had to leave my dogs and my kids and my friends, I hated that the weather was cold, I hated that I wasn't working and wasn't sure why I was waking up in the mornings.

But I also kept moving.  I kept putting one foot in front of the other.  And it may have been slow going, but I was able to move into the next chapter of my life.

I am terrible at making five-year plans and the like, because I know life has a way of throwing curveballs at you, and I'd hate to miss opportunities because I'm married to an idea of where I should be by this point.  But I'm just about exactly where I imagined I'd be by a year back in the States.  I'm settled in, living with some great friends.  I started my new career this year and am loving it.  I started back to school.  I've made new friends and reconnected with old friends.

I've adjusted more to living here again.  I don't have to stop and think about which side of the car is the driver's side, and I go to the grocery store more than once per week if I need to.  I turn on the lights during the day because the windows here don't let in as much light, and I don't usually feel guilty about it.  I enjoy being able to blend into the background again (a luxury I was never afforded in Kenya), and I brought over my first and favorite dog to live with me here.

I still wonder if I'm settling, since I no longer wake up every morning feeling like I'm making a tangible, significant difference in the world.  I don't get to watch the sun set over the Rift Valley from my stoop in the evenings, and I don't get to sing "How Great Thou Art" in Swahili on Sundays.  But is it settling if I haven't really settled?

People ask me all the time if I'm ever going back, and my usual answer is "probably not long-term again."  I hate definitives like "yes" and "no" like I hate five-year plans.  I will always go back.  I left half my heart 8,000 miles away in a compound filled with 150 or so children and a dozen dogs and a handful of the hardest-working people I have ever met in my life.  I left it in the cloud-covered Ngong Hills and on stage with the worship team at Karen Vineyard Church and with the sweet ladies selling beaded jewelry at the end of the road.  I left it with my goddaughter Shannah and my favorite little girl Kanje and a whole class full of children who I taught from class 4 through class 8.  I left it with the dirt roads and the nyama choma and the giraffes who'd kiss you for food.  How could I not go back?

I'm accepting the changes.  If and when I go back, it won't be the same.  It's not a goal on my calendar anymore like it was for years.  I don't feel the same about missions or my faith or my goals in life as I did even five years ago, and I'm ok with that.  I want to keep my soul fertile for the changes.  I don't spend my days reminding kids with more difficult lives than most can imagine that they're loved, but I do spend my days reminding scared, sick animals that they're loved.  I don't get to walk along the edge of the Rift Valley when I walk my dogs, but I do get to be much nearer my friends and family all the time and not just for a few days per year.

Moving to Kenya was the best thing and the worst thing I've ever done.  Leaving Kenya was the best thing and the worst thing I've ever done.  I love being back in the US, and I hate being back in the US.  And this is my normal.  It is the normal of anyone who's ever lived and loved and moved thousands of miles away.  And it was not more than my heart could handle.  Even while I am thankful for where I am, and mourn the life I no longer have, and continue to grow through the changes, my heart beats to remind me:  I am.  I am.  I am.  I am.

Being the church

"All the Lord's followers often met together, and they shared everything they had.  They would sell their property and possessions and give the money to whoever needed it.  Day after day they met together in the temple.  They broke bread together in different homes and shared their food happily and freely, while praising God.  Everyone liked them, and each day the Lord added to their group others who were being saved."  -Acts 2:44-47

Here in Kenya, when a family or community is in need, they hold something called a "harambee."  Americans may recognize the word as the name of a gorilla that died in a zoo last year, but it's actually a Swahili word that means pulling together and caring for each other.  In a harambee, everyone comes together and gives what they can.  When each person gives a little, the community can help the community or family to pay for the funeral, the school, the hospital bill, the local water project.

Harambee reminds me of the early church as described in Acts 2.  People coming together to care for one another and praising God.  And sometimes I wonder what it would look like if the American church had some more of that.

But I realize there's already quite a bit of it happening around me.  Here, it looks like a 20-something going on multiple short-term mission trips to Kenya despite not being able to pay for them myself.  It looks like multiple people spending countless hours working out the details when God called me to full-time ministry in Kenya.  It looks like coming home for a visit and not worrying about where I'll stay or what I'll eat.  It looks like meeting weekly at a friend's house with a delicious potluck lunch, but no one is required to bring anything if they're not able to.  It looks like dozens of people with whom I'd feel completely comfortable joining at their homes for dinner.  It looks like friends in Kenya offering to put me in contact with their family members in the US, in case I ever need anything.  It looks like my best friend working tirelessly (actually, I think she's getting pretty tired) to clean out a room for me in her house.  It looks like a friend making a list of what I'll need when I get there even before I do, and making sure I'll have those things when I get to the US.  It looks like messages of encouragement from people I've never met, but who are part of my church.

We don't look exactly like the first century church did--no one has offered to sell a house to help me out yet--but it's clear that there's still a lot of caring for each other going on in the 21st century church.  I can't believe how fortunate I've been to find so many Christians who'll care for each other no matter where I go in the world.  May we continue to find opportunities to break bread and share freely with one another, and may the Lord continue to add to our family.

Seasonal footwear

This past Friday was the autumnal equinox in the northern hemisphere.  My Facebook newsfeed was filled with posts both lamenting the end of summer and welcoming the start of autumn.  There were friends wearing flip-flops and shorts, holding onto the last rays of the summer sun, and friends putting on their boots and sweaters to go consume as many pumpkin spice-flavored products as possible.

If you leave your flip-flops on for too long, your feet are going to get pretty cold.  But if you put your boots on too early in the season, your feet will probably get pretty sweaty and smelly.  And when the seasons are in the process of changing, it's sometimes hard to know what to wear on a particular day.  It might be 85 degrees today, but drop into the 60's tomorrow.  I might put on my boots in the chilly morning but regret it when the sun is beating down on me at 2:00 in the afternoon.

Changes in life's seasons can be the same.  As I'm getting ready to move back to the US, I find myself waking up some mornings focused on the difficult parts of life here, wishing I could move back sooner.  But many mornings I wake up and marvel at the beauty of this country and the joy the children bring me and wonder how I'll be able to bear leaving them in less than two months.

It's a challenge to balance staying in the moment here while still preparing to leave.  I can't put my boots on too soon and mentally check out before my time is up.  But I can't leave my flip-flops on all the time and pretend I'm not leaving and just continue with life as usual.  There's a tension in the changing of seasons that you just have to lean into and be uncomfortable.  Sometimes I'll have to have my flip-flops on because I'm teaching these children until the end of the school term.  They need me to stay focused so their education doesn't suffer.  And sometimes I'll need to switch into my boots as I'm saying my goodbyes and turning over responsibilities to others who'll take over when I'm gone.  It's exhausting to have to keep changing footwear.  But that's what happens when the seasons change.

I'm surely not getting it right all the time.  I spend time planning for things I'll need to do in November and December in the US, and get behind on grading papers.  I'll spend a whole day working on the library, then realize there was something else I should have started a week ago that needs to be done before I leave.  I'm thankful to be surrounded by people who have grace for me in the moments when I'm putting on the wrong footwear.

If you're in transition and feel like it's always the wrong temperature for what you've got on, know that you're not crazy, and you're not alone.  The tension is normal, and we just have to go through it, not try to avoid it.  It's only a season, and soon we'll be able to put on our boots every day without having to check the weather forecast first.

"There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

a time to love and a time to hate,

a time for war and a time for peace."

-Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Riding bikes

"My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer, by night, but I find no rest."  -Psalm 22:2

A book I read recently talked about how a relationship with God can sometimes be like learning to ride a bike.  You come to a point where your training wheels are off, and your parent is no longer holding their hand on your back.  They may be running right alongside you as you go, but not feeling their hand on your back can be scary.  You might fall and get scraped up.  You might get mad at your parent for not supporting you like they used to.  But you'll never learn to ride on your own if they don't let go.

Sometimes faith can feel like that.  You come to a point where your training wheels are off, you're out loving people like God calls you to, but you can't feel his hand on your back anymore.  You can't hear his words of reassurance whispered in your ear anymore.  It can be scary.  You might fall and get scraped up.  You might get mad at God for not being there like he has been in the past.  But you'll never learn to stand on your own if he doesn't let go.

If I'm being honest, some days, I look around me and wonder where God is:  when these children struggle with basic social skills because of what they've been through in their young lives, when we struggle to provide for the needs of our employees, when famine strikes parts of the country and children are dying while begging God for rain and food.  It just doesn't feel like he's there.

But, in searching for where God is, I end up finding out more about who he is.  I'm learning more about the ways he speaks to and interacts with his creation.  I look around and I still see evidence that he's at work:  Tania is planting tomato seedlings in its third greenhouse, employees who left have been replaced, we have a solid new head teacher, computer classes are happening on new computers, we're trying again at an egg-laying business with new hens after the last ones died or stopped laying.  Even if I can't feel his hand on my back, I can see evidence that God is still running alongside me as I give obedience a go without my training wheels.

When you value your feelings as much as I do (I'm an INFJ if you follow M-B personality tests) it can be especially hard when you can't feel God.  But God knows when (not if) those times will come.    And he reminds us that "if we don't feel at ease, God is greater than our feelings."  (1 John 3:20)  If you push into it, you can come out the other end with a deeper relationship with your creator.  And, once you get the hang of it, you can ride a lot farther and see a lot more beautiful views without training wheels.

525,600 minutes

One year ago, I made Kenya my home.  It was a day I'd dreamed of and prayed for for years.  I wanted to mark the day with a blog post, but was having trouble finding the words.  As the song from the musical "Rent" asks, how do you measure a year?

Here is how I'm measuring my year:

In airports

In sunsets

In hands held

In trees planted

In broken faucets

In mud

In washings

In blessings

In weddings

In holidays

In lost teeth

In hugs

In flags flown

In baby nephews

In flowers for my hair

In power outages

In smiles

In achievements

In heartbreaks

In kittens

In rainbows

In laundry

In dreams realized

In chickens

In new skills

In family

In puppies

In remembering

In exams

In flat tires

In laughter

In recorders

In silliness

In new friends

In rainstorms

In clovers

In wildlife

In awesome import foods

In new growth

In kisses

In birthdays

In books read and coffee drunk

In love notes

Measure your life in love.

Love until it hurts

"I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, then there can be no more hurt, only love."  --Saint Teresa of Calcutta

The first time I read that quote, I thought it sounded beautiful.  Like, if I invested enough of myself into someone else and loved them deeply enough, I could transcend to this mystical state of being where nothing could hurt me anymore.  Or maybe God would somehow reward me with a life free of pain, at least when it comes to the people I love that fiercely.

But, the more I love people, the more I'm finding that that's simply not true.  Things still hurt.  I am investing my life into the kids and staff here at the Tania Centre, but times are still hard.  The food storage room still goes empty from time to time.  We still stress about where we'll get the money to pay the electric bill.  Our teaching staff is still in constant flux, so our students still don't get as much consistency as they should from term to term.  The children still have hurts in their lives, people we know and love still get sick and die.  I still have personal hurts--I miss the people I love back home, I miss the food, I miss the illusion of control over my life.  I come down with malaria, I deal with cars that don't work, I deal with students who don't do work.

I have loved and it hurts.  But the hurt doesn't magically go away.  God doesn't look at me and say "Wow, Beth is doing a great job loving those kids!  Time to make sure she's good and comfortable for the rest of her time in Kenya!"  The hurts are still there.  They don't go away.

But, the more I pour out myself, the more I see that those hurts aren't just hurts--they become something more.  I could go live somewhere away from my family and friends, and it would hurt to miss them, but when I go to live away from my family and friends out of love, the hurt that I feel becomes an act of love.  I could stop eating my favorite foods, or move somewhere that doesn't have my favorite foods, but when I move somewhere that doesn't have my favorite foods out of love, the discomfort of eating unfamiliar foods for months and months becomes an act of love.  I could get sick anywhere, but when I get sick because I moved to a malaria-endemic country out of love, the pain of the illness becomes an act of love.

Pain without a purpose is just pain.  But pain that comes as a result of love, while it remains painful, becomes something more.  It becomes a thing of beauty.  And it is no longer hurt, it is love.

"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."  --John 15:13