Longing

REACH 2011

Right now I have many friends that are preparing for REACH Camp. They'll all be there today, celebrating and sharing for the long weekend. When I said goodbye to them last year, I didn't know that we wouldn't be returning. I thought for sure we would be. As soon as we left we started counting down the days until we returned.

Instead of making camp preparations myself, I sit crying at my dining room table reflecting on how much those people mean to me. Our struggles and fears were the same. We talked about them, shared very personal stories, and celebrated life and our God together. It was a week to live authentically, honestly, without fear of judgement. Oh, what a gift.

What if we could all live like that everyday, in community with incredible support and understanding. With compassion and joy to light up the world. What if we always had a song on our lips, and a smile for both the new and the old. What if race, socioeconomic status, special need, or health status didn't divide us. What if we all came to the table sharing the same food, spending time on the same activities, and actively working to build friendships.

I'll always be incredibly thankful for the time I had with fellow REACH families and the amazing volunteers. They've truly touched our lives. 

The first week of school is hell

This was the first week of school. It was not fun. My kids were irresponsible heathens (okay, they weren't really that bad) and I was super cranky evil villain mom (yes, I was really that bad). Forget to bring me your lunch box when you get home from school, I will shoot fire from my eye balls. Leave your homework in the middle of your bedroom floor, I will incinerate you with my evil glare. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I hated every minute of it.

The first week or two of school is always hell. I have to nag my kids into submission towards responsibility. Well, not all of my kids. The older kids have already been sufficiently nagged and know that 30-minutes long lectures are in store for them if they don't exhibit responsibility for their school work. The little ones still haven't figured it all out. Maybe they still like to be nagged. I don't know. All I know is "remembering" at the last minute that you left your homework crumbled on the floor of your bedroom is NOT the way I like to start the morning. As I say to my children, "That's totally uncool."

I rely heavily on natural consequences. I love them. I find that we live in a society that's really not down with natural consequences. When my children aren't prepared, people assume that I'm overwhelmed. I got a call from a teacher yesterday about homework not being completed. She started with, "I know you've got a lot on your plate with five children......." Whoa. Stop right there. How does parenting five children have ANYTHING to do with my child's choice not to complete his homework? He's given ample time and space. Gentle reminders. A firm understanding of expectations. Opportunity for help if it's too hard. Yet the assumption is I must be overwhelmed because I'm not afraid to allow my children to suffer the consequences of their own choices? (In fairness to her, I think she's used to really defensive parents and was trying to be fair to me.) This assumption happens more often that I'm okay with.

I know that if I continue to maintain my expectations for organization, responsibility, and behavior, in two or three weeks we will be back in a successful routine. Kids are capable little creatures. They learn quickly. We will be joyful soon because we are living up to our best, which gives us time to relax. I often get comments about having a large family and how difficult it must be (which is weird, because I don't consider our family large). It's not difficult when you insist that your child live up to their potential on the simple stuff. When we are at our best, this family is a well oiled machine.

When we are not at our best I threaten my children with the father from the original "Cheaper by the Dozen" movie. "Do you want me to parent like that guy? Don't make me go all old school. I'll do it. Just try me." This usually makes them smile a bit, but they know I'm dead serious. They appreciate that their mother is a complete and total nutbag. 

Dude makes me look reasonable.

A big deal...a REALLY big deal

Tonight Freckles, my beautiful 10-year-old son, brought me four letters that were sent to him by John and I while he was waiting at the orphanage in Ethiopia. I remember writing these letters and thinking how stupid it was to be writing in English to someone that doesn't even speak English let alone read it. Regardless, I wrote the stupid letters because it was the only way that I had to connect to my child. As I wrote the simple words, I remember feeling a sense of awe knowing that my son's hands would grip the paper while he looked over my incomprehensible gibberish. It would be our first connection.

When he brought the letters to me tonight, I asked him if he wanted me to read them to him. He nodded while hiding an anxious smile on his face. As I read the words that I had written probably three years ago, I recalled how different our life looked then. I was a different person. It was a different time. My world had not yet been changed. Our paths had not yet crossed (or rather collided, if I'm being honest). I hadn't yet known the strength that I had within me or what it was like to battle trauma and grief in the name of love and hope. When I read those words, I felt a sense of humility over the fact that I still felt what I wrote at that time (or at least I felt it again). It was a powerful experience for me, but then I turned to look at Freckles.

He stood next to me hanging on to every single word, the words that I wished he could have known and internalized three years ago. He couldn't know it then, even if he could have read the words. They were a mere jumble of letters, not actions. Even if he had understood those words at the time, they would have been mere platitudes of affection from yet another stranger from a foreign land. But now they were real. He had felt what those words meant. He was beaming. Literally beaming.

After I finished reading the letters he merely nodded. There was nothing to say. We gave each other a knowing smile and I asked him if he wanted me to store those letters in his keepsake box. (He did.) He walked away from me with something new, something I haven't seen in him before. For the first time I saw him embrace comfortably how much he is loved. He was confident in his worthiness of such adoration. He wasn't giggling or acting silly. He was thoughtful, knowing, receptive.

Those letters were not written for the day they were received by him. They were written for that moment, and for his future.

This is such an incredible turning point for the two of us. We have many struggles ahead of us, no doubt. But we are building an incredible foundation. It took a lot of time and hurt, but it's starting to form. And it's good. 

We're home.

It was a long drive. Roughly 3,000 miles. What matters most is it was an uneventful drive. Sure, we had to deal with some ridiculous sibling bickering and tattling from the littlest two in the back seat (why I decided to sit them together, I have no idea) but it wouldn't be a family road trip without it. We all drove from the Pacific Northwest to South Florida TOGETHER without incident. Hallelujah!

We arrived at our new home on Tuesday, a day earlier than expected. Since then, I've lost count of the wow's and the big smiles of joys over new and exciting things. The big kids are thrilled that they can walk down to the drug store to buy candy by themselves. The little ones are excited that there are about 1 billion lizards to catch. They are all excited about the beautiful beach that's just a short, beautiful drive away. John and I are loving the people and the small-town friendliness. What a wonderful place to call home.

There are moments of homesickness for Idaho, and I'm sure those moments will continue for years. We loved living there and we miss our friends. We are all so far away from family that it's a little overwhelming at times. The beautiful thing about this place is there is such great opportunity to reflect. There is peace. Nature abounds with its soothing sounds, smells, and pace. I cannot think of anywhere better to be sad and miss the past, whether it's friends in Idaho or a life far away in Ethiopia.

Last night after dinner we all walked down to the beach about a mile down the road. The day had cooled into a relaxing evening, making it a perfect opportunity to enjoy family time in a quiet and calm manner (as opposed to the boogie boarding craziness in the surf). We found coconuts and looked at the new and strange tropical plants. We found funny little crabs that live along the road under the trees. We walked across the draw bridge on the intercoastal waterway and dreamed of navigating a sailboat through the beautiful waters. We found vines hanging from trees to swing on. At the beach, we sat at the edge of the grass and watched the gentle waves as the sun set behind us. A man was playing music on his guitar, lending a pleasant soundtrack to a beautiful night. When we walked home the lightening bugs came out, adding even more perfection to a wonderful evening together. I hope we never take any of this for granted. I hope my kids always see the simple things as magical.

Time to start another day of unpacking and making this our home.