Category: being a mom

Where Is Your Mother?

It inevitably begins. The continent selection appears not to matter. The crowd is also not important; albeit family, friends or strangers. The intention is fantastic. The investment is strong. And nurturing. And playful as you are danced away to see new faces, learn new smells, snuggle new shoulders. Sometimes it’s on a hip, or turned outward. There’s always much attention. Petting your attempt at hair. Giggling over your adorable cheeks. Jabbering on about your little dress, hair bow or tiny striped pants. You are immediately invited into the group, added to the mix, surrounded by the community.

And then as the distractions settle, the noise calms, and the conversation naturally returns to others, you look about. Studying this new layer of life. Maybe the window catches your interest. Maybe the sunlight dancing on a chair. But just as inevitable as the visit, you begin to feel a little less comfortable.

You make a little probing peep, which usually results in the universal subconscious bounce. The second peep results in the bobble. The sway. The adjusting of your positioning. The conscious acknowledgement of your cause. Most times it comes with a verbal affirmation. Language choice is irrelevant. Tone breathes compassion.

Time adds to your frustration. You are certain now that this is becoming more overwhelming. You announce your desire to return to normalcy. And your supporter knows they are not said normalcy. As the floodgates slowly open, the moment always hits. They instantly stop the conversation mid-sentence and scan the crowd. It is written plainly across their face as we connect eyes, “Where is your mother?“

The walk is never far. The smells and feelings almost instantly return to your normal. Your funny pacifier-muffled grunts find solace in the safety of your spot on my shoulder. I hear you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is best in small steps. Even if the culture is just another loving shoulder. Another pair of soft arms. Another smile of invitation.

We all get better at it. Time often adds to maturity. Security is slowly found in expanding circles. Freedom is just at your fingertips. Soon you will begin experimenting. And studying your sisters. Mimicking their dances with culture. Their frolicking delights. And their reserved closeness alike. Their reading of invitation. And their creation of normalcy. And oh yes you too, like they, will make an occasional judgement blunder. And find a desire for increased proximity to your safety spot, wherever it has evolved to be. Maybe you’ll return on your own. I’ll find your hand holding my skirt. You will search for my eyes. Sharing a story together to reconnect as you recenter a bit.

The walk is never far. I hear you. I see you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is best when we return to small steps sometimes.

Young birds spread their wings better with open air and a challenge before them. You will rise. You will gain the courage. Maybe just the excitement at first that pushes you to do the unthinkable. To open your wings wide and dare make the first solo flight. And we cannot wait to see you soar. Oh sure, that won’t happen first. First it will look all awkward and feel a bit dangerous. Just like when we first took flight. But we know you will gain muscle memory, coordination and speed. Oh sure you’ll still make mistakes. Miscalculations may send you temporarily sputtering. Maybe you’ll even find yourself crashing down to bleeding knees and a tear-stained face. Those around you will then look up from the crowd. It written plainly across their faces as you connect eyes, “Where is your mother?”

The walk is never far. I will sit with you in your solace. Even when your mistake brings their eyes to look for me. Whether you have just embarrassed yourself or also embarrassed me. You can bring forth your deep hurts. I’ll strive to be a place of safety. Daughter, I hear you. I see you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is tricky. And restoration is best when we return to small steps sometimes.



The walk is never too far, ladies.
I have been reading you from a distance this whole time.
And while I may have nothing more to offer, nothing more to say. Here is my shoulder, my love.
Let’s find solace together.

Yes, the walk is really quite short, precious girls.

See? I am already coming.

*As I told you in the letter I wrote you, ladies, I am not your all-in-all, nor am I trying to be. But I am grateful for the honor to get to be a part of the solution, should you choose to give me the privilege of helping.

0

Spa: Low-Budget Style

Our sorority had themselves a spa night

complete with soaking feet during a movie, pedicure work and some special snacks.

Matt was gone for some trainings so we girls had a lovely night in.

0

The Library is Open!

When given the opportunity to crate our belongings from the United States to Mozambique, we were certain to bring many, many books. Thanks to my sister’s research and hard work coupled with homeschool funding through the IMB, my girls are given the gift of English reading in our Portuguese world!

Since access to English books is quite challenging in a non-English speaking country and access to any literature at all is also quite challenging, we came up with a fun idea:

🎉Stauffer Library! 🎉

Stauffer library began with measuring the kid books, measuring the wall space, doing a little math and hand drawing the blueprints to three happy bookshelves. Proce negotiations, logistics for retrieval and three weeks later, the local carpenter produced some happy (and heavy!) book shelves. The girls and I then alphabetized all our chapter books by title and shelved them. Picture books were organized into topics and shelved. Sections were divided and labeled (yay, happy laminator machine). We also filed a section for magazines and a handful of newspaper articles (again hard to find in English so we picked a paper up after waiting for a few months for our trip to South Africa) which was also laminated for durability.

The girls each have their own small basket for the books they are reading each week. Once per week the girls get to rotate being the librarian, serving their library patrons who come in to switch out their books, and reshelving each book alphabetically (for chapter books) or according to topic (for picture books). While waiting for another patron to borrow their books, the girls have enjoyed reading magazine and newspaper articles.

My librarians have been ECSTATIC to get the chance to recommend books that they have read to their sisters and have been perfecting their alphabetizing skills (the littles with adult help).

At the end of library hours everyone has enjoyed returning to the homeschool shelves with their small basket of new books for the week as the library is closed up.

The library has also proven lovely in selecting books to share with English-learning friends and English-speaking teammates as well as making it easier to pull books for homeschool use.

And we even have a library cat! 😉

(This library is cat approved, for sure.)

It’s fun to see my girls still get to “go to the library” while living at least a day’s drive from any potential English library (though we’ve never yet found one).

My bookworms are VERY happy. ❤️

1

What Really Matters.

She was excited for the interval, hungry for the next chapter. It didn’t matter that she was sitting in the middle of a straw mat in the heart of Africa with Portuguese and local dialects all around her. She had patiently waited, greeting everyone and sharing in hugs and hand shakes. She had made sure everyone was settled and happy with various picture books and white computer papers for origami.

And so she happily smiled, flipping to her previous page and soaking into her book when in an instance it was snatched from her hands. She turned to me and laughed at the irony. A young girl sitting beside her motioned quietly for her to wait as the girl looked at the book’s pictures sporadically included in the English chapter book. My little girl just waited, See, she knew in this kid cultural moment it wasn’t rude. She saw the young friend’s bubbling over excitement. Books are so scarce here that they’re super exciting. And besides, this is just how you love people here- you share when it’s not always convenient.

The grace my little girl showed was such an encouragement to me. It has been a slow whispering, an awakening to the true value. Books and things are always fun, but the hearts of those around us make us laugh in the ironic moments and share willingly with those around us; even when they don’t read English, were a little too excited to contain themselves, and when the irony of the situation is just too fun to not share with locked eyes and a chuckle. Kids here see with their hands. And they almost always hand it back momentarily. It’s just a game of patience while everyone gets a look before you get it back. Community is strong here. And how beautiful to see my little lady play her role so sweetly.

And sure enough, with patience and the passing of 30 seconds, my beloved little girl was back to her thirst-quenching exploration of the world of yet another novel character.

People will always matter more than things.

And irony is totally worth laughing at

there on a straw mat in the heart Africa.

1

The Sometimes and the Most-of-the-Time

Sometimes you just want what you want. Selfishness moves in where compassion once lived.

Sometimes the day has worn on too long. The heat too strong. And your emotions cave and a crying monster emerges who desperately needs a hug and an early bedtime. Not a punishment bedtime, we won’t even tell you that we put you in bed early. But we’ll just so happen to read an extra chapter of our bedtime read-aloud that day, requiring us all to pop into bed a little early. And there over the top of the book, I will watch you drift off before I even complete the first chapter.

Or sometimes. you just can’t put into words what it feels like to live thousands of miles away from those who used to live within a finger’s reach of you, for as long as you can remember.

Sometimes you need to tell me again how much you didn’t like Portuguese school, even though I also remember how much you couldn’t wait to go. Because today you remembered someone saying something mean and assuming you couldn’t understand it. Today you remember the harder instead of the good. The growing pains over the victories. And you just need someone to listen and agree with you, even if it’s not where we both know you’ll land when you think about it again tomorrow.

Sometimes all four of you have those kind of moments in one day. Or a series of days. And it’s tiring for us all. Emotionally and physically.

But then there’s the most-of-the-time that catches me. How we look back at your photos of just last year and you notice how your face has changed. How you have grown.

And I remind you how God has been shaping you this whole time. During those sometimes moments as well as those elated moments of joy during the most-of-the-times.

And I see that little girl in a phase of wrestling to surrender selfishness for loving compassion, pouring over a puppy when no one else is looking.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

You are listening and internalizing, even if the battle is uphill sometimes.

 

I see a “me too” little girl finding her welcome place amid a new sister-and-friend dynamic.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Even when dynamic changes can come with growing pains.

 

I see a young girl growing into a confidence of self-control and responsibility not being an unwanted consequence,

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

but choosing instead to embrace them as a gift, even if it costs a sacrifice of selfishness.

 

Yes, I see your quiet efforts of increasing self-discipline and chosen obedience

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAOLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

even when responsibility costs the price of your perceived frolicking freedom.

 

My ladies, I am proud of you. I am really, really proud of you. Kindness, self-control and responsibility can feel like very sacrificial choices at times. And I am praying for God to continue to give me the grace to extend to you all as you learn these critical lessons. Oh the sometimes moments have happened and will happen again. Maybe even for another series of days. But I trust that just as He sustains me when I turn to Him to teach me how to love you better, He will continue to grow you through all that He has given you in this life. And I am proud of you. Keep wrestling to do right when wrong feels so easy. Keep fighting to be kind and gentle when roughness and selfishness feel so natural. And know that even in the rawness of the processing, I am still thanking the Lord that He has given me the gift of being your Mom.

 

I love you, little ladies. What a privilege to fight the good fight together.

1

As We Enter Here

We always know when the city is pumping water. You can see it in that little bounce in our steps. We’re actually going to have good water pressure, right now. Quick, everyone take a shower!!!

 

So we live in a city of 100,000+ people, which manifests itself  in a handful of “city blocks” and a never-ending wind of pot-hole filled, sometimes deteriorating, dirt roads. You can almost see the accepted, yet urban pants-wearing young adult woman and foreigner contrasting the overwhelming majority of the skirt-wearing, rural farm-wife community. We are the beautiful tapestry of six blocks of urban gets dropped into the lap of the rural countryside.

For us that means entering the community well. Learning the patterns of city water pumping. Talking to a whole host of “can you help us fix this” people. Beginning friendships with a lot of “can you help us build this” now-familiar faces. We are breaking through conversations as, our previous supervisor says, people put us in “boxes” or “files” of where we belong. Are we a traveler? Are we actually going to stick around? Are we here to hand out stuff? Are we going to respect them and their culture? Are we going to be a flaunting Westerner? Are we going to be a lavish vacationer? Are we going to respond when they speak the local dialect? Where do we belong?

We’ve been told we speak Portuguese like people from our language city. I use it as an opportunity to pray for and thank the Lord for my language teacher and the program up north. The hours and hours of investment. I will never take them for granted.

But with the slight distance of such a “you are foreign” statement, comes a softness in their eyes as we know the normal greeting. Sincerity can be seen and felt. It’s a slow process, but a process that has begun, nonetheless.

We are the white family with four girls. No, we are not in need of a little boy. Yes, they are all just like a flight of stairs. Yes, they all understand Portuguese. Yes, the oldest can carry a conversation with you in Portuguese. Yes, the baby of our family looks like a doll. And yes, sometimes the littlest ones in our family will also say the respectfully appropriate greeting while you swoon and try to tickle their chins. We go through this same routine with every new and semi-new face.

But that’s ok. Because it’s called entering a community. And it happens slowly. Building daily. As we enter here one footprint at a time.

Through our preschooler, you can experience the entrance process: When the house has no furniture, you ask questions of when we will return to our “real home in” our language city. As our belongings come in from our language city (5 days later), you have a flood of delight and still confusion about when we will return to our “real home in” our language city.  The one everyone calls your twin whom you still take naps with, keeps talking about all the homes you have lived in. She lists off grandma’s house, something called FPO which she always refers to as having those familiar names of our friends who were there, then there’s Disney World which she keeps telling you was an awesome home we lived in, but you don’t believe her when she says this is our new home. In the first newness, you announce in your excitement that next time we have ice cream, we should bring Emilia (our house helper from our language city). When your sisters explain that Emilia lives 2 days away by car, you look puzzled and take a bite of your cone.

The first time we walk to the market is an automatic hip-riding experience. Don’t look at me, don’t touch me. I belong to Mommy. The second time, you walk to the entrance of the market holding Mommy’s hand, then the first time someone talks to you, it’s an INSTANT pick-up need. I belong to Mommy.

The next time to the market you make it past the entrance on your own feet, but descending the steps someone tries to tickle your chin and it’s game over. I belong to Mommy, here in Mommy’s arms. Mommy keeps saying they’re just trying to play with you. You don’t believe it. You remind Mommy that they are a stranger, not your real friends. Mommy explains that you said hello to your real friends for the first time back in your language city. You think for a minute. You talk about it a little with Mommy. And the next time prompted, you say hello and ask how the strange lady is doing today. Mommy kisses you and tells you how proud she is of you.

Then the next series of visits come with a mixture of walking the aisles all on your own, the incredibly important job of holding the one left-over coin, saying hellos occasionally and many times needing Mommy’s arms for some extra security when things get too close. BUT you walk to and from the market on your own, willingly.

And then one day comes when you leave the gate, bounce off to the market along with your gaggle of sisters, have zero stress in your body as we cross the threshold into the market, follow right along with the pack of foreigners (also know as your family), smile, wave and say hello to the ladies at the market, and return home telling a hundred stories about how happy our guinea pigs will be with their new lettuce and cucumbers.

We are entering into a community in that we might dwell among those here because He chooses to dwell among us.

Oh it takes time and trust building to dwell somewhere. And it takes security snuggling moments. It takes courage and perspective changes. And it takes a lot of practice. But it’s starting to look like home around here. And it’s starting to feel like home too.

One day at a time.

One moment at a time.

Thanks to our Father, Who patiently and gently guides us.

Our Refuge, Our Rock and Our Redeemer.

May they see You as we enter here.

0

Proudly powered by WordPress | Theme: Baskerville 2 by Anders Noren.

Up ↑