Traveling Mercies

And so we take the grace
hold it near like a mask
and breathe

It never seems to matter
how deep or rich or joyful
the time was

When the parting comes
it winds us

The room is stripped
She looks bare but for
the heavy bags packed and closed

What looks so neat and welcoming when we arrive
looks forlorn as we consolidate
and prepare to fly

Grace, then

Grace for the tears
on your shoulder
as I lay my head there

Grace for the
loud void our absence
will create

Grace for the journey
cramped and long
and weary-making

Grace for the transition
to the strange and familiar
of life on that side

Grace for the longing
we will feel
to be near you

Grace for the demands
Africa will be sure
to make

Grace, then

Grace
grace
grace

-lisa, 28 December, 2012

Curator

Curator--
a keeper, trustee, guardian, conservator.

If I am, then,
to care for these feelings
I suppose it's best
to give them voice
if only
to myself

I sing them
in muted tones
gray, soft, rising
with breath
barely drawn
then held

And this dear earth
receives them
Pulls me in
to her breast
and whispers
hush

Her word
is not
reproof
Rather, it says
I know
I know

Through the Night

And maybe now
with the space of days
i can whisper
that parting hurt

That night
when they left
and you realized
you wouldn't see them

Your tears
scalded little streaks
down your face
and didn't stop soon

It was late
and they still needed
to come
so we welcomed them

In the dark
we climbed under
our mosquito net
and huddled together

The four of us
with your quiet sobs
The only thing I knew to do
was sing

I sang the old songs
the ones that lulled
my babies
to sleep

I sang
shaking voice
shaking heart
shaking sobs

Your brother slipped out
and you slept

You found me
in the morning
curled at the foot
of my own bed

Rather than wake you
I let you be
and found a place
where there was room

You felt so bad
And I thought, "Really?
You think it bothered me,
that flickering sleep?"

Rest is relative
and on that night
there were bigger needs
to be met

We unpacked your things
at boarding school
just a few days
later

And it was hard
But, honestly,
it was easier for the way
we passed that night

-lisa, 11 September, 2012

As You Go

It rained last night
unseasonal, but perfectly suited
a quiet, constant drizzle
like a mourning

A mourning last night
expected, but patently difficult
a grey grief misting
like a rain

And I may worry as you go
so many little things
when trying to feel
at home

So many big things
rising in a heart
very far from
what it knows

But I don't worry
about you
who you are or
who you will become

You live well
and shine
soft, clear
strong

We send you
in amazement
in confidence
and with tears

A joy last night
sure, if understandably muted
a calm, constant knowing
like all that is good

-lisa, 20 August, 2012

Still Life

A long quiet month.
Not for lack of things to ponder.  For an excess of things, actually.
An excess of big, chunky things that just needed hush.

When I was a girl, I loved to stand in the pulling tide.
First the water rushed-- pushing, pushing.
Suddenly, it could push no more.

There, at its height, everything went still for the skinniest slice of a very slim second.

With the reversal, my bare feet were unable to hold their ground.
Upright, yes.  But the ground beneath me ripped away, leaving little hollows in the places where my feet fell.

There are two departures coming up.
Certain as ebb and flood, I am unable to cause them not to happen.

Perhaps this last month has been lived in that shaving of time when water can neither advance nor fall away.

(I suppose that would be why I've found myself unable to speak or move.)

-lisa, 31 July, 2012

Remembrance

I lit a candle today
not in a church

I lit a candle today
on the shelf in my hall

to say
I remember

I remember that
you were due today

25 years ago
you were due

I wasn't trying to be
morbid

I lit a candle today
spontaneously

because it felt right
to think of you

we made it ten weeks
the two of us

and then you were gone

I lit a candle today
because you're somewhere

and you're holding
a little piece of my heart

-lisa, 14 November, 2011

Joy x 2

I posted a couple of days ago about how it feels to always be saying goodbye and missing people on the other side of the world from wherever I seem to find myself. There's actually a term for it. It's called "separation and loss" and I sometimes get to speak on it when I'm called on to help with seminars on international living, transition-shock and the like.

Here's the flip side: there's also multiplied joy.

I'm sitting at my desk in Tanzania and the bird chatter outside my window is bright. I can hear Byron laughing in the kitchen with the women of the fruit drying project. The banter between them is constant. Yes, he's been pulling his hair out today overseeing several things at once, but he's generally jovial because he knows he's where he should be. We're a part of small efforts making incremental differences on a vast continent. The key phrase is "making a difference."

Shortly before leaving the States I found myself considering all the things I wasn't looking forward to about being back in this home, lovely as it appears. I thought about power rationing and cockroaches and rats and showers that don't work and other things I'm prone to whine about. Each of them seemed worthy of complaint as I enjoyed the very clean, very orderly, very comfortable home of my parents where going for a walk is calming, cheering and easy in the lovely neighborhood of their setting and where there are two Trader Joe's nearby! Two! I admit to feeling a little grim about some of the downsides of this African town.

Just a few days after this pondering, I sat at Mom's perfect little table looking out from her astonishingly clean kitchen to their very tidy garden. And what to my wondering eyes should appear but a fat rat just a-waddling down my parents drive way. What on earth? In the middle of the afternoon he was just strolling along as if he owned the place!

The humor of it was not lost on me.

Turns out, there is no perfect place. There is only my choice to find the joy wherever I am.

And there's a good plenty here.

Truth be told, I am overwhelmed with happiness when I get back to my parents' home and I cry when I leave. But I cried when I got back to Africa, as well; hello tears that reminded me how much I love it here.

I believe I am blessed to get to hold so much joy.

To Hold Two Worlds

I remember saying goodbye to my parents in an airport for the first time. It was 1984 and Byron and I were leaving for our first 2 years in Africa. I was excited. But as I stood there in that airport, all I felt was pain. I lost my ability to speak and could only cry silently for the last few minutes.

Last Tuesday night saw me saying goodbye to my parents in an airport once again. I had already cried silently in the car on the way there. It was easier not to cry at the actual separation since I was being assisted to the gate. Recent surgery mandated a little help on the way and the presence of a stranger kept further tears at bay.

Goodbye tears notwithstanding, I was longing to be home. When I spotted Byron through the open doors of the arrivals area 38 hours later, I was immediately covered in smiles. It had been a long journey and he looked nothing less than beautiful to me.

We awoke next morning in Nairobi to the jarring news that my Dad was in hospital back in Pasadena after what might have been a very small mini stroke. (For those of you who know him, he's home and seems fine. He was in for about 24 hours and had about a hundred tests, but he's back at 725 with no indication of ill effect.)

Boy, did I feel far away.

Today is Father's Day and I wish teletransportation was a reality. In all these years, I've not found any way to ease the ache in either direction. Sometimes it just plain hurts to hold to worlds.

Andre, Rob, Ray and Ebel

It's been a weird couple of weeks. Within the span of 14 days, we've been aware of the deaths of four men.

Now, I know that lots of people die every day, everywhere. I think it's the fact that we knew, even just a little, three of these men, and knew the fourth man's organization well. While we personally didn't know them deeply, we are close to people who considered them dear, even intimate, friends . Also, they died in terrible ways. Two were murdered and two died in freak accidents. For the record, two of the men died in Kenya, one died here in Tanzania and one died in Zambia.

I keep thinking of their families; the sudden loss and pounding waves of massive grief. I think of the wives and children and the lives turned upside-down. I think of the hearts of service that brought two of these men and their families to Africa in the first place and the particularly troubling thoughts surrounding the questions of how this could be. I think of the other two men and the fact that, while they weren't vocationally in a role of "serving", they were good men who cared a great deal for Africa and her future.

So, yea, each death has brought layers of loss and pain to our hearts. I can only imagine what those who were really close to them are going through.

Death is not new. It's ancient, like life. But does that make it any easier?

a few of you, so far away

if i could choose
i would not be this far
from you

the way your eyes light
and your laugh
spills out

there are days
when it makes sense
some how

the long flights
the enormous cost
the loss

i'm afraid, though, that
today is not among
those days

Esther Slips Away

Today I want to honor the Earl family. On Wednesday morning at 3am, their Esther took her finally bow as a citizen of Earth and slipped her lovely self into the Heavens. Esther was 16, the veteran of a four year battle with metastasized papillary thyroid cancer.

I could try to come up with words that would be worthy enough to carry their pain; to cradle the accumulation of their suffering and loss. But it would be a vain exercise and I would be foolish to try.

Let me say, instead, that the Earl family have shone to me these last years. Their faith has taught me new levels of grace while their grace has taught me new levels of faith. I am so much richer for knowing them.

Esther's daddy writes:

We awake to an empty bed... and empty hearts. There is awfulness all around. We are sad. The weather is sad. Esther's cats are sad. But Esther liked this kind of day. She liked most everything. Esther liked. We would stay doubled over but she would have us rise and receive the grace that is a new day. And Esther loved you all so much! She loved us, too. Esther loved. Thank you to everyone near and far, known or unknown to us. You helped to carry our light and life, gave her hours of joy and purpose. She will miss you and we will miss her banter with you. We're not so up for calls and visits but appreciate your condolences, emails, texts and tweets... Nerdfighteria: you are awesome! Remember: Awesomeness trumps awfulness every time. Death is not the final word but the "next great adventure" as Dumbledore said so well. Esther was never an unhappy lady. She was always happily up for adventure! In our hearts and exploring heaven; that's where we'll find her now.

Our Star was a welcomer. Didn't matter who you were or what badge you did or didn't wear, you were welcome to sit and visit in person or by computer with her. Esther welcomed. Whoever you are and wherever you may be, we welcome you, too, to join us as we remember and celebrate her brief, but glorious life. By tomorrow we will connect you to her official obituary and a means whereby you can give in her memory if you'd like.

You can read more of the story here .

Peace upon your family, dear Earls.

Mama Byron (which is how we say Mother of Byron)

"Hey dear friend," the text read. "Can you let me know when you get this?"

I knew from the message that there was urgency to Ciska's request. We had been out of cell range for the better part of 3 days on a camping trip with friends but in that spot under the big tree by the dry river bed, there was enough coverage to deliver the brief text. I decided not to bother writing back and forth and just dialed her instead.

So it was that we heard the news that Byron's mom had passed away. It was Wednesday morning in Tanzania and Norma had died early Monday morning (August 2nd), Florida time.

Norma had suffered from Alzheimer's for about 7 years. Even though we knew that her time was coming to a close, none of us were expecting it that week. And even when death is a true relief and blessing, it breaks something that can never be put back together in the same way. Oscar's bride, Byron's mom, our children's paternal grandmother is not here anymore.

Driving home took us through rough, wild, beautiful Africa for about 3 hours. It was fitting, I thought, to be surrounded by all we were seeing. The area reminded Byron of a place where his family used to hunt for the meat they ate years ago in Kenya. I thought of Norma and what a good sport she was on all those trips. There she was, a farmer's daughter and pastor's wife, not enjoying any of the "thrill of the hunt" but getting plenty of the work load! And I know she did it all with a good attitude. Norma loved to work hard serving others and that was often seen in all things related to food. I could just picture her keeping all the camp well fed and cheerfully helping with every aspect of butchering the animal. It made me smile as we bounced along.

We got the news mid-morning and Byron was flying to Florida the following night. How thankful we are that he could join his dad and 2 sisters to grieve and celebrate the farm girl who cared for others so easily and laughed at herself so often.

Norma was 85 when she died. We are eternally grateful for her life.

Undone

It's late and I need to get to bed but I can't sign off from this day quite yet. Ever since early this morning, my heart and mind have been heavy with the knowledge of senseless suffering.

You know, there is so much suffering in the world it can become an entity of its own: "Suffering." As strange as it seems, I can almost keep it out there some place when there's just one big impersonal name for it.

But right now, suffering has a single, piercing name. Suffering slips through my defenses when the big generic title is dropped and I hear the name Esther.

Our friends, Wayne and Lori, were colleagues of ours in Europe when, 4 years ago, their young Esther was diagnosed with metastasized papillary thyroid cancer. It's been a rough road since then; one that seems to be moving toward a final destination.

Today, I am equally undone by the uselessness of Esther's suffering (what is the point?) and the honesty of her father's shared journal entries. Wayne has permissioned me to share a couple of excerpts here...

29 April 2010

Esther is not doing well. Next week they will be putting in one or more shunts (tubes for draining fluid) into her right side. All the fluid, and more, that they drained out a week ago is back again. This is very likely a sign of tumor growth. She's uncomfortable and tired a lot and has asked for a hospital bed so she can sleep for longer stretches. Our health care team is looking at yet another experimental chemo and maybe something more. We are willing and Esther is game to keep fighting, so we're not giving up hope!

Still, suffering seems a useless business. I see no value in my daughter's pain. I know the standard answers ("redemptive" "result of sin" "an evil attack" "bigger purpose"). But the only reality is mystery and that sucks. Our faith remains but is changed; we have "put away childish things". We talk about death and dying and living and loving and we wait, and try to dream a little together each day. Esther knows more about these things than any 15 year-old should. The grief for us is like a tightening of the chest, a closing in, a sadness and an anger and mostly, a helplessness. I can't do anything to make my little girl's pain go away! And she's so perfect, to me.

I wish I could tell you more but those treasures are ours for now. Thank you for waiting with us.

Wayne

9 June 2010

Just last Friday evening Esther strolled (or rather was pushed by Angie in a wheelchair) around a local cemetery where she picked out her spot. Am I saying this? What parent helps their child choose a plot? This is not what we want. The joy and sadness of watching two sisters roll the grounds and simply be together was surreal. I cannot explain why hope sustains us even in the presence of innocence undone. Very few people in our culture talk about death and dying or if they do it's "embrace the light/suffering" or "fear not, heaven will reunite us with loved ones". I do not worry about death, at all, though I do not welcome Esther's dying. I do not care about joyous celebrations there; I want to give her away in marriage here! Heaven is Esther doing cartwheels again, her cloud of fire-white, brittle hair shining, waving at waiting earth.

Wayne

*************

How could I possible add any words to that?

Pray for Esther and her family. Their journal can be found here .

Of fire and loss and people far away

It's never good to wake up to several emails saying things like, "Just want you to know that your boys are O.K." or "The fire is approaching campus but they are all in the gym."

Don't get me wrong. I am tremendously thankful for a handful of people, (most notably Tanya, Jenelle and Kjaere) who went into over-drive to give me frequent news of Jesse and Trevor's safety, mood and whereabouts.

But I am ahead of myself.

On Thursday night at about 6pm California time, a wildfire broke out in the hills above Westmont College in Santa Barbara, (Montecito, to be exact.) The cause of the blaze is unknown at this time. What is known is that the 70 mile per hour winds took the fire and whipped it into a fast and furious inferno that engulfed the college and destroyed 14 faculty homes as well as a significant portion of one of the residence halls and several smaller buildings.

Within moments of smelling smoke and then spotting flames, the student body and everyone else on campus, was in the fire- proof gym where they ended up spending the night. The blaze ripped through campus and then up into the Riviera area of Santa Barbara and has (so far) taken at least 70 homes down in its 2,000 acre path.

Westmont students are off campus now, scattered here and there. They are waiting to hear if classes might resume by next Wednesday.

Those are some of the sparse details.

It has been 16 years since we lost our home in Loita to a fire.

I remember the surreal feeling of knowing that the house was gone. I remember the oddly pleasant feeling of lightness when I pondered the fact that I really didn't HAVE anything. (Painful but strangely good at the same time.)

Of course, I had everything that truly mattered. I had Byron, Jesse and Trevor and the 4 of us together made a wealth that nothing else could touch.

But all the little things were gone... The ring my mom gave me when I turned 11... The letters from my grandfather who lived in West Africa for 40 years... The baby blankets my grandmother had made for the boys... The note Byron wrote me on the night Jesse was born... The stuff of life, no more.

The loss of place is a more elusive feeling to deal with. There is a sacred nature to the shelters we call home. This is where we live and breathe and laugh and kiss and have our arguments and welcome our friends and make our tea and lay our tired selves down in the cool of night. This is where we grow and where we find the safety to dream tomorrow into being.

This space called home is nothing less than a holy place.

Today, I am thankful that no lives were lost. I am thankful for a well-planned emergency response and a dedicated crew of courageous fire-fighters. There is just so much I am thankful for.

But I am also sober and mindful of tender things. I don't know who all lost home Thursday night. I do know that my friends, Russell and Allison, lost theirs.

I know how much loss they have already experienced in the last few years. I know that cancer took their lovely teenage daughter and then raged in Allison's body as well. I know that they have been rebuilding life as a three-some with their son, Travis.

And now home is gone. The place where they tended gently to their dying daughter and escorted her as far as they could go as she slipped away from them has "gone with the water" as the Maasai would say.

My Maasai friends came to sit with me when my house burned down. Over the next couple of weeks, my friends would arrive with a bag of sugar or a bowl and spoon or some other gift, and sit quietly with me. If I was busy with the work of living in camping mode, I would pause to receive their companionship.

Jesse and Trevor said they saw Russell working hard all night to help the evacuated students. When they passed him on their way out the next morning, they asked after his house. It hit them hard to realize that he was serving others while his own home was burning down.

I guess I wish I could sit with Russell and Allison today.

No need for words. "What good are words now?"

Just the unglamorous gift of presence.

Tears... ( or, Learning How to Pray)

Today I received an update from my friend, Tamara.

I think I will not try to explain the long story but just tell you that the last two years of life for her and her extended family have been unbelievably difficult.

Reading Tamara's words made my eyes fill up with tears. I am out of words when it comes to prayers for their situation.

But the tears were cool on my cheek and I just let them sit there.

Today, fresh quiet tears are my prayers.

Wordless Prayers

32 dead on a Virginia campus today.

"The worst shooting in U.S. history."

If I could think of words I might write them, might pray them.

But words don't come. Instead, my gut aches.

I take this ache and point it toward heaven. There is One who understands how to interpret this cold, clamy pain in my stomach into prayers.

He hears. I believe this.