Heads Carolina, Tails California

My brother-in-law Martin has impeccable taste in music - cultured, wide-ranging, studied. I do not. My musical tastes bring him some pain, and he struggles to understand my plebeian enjoyment of genres such as country. He has a generous heart, however, and during our third year in Hopi he assembled an album of popular country music songs he found less objectionable and gave it to me for Christmas.

It was a much-enjoyed gift, and the whole family got to know the songs very well as I played them over and over again on our shopping marathons to Flagstaff. Even Luke, whose musical interests align more with Martin's than with mine, admitted to enjoying some of the recordings. In particular, we came to love Jo Dee Messina's song "Heads Carolina, Tails California".

It's not hard to understand why that song resonated with us so much. Life in Hopi was busy, lonely, and barren by that year. Luke worked night and day, and I was stuck in the house with three young children. Strong, persistent winds blasted dust and sand through the air and under every windowsill, making it difficult to play outside even when the temperature was nice. The weekends Luke didn't work were spent driving four hours round-trip to Flagstaff. Once there, we'd visit our round of stores and businesses, feed and nurse and potty and run the kids around in the corners of time left over, pack the car to the gills with our next two or three weeks of provisions, and try to return home before dark.

"Heads Carolina, tails California," we'd sing as a child wailed that they had to pee and we pulled onto the liquor-bottle strewn shoulder of the reservation road. "Somewhere greener, somewhere warmer," we'd hum as we dodged broken glass and thorns, squinted against the driving dust, and guided the child(ren) behind rabbitbrush to do their business. "Up in the mountains, down by the ocean," we'd chorus as a family as we drove through a pile of tumbleweed blown together in a depression of the road. "Where, it don't matter, long as we're going somewhere together!" Luke and I would croon to each other as returned to our dusty home at long last, threw no-longer-frozen pizza in the oven, and began to put our provisions away and settle the kids for bed.

Of course, getting away wasn't really simple. The nearest major airport was 4 1/2 hours drive, all trips required significant logistical planning, and Luke had trouble getting more than a few days off at a time. But it was really fun to imagine that all we had to do was flip a coin and end up in a place where things were green, warm, and easy. Singing the song to each other was a light way for Luke and I to admit that life was hard sometimes.

"Heads Carolina, tails California...

"...somewhere greener, somewhere warmer!"

Fast-forward about eight years. We live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest now, where summer is the magic time you dream about during wet, gray winters. People from around the world come to visit this time of year because it's so lovely. And - rich irony - this is the summer that we're vacationing in both Carolina and California. We don't even have to flip a coin.

I'm convinced that God has a sense of humor.

It's true that California was warmer.

We just returned from our week in California, which accounted for my silence on this blog. We had a wonderful time with family, which was great - because if we had gone just to experience California itself, we would have been disappointed. We visited during a record-setting heat wave. Our car thermometer topped at 112 degrees as we drove through Sacramento, and settled at 108 degrees at Luke's parents' house in El Dorado County. The mercury easily cleared 100 degrees every day of our vacation. My kids (who forgot what Arizona heat was like) were appalled, and locals scrambled to assure me that it wasn't always like that. We spend a lot of time together inside, playing board games and singing to my adorable 15-month-old niece. We fried an egg on the pavement. Our excursions were limited to a local museum and restaurant, a splash park, a pool complex, and one hike in the mountains (where even at 7000 feet, it was still in the 80s).

It was sad to leave family, but it is joyful to be back here, where things are cool and green again. Even the gray sky today was welcome and welcoming.

There's no place like home.

The best question my counselor ever asked me

A little over two years ago, panic attacks abruptly replaced my ability to sleep. After a week of misery, I went to the doctor and asked for help. A battery of tests came back normal, and I was diagnosed with severe anxiety and mild depression. As a part of my treatment, I began seeing a counselor.

My counselor practiced cognitive behavioral therapy, which didn't immediately connect with me. We spent our first session debating the realistic odds of my entire family coming down with intestinal illness on our upcoming missions trip to Ecuador. My counselor tried to convince me that I was severely overestimating the probability of this event. (As it turns out, my odds were pretty accurate. But we all survived, so at least she was correct about that.) I left with significant doubts about the helpfulness of her approach.

Things got a lot better when I started to talk about things closer to the heart of my anxiety, like my struggles parenting my son with ADHD. My counselor had a child with ADHD, and I could tell that this time, she understood me with her heart. She was listening with empathy. She had been there.

This photo says a lot about Josiah.

I can't remember exactly what drama was happening at the time with Josiah and his homeschool support program. Was it soon after he got in trouble for eating his science experiment, despite being warned not to by his teacher? Or was it the time a different teacher told me he had been on his face, eating the dirt between classes? (Turns out he wanted to literally bite the dust.) Maybe it was the week he forgot his email password (because he made it too complicated), borrowed his classmate's email account, and sent out pictures of a blobfish with glasses (with the title "You hate me") to his entire class, a smattering of teachers, AND the assistant district superintendent (because his name started with J, just like Josiah). I had begun to tense up every time I saw a teacher approach me when I arrived to pick up my kids.

No matter what was happening on campus, I know for certain what was happening at home, because it never let up. Josiah and I clashed daily over his schoolwork and his difficulties focusing. He seemed driven to reject every suggestion I offered, every strategy I researched. Rather than reaching for what might help him, I watched him cling to those things that made him miserable and unsuccessful. I struggled with discerning what was genuinely difficult or impossible for him because of his ADHD, and what was simply attitude.

Did someone say attitude?

As I poured out my struggles to my counselor, I could feel her understanding and support. When I paused, she asked me one question: "When you pray for Josiah, what do you pray for?" Oh, I had a lot to say. I prayed he'd find his center, make good choices, avoid disaster, follow Jesus. I prayed I would know how to parent him. I prayed...

My counselor gently interrupted. "What do you thank God for about Josiah?" she asked. I blinked. I had been too busy crying out for help to spend a lot of time in thankfulness.

"Next time you pray for Josiah," my counselor suggested, "try thanking God for what's good and right about him. It will change your perspective and help you understand him."

Every now and then, you hear something that is absolutely simple, absolutely true, and perfectly timed to change you. This was one of those times. My counselor was right. Practicing gratitude for my son profoundly alters my perspective and eases my anxiety.

When we give thanks, specifically, for the good we see in our children, we begin to see who they truly are. We glimpse them as God made them to be - his masterpieces - and we get a vision for what they can become. Those parts of our children that infuriate us, that break our heart - we realize that they don't define them, nor do they define our relationship with them. We begin to view our children through the lens of compassion rather than frustration. We remember that they are gifts, and that God treasures them - and he is just as invested as we are in their future and their becoming.

Josiah is 14 now, and the force of puberty is strong with him. He's beginning high school next year in a large public school. We have not given up petition for this boy! But I have to remember not to start and end there.

Josiah graduates from 8th grade today, one of three graduates from our homeschool support program. I'm supposed to give a small speech, and I compiled a list of what makes me thankful when I think of my son. I want him to hear (again) these things that are true about him, and I want him to know that this is who he is:

• He is funny and good-natured. His craziness is never directed at hurting anybody, and the younger boys in school love hanging around him. He can laugh at himself.
• He is honest. I can trust that his version of what happened is true.
• He is strong and helpful. He will uncomplainingly lend a hand if I ask.
• He is curious and loves learning. He asks great questions. He uses his free time to explore new concepts. He wants to become a professor of political and economic philosophy. He has a wonderful writing voice.
• He is original. He refuses to blindly copy somebody else, but forges a new path. He thinks far outside the box.
• He is generous. He spends almost all his money on others.
• He cares about his friends and the world. He's willing to sacrifice for them. He wants to follow Jesus and make the world a better place.

Writing out a list like that for your child (and remembering it when you're desperate) really does change your perspective, especially if he or she is the cause of your graying hair, or contributes to your sleepless nights. At the very least, it fills your heart with love and gratitude. There's a magic in that, too.

Longing for Home

I've lived in 3 countries, 5 states, and 15 houses (I think - I lose track of the houses). I spent my very first birthday flying to Bangladesh to begin a new life there. Before I moved here to Washington state, the longest I lived in any one place was five years.

I'm not very good at answering the question, "Where are you from?"

My first passport needed extra pages

As a child, home was a fluid reality. While we lived overseas, we spent every second or third summer back in the United States, traveling around to visit family and friends. "Let's go home now," we would say at the end of some restaurant dinner - this meant, "let's get back to our motel room". Home was not tied to a particular place. It meant any spot in which my family safely sheltered together.

My home was Kenya when I graduated from high school, and I left my family there to begin college in Illinois. Although the advent of email brought them a little closer, they were still far removed - I returned only twice in two years. When I left Nairobi at the end of Christmas break my sophomore year, I knew that my family would be packing everything up and following me in the summer. I strained to look out the window as my plane lifted off from Jomo Kenyatta Airport, realizing that Kenya would never be my home again, that I might never return.

The second semester of my sophomore year was a dark time for me. Difficult things pressed in on me, and I was homeless. There was no safe place to retreat to, nowhere I felt loved and sheltered. It was during this period that I began to think about what home meant to me, and to yearn for it. I took long walks and gazed at other people's front windows, imagining the warm spaces that might be within, imagining that I was safe and welcome. I sang the Michael Card song "Home" to myself, and longed for a place to leave the darkness outside.

Home is a comfort, and home is a light
A place to leave the darkness outside.
Home is a pleasant and ever-full feeling;
A place where the soul safely hides.
   -Michael Card, "Home"

Mercifully, my family settled in my college town that summer. They were gifted with a year of low-cost missionary housing right on the edge of campus, a house with a light-filled bedroom that became mine. I didn't have to gaze into windows any more, because I was inside. I was safely home again.

* * * * *
This sense of home as refuge, no matter where it is found, remains strong in me. I now find shelter in my husband's embrace, and being with him is, in some ways, home for me. But not completely. As I continue to mature and develop (and move), I realize that finding sanctuary is not the same as belonging, and I long for both.

I'm a third culture kid (TCK), which means that for a large chunk of my growing-up, I was raised in cultures that didn't match my passport. One of the common characteristics of TCKs like me is "cultural homelessness". Even though we quickly adapt to and function in a new culture, we belong to none. After almost two decades of living in the United States, this culture is still foreign to me. I often feel like a participant-observer, peering in from the outside. Even when I am welcome and included, I don't belong.

Cultural homelessness makes frequent moving easier, even desirable. There are no deep roots to rip up. No decades-long relationships to disrupt. If you've never belonged, it's not that hard to leave. And there's always the excitement of a new place, new beginnings, and new adventure ahead.

But there's a dark side. If you live in a place more than a few years and remain a participant-observer, a terrible loneliness sets in. It hurts to not belong. Our souls long for home.

We've now lived here in western Washington for eight years, smashing my previous record. We have no plans to move. It has not been easy. Staying put for this long has forced me to face my soul's yearning for home. I'm learning that if I want to be inside a circle, I have to find the courage to step in, reach out my hands, and trust that there's a place there for me. I'm learning to see my friendships here as long-term, and to invest in them accordingly. And I'm learning from my children.

Over the threshold! Our home for eight years now and counting.

After we lived here a year, I made an ill-conceived April Fool's joke about moving back to Arizona. My two older children burst into tears, and I felt terrible. I had always felt more excited than sad about moving, and for the first time, I realized that my children were different. They have a home, and it's more than just their family. It's here, in this house, in this town, in this state. Only my oldest son remembers living somewhere else, and only in snapshots. My children know where they're from, and they're teaching me what it's like to belong somewhere.

I receive fleeting glimpses of what it feels like to belong to a place, to find home in a location: Grief rather than anticipation during a vivid dream that we have to move. Profound relief when I awaken and realize we can remain here. A quiver of joy as I gaze at the Olympic mountains from the ferry deck after a vacation and they look like old friends, delighted to see me return.

I never anticipated that my life's journey might offer me the gift of rootedness. I'm slowly finding the courage to open my hands and receive it.

Those are "our" mountains now. They welcome us home.

* * * * *
And yet...there's a paradox. As I stretch my roots down into Washington soil, I find that the other places I lived also rooted themselves in my soul. They fill my dreams and they return to me in odd moments. Monsoon rains in Bangladesh; the prairie trail in Illinois; salt marshes in Georgia; wisteria in North Carolina; never-ending skies in Kenya; locust trees tapping on our windows in Pennsylvania; desert evenings in Arizona - all of these are home to me. All are pieces of where I belong and are wrapped up in my longing.

One of my favorite children's books is "Grandfather's Journey" by Allen Say. Through lovely watercolors and spare, lyrical prose, it tells the story of the author's grandfather, who grew up in Japan and immigrated to the United States. I'm unable to read the last couple pages of the book aloud without choking up: "I return now and then, when I cannot still the longing in my heart. The funny thing is, the moment I am in one country, I am homesick for the other." This is my story, too, except that sometimes I'm homesick for a place that both includes and goes beyond all my homes.

I believe that one day, my heart's longings will be filled. One day, I will perfectly belong and will find the home my soul yearns for. And I wonder: will all those places that shaped me, all that diverse beauty that lives in me - will all that be a part of eternity? I hope so.

Nobody tells you, when you get born here
How much you'll come to love it and how you'll never belong here.
So I'll call you my country, and I'll keep longing for my home.
I with that I could take you there with me.
   -Rich Mullins, "Land of My Sojourn"

Ten things I learned this spring

This March, I discovered a delightful What We Learned link-up on Emily Freeman's website - a space where bloggers are invited to share what they learned over the previous season. I really enjoyed learning from the journeys of others, and was excited to make my own list. As I reflected back on everything that's happened this spring, I picked up the dual themes of surprises and new beginnings. So much change, and so much transition yet to come!


1. We belong here in Washington.
In February, our family took a trip to Arizona and visited our old house on the Hopi Reservation, as well as a lot of the places that brought us joy when we made our home there. It was a lovely and bittersweet trip. Despite our delight in watching the kids revel in the landscape and wonders of the Southwest, it was very clear to us that we didn't belong there. The Hopi Reservation was no longer our home, and there was no desire or calling to return. Luke, especially, felt the pain of being a stranger in the Hopi Health Care Center he used to "own". Strange as it seems to me (considering what I thought my life would be like 20 years ago), our home is now here in the generous and abundant Northwest. (I wrote a little about our Hopi journey in this blog post.)

Beautiful for a visit, but no longer our home.

2. I can give up homeschooling. 
I've homeschooled for ten years now (since Josiah was four years old), and it's been a central part of my life and identity. Homeschooling has been my primary job, and I poured tremendous amounts of focus, energy, creativity, and resources into doing it well. When friends asked me how long I planned to homeschool, I always answered, "We'll see. We take it year by year, and reevaluate often." Privately, though, I wondered if I would ever be able to give up homeschooling. I was passionate about it, and was continually mapping and tweaking our scope and sequence for years to come. I hoped that God would never call me to sacrifice this bedrock of my life, because I wasn't sure if I could.

Over the course of one day this spring, I discovered that I could let go. The day began with an unexpected email informing me that the kids' homeschool partnership program was in jeopardy. As I wondered what we would do if the program folded, I briefly considered the possibility of sending all three kids to public school, then immediately rejected it. I had already purchased curriculum for the following year, and was deep into the excitement of planning things out.

By the end of that day, however, after discussing possibilities with the kids, the inconceivable was suddenly very conceivable. Within a week, I had submitted enrollment paperwork and my days as a homeschool mother were numbered. Something that I thought would be a gut-wrenching decision just happened, swiftly and quietly, without drama (although looking back, I can see multiple ways God prepared me for that moment). I felt a little like Galadriel in the Two Towers movie, when Frodo offers her the Ring of Power. She imagines taking it, and becomes enormous and freaky as she envisions what she would become with the Ring's power. Then she shrinks down again to herself and gasps, "I passed the test". Of course, giving up homeschooling isn't anything like refusing the One Ring of Doom, but I still feel like I passed the test. I was able to let go when the time came to let go, and now my hands are open to receive new and exciting things. It is a delight with terror in it.

P.S. Now that I know I won't be homeschooling next year, my motivation to finish strong has dropped precipitously, especially when nice weather beckons. We are limping to the end.


3. I am a fast bleeder. 
In March, drawn by the promise of free Equal Exchange coffee, I walked into the Bloodmobile in the grocery store parking lot and offered up my arm. Back when I lived in Chapel Hill and worked at UNC Hospitals, I donated platelets every couple of weeks, a process that took a couple of hours and returned my red blood cells to my body. This was my first experience of donating whole blood. The technician told me it usually took around 20 minutes, but that the record was a little more than four.

It took me 6 minutes and 20 seconds to produce a pint of blood. I felt slightly disturbed that my body was so eager to rid itself of its essence. The blood people weren't disturbed, though. I got a phone call from them today (just two days after I was eligible again) urging me to come back as soon as possible because there is a pressing need for my blood type.  It's kind of nice to know I am useful and wanted, even if it's only for my blood. I don't have any particular desire to surpass my record, however.

I'll be doing this again next Wednesday.

4. Thin Lemon Oreos are delicious. They taste exactly like the lemon creme biscuits we ate a lot of when my family lived in Kenya. My sister agrees with me, and these Oreos take us back to sunny Nairobi teas in gardens full of hibiscus, bouganvillea, and tropical birds.

Unlikely doppelgänger to British tea biscuits.

5. How not to bite my nails.
After years of wanting to quit my habit, I've finally learned the secret: Invisalign. It's impossible to chew my nails when my mouth is filled with plastic and my teeth are sore. My nails haven't looked this good in years, and I even had to clip them with real nail clippers because they got too long. It's kind of an expensive and inconvenient solution to nail biting, but it works.

Speaking of Invisalign, I also learned that before you receive your alignment trays, you get sharp little spikes of synthetic enamel sculpted all over your teeth. The spikes are perfectly matched with corresponding pockets in your aligners, and help create some torque to wrest recalcitrant teeth into shape. I did not realize this until the day I showed up to get my trays. The little set of fake teeth with Invisalign trays the orthodontist showed me when he sold me on the process did NOT have any spikes on them. My teeth now sport 18 spiky spikes, half of which protrude front and center. The spikes snag on the inside of my mouth when I take my trays out to eat, and they are not invisible. I do not like them, not one little bit.

But at least my nails look good. And I hope that before too long my teeth will, too. (I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I recognize how blessed I am to have the opportunity to fix my teeth.)

Frankenteeth (but nice nails!)

6. How to train for a half-marathon.
This is a Google search I never thought I would do. I was a sprinter and a jumper in high school, but longer distances never appealed to me. Until yesterday, I don't think I ever ran more than three miles without stopping. So when my dear friend in Germany messaged me a couple weeks ago and asked me if I wanted to run a half-marathon in Tanzania with her next May, it was a bolt from the blue. But to my surprise, it felt like an adventure I was excited about pursuing, and when I forwarded her message to Luke, his immediate response was that I should go for it.

So I am now a registered Muskathlete. I committed to raise at least 10,000 Euro to benefit Compassion International, an organization that combats child poverty worldwide, and to run 13.1 miles in a row. (I should also brush up on my French, since this particular Muskathlon is only open to French and German speakers. At least my friend speaks fluent German.) Three challenges in one!

I was relieved to find many half-marathon training plans online that look do-able and minimally intimidating, with assurance that a beginner like me could get in reasonable shape for a half-marathon by next year. It's still a little scary, though, to think of running that far. I ran 4.4 miles yesterday and it felt like a long, long, hard slog. I'm going to have to trust that if I faithfully follow a training plan, running 13.1 miles won't seem quite so impossible a few months from now.

Yes, I still have a long way to go!

7. Cholera used to be known as the Blue Death.
That's because people get so dehydrated, their skin turns bluish-gray. I learned this while reading The Great Trouble to the kids. It's a fascinating historical novel set in London during the Industrial Revolution, and it chronicles Dr. John Snow's search for the source of a cholera outbreak, as well as his efforts to convince people that their ideas about disease transmission were wrong.

I have a masters in public health, and one of the things my fellow students and I frequently lamented was how public health has an image problem. It's hard to wrap your mind around, it's not exciting, and it's not sexy. That's why I was so tickled to find a gripping children's book that was all about public health. Although the writing is somewhat stilted, the story itself is captivating and incorporates multiple issues and challenges central to public health, leading to good discussions. It was especially rewarding to see how riveted my children were in the narrative. Hurrah for public health! And for clean water!


8.  My girls don't know the difference between raw ground turkey and raw sliced beef (but cooking together as a family is really fun).

A few weeks ago, we were given a coupon for a free Hello Fresh delivery. We received a huge box in the mail, containing everything needed to cook two family meals. The kids were excited and worked together with us both times. I was surprised at how much fun it was to cook as a family, as well as how much the kids could accomplish in the kitchen. Even though the girls got mixed up and marinated the ground turkey for the beef and broccoli stir fry, thus leaving the beef strips for the turkey enchiladas, both meals tasted great. We usually cook vegetarian, and it hadn't occurred to me that my kids wouldn't be able to identify and categorize raw meats.

It was so much fun to cook together as a family that I thought about how we could do it more often. As much as we enjoyed Hello Fresh, I can't stomach the weekly cost of subscribing to such a service, or the amount of waste that is generated when every single ingredient is pre-packaged. Then I realized that the main things that made the kit so family-friendly were the large, colorful, step-by-step recipe cards with directions and pictures. And I realized that you can access those same beautiful recipes and directions online for Hello Fresh and for other meal services, and buy the ingredients yourself at a fraction of the cost. I let Anna browse through the vegetarian recipes and choose several she wanted to try. I purchased the ingredients for a couple of her choices and the girls made them with me. It was delightful to cook together, and turned something that's usually a chore into a special time. I plan to do much more of that type of activity this summer.

9. Like running, you need to work out at writing to stay in shape. 
I really enjoy writing, and used to do it a lot. Not creative writing, like my sister, but reflective, narrative, sometimes analytical writing. And I was pretty good at it, too - I could polish off an eight page paper in a few hours, and get great feedback from professors.

But then I had children and took a long, long break from regular writing. When I decided to resurrect this blog about a month ago, I envisioned myself sitting down a couple times a week, an hour at a time, and whipping up an articulate post before I resumed the regular business of the day.

Anybody who writes regularly will laugh and nod to hear that's not what happened. I was rusty, and quickly rediscovered that good writing takes a lot of time. You don't just pick up where you left off. My writing muscles are a little atrophied, and it's going to take discipline and effort to tighten them up again.

But I want to take the effort to be a good writer again. I know that it's through writing that I reflect deeply and ground myself, that I make sense of what's going on in the world and in me. Part of my goal in the next year is to find my voice again, and to share it with others. Another delight with terror in it.


10. Facebook is actually kind of fun. 
I joined Facebook three weeks ago. I resisted a long time. And I prided myself on remaining aloof from that time-sucking behemoth of modern American culture. Every time I heard somebody lament the time they spent on Facebook or read an article about how Facebook damages true, authentic connection, I felt morally superior.

But in truth, my reasons for avoiding Facebook were not particularly laudable. My main reason was fear - fear of being too visible or of not being visible enough (nobody caring about what I post), fear of being out of my element and not very good at something, maybe even fear of becoming like everybody else, of losing a countercultural identity.

I've learned that fear is almost never a helpful motivation for me when it comes to making good, solid decisions. Nor is pride. And the reality was that I wasn't connecting more deeply with my community because I stayed off Facebook - quite the opposite. It helped me remain in the shadows. A lot of my friends shared lovely pictures, reflections, and family news on Facebook, and I missed out on connection by not becoming a part of it.

So I joined Facebook. I didn't tell anybody for two days, then my sister helped me find the courage to make some friend requests. It turns out that there are people who are willing be my friend and even like me. Although it's still a little scary to go to Facebook, I'm getting braver, and I'm learning that nobody minds a nice comment left on their post, even if it's from me.