this gift (cont.)

Note: This is the conclusion to a two part series shared in honor of our 2nd Brazil-iversary. If you have not yet read Part One, I recommend taking a few moments to do that first.

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December 2017

Sitting on our balcony one evening, we stare out at the flow of traffic twenty floors below. I’m wrapped in a blue blanket I found at Target a lifetime ago, holding a mug of hot tea - chá preto com leite, as they say here. The quiet of night, the cool breeze, the endless stream of headlights: this trifecta provides just enough soothing distraction to melt away poorly-managed emotions. My passive-aggressive edge too.

Our conversation falls into the well-worn rut of discontent. “It’ll be nice when…” introduces nearly every new thought.

    It’ll be nice when we have a dishwasher again.

    It’ll be nice when we can sleep without music blasting through our walls, all hours of the night.

    It’ll be nice when we can just talk to people, effectively, again.

If we were in the US, we would know exactly where to go to buy replacement light bulbs for the range.
That would be really, really nice.

We like to linger here, in this longing for an easier life.

But then I wonder how long I would have grieved over this opportunity had we said no? How long would the wondering of what could have been haunted me? Surely that would have been just as much of a dagger to our marriage. We didn’t let fear drive us and now we seem to have landed ourselves in a garden heavy on thorns. At least now we know. If we had stayed, I would have assumed we were missing only roses. Better to be here, experiencing both, isn’t it?

“I came here for you, you know. I knew you wanted this.”

His confession catches me off guard, takes me back. Back to wallpapered mauve flowers and matching carpet. Back to our fixer-upper the very first night we learned this country could be in our future.

“So you’d be up for this? You would actually go?” I asked.

He nodded, slowly but sure, then threw the question back to me.

“Oh I am a yes! But I didn’t expect you to be.”

My surprise was well-founded. This man has told me more than once he’s glad I did so much backpacking in college, before we met. India does not define vacation in his mind. What would make me think he’d want to move to Brazil? Sure there were benefits for him. An opportunity like this looks nice on a resume. It might even lead us back “home” to Kansas City afterward. But still, I should have pushed back against his easy acceptance a little more.

I drank the Kool-Aid instead.

Cozied on the old couch in our basement one night, having received news that we were definitely moving, I remember reveling in wonder and gushing over this glorious gift we’d just been given. “I thought my travel days were over when I married you. But it’s like God was hovering over us, waiting for this day, whispering just you wait.”

The headlights below continue to stream by, though more sporadically now. My mug is empty and this blanket isn’t thick enough for the cool of night settling around us. It’s time to turn in. I gladly take the cue, because how do you respond to a confession like that?

I came here for you, you know. I knew you wanted this.

Not until this moment do I recognize the magnitude of his sacrifice for me. How much he’s struggled, for me. This opportunity is a gift from God. But it’s a gift from him too.

***

Oh how narrow my line of sight has been, Lord. Forgive me.

Thank you for this man by my side. Thank you for his willingness to stretch waaay
beyond his comfort zone to live this adventure with me, for me. Help me appreciate him,
Holy Spirit. To support, encourage and honor him increasingly as he leads this family.
Help me love him the way You love him.

I asked you, so many months ago, to use this season to establish us, to make us who
we ought to be.

You’ve been answering that prayer all along, haven’t you? I see your faithfulness.
I also see my need to yield, to bend and break, to let you make me new.

I am but a lump of clay, fortunate to be in your hands.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds,
for you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.
Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be
mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
James 1:2-4

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March 2019

We have a sitter booked for Saturday afternoon. There’s a few items left on our list of “city must-sees,” but nothing really grabs our attention. This weekend is whispering for something simple anyway. We settle on the German restaurant he’s been eyeing just up the road. And electric scooters, because we need to build up an appetite somehow and I’ve been itching to try them ever since the rental rides showed up on city sidewalks.

The afternoon arrives, as does the rain. Of course.

“Now what?” he asks, an hour before the sitter arrives, disappointment edging its way into his voice.

“It’s fine,” I say. “It has time to clear out.”

And it does, mostly. Sparse sprinkles are not enough to thwart our plans so we hop on the trail. He takes the lead, heading nowhere in particular. He’s swerving around puddles, popping wheelies and I know his eyes are shining from the sound of his laugh.

I’ve always said we wouldn’t have liked each other if we had met earlier in life. In this moment though, I’m not so sure. The teenager I was surfaces, chases after the cute boy up ahead riding too fast for my comfort. I am the speech geek crushing hard after skater boy. Maybe it would have worked out after all.

After thirty minutes of cruising we turn in toward Starbucks. We park the scooters beside the sign advertising new summer flavors. Once inside, I order for the both us. And, I notice, I’m not bothered by it. Iced chais in hand, we settle into chairs under the last available umbrella outside. He waves me toward the dry one, wiping puddled rain off his as best he can.

For a moment, we discuss the plausibility of introducing public scooters to the next city in which we reside. Maybe that could be our new thing? The discussion is short, hardly serious. A scooter business is just not our best next step. Pre-dinner drinks now drained, we hop back on the trail in the direction of the German restaurant. He offers for me to take the lead but I graciously refuse - because he goes faster than I do and, I enjoy the view.

Another exhilarating ride and we settle, once again, into chairs under an umbrella outside. He orders first as I finish making up my mind. The server says something we don’t fully comprehend about the potatoes and apples that are supposed to complement his dish. We both stare blankly for a moment before agreeing with whatever he said. Satisfied, he turns toward the kitchen with our order while we shrug our shoulders and carry on. This is normal. Maybe we’ll figure out what he was trying to say when the food arrives. Maybe not.

“So, how are we?” I ask. “Are we good?”

His head turns, slowly, from staring out at the road. A wave of caution (fear?) darkens his eyes as he remembers, I’m sure, another date, months ago that also involved chai, as well as tears and the words you’re better than this. Or maybe he’s remembering the night a few months later, when planning a weekend getaway turned into tears and his honest defense: you won’t let me change.

“Yeah,” he answers, hesitantly, bracing himself for the many directions this conversation could turn. “You?”

“Yeah,” I sigh contentedly. “I think we’re really good.”

The cloud passes from his eyes. We both nod and relish the simplicity of this conversation. For once, nothing more needs to be said.

We’re back and, better.

***

I read Cora a story this afternoon before quiet time about a seed who loved living in his cozy seed packet. He was comfortable and happy and safe. Until the day he received a gift from the kind farmer. This gift was different; it didn’t feel like a good one. Not when the farmer plunged him deep into the earth. Or as he sat in the dark and messy place far too long for his liking. Especially not when he felt his own shell begin to break. He wondered what the kind farmer was thinking, thrusting him into this new home, calling it a gift. The weight of the earth bore down upon him. It was heavy. And hard.

But one day, as he stretched, he began to grow, into… something new. Wonder and joy and awe propelled him upward until he broke through the heavy earth and found himself suddenly, finally, free. He found himself, a tree, what he was always meant to be.

I guess sometimes, the best gifts come in heavy packages that are hard to open.

this gift

Note: I am publishing Part One of this piece today, on our 2nd Brazil-iversary (!!!), because I know time will eventually glaze over the hard parts of this season. I want to remember though - the hard parts themselves and the incredible ways God has used them.

---

January 2017

It’s 2:30 am, I think, when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

It’s my husband.

“Hey, how are you?” I say, my voice hoarse and raspy.

“Not good.”

I don’t understand. Ten hours ago he sounded fine. Tired of course, but fine.

“I think this might be the biggest mistake of our lives.”

Silence.

Roughly 40 hours ago, Cora and I dropped him off at the airport. His destination: São Paulo, Brazil. We’re moving there. But not all of us, just yet, because I am seven weeks away from birthing a baby brother. He must begin this new job and this new country by himself.

The five hour time difference puts him at 7:30 in the morning. He should be heading in for Day Two at the office by now. Instead, I find out, he is still in bed. He is deathly sick and he doesn’t know where to buy water - because you can’t drink the tap - or toilet paper. His “furnished” apartment was stocked, sparsely.

He is physically sick, I can hear the congestion in his voice, but there is obviously more to unpack here. I can’t comprehend all the unknowns he’s facing. I’m wrapped in the covers of our own bed, in the town we call home, in a country I understand. I am ignorant of his worries, yes, but I have fears of my own. Fears for his safety after listening to the horror stories people felt compelled to share with us. Fear of this baby coming too early, of laboring without his hand to hold, of transitioning to life with two littles alone.

“We knew this was going to be hard.” I say. “Here we are.”

***

And so it begins, Lord. Our ominous adventure. We have been waiting nearly seven
months for this beginning and yet, we’ve been caught off-guard. Talking about grand adventures is very much not at all like living them.

Why are we doing this?!

I don’t know your plan, Lord. I don’t know what you are hoping for us, offering to us,
through this season in Brazil.

Is it good, this gift?

I know you are trustworthy, Father, sovereign and good.

You are a God of purpose.
Your works are not haphazard.
This is not haphazard.

So I will trust your hidden why.

And I will cling, once again, to these words from 1 Peter.
These words that have carried me through moves and fears and challenges past.
You have not failed me yet, Lord.

“And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace,
who has called you to His eternal glory in Christ,
will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”

Establish us, Lord, in this season, in Brazil. Make us who we ought to be.

---

August 2017

He arrives home from work and finds me in the kitchen, washing dishes. He missed dinner again. Seeing the kids, too. I pass him the silverware and he rinses, begins transmitting the details of his day. Though his voice is but a whisper, I hear the notes clearly. Frustration, exhaustion and feelings of inadequacy weave together a dissonant melody. It’s not easy to listen to. His tired eyes and rounded shoulders tell me it’s not easy to play either.

At the office, he is in the valley of a learning curve that towers like Everest before him. Always the optimist, I am chock full of advice and suggestions for ways he could improve his work experience. He acts on a few of them, but not many, which is aggravating to me. It seems he doesn’t want my help.

Maybe though, he just doesn’t want its underlying message.

I would do this so much better.

It’s quite a claim coming from the restless, stir crazy, tired-of-single-parenting-this-gig woman I’ve become. Without a car of my own, and two littles to carry and pack for, I spend most days within the confines of our apartment grounds. I am so anxious to feel Brazil, to know her inside and out, yet I settle for a heavy-hearted, second-hand version when he gets home each night.

His lackluster appreciation of my “help” makes the stubborn independent in me cringe. Because I need his help. It infuriates me to have to admit that! I am supposed to be the world traveller in this marriage. Back then I needed only a backpack and a hostel bed. Where did that girl go? I blame the kids and heave all of my grand expectations on my consolation prize: the weekend. Two whole days when he can help me navigate this city. We’ll attend festivals and eat all the Brazilian things and explore neighborhoods and museums and parks! But the long work days usually deplete his drive to do anything more with those 48 hours than rest and recoup.

His angst builds during the week. Mine loves working the weekend.

There’s more.

Learning this Portuguese language is irritatingly slow. The two of us, we are both desperate for the other to learn it, to be proficient enough. It would ease our own burden considerably because we really only need one of us to figure it out.

But in this case, willing the other to win is not, exactly, beneficial. It’s more I’m backing you into a corner than it is edifying. I feel the tension rise when he looks at me to place our order at Starbucks, like I can say “chai latte” with a less-American accent than him. I know I play the same game though. A few months ago, we pulled into a paid parking lot and the attendant had a lot to say. He seemed to be warning us of… something. I purposefully busied myself with the kids, pretending I didn’t hear what was said, so he had to figure it out.

I thought the hard part of this adventure would get easier when our newly minted family of four could tackle this adventure together. I thought it would make us a stronger team. The actual experience though, feels more like an axe hacking its way vertically through the tree trunk that is our marriage. The blows keep coming and I now feel a space where there shouldn’t be space. A rift between his half of the trunk and mine. It unsettles me. Our long-lasting honeymoon phase has, abruptly, ended.

***

Jesus, what is there to say?
Brazil has been unlike anything I expected.
The frustrations will not end.
And I have a bottomless spring of blame I cannot stifle.

Life feels heavy. And hard.

I read these words this morning though:

“Discipline your thoughts to trust Me as I work My ways in your life…
Do not fear My will, for through it I accomplish what is best for you.”
Jesus Calling by Sarah Young

Help me, Holy Spirit.

Let this season change me, Lord.
Soften my heart for the work you will do. Let this not be for naught.

“But as for me, I will look to the Lord;
I will wait for the God of my salvation;
my God will hear me.”
Micah 7:7

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Don’t miss the end of this beautiful story! Read Part Two here.

Falling

I wore a cozy, rose-colored sweater with an exaggerated turtleneck and wooden earrings shaped like teardrops. I remember because I spent an entire day stress-shopping for that sweater, for the impeccable “first date look.” You wore a white jacket with a slanted zipper and your own skates. After lacing up, I stepped cautiously onto the ice and felt every muscle in my body tense. But then you stretched out your hand for mine. My rigid body relaxed into your steadying strength. Under the bright white tent and quiet night sky, we danced.

Several dates later (though not many days), we exchanged Christmas gifts in the kitchen of my apartment. I unwrapped two tickets to the upcoming Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert. You unwrapped the movie Notting Hill, a thoughtful nod to our first inside joke. “It’s perfect,” I think you said and then, “just like you.” And before I could process what was happening, our lips brushed to the tune of every happy alarm in my head.

Priorities and preferences shifted rather quickly after that night.

I swung by your house after twelve hour work days because sleep could wait. You sacrificed grad school because it was interfering too much. I spent Thursday nights on bleachers cheering for your old-man softball team. You spent one entire evening listening to live country music and several more wandering First Friday art strolls. I became a soccer fan and you became a sushi fan.

One weekend you were away and I sat on a park bench for two whole days writing you a love letter because, it seemed right.

Nestled on the couch in the shadow of a movie ended long before, you whispered, “I wish I could hold you forever.” This also seemed right.

This was love. We were sure of it.

You dropped to your knee and asked me to be your wife in the parking garage on 47th and Pennsylvania. A few months later, dressed in white, I twirled slowly before you and brushed a single tear from your cheek.

As newlyweds we explored Costa Rica and Italy and the coast of Maine because I love to travel. We also spent quiet evenings at home because you love popcorn and board games most people have never heard of.

On my birthday, you took me skydiving yet waited on the ground because open doors and airplanes are foolishness in your mind. On our anniversary, I inscribed 365 hearts and hung them from the ceiling in our living room because I wanted you to know why I loved you.

Oh how we loved!

Do we still?

Those gestures of love, once romantic and easy, now feel decidedly not.

Because when we eat sushi, we also attempt to pick food up off the floor faster than the toddler can throw it down. When we play a board game, we cautiously toe the line between competing and preserving our preschooler’s confidence. And when we travel, well, we wake earlier than we’d like, we cut adventures short to find the nearest bathroom and we avoid the production of patronizing a restaurant three times a day at all costs.

Our two little alarm clocks, they changed everything.

It feels like a loss some days.

But what I think might be true, Darling, about all those years before, the easy, exhilarating ones… I think they were only our falling.

It’s as if we leapt that first day, from the highest of cliffs into euphoric bliss. With nothing to push back against us, nothing to calm the butterflies wild within, we just kept falling, weightless, free.

It was a rush, falling in love.

Until we crashed into the water below. Our graceful fall, swallowed up into the sea. Some days we struggle in this dizzying new world. Love moves more slowly than we’d like and requires more effort than we can muster. Some days we long for the ease of the air that resisted us not.

Oh but those days, they were only our falling.

And this sea?

It is growing in us the real thing.

This love rises early with the kids while you rest a few minutes more and whisks them away to the park while I shower in silence, undisturbed. On your night to do dishes, it washes them before you get home. On my night to do bedtime, it nudges me out of the house toward chai and an empty notebook.

This love listens because you process verbally.

This love waits patiently to discuss because I don’t.

When struggle finds our home, this love sits in silence, together. Prays, together. Grieves, together. Most often though, this love creates, together. Laughs, together. Dreams, together. It encourages the other to pursue opportunity and challenge. It finds overwhelming delight in those two little alarm clocks.

It is not glamorous.

Not effortless.

Not perfect.

But it is rich with intention and sacrifice. It is generous and refreshing and life-giving (quite literally... he's two, she's four). It is a love that is lived, though not always felt.

Darling, these waters may have swallowed our fall, but they have awakened us to a dimension previously unknown and profoundly beautiful. And I think maybe, this love is the love. The goal. The love we were falling toward all along.

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Images by Solar Photographers