It takes a village - our whole life through

note to reader: suggestions in this particular entry may not be to everyone's liking. Succinctly put, communal utopia may not be for everyone...but if it might be for you - read on.



They say it takes a village, and we all know it's true. But when I hear that statement made, it's usually in reference to raising a child - "It takes a village to raise a child" are usually the literal words.

And it's true. But it doesn't stop there. It takes a village  - it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a village to guide a young adult, it takes a village to support a young married couple, it takes a village to strengthen a family, it takes a village to benefit from the wisdom of the elders, and it takes a village to care for the old. All our lives - we need that village.

I grew up in a village. Literally, I did. While the majority of my nights were spent in a home more similar to the one you're sitting in now than the mental image you have of 'village', my days and quite a few nights were spent exactly in that mental image village. Houses made out of mud and cow manure, goats bleating and cows mooing at sunrise and sunset, warm tea cooked over an open fire, no light expect for the moon at night and sun during the day, the smell of smoke and livestock permeating everything, eyes experiencing morning's first sunlight underneath the biggest expanse of sky you've ever seen, and legs given room to walk as far as the eye could see without ever coming upon another soul.

To know who is a part of the village, and recognize and welcome a stranger (and to recognize and beware of one coming with harm), to know my role, to know responsibilities to be met, to know how to see the needs of others and seek to meet them, to know how to not unnecessarily place my needs above anothers, to know how to recognize something out of place, to know what it is to be surrounded by care at every turn. 

I know what it is to be in a village.

And I know what it is to be in the city - for darkness to never fully come, for noise to never fully cease, for safety and security to grip tightly to, for schedules to follow, and for ease of life to be enjoyed.

For friends to live miles apart, and see eachother on coordinated schedules and chance meetings, for the options of things to do to be wonderfully endless,  for needs to be expressed in order to be seen, for being surrounded by life and people but many complete strangers, for technology to speed up the transfer of people, news, and encouragement at the most important times, for the village to be spread across miles but available at all times.


I've lived in them both. In a way, I am both. A part of me will never fully be at ease in the city, or anywhere other than under a Kenyan sky. Another part of me will never be fully at ease in the wild, or anywhere other than wrapped up in a bustling American city.

But wherever I go, wherever I am, I know, quite deeply, that it does indeed take a village. Here is the difference between the village I grew up in, and the village I'm trying to find now in the new city I live: the Maasai acknowledge they are a part of the village, they embrace it, they receive from it, and they give back to it. Everyone an active giver and a willing recipient.

I'm not sure how to say this without someone arguing with me, but that's fine, argue away - Americans don't know how to receive. We know how to take, we know how to be entitled, we know how to stake our claim, and protect our rights - but we don't know how to receive. I'll go a bit further - we know how to give, we know how to support, we know how to encourage. But we still struggle, I mean really struggle, with knowing how to receive.

Let me put it anecdotally - in Kenya, we were surrounded by people who offered us help and assistance when things were difficult, and dear friends who offered us love and companionship even in times of absolute success. I expected it to be difficult to find that here in Seattle, expected people to already have their established friend networks and be too busy to fit in the new girl, expected people to not really understand how much of a foreigner I was to the pacific northwest - and I felt absolutely fine about that possibility. Truly, absolutely fine.

But, as I began putting myself out there, striking up conversations with random moms at playgrounds, people at church, folks at the grocery store I found the opposite to be true. We've been in Seattle 7 weeks, though really only since the beginning of January, and in that time have made a broad enough network of friends that when the hubby traveled for a week, I had playdates every day, a friend volunteer to keep the kids for a morning so I could have a break, and 2 different couples offer to keep me company in the evening AND bring dinner. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.

I don't think it's a testament to how fabulous we are, or how lonely people are, or how pathetic we seem (though maybe?...) I think it is simply this - we say yes. When people say "oh, you're new to the area, do you have family in the area?" I let them know we don't, and that we're starting to build our network of friends - people often respond by offering to exchange numbers and get together.

When new friends said "do you need anything while you're husband is gone?" I said we would love company. When a friend offered to watch the kids, I accepted, gratefully - knowing I would offer her the same when the right time came.

Here's my summary - it does take a village, it takes a village the whole way through life. People need people. We absolutely do (though some of us more or less than others). It's fairly easy to offer help to someone, it feels good to take a meal to a friend, or keep someone company while they pack. But it feels differently to accept help (or even more so, to ask for help) - for some reason, we've construed receiving help or asking for help as an unacceptable admission of weakness or incapability. I disagree - I think it's perfectly acceptable to admit weakness of lack of capability. I'd venture to say it takes a level of boldness to do so.

I think a willingness to receive help takes more courage, humility, and strength than it does to offer help. But it is well worth it, and to our benefit and the benefit of others to do so.

Something beautiful happens when we acknowledge we're a part of the village, when we realize we benefit from it as much as we offer it (or even more) - we give others permission to do the same.

You don't have to look far to find some article or quote referring to America's relational deficit/brokenness/plague of loneliness. It's because we've forgotten how to receive, how to ask, how to accept (perhaps even benefit) guilt-free from the village around us.

I'm not talking about food handouts, I'm not talking about welfare, I'm not talking about manipulation or laziness or enabling poor life choices/behaviors/addictions/states of mind. I'm talking about doing life together with others outside of our immediate families - I'm talking about creating communities of people in close proximity to us who can help watch our children, bring soup when we're sick, rejoice when we have breakthroughs, and sit in companionship when we face loss - and who can expect the same from us in return.

It is possible. I've seen it. We've been invited into those communities already here. They do exist. And I think most of us find them at some point in life - but for now, I'm going to suggest we would find them much quicker, and they would be much stronger, if we would bravely receive and graciously give.

It takes a village to be a village.

The reality of motherhood

I expected this time, the few weeks of really settling into "my" new city, to be all about the transition - where to go, who to meet, how to get around, what to do, and a constant little bugging question at the back of my mind "why exactly are we here?"

Instead (though all of those areas have needed some proper sorting out), the past two weeks have revealed a surprising focus - motherhood.

In Nairobi, something always pulled me away from home (internally or externally), the kids were never incredibly content, I couldn't figure out how to juggle the many things I was sorting through. In Seattle - well, motherhood has taken a new form.

It helps this is the most insanely child friendly place I've ever been to - car dealers have whole sections of their office dedicated to small children, parks are easily found within a 3 mile radius of anywhere, businesses have free activities for toddlers on various days of the month, certain coffee shops are designed with play areas, there are indoor sandpits for those o-so-dreary days - the list goes on and on and on. It also helps that for the first time, we have a house with a good space for the kids to play - both inside and out. It also immensely helps that both of my children are now communicative, incredibly communicative. About everything. About every, single, tiny thing. But still, it helps.

For whatever reason, I've reached a place where contentment is much easier to find and where impatience seems to emerge less often.

I've experienced happiness with my kids before, but in these past couple weeks I have had more re-collectible moments of sheer joy than I can recall ever having had in my role as a mother.

Kai played his first mind-game/joke on me:
As we were driving in the car, he dropped his water bottle on the floor and then announced (quite loudly, and with urgency only a 3 year old can give to a water bottle dropped in a car): "My water bottle!!"
I responded: "it's ok, it's on the floor."
Kai: "huh?"
me: "it's ok, it's on the floor."
Kai: "wha?"
me (with clearer diction - like a tourist talking to a local): "It's o-kay, it's...on...the...flooor"
Kai: "huh?"
me (getting annoyed - an annoyance exacerbated by the fact I was driving in circles, utterly lost): "Do you sometimes just do this to mess with me and see how many times I'll repeat myself?"
Kai (giggles): "yeah, sometimes I do that."
me: "you silly goose"
Kai: "huh?"
me: "you silly goose" (yes, you all know where this is going...I sure missed it)
Kai: "wha?"
me:" you sil - hey! seriously? Again?!"
Kai (bursting into toddler belly laughs): "yes! I gotchya. I gotchya. YOU silly goose."

Sheer joy.

Mika walked up to me, put her arms up, looked at me with huge eyes, said "up".  I picked her up, light little thing, as her sweet little hands held my cheeks. "noses?", she asked quietly - as she leaned her nose against mine and rubbed it back and forth, giggling - looking straight into my eyes. Sweet little lips kissed mine, then she said "lub you", and put her head on my shoulder.

Sheer joy.

Kai asked to pray at dinner time. He held Mika's hand tightly, and prayed a simple prayer, "Thank you God for food. Thank you God for happiness. Thank you God for Jesus. Amen."

Sheer joy.

I stopped to give a man on the street some money. As we drove away, Kai asked "mama, what did you do?" I responded (capitalizing on the opportunity to teach a life value): "I was helping someone who needed help." He said, "Oh, that's good. But mama, what was his name? You should ask his name."

Sheer humility - followed by sheer joy.

It snowed this morning, Kai bundled up and went outside to play in it. The second he stepped into the snow, he froze in his tracks. "Are you ok?" I asked. He glanced over his shoulder at me, silent. "Are you listening to the snowflakes land on your hood?" A single, almost imperceptible nod, and a slight smile.

His newness - my joy.

We went out for dinner at a small Ethiopian restaurant. After dinner, when the hostess was clearing our table, Kai said "oh, thank you. Thank you very much. But, um, could I help you?" Receiving an enthusiastic response, he hopped down and helped carry dishes back to the kitchen.

Sheer joy.

Mika slept on the floor of her room one night while we were waiting for her crib to arrive. Early, early in the morning I woke up to her little silhouette in our doorway. She walked over to our bed, as I pulled back the covers of our bed on the floor, she climbed in, lay down on top of my chest, head tucked on my chin, hand wrapped around the back of my neck, and fell back asleep.

Sheer joy.

Today, at lunch, Kai was helping Mika eat - modeling how to eat, helping her get food on her own fork, sometimes feeding her. I watched him cheering her on, and watched her deep interest in learning from her big brother. When she took a bite by herself, he said "Yeah! Good job, Mee-tah. That's right. I'm so proud of you. Great job! That's how you do it!" She beamed, "tangk ew". Kai smiled back, loving his moment as a teacher, "you're weltome. That was so polite, Mee-tah. So tind. So respectful. Dat is nice to say thant you."

And at that moment, a moment of sheer joy, riding on the back of a week filled with sheer joys, I had a thought: "this is the hardest job I've ever done. This is the hardest job I will ever do."  and an immense wave of satisfaction swept over me - not in myself and my accomplishments, but in finally seeing this job I've been divinely and miraculously given is bigger than anything else I will ever do in life. Ever.

I have done many challenging things. I will do many more. But this, motherhood, will absolutely require more of me than anything else - not in a "forcefully die to myself, I lost my freedom" sort of way - but in a "rise to the task, feel enthusiastically terrified you've been chosen for the job you never thought you could get" sort of way.

It was as if something in me finally recognized that the hours of changing diapers, wiping tears, kissing scrapes, putting away toys, doing piles of tiny laundry, turning thousands of little bites of food into magical airplanes, tucking in, re-tucking in, disciplining, apologizing for my lost temper - all of those moments I thought were breaking my own pride and self-fulfillment were simultaneously doing a part in creating the character of two people.

I get creation of new things. I get invention stemming from new ideas. I get the physics and chemistry of it all works. But creating the character of a person? Being in a position where I profoundly impact who these two little people will grow to be, and subsequently impact every future interaction they'll ever have with others? Well that...that's too much for my mind to fully absorb. And so, usually, I see my role as one of patience, modeling, and endurance - and I'm grateful for that.

But today, for a brief moment - my eyes clear after a week full of so much joy, I saw my role with broader scope. Creating people of character, raising a young man and a young woman (for now is when the foundation of adulthood is laid) who value kindness, generosity, respect, teaching, gratefulness, and selfless pride in other's accomplishments...that is what my every word, every glance, every action have the opportunity to contribute to.

I usually end my blogs with some sort of a universally applicable, encouraging statement. And there's plenty of room to do that here - something along the lines of "you must be the change you wish to see in the world", or something of that ilk.

But tonight, with this blog - I want to leave with a statement to any of you who are in the midst of, or ever will be in the midst of, contributing to the development of a child: yours is the most profound of tasks, yours is seemingly the least glorified, yours is the most revealing of your weaknesses, yours is the most mundane of duties, and yours is the most of unexpected trials. But yours is also the greatest of rewards, the sheerest of joys, the profundity of possibility, and the permanence of impact. Let your soul breathe deeply of it - your greatest is here.

And to those of you who have raised men and women of strong character - well done, and thank you. Your seemingly unnoticed words, glances, and actions are being passed on.

Words, moments, and some news

            I have never known what it is like to be at an utter loss for words – those of you who know me may laugh; those of you who don’t know me – know it’s a highly accurate statement. I love words. I use words. I enjoy using words intentionally – to say exactly what I mean to say, nothing more and nothing less.

            Words carry power – perhaps more power than anything else in the entire world. After all, words are the driving force behind every battle, the catalyst to life-long loves, the quieter of anger, and the medium connecting past to present, and present to future dreams. Words give expression to our very existence, making us a part of our broader community, cementing our roll within that community, and alternatingly growing and damaging others and ourselves. Words carry power – power to heal, power to excite, power to destroy.

            And so I have spent a great portion of my mental energy over the course of my life understanding words – learning how to use them well, priding myself on my ability to articulate thoughts and feelings concisely, and enjoying the challenge of creatively using my words as I’ve developed my writing.

            But the past 3 months have brought me to a new place – a place where words have no longer been enough, where my vocabulary insults the depth of my emotion, where attempts at expressing the unexpressable only end up demeaning my true self and leaving those who have listened with only two options – trite answers or silence. Over the past months, words have failed me.

            A thing happens when words fail – ears begin to open. Ears of the heart and ears of the soul begin to open. When the mouth and mind fail, the heart and the soul expand. But be warned, the heart and  the soul will expand with whatever is in them – be it sadness, joy, mourning, hope, or overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. The mind and mouth are good at deceiving – especially good at deceiving themselves. But the heart and the soul never lie. So, when the words fail, and the mouth and mind stop fighting for coherence (whether it be out of weariness, or willingness to purely be), the soul and heart can finally be heard.

            I haven’t had a picturesque life, but I have had a beautiful one. I didn’t have a traditional childhood, but I would never trade the one I had. I won’t ever be made up of just one place, but I am increasingly comfortable with simply being made.

This year has…well, I’m at a loss for words. And when I let my mind and words rest, the heart and soul swell – and this is what they say:

I have known sadness – but now I know sorrow

I have known loss – but now I know grief

I have known pain – but now I know suffering

I have known impermanency – but now I know uncertainty

I have known the reality of my humanity – but now I have embodied it

I have known anticipation – but now I am learning hope

I have known belief – but now I am learning trust

I have known strength – but now I am learning courage

I have known patience – but now I am learning perseverance

I have known happiness – but now I am learning joy

I have known rest – but now I am learning peace

            There are feelings too deep to express. And I think they always contain an element of sadness, mourning, or loss. Even Mary, the mother of Jesus, treasured things in her heart – things too deep to share; and I think they were beautiful things, but I think she treasured them with an element of sadness – knowing they were too beautiful to remain untouched by pain. When we experience feelings of elation or joy too deep to express, I think we still try. There’s no risk in trying – if others can’t fully understand, it doesn’t detract from our joy or elation. But if we attempt to express a deepness of pain and sorrow, and it is missed or mishandled by others – we are wounded more.

            And it is for this reason (plus many practical ones) that I’ve been mostly silent the past 3 months. But now, it is time to state the facts – and let the words do what they will.

            We’ll be moving back to the US before the end of this year. We’re not exactly sure when, though sometime before Christmas. We’re not exactly sure where, though we’ll start out in Sacramento and visit LA. We’re not exactly sure what we’ll do, though we are making progress on the job hunt. We’re not exactly sure why this year has gone so badly, though we do know it has gone so badly. But we are learning hope, we are learning trust, we are learning courage, we are learning perseverance, we are learning joy, we are learning peace.

            As I’ve allowed my heart and my soul to swell these past months (more out of exhaustion than bravery to face my self) I have been overwhelmed. I strive for purpose, for meaning, for my piece in the bigger picture – we’re constantly seeking to define ourselves, to find our reason for existence, our purpose in the future.   But I realized this – unless I live my moments with the deep belief that I was created exactly for this moment, I will never be satisfied.

            When my children are both screaming, and dinner is burning on the stove, and my husband is late walking home from work, and I know there have been armed robbers targeting commuting pedestrians – that is the moment I was created for. And, in that moment, created for only that moment. To have patience with my children, realistic expectations of myself, and trust in my God.

            When my friend calls in tears, and it happens to be during my only solitary hour of the day, when my list of things to do could easily take hours – that is the moment I was created for.  And, in that moment, created for only that moment. To let priorities re-align, to have ears to hear, and selflessness to support.

            When my husband comes home, needing a place of rest – and I’ve cried throughout the day – hidden in the bathroom away from tender and easily scared small eyes and hearts – that is the moment I was created for. And, in that moment, created for only that moment. To let sorrow and strength co-exist, to offer encouragement not out of my own largeness but out of my equal smallness and subsequent safety in my God.

            When series of small trials undergo a metamorphosis and emerge as a substantial problem, demanding some sort of substantial life change; and I realize I have no reserves left with which to make a decision, because I've spent all my strength on the small trials - that is the moment I'm created for. And, in that moment, created for only that moment. To allow God's strength to be perfect because I'm completely weak, to use the mind I've been given to consider the information I know, and to sacrifice the seemingly stable and reasonable for the truly important and valuable - despite the fear I may feel. 

            When my 7 hours in bed has been interrupted by 6 wake-ups from 2 children, and I almost literally collapse from the exhaustion, and that little 2 ½ yr old boy cries out for the 7^th time – that is the moment I was created for. And, in that moment, created for only that moment. To have patience, to muster physical strength, to pray for rest, and to comfort little hearts that have no other comforts.

            When the thought of publicly sharing what can only hint at a year full of loss – loss of dreams, loss of ideals, loss of self-security, loss of being limitless  - makes me hide for weeks, and want to literally run away to the mountains – this is the moment I was created for. And, in this moment, created for only this moment. To face my own reality with dignity amidst brokenness. To share our uncertainties with confidence, because I know God has never left our sides.

            And when there are dozens of ‘good’ moments every day – moments full of beauty, full of love, full of grace - those are the moments I was created for. Little arms squeezed tight around my neck, little heads leaned peacefully against my chest, little squeals of delight filling apartment hallways, tender glances from a husband full of strength and courage, words of encouragement from friends near and far, Kenyan sunshine streaming across the parquet floor, warm breezes perfectly touching skin, smells of Kenyan summers in early October – and in every one of those moments, those are the moments I was created for. And, in those moments, created for only those moments. To savor, to breathe deeply, to feel joy, to celebrate with others, to heal from the painful moments.

            My last entry talked about how motherhood is all about living fully in the now, because the now is of paramount importance to the future. But I think this truth extends to all walks of life. Now is of paramount importance, now is why we were created. And if we live fully in the now, with acknowledgement of who we strive to be and where we’ve come from – we get closer to realizing our future, and minimize the chances of regretting our past. 

            During a commercial break in a show I was watching earlier this week, a notice popped up that read, “content will return shortly”.  On one level it seemed like a humorous parallel to my life  – content will return shortly. But, in reality, the content never stopped. Yes, the big picture is much less clear. But the content remains – in snippets and moments, many of them too deep for words. Moments I was created for.