Notes from a week in the burbs

One week in the same place, well, almost And in many ways the world
of Northern Virginia is foreign. This place changed (thousands upon
thousands of new homes, malls, stores, highways, nationalities) since
I left 30 years ago as a just-turned-18 year old heading to college
from my rural redneck high school. And while Northern Virginia was
becoming urban and gentrified and complicated, we took a road that was
marginal and poor and simple. So now we are re-entering this world as
outsiders, who need to study the clues, and make the effort to
appreicate and assimilate. At least a little.

So here are some notes on a week of trying. First, Jack and Julia.
Community soccer was a pleasant surprise. Jack and Julia entered
teams in spite of missing the deadlines, and both fournd themselves
(in my humble side-line soccer-mom opinion) quite competent in their
age groups, the first time they're not playing against people 2 two 5
years older than they are. They've each been to two practices now,
and loved it. As Julia pointed out, a lot less shoving and more
orderly drills than she's used to. The only down side is that she
doesn't know the girls yet, and Miss Ashley isn't there. At Jack's
practice we even struck up conversation with another mom, who in
classic TCK paradigm was also a newbie like us, an American returning
after 3 years in England, super-friendly. We exchanged phone numbers,
and I called to arrange for Jack to play with her son the next day.
Julia has a friend on the street, too, who invited her over to play
games. They had a piano lesson in the neighborhod with a contact
through church, and Julia took an initial clarinet lesson and Jack
drums at the local music store. We're doing Geometry and Journaling
as our token home-schooling each morning. They can run and ride bikes
and juggle balls, we eat cereal and fresh fruit for breakfast and cook
spaghetti or grill on the patio for dinner. One night we invited a
family from church over, and another night friends passing through the
area called and joined us for dessert, and both of those opportunities
to host leant a sense of belonging.

Bouyed by all this illusion of normality, I braved unbraiding (!
tedious !) and a haircut. The last time I had my hair cut by someone
besides Scott trimming straight across my back .. was four years ago,
and the guy kept saying things like "oh, your hair, where have you
been, when was your last cut, do you see these ends, what are you
doing with your hair, this is terrible, you need moisture!" It was
humiliating. So I was on edge (which I know because I cried over a
sappy song on the radio about Letters from War, had to sit in the
parking lot and listen to the end before I went in the shop . . ).
But this time my hairdresser was delightful. I was initially
intimidated by her stylish 100-pound 20-something frame, perfect
streaked straight hair, tattoos peeking from under funky short shorts
and knee-high boots, various piercings . . . but she carried on one of
the most caring and seemingly interested conversations about our life
in Uganda the whole time, never bemoaned my awful curly hair, was
cheerful and competent, and connected with me as she shared about her
infant daughter's neurosurgery with the renowned Dr. Ben Carson at
Hopkins. In the end she did not miraculously change my hair from
being unruly and curly and frizzed, but she did her best to give it
some shape. And I so enjoyed the time, I didn't mind the lack of a
miracle.

Now we were really on a roll. Kid activities, hobnobbing with fellow
parents on the fringes of the field, entertaining, personal hygiene,
and who could know we didn't fit in? But a few things always stand
out and strike us as peculiar. For instance, the bright green small
pick up painted with pictures of pets and in fat happy letters, "Doody
Calls". Yes, this is a pet waste removal service. Lest you should be
bothered with emptying the kitty litter, or scooping the dog poop, you
can call this handy truck to come and do all the dirty work for you.
I'm told people even have dog-walking services, NOT while they're on
vacation, just for every-day. On our street the only human beings one
sees most days are the lawn-care services who swoop in like a swat
team, roll out their mowers and blowers, and leave the lawn pristine,
or the dog-walkers. So many daily tasks are either too menial (hire a
service) or too complex (call an expert) to waste time on. There is a
definite trend towards making everything so complicated that it is not
worth your time to figure it out. Scott wanted to add one channel,
Fox Soccer Channel, to my mom's cable for $15/month for the next 4
months, so we (especially Jack) could watch some Premier League
games. But no, even though it is advertised, it turns out that it
took him multiple phone calls, weathering long sales spiels, and then
the cable people were so flummoxed by the idea of adding a limited
service that they just had to augment my mom's package to the ultimate
level for four months, at the same price, because they didn't know how
to do less. Which led to complcations in her phone line, and who knows
what else. The marketing pressure comes in every contact, try to buy
a gallon of milk and someone will be pushing you to open a new savings
card (so they can get your email address to send you even more
marketing schemes). A life in the burbs is one of gasping for breath
amidst waves of offers, choice, opportunity, services. In Bundibugyo
it's straightorward, people ask for what you have, and you say yes or
no. Here it is presented as asking to help you, to give you some
great deal, and when you say no you're potentially losing out . . but
in reality it's the same thing, just through a screen of illusion.

Now this is not complaint, just observation, which I'm told is allowed
if you are a long-time true-blue citizen but somewhat suspect if
you're a recent arrival. Don't get me wrong, we had a great week. I
did not have any idea I'd be able to integrate Jack and Julia into any
organized activities, and now that I did, we're on the road for a
month. Leading to double unhappiness. They grieve home (Africa), but
at their first taste of settling here (America), I'm uprooting them
again. Bad planning, mom, but how could I have known months ago when
we committed to this trip that we'd be missing half the season for the
youth soccer league? Will we be able to take back up where we left
off? Or are we doomed to always be catching up, off-schedule, missing
the balance.

Fenelon calls that living by faith. Hope I can explain that to two
kids who want to kick a ball and play some music instead of spending
untold hours in the car.

Nailed, helpless

Pastor Al preached Sunday about the thief next to Jesus on the crosses
there outside Jerusalem 2000 years ago. We've read that story a
hundred times, more probably, but this time it really stuck with me.
This man enters the Gospel story for only 6 hours or so. But in that
short time, he goes from reviling Jesus, hateful, insulting, crowd-
pressured, resentful, scornful . . . to a changed man who recognizes
Jesus for who he is, expresses faith, and heads to Paradise. All of
that change occurs while his hands and feet are immobilized and his
body is physiologically failing. No clearer picture of how helpless
we are to effect change. No clearer picture that God's power can work
in the most unlikely of circumstances. Something very real but very
hidden occurs between two near-corpses, something that changes this
man's eternal destiny.

We are not exactly nailed, but in some ways trapped in suburbia far
from those who hold our hearts, and feeling just as helpless. One
child starting college: bewildering array of choices, hard-to-find
classes, required print-outs but no printer, pouring his heart and
sweat into making the club soccer team, feeling the let-down that the
promise of wonders has been revealed to be tedious hard-work among the
masses of freshmen in entry-level classes. One child alone in
Africa: also busting his anatomy to make the soccer team, and his
brain to be the lone Junior again in BC Calc, and to be himself. One
team in Uganda: a direct lightening strike took out their power this
week (how not-subtle an attack), turmoil and chaos as the district
insists that under-age but shadily registered-to-vote students be
released from school to participate in elections, a multitude of team
illnesses, and the ever-difficult-to-negotiate cross-cultural lines of
expectation. One team in Sudan: planning for the next year when the
whole region could flare up in war after January's referendum . . or
not, in which case we want to be ready to move forward. We listen to
all of these, and promise prayer, feeling helpless to really offer any
worthwhile words of comfort or wisdom, let alone real aid.

And there is something about plunging across cultural lines that
refocuses one's view of one's own sin. I don't like to think that I'd
challenge Jesus to get off the cross and rescue me in a haughty and
complaining voice. But is it any different to worry, and stew, and
complain, and notice all the things about this time that aren't what I
would choose? As we get distance from our normal life I remember the
friend-wounds of coming face to face with ways I judged and hurt
others. And I'm not proud of the weary, short, way I often react
here. Not good.

Six hours on the cross, five months in America. Not a peppy self-help
change-your-life program, but a nailed down helpless look-only-at-
Jesus state. If the thief can change into a spiritual human who will
be communing with Jesus by doing nothing more than looking at him,
then anything can happen. For those I love (friends, good classes,
direction, joy, fair elections, peace, power, healing). And even for
me, a changed human ready for the feast.

Letter On Faith: Continued Suspense!

This comes from a collection of letters written by Francois de Salignac de la Mothe Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambrai, in France, during the 17th century, to young people in the court of Louis the 14th.  I think it bears reproducing in its entirety.  This goes out to college students and high school students whose class schedules are not working out as they expected, to kids trying out for sports teams, to friends from Sudan who are not sure of their future, to our team in Bundibugyo, to all the pilgrims who can't quite stand on solid ground, and to everyone who struggles to live day by day by faith.

Do not worry about the future.  It makes no sense to worry if God loves you and has taken care of you. However, when God blesses you remember to keep your eyes on Him and not the blessing.  Enjoy your blessings day by day just as the Israelites enjoyed their mana, but do not try to store the blessings for the future. There are two peculiar characteristics of pure faith.  It sees God behind all the blessings and imperfect works which tend to conceal Him, and it holds the soul in a state of continued suspense.  Faith seems to keep us constantly up in the air, never quite certain of what is going to happen in the future; never quite able to touch a foot to solid ground.  But faith is willing to let God act with the most perfect freedom, knowing that we belong to Him and are to be concerned only about being faithful in that which he has given us to do for the moment.  This moment by moment dependence, this dark, unseeing peacefulness of the soul under the utter uncertainty of the future, is a true martyrdom which takes place silently and without any stir.  It is God's way of bringing a slow death to self.  And the end comes so imperceptibly that it is often almost as much hidden from the sufferer himself, as from those who don't even know he suffers.  

Sometimes in this life of faith God will remove His blessings from you.  But remember that He knows how and when to replace them, either through the ministry of others or by Himself.  He can raise up children from the very stones.

Eat then your daily bread without worrying about tomorrow.  There is a time enough tomorrow to think about the things tomorrow will bring.  The same God who feeds you today is the very God who will feed you tomorrow. God will see to it that manna falls again from Heaven in the midst of the desert, before His children lack any good thing.  

FOR GOD, FOR COUNTRY, AND FOR YALE

(That's the motto, from the last line of the school song . . reminiscent of Uganda's except for the Yale part)

Yale is an amazing place. We are now about 30 miles away and hurtling southward as the sun begins to sink, with six hours to go until we return to Virginia. But along with thousands of other parents we spent Friday and Saturday in the great take-your-kid-to-college ritual, which has become quite an orchestrated production since our days. And rightly so, because we leave with a much better sense of the quality and flavor of the University than we could have received on line. Unlike almost all other parents we met, this week was our first time to see Yale. And what a great way to be introduced. The perfect weather didn't hurt, either.

Yale is a (relatively) non-pretentious Ivy, valuing diversity and exploration. Every speech we heard pushed the idea of taking risks to study topics outside of the usual, joining groups that will challenge and change you, spending time with people from different cultures and backgrounds. Sort of sounds like missionary values, without the God part. Someone in our family turned down two different Ivy's in the old days, both for undergrad and grad school, partly because of the incredibly entitled and arrogant atmospheres there (and because of money, which is ironically a complete reversal of the current situation where these schools have the best financial aid and essentially complete scholarships for lots of kids like ours). So we were relieved to find Yale quite different. Pleasant and welcoming, celebratory and engaging. And full of fascinating people from everywhere. In Luke's suite alone: a young man from Singapore with a mom from New Jersey who just finished two years post-high school in the military, a young man from NYC with a German mother and American dad, a young man with a dad from Costa Rica and an American mom who moved from Maryland to Costa Rica three years ago and played in the Under-17 World Cup Football tournament in Nigeria, a young man whose Lebanese family raised him in Paris until they moved to Texas 7 years ago, a young man who rows on the crew team (the only one as far as I can tell with 2 American parents and growing up in America his whole life). All of these boys are polite, friendly, intelligent kids with very involved and helpful families. Nice. I'm sure there will be difficult situations elsewhere involving pressure to conform to unwise and unholy choices, it won't all be pleasant hand-shakes and small talk (did we mention the sobering "no glove no love" bag of items taped to the wall in the hallway as a public health measure?). But these are great kids with strong families behind them.

Back to the pomp and glory of Yale's weekend. We filed through the Master's house of the residential college, shaking hands with the Master and Dean and then munching fruit cups and cheese squares with other parents and students. We filed through the Presidents mansion, shaking hands again and gaping like bumpkins at original works by Degas, Pissaro, Rembrandt, Chagall on the walls. It was like an art museum in an historic home. Then lemonade on the spacious lawn. We listened to a panel discussion on the academics at Yale, the structure of the residential colleges (a really great way that the vastness of the University becomes manageable), and a parent-assuring session on the security system that makes the open campus in downtown New Haven safer. We ate lunch in Luke's dining hall with its wood-paneled walls, portraits, high ceilings, and long wooden tables. But the best part was the opening ceremony, sort of a bookend to the eventual graduation, where the students dressed up and sat in the cathedral-like hall, the parents watched from the balcony seats, the prefessors and deans paraded in their academic robes. And in deference to Yale's puritan roots, the majestic organ led us in singing a beautiful hymn (God of All Peoples, which you might recognize as God of our Fathers . . ). The Dean gave an interesting speech connecting depictions of scribes on ancient Mayan pottery to the dangers of standing for truth in any age. And the President spoke about Yale students changing the world. It was all very inspiring and dignified.

But because God is God, and delights in small details in our stories that come as unexpected connections and gifts, my favorite moment of the weekend came early Saturday morning. We had just driven in (from spending the night with Scott's very gracious high school buddy who lives about half an hour away). Scott went to the free parking lot for parents that was about a mile away, and I went to find Luke, because we had agreed to meet a family who contacted us through the blog and also has a son starting at Yale this year. Our rendezvous point was the Batel chapel, where I had not yet been. Luke and I tried several doors and as we finally entered, an organist was practicing. This majestic church of stone and stained glass was completely empty except for me, Luke, and the glorious strains of "How Firm a Foundation". Now, to understand why I burst into tears, you have to know that the FIRST time I heard this hymn almost exactly 18 years ago, I also cried. I was pregnant with Luke after losing three children, we were visiting McLean Pres with my sister as part of our support-raising to go to Uganda, and my heart was broken with grief. When we stood to sing from Isaiah "when through the deep waters I cause you to go, the rivers of sorrow shall not overflow . . . when through fiery trials your pathway shall lie, my grace all sufficient shall be your supply, the flames shall not hurt you I only design, your dross to consume and your gold to refine" it was like God directly addressing my heart.

What are the odds that the same song would come back to me in such power, the only really alone moment I had with the person who had grown from a fetus to reach what is culturally his last day of childhood? So I can be forgiven for the teary hug, and thankful there was no one else to make Luke embarrassed, and grateful that these kind of musical themes, small details, come as gifts to one unimportant individual among billions. A gesture of assurance, that this is the right place, that we move ahead in this crazy life for God, for country, and for Yale.

Into the Void

Two boys, launched.

It's been quite a week.

After leaving Luke at International Student Orientation, we drove back to Virginia Tuesday, and took Caleb to the plane on Thursday.  Fifteen year old lanky cheery Caleb hugged us and waved as he passed through the Dulles checkpoint to face the intense security gate lines alone.  It was his first solo international trip, and we were in communication darkness until he landed in Nairobi (1 minute call and his battery died) and then got to RVA today.  Thankful he made it, was placed in Luke's old dorm (his first choice).  Trying out for choir and the soccer team, adjusting his class schedule, working through incompatible class desires (no Swahili 2 if you take AP Chem, and that sort of issue), health check, etc., on his own.  Well, not really, there is a fantastic staff at RVA who organize and shepherd.  But it's a pretty big step to arrive for the new year, move into the dorm, reshuffle classes, and begin life, with no parental support.  I'm amazed at my own kids.  This was not the easiest month, grieving the loss of home (and dog!) and jumping into the "show's on" aspect of meeting our churches and friends, catching up on the perennial sleep deficits of boarding school and time zone change, returning without family or even big brother.  Caleb has a well-honed and quirky sense of humor, so if he can hold onto that, he'll be fine.

And that's why perhaps today, driving away from Yale where we left Luke, I'm more peaceful than moms of freshman are supposed to be.  Because we've done this for the last two years, and no time is as hard as the first time.  

In fact by the time we got up in the dark early early Friday morning and drove back north to New Haven, Luke had already moved into his dorm room , organized his living space, been to all the sign here-do this lines for freshmen.  So we could just visit, walk in the spectacular cloudless sunshine to the famous "Bulldog Burritos" and hear about the week.  Luke is his own person, confident about what he does not need, pursuing simplicity and truth in a place that suspects both.  It was good to see him relatively at ease in the parent-social context, answering questions and making conversation at the various open houses and receptions, messaging suite-mates and introducing us around.  When we passed by the voter registration table the students  tried to rope him in, until he said he wouldn't be 18 'til February.  Oh.  Yale is a far cry from RVA, about 2000 courses from which to choose 5, 1344 freshmen in 12 residential colleges, and I can't even begin to imagine the number of organizations and options.  So many options.  One rather young kid there in an epicenter of the academic world, on his own.  But ready.

So two boys are off, launched, left.  And though it feels very unknown to me, all future is equally so.  And equally not so, because the void is really occupied by the One whose essence is Love.  Both boys are in places I did not imagine a few years ago, but doors opened and money was provided and favor found, and they are blessed to be taking steps into adulthood in two fantastic schools.  Both are young men I'd choose to meet and spend time with even if they weren't my kids, talented and insightful and honest and challenging and world-aware and smart.  And as we drive away thinking about them and the void, I know what both would say.

Chill, mom.

On becoming a soccer mom

I'm trying. Sort of. I'm actually not 100% sure what that means, but I take it to represent the kind of mom who forges a path for her children, often with an SUV, so they can participate in activities and become better and successful people. I'm lacking the SUV, but the idea of advocating for my kids sounds pretty noble.

When we came back from CA I went on line to spend my birthday money on tickets for our family to go to a DC United game. Which was another story. But while I was on the web site, a notice caught my eye, that these MLS professionals were coming out to Sterling, our town, to do a fee soccer clinic for the first 200 kids age 7 to 13 who registered. Why not? I seriously doubted I'd be in the first 200 in anything, but it must have been by grace immediately after the notice was posted, and I slipped Jack and Julia in effortlessly. So Wednesday evening we drove them over to a local playing field for a dose of American culture.

200 kids, heavy on the 7-year-old size. 6 young men from DC United. Tents and merchandise and hooplah. It's all about community relations. Another 200 or more milling parents, taking photos from the sidelines. Clump ball and chaotic drills, but serious kids all inspired by this personal proximity with real players, the guys they watch on TV. Jack and Julia had a good time. Jack of course with his usual all-out intensity, and Julia of course asking the other 13 year old girls their names and smiling.

Note to self: my kids were the ONLY ONES not wearing shin guards. And I thought it was pretty high-tech to practice in SHOES, since cleats are the reserve of the official games in Africa, and never wasted on mere scrimmage and drill. Good to learn that here we suit up, fully, for practice too.

At the end of the hour the kids lined up to get their soccer balls autographed by each player, and were given a free DC United-logo shoe bag. An hour of soccer, interaction with a bunch of kids we've never met, talking to celebrities, and goodies to take home, all for free.

Julia misses the sunsets, and thinks the water tastes funny, and sighs about Acacia, and Star. We got a sweet letter from Ivan, Jack's best friend. We miss home. But America has its perks, and this was one of the fun ones.

And now that I've had a taste of success, I've enrolled them in the community soccer league (even though we'll miss half the season with support-thanking travel), and am exploring some music lessons. It's intimidating and a bit bewildering, and after experiencing the Yale parents I realize I have far to go. Luke is in a suite with 5 other guys. And 5 great moms. People who were running hither and yon to buy one more bulletin board or couch or lamp, who had thought through things like winter coats and snow boots, who all seemed very competent and caring. We felt like kind of deadbeat parents who just brought our kid with a half dozen hangers, two pairs of jeans, and a computer. But I'm taking notes, and I may become a bona fide soccer mom yet.

along the road . .

Highways, galore.  Multiple ways to go from one city to another, concentric rings of bypass options, always options.  A bewildering transition from a country with paved roads in about five basic directions total fanning out from the capital, to this one with more miles of pavement in the average county than we have in the whole country.  Maps and directions are rather passe now, the new way to navigate is by gps.  In every car, on many phones, a constant ability to check in.

Billboards that light up in computer-screen precision graphics, and change as we drive by.  

The ease, of knowing that within five minutes of about anywhere you are you can find a decent bathroom (with plumbing and privacy) and even a decent meal, served in minutes.  No planning ahead for the ONE stopping place on an 8 hour trip, instead you choose from thousands.

Large people.   We read the nutrition literature, and the American obsession with obesity always seemed so far outside our experience in Africa where under-nutrition is the issue, that we shrugged it off.  But the change in a decade is noticeable.  And it is the poorer strata of this society that are the larger, the wealthier people attend to health and social mores and pay for exercise and high-protein food.

Americans.  Yes, this place is FULL of Americans. People who speak English, with familiar accents.  It still shocks me to overhear conversations and realize that it is NORMAL to run into Americans we don't KNOW. Everywhere, in the rest areas, bathrooms, gas stations, restaurants.  

Pies.  Probably shouldn't mention that in view of the item two above.  But I am known to love them, and Wendy had a hot apple pie in the oven on our way north, and JD had a hot berry pie in the oven on our way south.  I felt very loved by these two friends who went to great efforts, in a way that was meaningful to me.

Books on tape-a new variety, the private head-phone set, so that there is complete silence from the backseat, and no arguing over which book to listen to or complaints from older brothers.  From the library.  And they even insisted on giving us extra batteries.  Very nice.

Roads smooth enough to read on.  Or type this email.

A longing for order

I love reading through Judges and the Books of Samuel.  There were the Israelites, moving into  a land they had heard about throughout their childhood, the place where their distant ancestors sojourned, a place whose mystique intrigued them in songs and stories and anticipated glories.  Only it wasn't quite empty and waiting, and as they fought for a place to settle, there were many pockets of other tribes of people left scattered among them. People with similar skin tones and language roots, and even outwardly similar religious ceremonies.  People with lives rather comparable in most ways to theirs.  And these people had kings.  They did not take their directions from an unseen deity attended by priests before a tent.  They had proper thrones, human faces of leadership, rules and regulations, armies and boundaries.  The Israelites wanted that too.  God had given them a lot of freedom, but by the end of Judges what should have been freedom felt more like chaos.  God was fighting their battles, but they wanted to follow a human leader into war.  So they begged God to appoint a king, so they could be like everyone else.

I have so much sympathy for the Israelites.  Because there are many days when I'd like to be a little more like everyone around me.  We've visited some amazing homes in America already, places that kind of remind me that bare cement floors and three kids in a 10 by 10 bedroom and the 4th sharing a storage closet, walls where lizards crawl freely and water drips from industrial bare pipes in the sink, are not quite as luxurious as they seem in another context, the world of mud-and-wattle homes.  Instead, here we find places with pools and pianos and framed art and spotless kitchens.  And what's more, these are families who are loving and generous and well-adjusted, with affectionate teens and bright toddlers, with world-concern and creative priorities.  For the first time in America, I think my kids are noticing it too, and at least considering what it would be like to live like this.  (I discovered that I had a sort of mental deal that I wouldn't be swayed by wealth because I'd see the spiritual emptiness that accompanies it, but what to do when visiting family after family who are materially AND spiritually blessed?).  

Being led only by God felt too risky to the Israelites, they wanted some concrete human structure to assure their future.  And they did not want to be "chosen" as separate and unique anymore, after a long exile, they just wanted to be normal. They chose limits, to get order and to fit in.  I can understand that.  Right now I'd like to NOT be always on the move, borrowing cars and clothes, hoping for things to work out, asking for help, a step behind, on the edge.  I'd like to be a bit more like everyone else.

When the Israelites asked for a king, they got one, and all the loss of freedom and distance from God that entailed.  He had asked them to be content with His presence, and to be set apart, but they did not accept His risky offer.  What was good for the nations was not necessarily right for them, but they wanted what they could see.  So I sigh, and admit that what God gives others around me He may not give me, that for us the order of a Kingdom may not be palpable until eternity.  That I'd rather have the holy wild disorder of a life of pilgrimage than the security of a settled life where my order becomes a layer of obscuring cloud between me and Reality.  Praying that I could pray for what is true to my heart without selling out my soul.  And that the toll it takes on four teens would not torpedo them, but rather strengthen them to grasp onto the Presence of a God who leads in obscure and unexpected and disruptive ways.

Grumbling about Grace

Wrestling with grace right now.  Which only shows how little I grasp the truth.  

Hither by thy grace we've come . . . a hymn phrase which is excruciatingly true for our family.  So many times we could have turned back, we were advised to turn back.  So many times that a tragedy almost blasted us off course.  Yet at the end of 17 years we are here on a furlough in the USA, with four fantastic kids, getting within spitting distance of fifty but pretty healthy and strong, and a whole world of other people in Africa whom we know and love and pull for.  And to top it off, a child who is about to embark upon one of the finest educations this world has to offer, at a negligible cost to us.  Which leaves me feeling that at any moment, we'll be found out.  I think I felt that way when I went off to school too, as if those grades and scholarships were pushed my way by God for a purpose, and soon it would be clear that I was an impostor in the world of brilliant people.

So I imagine, in a crookedly illogical way, if our station in life now had been based on our merits (as I imagine others to be, our friends whom we visit with their jobs and houses and causes), then it would be somehow more assured.  The skills that brought us to this place should, after all, keep us here.  That if Luke had been tested in top-level American schools all along, we'd know he is about to be fine in college. In a time of transition and homelessness, I want to grasp onto that.

Instead we have grace, undeserved good things that are showered upon us.  Which means that at any moment (as anyone who has read Job must know) it could all fall apart.  Which is not very reassuring.

But here is where the wrestling touches the hip, and leaves a scarred triumphant limp.  Would I rather rest the next decade (three more kids to get into university and paid for, and four to launch into life, new roles with WHM, a new country of service, new language, while maintaining ties and commitments in Uganda, dreams and projects and learning and science and relationships, maybe even a wedding by the end of the decade?) on who we are, or who God is?  Grace feels nebulous and shifting and unreliable.  But God is NOT.  

The Main(e) Thing We Appreciate .. .

. . .about Maine, well, it would be hard to choose just one. Lobsters, for sure, have to be near the top of the list. When we arrived Thursday our good friends the Meyers, a family with whom I grew up way back when in Virginia and who subsequently resettled in Maine, took us to an authentic lobster shack where we learned to dismember the bright red steamed creatures and dip the sweet white morsels of meat in butter. Yum. There was a mist coming in from the ocean over the boats and stacks of floats and traps on the docks, and we all used rolls of paper towels as we talked and snapped shells and picked our way through the messy meal.

Lakes would have to be a close second. We're staying in a small camp on Damariscotta Lake, one of thousands. The Meyers keep this summer cottage about half an hour from their real home. Surrounded by oaks and pines, a swaying dock leads to a canoe, 4 kayaks, and an 18-foot sail boat. For three days we have the privilege of our own space as a family, to swim and float, and cook our own meals, make smores over a campfire as the daylight fades, and be on our own schedule. We were in the water most of Friday and Saturday, but the winds and clouds have picked up, and now after church it's about 60 degrees and grey. Good sailing weather, and Jack says the water is fine, but I'm wrapped in a blanket enjoying the shore.

Winding two-lane roads, modest houses, incessant green, blueberries for sale and a box of tomatoes by the roadside, historic towns, an outdoorsy laid-back atmosphere. What's not to like about Maine? But the main thing would have to be the kindness of our friends who made this weekend possible. It has been 17 years since Scott and I visited, Luke was in utero. We've seen the Meyers in Virginia on visits, but this is our first time back. Thankful for muffins and cookies and tours of the fabulous model railroad in their basement, and thankful for love and interest in us over all those years, for the grandparently smooth landing we can make here.