Road Grace

Grace = undeserved favor.  WHM talks a lot about grace.  But instead of preaching it, we're living it.  Two days in Cincinnati and one in Indianapolis, and another wave of grace washing over us in the form of hospitable friends new and old.  An extensive carpeted private basement with a king-sized bed, a quiet suburban home with a pool out back, gourmet healthy meals for which we do no work whatsoever, free childcare during the day while we went to meetings, and to top it off, dozens of people old and new who are willing to take an hour to listen to our story and ask questions and ponder the parallel universe of Bundibugyo from the American midwest.  Scott's home church from childhood, the Presbyterian Church of Wyoming, offered us a space Tuesday evening.  Both pastors came to listen and pray for us, and almost thirty of our supporters.  As Scott introduced our short video I looked over the group and remembered sitting in many of their homes with our little support-raising scrap book 18 years ago, telling them our hopes and dreams.  So it was poignant to be back on the other side, describing what really happened.  Many things we would never have dreamed of living through, war and displacement and ebola and painful partings and hard decisions.  But more that we actually HAD asked prayerfully for, community health efforts and deep relationships and changed lives.  

Two brilliant and successful physicians from pediatric emergency medicine at U of C are our friends here, both with strong ties to global health, influential positions, and pages of resume detailing much more good for the world accomplished in their lives than we will ever manage.  One arranged for us to speak to a group of medical students at the University, so we prepared a more medical talk about the common diseases we encounter in Bundibugyo and what it is like to work as a doctor in such a setting.  Frankly it is humbly intimidating to presume to speak with any authority in the presence of people who are recognized as experts in global health, but we did it anyway.  That evening we also met with a Bible study group that was largely medical, including the husband of one of our former interns from a summer at least five years ago!  

Today a quick intersection with the VR's--Dr. Dave took me into my first African hospital when I was a 19 year old college student and they were living in Liberia in 1982, and over the years we've held onto our brief connections.  Ruth is one of the wisest women I have had the privilege of just sitting in the presence of and absorbing the fruit of hard experience she offers, as she moves all over the world lecturing and ministering around the issues of third-culture-kids.  Stopping off at their home was like a quick gulp of cold water in a thirsty land.

And lastly this evening (after an afternoon off, at the Children's Museum in Indianapolis, an incredible place) we had yet another small group to interact with, an unlikely mixture of young professionals associated with Redeemer church, a couple we knew 20 years ago when we all worked in Lawndale and who still supports us, and even Jessica our soon-to-be colleague raising support to come to Bundibugyo.  This was orchestrated by a young pediatric resident Emily we had corresponded with through a Duke-Blacknell-Bart connection, who came to visit in Bundibugyo last year, and graciously threw a dinner and open house evening for us with her friends.  (and whose room mate happened to be Ashley's friend, manager of the college soccer team when Ashley was captain!  I can't begin to unravel the multiple threads that connect us to people we meet)

Sometimes I'm not sure what we're supposed to be doing, the sheer audacity of inviting people to listen to us talk about ourselves seems distasteful.  And to bounce from home to home receiving respite, feels uncomfortably presumptuous too.  But I take a deep breath and remember that we are here to be thankful, to offer that sacrifice of thanks to God and to the many people who have played an essential role in our lives.  And to testify that as we pour out God fills, over and above, that a peculiar off-the-track life is also a desirable one, and a possible one.  And to mingle those life-long friends with new acquaintances, sowing widely, hoping that some will invest in the Africa we love as they pray, and give, and even go.  So we try not to fall silent in the face of so many other fascinating and useful and unique lives, try not to second guess what might have been if we had been more academic, or if we had stayed on a different path.  Instead we offer thanks for all that we have lived and thanks to all that have helped us, and ask God to bless our words and enable them to point others to Him, even if we only manage an evening a decade with these people.

This is grace.

If by sea or land I roam . . .

I miss those West Virginia Hills, as the state song goes.  So it is always a soul-balming treat to return to them for a couple of days.  We have started our west-ward trek with a weekend in Sago, the riverside hollow in the hills where the Aylestocks settled generations back.  Coal mining has denuded and decapitated some of those beloved hills, swathes of forest have been laid bare for power lines, ugly metal scaffolding rises to hold coal chutes for loading the train, equipment rumbles, and most disturbingly the massive dump-trucks full of the black mineral roar up and down the narrow curving two-lane road only meters from the house, day and night, every few minutes, so that a thin film of coal dust permeates everywhere.  But not on Labor Day weekend, and without the trucks, if you look more east than south, it is possible to remember the old days here.  A screened porch, cool blue sky, towering maples and pines, a slow river crystal clear over smooth stones, acres of grass and shade, and the sheltering hills all around.  Hikes and swims, reading books and cooking dinner.  Open windows and chirping crickets.  I love this place. 

The per capita density of ATV's and guns must be pretty high in West Virginia, and my parents' place is no exception, so Jack and Julia enjoy the thrill of driving.  We shoot old soda cans from the rail-road track across the yard.  But mostly we just explore the woods and the river.  Point out the way a birch twig tastes like root beer, or how sycamore trees with their peely white bark lean out over the river.  Jump off rocks and splash.  Walk or drive up the road to a high spot for cell phone reception to check in with Caleb and Luke once a day.  Watch 1940's movies with my mom at night (Cassablanca, you can't beat that, and the lesser known The Best Years of our Lives, which is a post war re-entry tale that hits close to home in many ways).  There is some time here to be quiet in the woods, to listen and pray, that we need as we head into a month of testifying and travel.

If by sea or land I roam (and we have done both), still I think of happy home (not sure where that is, but this is as close as anyplace), and my friends among those West Virginia Hills . . . 

a tale of parenting

A tale of two boys.  One tried out for Club Soccer at his university.  This is a step down from Varsity, but still represents the college in games and tournaments, wearing the jersey, competing against other schools.  30 new students competed for 5 spots on the established team.  So in addition to figuring out life and classes and schedules and requirements, this boy was going to try-outs.  And this boy made it, at 3:40 a.m. on Saturday morning he was informed he was in the club.  A good group of guys to relate to, physical exercise, the joy of the game, and a place to belong.  

The other boy tried out for soccer at his boarding school.  Over 80 students started the week of try-outs, and 45 were cut by the end of the week.  This boy loves soccer as much as his brother does.  He's the kind of kid who needs LONG periods of sleep on vacation to catch up, but he set his own alarm and went running in the early mornings to improve his fitness all during the break.  As the try-out week went on was glad he had, as he was more fit than many, and though he made some mistakes he felt confident that he was doing well.  By Saturday, after scrimmages, the captain of the varsity team even came to him to comment on how well he was playing, considering him a shoo-in for varsity.  But the same day that his brother made his club, this boy found his name posted on the JV list.  Better than nothing, and perhaps the best place for him to get playing time, but a huge let-down for him.  He felt betrayed and confused when looking at the kids who were chosen over him.  Most Juniors were pushed up to varsity except for him and a boy who was injured.  

A tale of two boys, one who emerged with strengthened confidence and a sense of accomplishment; one who emerged bruised in spirit and questioning why adults in his life seem to push him down.  And a tale of two parents who ache.  Ache for the stress the first boy is going to face with a heavy practice and class schedule, ache for the decisions he has to make to be in the group.  Ache for the sense of failure and confusion the second boy has, ache because we know he's a great player and kid, ache while telling him to humbly give his all for whatever team he's on, to not give up, to see God's merciful hand behind even what looks like a disappointing outcome.  

Hoping, believing, this tale ends in joy for both boys.

This week's schedule

Note to fellow-sojourners: here is where you can find us, and please
do, if you are in the area!

Tuesday, 7 September, 7 pm, showing our video and speaking at the
Presbyterian Church of Wyoming, in the Cincinnati suburbs.

Wednesday, 8 September, noon, speaking to medical students at the
Univeristy of Cincinnati (contact Dr. Chuck Schubert).

Wednesday, 8 September, evening Bible studay at the Bond's.

Thursday, 9 September, evening gathering at Dr. Emily Pearce's in
Indianapolis.

Saturday, 11 Septbember, open house from 6:30 pm on, in Chicago, at
the home of Dr. Sandi Hoogland and Dr. James Melia.

Sunday, 12 September, speaking at both services, Lawndale Community
Church, Chicago.

Please contact us, or the people mentioned above, if you need
information or help finding any of these venues. Our hope is that
over the next month we will stoke strong fires of prayer for East
AFrica, for our teams in Bundibugyo, Mundri, and Nairobi, for our
family and our kdis, for the Kingdom in hard places. Our hope is that
all of you who have read and wept and prayed and pulled with us over
the last decade-plus will feel thanked as we interact face to face.
And our hope is that God is orchestrating some divine appointments out
there to draw in the next wave of missionaries.

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.