Sharing

I wanted to share this entry with you all. I follow her blog because she writes about doing what I so wish I was doing right now. She keeps my window to Haiti open. And this last entry had my blood boiling. I hope it does the same to yours.

http://barbieboots.blogspot.com/2010/03/injustice.html

In Flight

Today I watched a hawk in flight. To the backdrop of a grey, overcast day, he hovered above the brown stubble of a barren field, searching for breakfast. The wind he road whistled in my ears, blew my hair back and prompted me to pull my jacket a little tighter to my body for warmth. He held his position despite the strength of the breeze moving all around him. He appeared motionless in the sky, as if a painted figure on a piece of landscape art rather than a living being navigating the forces of nature. I could see the wind move under his wings. Yet he hovered, using the current to hold his position, waiting for opportunity. Patient. Lifted. Beautiful.

I drew strength from that fierce feathered creature today. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been flailing all about, navigating this new “temporary” existence living in someone else’s home, figuring out how to be a new mother of two very small needy children, running in a million different directions as I navigate the emotional landscape of my soul. I hope to become more like the hawk… stretching out my wings, feeling the wind under me and not trying to direct it, not trying to change it, but instead allowing it to hold me up, utilizing the vantage point it allows, looking for new opportunity poking its head out from the stubble.

Our homecoming landed us in the Midwest frozen in winter. During those first weeks, my daily runs were bitterly cold. Icy air would cut through my chest, freezing my breath, burning my lungs, giving a visceral sensation to my grief. Slowly though, spring is thawing the ground, melting the drifts, whispering green into the landscape. Like bits of green, happiness and perspective also sneak their way into my outlook as I dare to enjoy this rare opportunity we've been afforded.

I still manage hitting a gravel road with my sneakers a few times a week, glad for a softening to the air March brings. My breath no longer cuts. Most days have been overcast, but the great grey above stands as a blank canvas for my observations, my thoughts. I joke with my friends that I’m running longer and harder than I’m in true shape for thanks to my inner “crazy” fueling extra miles. I run until my thoughts go quiet, and sometimes that takes a lot of distance, a lot of sweat, a lot of breathlessness. I’ve written huge journal entries in my mind during those runs, words that never hit keyboard or paper. THIS I realize is processing. And maybe those words never need to be read. Some thoughts are better undisclosed, offered only to the open sky. They simply need to be thought, to be spoken aloud even if there is nothing other than field mouse to hear.

More than anything else, running has been therapeutic as I let the animal of my body feel. The quiet of the Kansas country side acts like a sponge to my racing thoughts and anger that seemed to nearly eat me alive in the moths following our relocation. With emotion seeping out my pores in salty sweat, I can finally find space for grief, for hope, for healing and ENERGY for the future.


On one of my runs, I moved beneath a great swirling, hovering cloud of migrating geese, their cries filling the grey air, their chorus of wings beating the wind, their ribbon-like formations giving texture to the sky. I stood in awe as the hundreds of birds touched down in a nearby field, then just as quickly lifting off en mass, readjusting, circling, joining the hundreds more above. Watching one flock rising into another, one group changing course in a sea of swirling feathered bodies, one flight plan merging into another, I half expected to see mid-air collisions, wings battling each other in the crowded sky above. Yet not a feather was harmed. An orchestra of wings emerged, all moving in a unique direction, following a leader but aware of others around. Graceful chaos. Such moments I feel privileged to be alive, to be present as witness to such incredible beauty.


I’m grateful for so many things. For our lives, for being together, for a safe place to lay our heads. I’m grateful that Patrick and I have gone through this all together, that there is one person in my world that no explanation is needed. I’m grateful for the patience and understanding shown by our remarkable family and friends. I’m grateful for two incredible children, our “twins” and the time we have to spend, to bond, to love, to make each other strong again. I'm grateful for wide-open spaces, big sky and life that teaches me lessons, revealing beauty in brown landscapes, demonstrating how to move with the forces of life and let them offer perspective. Truth is, the tragedy of the earthquake gave rise to huge blessings for our family… a daughter, open-ended time together, a chance to introduce our kids to their American family and friends. It has been hard accepting such incredible silver lining on the back of such loss. Yet life is like that.

Like the hawk or the geese in the sky, we ride the wind. We wait. We learn to look out at our surroundings and the gifts they have to offer. We are pulled with the current. Often it is our habit to fight the wind, struggling against it, trying to inflict our own flight plan on forces bigger than ourselves. Our hearts are pulled in different directions. We are anxious to join the efforts of our partners in Haiti, to continue the work on the ground that feels more necessary, more purposeful than ever. We are anxious to reconnect with friends there. That is where we hope the wind takes us. But for the time being we hover, we watch, we ride the breeze and learn to appreciate the orchestrated beauty of the chaos around us, gleaning strength from our surroundings, equipping ourselves for the journey with a rest in the field.

Questions Answered

Truthfully, making plans these days seems a bit arrogant. Life has taught us over the last two years that plans have a way of changing as life throws us new unexpected curve balls.

But many have asked us, "what now?"

The first month back in the US we traveled 4 States, road on 6 planes, drove hundreds of miles, slept in 7 different houses or hotels. We've now called a "cease travel" for a while in order to give babies a chance to get over colds and intestinal upset, learn a sleep schedule and give Patrick and I a chance to do what everyone keeps encouraging us to do: rest and heal.

Part of our traveling took us to Indianapolis, the headquarters for the area executive covering Latin America and the Caribbean division of Global Ministries. There we embraced by our partners, took part in a debriefing, a psychological interview and attended several meetings where we redefined our responsibilities for the next few months.

Global Ministries has proven itself to be an amazing employer during crisis. They have treated the entire situation from a loving, compassionate place. They responded quickly shuttling emergency funds to our partners in Haiti as the dust still hung in the air. They have kept in close communication with the Villier's and the board of CONASPEH listening to the needs voiced and the plans outlined. They have truly put in action "loving accompaniment" and "critical presence," honoring our Haitian partners and being directed by their voiced needs and goals. Rather than barging into the country deciding and bringing "what Haiti needs," our employers and partners here have dared to ask the Haitians, "what do you need, and how can we help?" We have been pleased and honored to see our employer's true colors emerge in their critical response.

Their response to our family was also from a place of compassion. We have been put on a home leave, assigned to heal and strengthen ourselves for the work that lies ahead. For the time being, we won't be going on church itineration, but instead putting time and energy into the healing process. They listened to the challenges our family faces with adoption and have responded with love, reminding us that there is no timeline on healing and putting our family together. They will be helping rebuild our lives financially as we anticipate putting a home back together and replacing the tools of our trade lost in the earthquake. Although many materials lost can't be replaced--photos, sentimental gifts, art--they are ultimately only material things. We escaped with our lives, our health, our family intact (and expanded). We are blessed to have an amazing support system in our employers and friends that ensures our lives will move forward.

We are planning to go back to Haiti. If we could leave tomorrow as a family (with adoptions legalized and done), we would. But we have a circus full of bureaucratic hoops to jump through and processes to tread. It takes time. We moved to Kansas because we have family here and we were quoted a shorter time to process legal adoption paperwork in this state. My brother and his family opened their home to us, and for the time being we are calling Kansas home. Whether that is for the next month or more, we can't be sure.

What our life and work will look like when we return to Haiti is once again up for definition. We have been keeping in contact with Global Ministries and the Vilier's. Patrick hopes to plan a trip to Haiti soon to find a home for our family and discuss with the Villier's their hope for our work in time to come. I hope to resume clinical outreach on the CONASPEH land, re-establishing a family practice presence in the community and linking in with medical outreach centers already working in the city. CONASPEH has voiced interest in utilizing groups visiting from abroad to help rebuild and reconstruct their buildings and catalyzing their projects. Patrick and I will likely play an active part in mission interpretation and trip planning for friends coming to learn, listen and lend a hand.

In the meantime we are staying in contact with CONASPEH and Global Ministries, stepping out of the limelight to focus on the needs of our family.

Global Ministries has been busy with emergency relief, sending money and supplies to our partners in Haiti. If you are anxious to get involved NOW and need to find a way to do so, please contact their website and find out what our partners need.

Thank you again for you love and support. We are grateful to have such an incredible community to accompany us and our Haitian friends on this adventure in life.

Family Therapy

Where have we been? Why so quiet?

We have the rare, luxurious gift of getting to shrink our world a bit, to concern ourselves only with the state of our soul and the health and happiness of our children. We are getting to know each other better. We've all cried (some louder and at more abnoxious hours of the night), we've laughed often, we've danced (Solomon has some sweet moves) and celeberate when weather gives opportunity to break into the out of doors.

From this new vantage point of full-time parents, we have the opportunity to get to know our fascinating and challenging daughter who has a spark, a strength, an affectionate nature that has captured our hearts. She survived early life despite the odds and is growing now in leaps and bounds before our eyes, laughing at her brother, scheming for our attention, loving touch and cuddling more even than the food that sustains her. We’ve watched our son struggling with a new environment, a new routine, a new face in the family. He seems to have grown so much in the last months. He amazes us with his resilience, his comical antics, his daredevil approach to the playground, his tenderness. Both can leave us exhausted when we can't seem to figure out the source of their whining or tears. Both spur giggles amidst even the deepest exhaustion. Both challenge us to step up to our job as parents depsite how we feel or how much sleep we've logged. Both pull our heart in their own unique way. We are learning to communicate with each other, learning to navigate this new existence as a family. Our children depend on us to keep them safe, fed and warm. We depend on them to hold us when we feel shakey, to remind us of purpose, of love, of forgiveness, of the healing power of touch.

So a few pictures to share. I'm sure you'll understand why sitting in front of the computer takes a back seat to sitting in front of these beautiful faces.

Healing for us has taken form of settling into the moment, letting go of things we can't control, taking advantage of the rare opportunities afforded to us. Here are some pictures of our days.

There are a wealth of "silver lining" moments that have risen out of tragedy. One is the opportunity afforded for our children to meet our family and friends in the States. My children have met their grandparents, their uncles and aunts, their cousins

.

PopPop and Solomon scream for snow!
Uncle Chris meets his niece!

They've been to the farm, played in snow, ridden tractors, played in parks.

Solomon's First Snowman
Valancia sitting pretty in winter wear
Solomon's introduction to slides. He is now a HUGE fan.
Navigating the jungle gym with Daddy
"Come on Cici! Its so fun!!"
High Flyers

We've celebrated the simple moments being home can offer: a yard to play in, instruments to play, our nephew's toy box to rifle through, rec centers to retreat to.

Budding musicians
Indoor pools--a change from the beach, but still fun!
Solomon waiting for me to put the camera down and throw the ball already.
Driving Miss Cici

We've watched our children heal with good, abundant food.

"I love snacks... snacky-snack-snacks.
Big Fan of Girl Scout Cookies and maybe saving some shrapnel for later.
"Seconds please!"

Our children patiently take in their new surroundings, the new faces that fill their days. Their dark eyes can turn so thoughtful. I love to swim in the depths of their contemplation.

Our children remind us to smile, they tickle us to laugh out loud. Every day we fall head-over-heals in love with them all over again.

Because of them, we are better, stronger, happier and reminded of how incredibly lucky we are. Because of them, our tomorrows are full of possibility and purpose.

Light at the end of the tunnel

Mute

Writing hasn’t come easily over the last month, writing that has always been my way to document, to process, to remember and preserve. Its not that there aren’t words, feelings, experiences that have colored and complicated, befuddled and blessed our days. In fact, in the weeks since landing in Denver, we’ve seen so many dear faces, felt much love, and shared in extraordinarily beautiful moments with our newly expanded family.


Yet expression has been difficult. Part of it is time. Sitting down to write is not only a luxury of time but lately it has felt like an effort. Writing asks me to start to “process” those thoughts I have about our days in the past and present as well as hopes for the future. At this point in the game, it has been easier just to disassociate from all that, to disconnect. If I stay busy as a mom and wife while reintroducing myself as a sister, daughter and friend, then I don’t have to swim too deeply in my thoughts for long. I’ve kept emotions on the surface while drying tears, changing diapers, fixing snacks and falling into the steady monotony of routine that helps numb and distract.

“Relaxation and healing.” Everyone tells us this is what we should be doing. This is what we came home to do. Parents of small children may snicker along with us. It is harder to do than I ever imagined. There is no recipe, no formula, no checklist we can work through to get “all better soon.”

I’m learning to be a full-time mom. It is as messy as it is beautiful, and the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Give me a 36-hour hospital call any day! I’ve struggled with my identity, missing a clearly defined role in a job with clear objectives, outcomes and consistent feedback. I miss being a doctor, the balance it added to my life, the social interactions and the problems I had gotten comfortable solving. Motherhood is a constant flux of celebrations and self-defeat taking turns in the spotlight through the course of a day, an hour. I've had a million hypothesis's crushed, plans restructured, certainty unwound. But our children are forgiving. They are loving. They reach for us even when our patience has worn thin after too many sleepless nights. They make us laugh, they spark our joy. Solomon spins around and grooves to a song on the radio or Valancia lets loose a raspy giggle and immediately my intentions of taking myself too seriously are crushed.


I miss Haiti. Yet some of the things I miss there no longer exist which I still can't wrap my head around. What I long for is no longer. Our own space. The floor Solomon first walked on. The balcony with its view of the mountains that hosted many a family moment as we slowed down to catch a breeze. My clinic. My patients. Our students. The neighborhood grocery store. The guy who sold us juice on the corner. Gone. Changed. We long to go back, but have no idea what back is going to look like. And that alone leaves me disoriented.


Patrick and I are both experiencing emotional aftershocks of the earthquake. “Acute stress reaction,” is the medical label that tries to define current our experience. With time, though, the nightmares are less frequent, phantom aftershocks diminishing, painful memories replaced with those that we laugh about together. The healing doesn’t happen without intention, without the love and support of family and friends. So we exercise, we talk, we seek out confidants, we go to therapy.

I've hit all the "stages" of grief. In weeks following the earthquake denial often crept in unexpectedly as I found myself planning to return to a house that no longer stands, looking for something I can't retrieve--a shirt, a book, a photo-- or making plans to get back to work in a clinic that lies buried. Over the last month I've waffled between guilt, anger and depression. There have been moments where I question whether I'll find purpose, contentment or hope again. (Then a little face will cuddle into my neck, little fingers wrapping around my shoulder and I'm back) Guilt has a habit of contaminating moments of pleasure, a trip to the grocery store, a nice dinner out, feeling safe tucking into a bed under a roof. Guilt over our evacuation, our freedom of movement, our allotted "time to heal" and the luxury of our life of privilege when friends in Haiti live through a very different reality. Anger has been the hardest to tackle as it rides below the surface, causing overreaction, snappy tempers, impatience and frustration. Internally I fury over the seeming loss of control over our lives, at being forced from a way of life, jobs and plans made. I rage over upheaval, illness, the senseless loss suffered, helplessness, injustice. With time, though, I'm moving closer to acceptance.

THANK YOU for those who have watched my not-so-pretty, not-so-loving self come to terms with this change in our lives. I have put friendships to the test, relationships to work. I haven't been able to play my usual role in the lives of others do to the selfish needs I have in the moment. Because my emotions tend to lie naked, I have avoided much social interaction. With those that have met me in my most vulnerable moments, and still love me despite it all, I thank you. I am not used to being on the needing end of many relationships, but have found great healing and solace in the protected space of a friend who holds no judgement, no agenda, no burdening opinion.

After a month of taking ourselves off the radar, I’m happy to greet March. A new month. I can collectively chuck February into the month of adjustment, the month of wallowing, the month of learning how to swim again. I know its not that simple, that with the flipping of a calendar page I can’t effectively pull myself up by my bootstraps, stop my flailing, become stronger, better, organized and balanced. But I can start. Time, in truth, heals. As does rest.



For those who have watched the blog waiting for news, thanks for your patience. Thanks for your prayers for Haiti, for following the news, following blogs, praying, collecting, fund raising, considering your own reality in light of the lives of others. I’ve needed space to retreat into self and into the sanctity of our family. Its been harder than I expected to find our footing, but slowly we begin to make sense of our here and now. We learn to let go of control, a plan. We give way to grief and find strength with the acceptance and hope that emerges when the tears run dry.