We had prepared snacks, gathered supplies and picked up a specific
group of children for a particular program and purpose. In true African
fashion, I readied myself to make a welcome speech.
Here’s how it went down:
“Welcome to the base everyone! We are so happy to have you
here with us today. Before we get started, I
just wanted to know if you know what you are doing here.”
Blink. Stare. Blink. Baby pees her pants. Nobody’s fazed.
(So far, totally normal interaction.)
And then, one at a time…
“Because you love
us.”
“Because you take
care of us.”
“Because we are your
family.”
My turn to be silent.
I looked again at that table, spread full of snacks,
supplies and strategy. Instead of doing what I thought I was there to do, I
took a moment to see what was really there.
I saw years of sliding down the side of a mountain while
trying to carry groceries, clotheslines and mango branches filled with homemade
cards for a Welcome Home party, and hands held in prayer for greatest fears
revealed.
I saw picnic blankets full of spilled Kool-aid and pure joy,
front porch stories shared, and late night phone calls when there was no mom to
call for help.
Did I even realize what I am doing here?
It’s this.
I’ve been awake since 3am.
Every. Day. This. Week.
A girl can only use so much concealer under her eyes everyday
before she has to get real and ask in that dark hour of the night, “God,
what am I doing here?”
I’m on my second cup of coffee this morning, and I’m
thinking about the last time I asked that question with that table full of
children when I realised my plans, programs, and understanding are not
what this is all about.
My sleepless nights and subconscious anxiety these past few
weeks have probably been the outflow of all the questions I can’t or don’t want
to know the answers to.
I don’t know what Lifa’s life has looked like or what he has
experienced for the while he’s been away at his dad’s house. I don’t know how his
life, perspective, faith and development will be impacted by these years of
living in two different cultures. I don’t know what he’s seen, heard or
experienced during all these nights we’ve been apart.
But the sun is coming up now.
And I’m going to go get in my car and drive that 8-hour
drive to bring Lifa home that always makes me question what I’m doing here.
When we get home, he will immediately jump on his bike. We’ll make a cake and sing happy birthday loud enough for my mom to hear in
Texas, and then we’ll pile into a Spiderman bed for a bedtime story.
Tonight, I will ask Lifa the same questions I always ask
him:
“Do you know how much I love you?”
Eyes will roll. A smile will crack through. And then he’ll
open his arms wide enough for me to tickle his armpits.
“But do you know WHY I love you so much.”
“Because Jesus loved
you first.”
For him, it’s just a fact.
“You can love me sooooo much, Mama, because Jesus loved you
first and gave you enough love for me.”
That’s what I’m doing
here.
That’s what’s real when the sun comes up and in the dark
hours of the night.
That is where my soul finds rest.
I’m here because He
loved me first.
I’m here because we
are a family.
I’m just here, and
I’m with Him.
I’m a cranky, cross-eyed, exhausted mess, and 87% of
everything I’ve eaten this past week has been made of chocolate. I’m not even
exaggerating. I haven’t gotten good at
this. But, right in this moment, I know what I’m doing here.
I’m coming back to the Father and asking for peace, for soul
rest, and for help remembering He’s right there in those dark hours of the
night.
And, right now, I’m going to go get that kid and kiss the
crap out of him.
