What are you doing here?

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.