Chocas Mar

This place is a paradise. Coconut-ridden palms scrape the skyline, thatch-roof cabins with wrap-around verandas and a 15-second walk to the crystal clear Indian Ocean and practically deserted beach.

What a stark contrast to our current home. Only two hours drive away, yet a complete world of difference. There, you wake up to roosters crowing, the hollow and often chilling call to prayer, and fumes of burning charcoal infiltrating your house as the neighbors prepare their morning meal. If you look out our window, you will see a young girl hand-washing clothes on an old piece of broken cement, and the guards washing cars on what’s left of our sidewalk due to the city’s unfinished attempt to repair underground water pipes. After four months without running water, it’s hard to complain, even if the front of our house looks like a warzone. Venders will already be banging on the metal gates before you can get out of your pajamas, and the poorest of poor will be searching through the trash heaps on the sides of the road for any thing still edible or useful.

But back here, in my hammock, with nothing to hear but the ocean’s waves and comfortable afternoon breeze, I am invited to write. I am leaving soon and I know I need to capture this memory for another, less enjoyable day.

In less than 24 hours, we will be back on the road again, headed for home. A temporary home, still, in my mind. One of noise, work, challenges, traffic, routine and relationships. And as I look on anticipating our return, I realize even that will be short-lived. Because within 8 more weeks, we will board a plane and return to our real home. The one I am reminded of so vividly in this place. A place we have miss for almost two years. It calls to me here like it always did there, although now I hear it clearer. “Come rest,” it says. “Enjoy the earth, the sand, the sun. Feel your freedom.” And I’m thankful, refreshed, awake. And excited!

We all have our places that bring us back to center, don’t we? Some people find it in the mountains, or the desert, or in a song or a scent that brings on a good memory. Others in a garden, or a workshop, or on an open road... We come, sometimes not even aware of our need for rejuvenation, and leave incomparably renewed.

I know that two days will always seem too short for me, but at least it is enough to give me time to catch my breath before I head back to the real world again, that much more, ready, aware and open. So I thank God for these pieces of paradise that allow us to breathe deeper into life when it has just started to move to fast, or worse, suffocate us.

I find myself constantly taking parts of this place with me and recreate the beach at home…I already have collected enough shells to start my own private beach. I just want this place to grow on me, be with me. Alas, I have to accept that, like this tan, my time and the results of it will inevitably fade away. Before long I will be searching the calendar for another date to get back.

In the time between, He speaks.

“The Lord is my Shepherd. I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me besides quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake.”
Psalm 23:1-3

And again,

“Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.”
Mark 6:31

Freedom Still Exists

I remember waking up early in the morning, when the sky was still dark with anticipation of the sun, and the birds were still asleep. I would hear the breeze which always seems stronger at that time of day, pushing through the branches and grass, counter-intuitively inviting me for my morning jog. The air is different in the morning—cleaner, or something. I don’t know what ever motivated me in the first place to get up at that time and push my body to move for an hour on no food or coffee…but there is something so rewarding, so fulfilling about it. Waking up before the world is moving gives the sense of control, hope, potential. This day can be anything. I can do anything. I own the day.

I’m sure that somewhere in there, I can accredit the “runner’s high” that apparently contributes to these happy feelings. And, of course, there is the obvious ‘no one needs anything from me right now’ feeling of freedom. But I think there is something more than that. Something else going on. Maybe it’s the post-run reward of a hot shower, hot tea, healthy breakfast, feeling oh-so-clean and prepared for my day. It definitely beats waking up at 7:30 because my kid is already awake, my husband is already working and I have no idea what to do for breakfast.

We moved to Mozambique about a year and a half ago. It’s a long country along the Southeast side of Africa. We work here now. It’s been an adjustment, and that’s really just an understatement. When we first arrived, I can distinctly remember our optimism and excitement. After years of training and planning, we had finally arrived. Right away I found a co-worker to run with in the mornings. Oh, thank you God! I thought. But something was different. It became…stressful. The smells and sights of the third world slowly started to take over. Garbage everywhere, sewage flowing down the streets, stares but everyone-men, women and children-as if I was a different species doing something that makes no sense in the minds of those who are just looking for their next meal. After about 6 months, it got to me. I stopped running. I just couldn’t enjoy it. There were no green parks or clean roads or other runners…and the constant feeling of being stared at was something that even my iPod’s highest volume couldn’t block out. I even became resentful, wondering why it had to be such a big deal to everyone. I know there are other white people here! Why do they always look at me like I’m the first?

An accumulation of physical and emotional stress took its toll on my health, and I battled with one strange thing after another. From day one I was covered in hives, and spent the next 4 months scratching my skin off before our house was finally fumigated and the problem subsided. From there, the list grew: the flu, allergies, fatigue, stomach problems, infections, everything short of malaria. And if it wasn’t me, it was my one year old or my husband. Needless to say, fitness fell to the wayside and that sense of control and optimism got buried with it.

But I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Fitness had become a part of me and this could only be a season of difference. Aerobics dvds only suffice for so long…but nothing can substitute a good run. So I started to utilize the base of another ex-pat organization that has a dirt track running the perimeter. Sure, I’m running in circles, but they are big circles, and I’m surrounded by trees. I can even see a view of the mountains in the distance and get glimpses of the sun setting. It beats the harsh sights of pavement and waste any day. Especially when I see familiar faces getting their jogs in as well. Ah yes, I am not crazy. Running is normal, or at least in some places.

It’s not easy to give up parts of what you consider yourself. Things that enhance your life, activities that you count as part of what makes you you, routines that you never thought you could live without. There were moments when I really stopped and wondered, “If I can’t do this, then who am I?” as if I were losing my identity. Apparently, or so I’ve been told, these are normal feelings when moving to a foreign field of work. In this process of change that I am in, I find myself constantly adjusting my expectations, and surprising myself at how grateful I can be for things that used to be just part of everyday. Here, I cannot define myself by those things I love so much. I have had to go deeper into the reasons behind those things. I love to run because I love nature. I feel connected with God and in tune with how he created me to be. I feel free. But I’ve been forced to find that freedom elsewhere. In God, no less, I am learning the truth of His real freedom regardless of my environment. When I’m stuck in my house all day, when our car is broken and I can’t get out of the city, and when the next day off is too many days away, freedom still exists.

So now I look a little closer…in my friendships, my marriage, my child, music, cooking, writing, the Word, games…and I find some relief and laughter. I know that I will always want to run, and always take advantage of the opportunity as it arises, and in the meantime, pray for eyes to see and grab on to that freedom around me.

An Excursion in Parent-Child Training:

Am I training him or is he training me?

Most young parents have heard of the importance of consistency with your child: Choose your methods and stick to them, every time. And it’s likely that almost all of us have also discovered the benefits of the advice “Pick your battles.” Usually most of us figure that one out pretty quick when we find ourselves in the middle of a grocery store with a child in full-blown tantrum mode. Or, take another all too common event in our household…

4 a.m. You hear your child’s voice calling your name in what seems to be a faraway fog as you come out of a dream, resistant and confused…only to realize that your toddler is rolling around in a poop saturated diaper, asking for milk and ready to start the day. In a delirious haze of coaxing and cleaning, and some pathetic attempts to convince your child that 4 a.m. is no hour to start the day, only minutes need to pass before you realize there is no hope for him to fall asleep again. You lie in denial in your warm bed, as he yells protests and begins the process of room dismantlement. You think: a) “He is 2 seconds away from that spanking!” Or, b) “What will make him stop so I can sleep for another hour?” It dawns on you. CARTOONS. At that moment, you inwardly praise God for the makers of modern technology and the Backyardigans and put your play into action. Within minutes, he is quietly contented watching “Race Day” and you are already delving back into your semi-unconcious state. You did it! But what did you just do, exactly?

In the average day, my child says “no” to me probably 20 times. He also receives the due punishment accordingly…15 times. Why not 20, you ask? Okay, I admit it. I am not the most rigid when it comes to discipline. “Consistency!” My husband and I urge each other. And I know it’s true. Our little guy is two. What he learns now sticks, and sets the stage for all his future siblings to follow. “Is mom really serious when she says to brush my teeth?” Mostly. Except on Fridays when end-of-the-week syndrome is intense, it’s already an hour past his bedtime, my head is pounding, my child is throwing a fit and I just want to lie down and watch a movie.

So the question I pose is this: Is there any real harm in picking your battles? Letting your child ‘win’ so to speak, so you can taste a moment’s peace? Or do we always have to be by-the-book consistent for our child to understand who is in charge? If I let him win, does he actually become the one conditioning my reactions to his behavior because I am too _______________ (exhausted, unmotivated, lazy, distracted, busy)? Is he training me or am I training him?

Consistently responding to our children’s behavior in a way that corrects what is wrong and models what is right does them a great service from this day forward. Not only do boundaries create a sense of security and trust within the home, but also teach respect, kindness and consideration in action, which will resonate into every relationship that child will have. Also, we can’t forget the importance of understanding one’s place under authority. We all have to answer to someone. And ultimately, God. Thankfully, he gives us the perfect model of balance. Authority with infinite power and strength, and yet he disciplines with love and guides with gentleness. Every time.

I have learned something from Him on that. It’s in those moments where my son gets caught in the act, obviously guilty but too cute or charming for me to do anything but laugh and kiss him. There are times when my husband and I see that even in his disobedience, sometimes he is just being a two-year-old. Exploring his world and testing out new grounds, seeing how things look or sound after they fall, climbing to the highest point of the make-believe mountain in our living room. Sure those things can get messy, rowdy, chaotic even. But I see now that to experience life, we need to leave room to make that mess, those mistakes, and take those chances. I see the way God loves when I look at my son and realize raising children is not just about rules and who is in charge. When he melts my heart I can feel God’s love for me too. His desire to protect, to teach, and to guide. Not to enforce who is boss, but to show what true love is, and enable me to fully enjoy living life.

I am finding a balance in it all. Compromise is becoming my backup plan. It may not be the perfect way to handle things, but in the end, my son gets a little leeway, and I get full obedience without tantrums and spankings. My stress goes down, and the house is a nice place to be. And so, as I continue on this journey of learning how to be a parent, making compromises along the way to ensure love and training both have their place, I sit back in awe of the love my Father has for me, and I thank Him for how he has guided me in the ways to go, so that I can truly be alive.