Home Leave

One trip home. In this two-year tour, the government will pay for us to come home once. I used to think it was generous, now I know it is necessary for emotional survival. We’ve been back in the US for 6 weeks and we’ve got about 8 days to go. It has taken me this entire time to come to a place where I am ready to process last year.

I don’t what I thought life in Abuja would be like. I knew it would be hard, we were moving to Africa, but I had no idea how hard it would be. That was God’s grace because I don’t know how I would have stepped onto that plane if I had known. Even looking back I’m not sure how I survived. I know I came back crawling, mind spent, soul weary, heart hurting.

I didn’t know how wounded I was until we got to Colorado. It was here, in the familiar surroundings of Colorado Springs, the splendor of the Rocky Mountains and Garden of the God’s, that I finally started to unwind. I didn’t know how tightly wound up I was until friends started asking me questions beyond, “how’s Africa?”  and I felt like everything out of my mouth was negative. There is a lot of good that has happened this past year. I have met amazing people, had incredible experiences and grown in so many ways, but that’s not where my thoughts went. When I was pressed for answers, I couldn’t get out more than a few sentences without tearing up.

I had coached my girls to have answers ready for the “How’s Africa?” question. It’s really an impossible question. There is no way to give a complete answer in a 2, 10 or 20-minute conversation. There’s just so much. Regardless, I wanted my girls to feel prepared to have something to say so that they didn’t feel pressured to process in the moment.  They each have their one line answer, “It’s an adventure,” “I love swimming year-round,” “I love playing in the mud.” (guess who?). I prepared them, but I didn’t put my oxygen mask on first. All I could begin a conversation with was, “It’s hard” and stumble around trying to give examples. These last 6 weeks have left me swimming in an unfamiliar sea of emotions and uncomfortable with my messy self.

Among other things, I have felt desperation, anxious gratitude and dread. After a year of living with the stress of online shopping being our only option for non-local shopping and having to think a month out for any needs, (growing feet, birthdays, trips to colder climates, aging electronics) I found myself desperate to get clothes and shoes and household goods. The luxury of being able to pick something off the shelf and try it on before purchasing, or have it delivered within a few days was both exhilarating and exhausting.

Then there was the prepping for our second consumables shipment. Because of the limited shopping in Abuja, half way through your tour the government will send another shipment for you. Which is great and stressful. Doesn’t shopping for a year’s worth of shelf-stable food and cleaning supplies sound fun to you? Me either. I had a better idea of what we needed than last year, but I also had the emotional baggage of not being prepared. I knew that every purchase I could think through now would make life that much easier next year and deep down I knew I needed every advantage I could get, I was desperate.

After a year of having to think so far ahead I was grateful to be able to walk into a grocery store, Target or REI and find what we needed, but I was surprised to find myself anxious about spending so much money. We had the money. We had saved for this trip. I thought I would be relieved to finally be checking off items on my lists, but I felt like I was hemorrhaging money and it didn’t bring the relief that I thought it would. It wasn’t enjoyable, it was downright painful, but I was grateful to be able to do it. I don’t know if I would have made it through without my dad. He patiently walked the aisles of Costco and Walmart, helping me make decisions, reminding me of decisions I had already made and even swiping his card in the end so that I didn’t have to see the individual totals and could shop “cruise style” just paying one big bill at the end.

The most unexpected feeling I faced was dread. As soon as we stepped off that plane in New York and were greeted at immigration with, “Welcome home!” a feeling of dread began to grow in me. “I don’t want to go back.” I was shocked, embarrassed, ashamed. I’m not usually one to shirk from a challenge. Why can’t I focus on the positive? Why can’t I just enjoy being home? But I couldn’t. I kept busy in New York checking off my to-do list, certain that once it was finished I could relax, but at I same time not knowing how to face what would come in the calm and being afraid of releasing it all.

Our first week here in the Springs I had an unexpected free afternoon. Just me, in my hometown for 4 hours. I had already planned to get a massage from my sister-in-law, Anna at westsidebodywork.com (the best in the world). When I finished I sat in my car determined not to waste the self-love I had just indulged in with list ticking. I sat in silence wondering what to do. I could go anywhere, do anything. I wasn’t restricted to a 5-mile radius for safety, I had no obligations, no one expecting anything from me and I was in a city that I know and love.

I decided to drive around town and visit our old homes. Sweet memories. One is for sale and looked as weary as I feel, but the other was obviously no longer a rental. It had a fresh coat of paint and the window box and front yard were brimming with beauty. It was soothing to see a place that held so much love for us being loved.

From that second home, I drove the short mile to ECA. Evangelical Christian Academy has memories for me in every stage of my life. It is where I went to school, taught and where my girls began their school journey. It is where I grew up, fell in love, and I sent my baby off on her first day of kindergarten. Through that community, I experienced love, laughter, grace, and suffering and death.

As I sat in the empty parking lot, looking at the playground, the tears began to fall. There were tears of gratitude, pain, and grief. Grief, there is was, finally, the driving emotion that I couldn’t figure out. As I sat there I grieved that, unless the Lord throws us a curve ball, my girls will never know the security of one home, one school, one community, like I had. They won’t have a heartwarming answer to, “where are you from?” or “where did you go to school?” They won’t have my childhood and I had an amazing childhood. Their answers will be complicated. In that moment I feared that it would leave them feeling empty. I had to sit in that and grieve it. I had to discipline myself not to try to find a silver lining or feel guilty for not trusting God, but just sit there and feel it all.

And there, in the midst of that releasing, beautiful, ugly cry my heart began to thaw. The still small voice of the Holy Spirit stirred my soul and reminded me that just like Aslan, this journey he has me on isn’t safe, but it is good. It isn’t comfortable or familiar, but it is good. It isn’t known or trusted, but it is good because… he is good. We may not be near what we know and love, but this last year has brought us closer to our heavenly father and that nearness is our good.

And just as admitting you have a problem is the first step to healing on any journey, at that moment, my heart started to heal. I felt the goodness of God. His trustworthy character anchoring me. I still didn’t want to go back, but I trusted that I would… or not… and even that was okay.

After that day, believing in the goodness of God, I started to remember the good of the last year in Nigeria. I began to be able to articulate the hard and the good. Sharing stories of what it’s like to live in two foreign cultures (Nigeria and the State Department), remembering the ways our family has grown together in the slower paced world of limited options and sharing the best story of all, how God had allowed me to walk a friend to saving knowledge and acceptance of Jesus.

The more I shared the more I started to find peace with my story, our family story. I still didn’t want to go back, but I was no longer afraid.

Early this week Sophie picked up a TIME magazine off Grandma’s coffee table and started reading a story about the Chibok girls in Nigeria. I didn’t know what she was doing until she came to and told me that she didn’t think she should finish the article, but that she had questions. Her discernment baffles me sometimes. Reading that children as young as 3 were being kidnapped and thrown into pillowcases, she knew more details could lead to nightmares, but she wanted to know the story through the mommy filter.

We were in a crunch for time so I quickly explained Boko Haram and assured her that she didn’t have anything to fear. She seemed to know that she wasn’t at risk, but it saddened her that other children are. Girls she has met have fled their homes because of this violence.

I took the magazine with me and read it while allowing myself a little more self-love with a manicure. As I sat in the cozy chair and enjoyed every moment of the pampering I read personal experiences of Nigerian girls’ bodies and psyches being sacrificed on the altar of militant Islam. I saw my refugee children in the eyes of the children in the pictures. The article ends with very little hope and an almost arrogant call for help and reform from the safety of the reporter’s laptop.

Usually, I would read an article like that and pray, but also feel despair. There is so much injustice in this world. What am I supposed to do? But this time it was different. This time I am already a part of this story. I am a part of it through the refugee children I work with, but that’s not what trumpeted in my spirit. That work is good, but it is small. At least on this side of heaven, it looks small. I’m am coming to be okay with that…but that’s another post.

The part of the story that I became excited about is the work that Sean is doing. God has placed him in an incredible position to help Nigeria, among other things, defeat Boko Haram. It is a slow process and I rarely understand what he is doing, but the Nigerian Army is asking the US Army for help and Sean is one of a handful that is leading that conversation.

Sean is there to help and support Nigeria and I am there to help and support Sean. I am the little toe of the US Embassy in Abuja. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s needed for balance. Nigeria needs Sean and Sean needs me. I don’t get to play a flashy role, but it is an important role nonetheless to help bring justice to the oppressed.

Our life in Nigeria isn’t just about the adventure or the growth. It isn’t just about God’s story for us, but God’s story for His world. Our life in Nigeria is about so much more than us and that excites me. Because if it was just about us, all the sacrifices we are making don’t seem worth it. Being stretched way beyond our comfort zone in every area of our lives for a few fun stories and cool pictures isn’t worth it. What this could mean in our own sanctification process is exciting, but it still not enough. No matter where I live there will be circumstances that stretch me. But, being a part of something bigger than even my own country. That is soul satisfying. It isn’t easy, predictable or emotionally safe, but it is good.