Amo el regalo de poder criar a mis hijos en Bolivia.
Amo a nuestros amigos bolivianos.
Amo a los misioneros en Bolivia.
Amo la comida boliviana.
Amo el paisaje boliviano.
Amo la diversidad de Bolivia.
Amo lo que Bolivia me ha enseñado.
Amo la humildad, la furia callada, y la perseverancia de los bolivianos.
Amo al arte boliviano.
Amo el idioma de Bolivia.
Amo el ritmo boliviano.
Amo a Bolivia.
Ahora…te dejo Bolivia.
Bolivia ha dejado su huella en mi cuerpo, en mi alma, en los mismos hilos de mí ser. Y si, por algún caso no lo hubiere aclarado; y esto es muy probable, ya que en este tiempo la claridad me elude: yo no quiero irme de Bolivia; aunque sé que eso debemos.
Las cosas no podían seguir igual. Grandes cambios requieren de una gran decisión.
La mayoría de las personas han sido discretas para formular la delicada pregunta “¿Por qué?” Aprecio esto. Los que deben saber el porqué, lo saben; por esta seguridad y confianza estaré siempre agradecida. Estoy aún más agradecida por las personas quienes permiten que haya un silencio incómodo de preguntas no respondidas entre nosotros, y no empujan, ni se alejan.
¡Ay! mis queridos.
Ha sido mi creencia que es siempre más difícil para los que se quedan que para los que se van. Siento como estamos arrancando a nosotros mismos de las vidas de personas que amamos y quienes nos aman, duele. Siento horrible, como estoy infligiendo dolor intencionalmente. Lamento todo el dolor causado.
¿Sabes qué es raro? La intensidad de la tristeza que gira y palpita junto con los sentimientos opuestos de contentamiento y esperanza. ¡Más que todo, esto es lo que me destroza! Estoy triste porque estoy dejando Bolivia pero estoy feliz porque estoy yendo a los que están esperando atraparnos en los Estados.
Me han dicho que todo esto es normal. ¡Pucha! lo normal es raro.
I love that I have been able to raise my children in Bolivia.
I love our Bolivian friends.
I love the missionaries in Bolivia.
I love Bolivian food.
I love the landscapes of Bolivia.
I love the diversity of Bolivia.
I love what Bolivia has taught me.
I love the humility, the quiet fury, and the endurance of the Bolivian people.
I love Bolivian art.
I love the language of Bolivia.
I love the rhythm of Bolivian living.
I love Bolivia.
Now I am leaving Bolivia.
Bolivia has left it’s mark on my body on my soul on the very threads of my being. In case I haven’t made it clear, which is highly likely since at this time clarity eludes me: I don’t want to leave Bolivia.
Yet, I know we must. Things could not go on the same. Big change necessitated a big decision. Most people have been very tactful about the lingering “why?”; I appreciate that. The ones who need to know why do know why. For that security of trust and advice I am ever grateful. I am even more grateful for the ones who let the uncomfortable silence of unanswered questions sit between us, and don’t push, and don’t push away either.
Ah, my dears.
It’s been my belief that it is always harder for the ones who stay than for the ones who go. I feel like we are ripping ourselves out of the lives of people we love and who love us; it hurts. I feel horrible, like I am inflecting intentional pain. I am sorry for all the pain.
The weird part? The intensity of sorrow twists and throbs with the very opposite feelings of contentment and hope. That’s tearing me up, most of all! I am sad to leave Bolivia but happy to go to those who are waiting to catch us in the States.
We walked through the lobby of the Real Audiencia hotel in Sucre, Bolivia with our kids. Displayed by the front counter stands a full suit of armor from the days of knights and castles. They said, “Wow!” too many times to count in awe of the ancient artifact. We walked down the corridor of red carpet and through the arch ways draped in flowering vines. We rolled our luggage over the bumpy tiles by the pool, complete with statues of voluptuous Grecian ladies preparing to bathe. The spiral staircase took us to our suites overlooking the courtyard. My oldest threw her hands up in the air and proclaimed, “Imma freakin’ princess!”
Those sprawling beds were ones of about a half dozen upon which we have laid our heads in the past weeks. Favorite bed thus far during transition? The ones we are in now because they have down comforters which are very cozy during this drippy rainy season. Worst bed thus far? The reclining chairs in the bus on the way back from our royal vacation because I was puked on by my daughter in the first hour of a ten hour ride. You better believe those windows were pried open no matter how cold and wet the night was.
Current tally of observations people have made about our present living conditions:
We have been living out of suitcases for almost a month now. This will continue for the foreseeable future in the coming weeks.
Our 13 years of life in Bolivia has been whittled down to 13 bags.
Sometimes the thought of scaling back so much makes me want to cry. Other times I would just like to flick a lit match at the remaining piles of crap as it is tiring to lug it all around. What would be really cool is to have Merlin’s magic from the classic animated Sword in the Stone (my all time favorite Disney movie, by the way) to be able to shrink everything to fit into a dusty old bag with only a song and a dance. Imagine the look on the TSA agent’s face as he rakes his hand through hundreds of teeny tiny objects to determine if miniatures pose a threat to national security.
In the midst of mobility we have been meeting with people and doing the last rites. Last Sunday at church. Last night of youth group. Last visit from out-of-town friends. Last cook out with the ladies group. Last coffee out with friends. Last stroll through the Saturday market. The litany of lasts lasts and lasts.
Every once in a while I let myself be happy anticipating the upcoming flurry of firsts. New weather. New friends. New home. New vehicle. New schools. New clothes. New relative relations. New realities in a new culture. Soon we will trade the now for the new; until then we will wallow in Limboland.
Speaking of mobility and new things… I started my new job on January 5th. Pictured below is my “office” contained in a comfy backpack. Give me electricity and an internet connection and I am working to empower the rescue of victims of human trafficking through the diffusion of truth by way of social media and communications with The Exodus Road. I still have to pinch myself every time I get to work my hours with such an amazing group of people doing such important work.
The kindness and generosity of people towards our family during this transitional season astounds and humbles me. Provision has come in such unexpected, unsolicited, and amazing ways. Yes, there are still lingering details and staggering logistics. Yes, the emotions are too numerous to name. Yet, sparks of goodness illuminate the path in the middle of the darkness.
I’ll leave you with some lyrical loveliness so you can hum along with me:
“I get by with a little help from my friends…”
“It’s the end of the world as we know it… and I feel fine…”
“Abra, cabra, dabra, nack… Shrink in size very small… We’ve got to save enough room for all… Higitus, figitus, migitus, mum… Prestidigitorium!”
I really don’t feel strong or brave. Most days I jolt awake as the rush of nervous acid pours into my stomach. The aftereffects of the daily emotional roller coaster ride make me nauseated. The regrets choke. Thus, I have determined that bravery is not an emotion, it is a derivative.
As I share my story with a low voice, tears in my eyes, so many people tell me I am strong, that I am brave. They see me. They see the circumstances. Then they affirm strength??? I really don’t feel it. Oh boy do I wish I did!
I wince at their words, doubt trumps dauntlessness. I bury myself in my notebook. My hand trembles as I make it pull the jumbled words onto paper. My thoughts slow and calm comes as I think about bravery.
Forged in the fires of truth unhindered, time, and surrender comes forth words to define bravery. Definitions help me maintain realistic expectations of myself, and others.
> Bravery is not a stoic face to mask authenticity. Nuh uh.
> Bravery is not a bully who lashes out in fear. Nope.
> Bravery is not an ungodly holler from a maniac who runs reckless to sure defeat. Sorry Sparta, you can keep that crap.
Bravery: Life lived with strength derived from the assurance that 1. I am the beloved of God, 2. God loves everyone, and 3. His love in me enables me to love well.
So when my teenagers come to me distraught and fraught with emotions I can rely on the strength in me derived from the love infusion from my Father God. Then I can attempt to listen with empathy. I can speak, if I need to. Or shut up. I trust that God can love them well when my resources fail. I choose to engage, rather than cower and hide (which is my default mode, by the way).
So when the days topple on top of each other and mash with the piles to-do lists, and I breathe too quick, and my brain begins to spin like the tilt-a-whirl, I can stop the scared screamy sounds in my mind. I see the lips of my friends who tell me I am strong. Yes, I am strong, because this tangible weakness draws me to the source of my bravery. My bravery is a derivative of the assurance I am loved.
So when terrible scenarios of what-if replay on loop in the darkest corner of my heart I can crawl to that place and face the fears. In the past I have shut that part of me away as “bad” and “sinful” and “faithless”. With weak limbs and scraped hands I can do the next thing. Just do the next thing. And the next thing might be a simple flip of a switch on a plastic flashlight to shine a shaft of bravery on the damp, creepy parts of my soul. A simple task made nearly insurmountable by the paralyzed state created by my imaginations of what will be revealed. But my bravery is not brazen or foolish. True brave strength is surrender to Love. Love knows me. Love accepts me. Love sits beside that awful terribleness, and waits with me for the light.
So what do I do when I just do not feel so strong or brave? I cry. I fuss. I complain. I moan. And when I get that all over with I return to the assurance part of my definition. I can rest when I have been assured. Sometimes this blessed assurance comes from those around me. Sometimes the assurance comes from a song whispered in the recesses of my throat, sang with raspy tones. Other times gritty, holy stories or chunks of scripture assure me.
One prayer from the book of Ephesians has brought encouragement.
“14 When I think of all this, I fall to my knees and pray to the Father, 15 the Creator of everything in heaven and on earth. 16 I pray that from his glorious, unlimited resources he will empower you with inner strength through his Spirit. 17 Then Christ will make his home in your hearts as you trust in him. Your roots will grow down into God’s love and keep you strong. 18 And may you have the power to understand, as all God’s people should, how wide, how long, how high, and how deep his love is. 19 May you experience the love of Christ, though it is too great to understand fully. Then you will be made complete with all the fullness of life and power that comes from God.
20 Now all glory to God, who is able, through his mighty power at work within us, to accomplish infinitely more than we might ask or think. 21 Glory to him in the church and in Christ Jesus through all generations forever and ever! Amen.” – Ephesians 3:14 – 21
Patterns can be deciphered only after the passage of time. We hear beauty in music because we anticipate repetition, as well as remember what came before.
My life used to be driven by goals, small objectives to reach those goals, and problem solving along the way until those expectation boxes could be checked. My eyes fixed forward rarely glanced to the sides and abhorred what laid behind. I rushed ahead at breakneck speed.
Recently, like over the past five years, I have started to value awareness over accomplishment and affection over ambition. In this new way of looking at things I have loosened my grip on accusatory tendencies (both towards myself and those around me) and moved in the direction of unconditional acceptance of all people, including myself. I began to open my vision to more than only what lies ahead, but also to who walks beside me, and occurrences from my past informing my present reality.
Goals are good, but they are only part of all the good in this life.
Accomplishments help people, but they are not the only thing that help people.
Driven people, such as myself, sometimes get a lead foot. It serves us well, at times, to slow down and even stop the car.
Thanksgiving morning I sat in bed doing one of my favorite “slowing down” things: writing and doodling with a pencil in my notebook. As of late my prayers have become provincial and sporadic. Journaling moments have become as prayer for me. Even the drawings are my heart spilled out for my God to hear. He understands. I believe. That morning my thoughts and “prayers” turned to employment in the Sates.
For this fresh start to work we both need to work. I knew that was one of the stipulations we agreed on as we talked through the decision. I wasn’t worried or anxious. I knew, though, that with only my lonely little high school diploma to present to future bosses I had to fill out a resume with life experience stuff. I also needed to be open to any kind of job that came my way. I had puttered around with putting on paper my past positions and dates of employment. I had done a few searches online to see what was out there in Omaha.
On Thanksgiving morning I made a list of what kind of job I would like to work when we get to the States. The basic gist of the list is this:
“I want to do something I enjoy with people I get along with and get paid for it.”
Reductive living is the name of game at this stage, my friends. I scratched a few more thoughts on the page about weekday hours which allowed time for study. I also noted the idea of working within a creative, purposeful team for a company which was upstanding in the community.
It felt insignificant and ho-hum at the moment. The day progressed with much merry making and lots of fun with a few other families gathered together to eat, give thanks, and play games. I got home late at night. After the little kids were put to bed I sat down to check on my friends who live inside my computer.
One of the messages stopped me completely. The brakes were full on, folks. I read and re-read to comprehend the words on the screen. I cried as I remembered my morning “prayers”.
A job offer!
It felt as though God slipped his arm around my shoulders and whispered in my ear, “Here you go; you don’t have to give up.”
See, the thing is, there was part of me that was grieving the giving up of a missionary life. We are coming off the field. We are seeking stability. Even my Isaac-like life as a missionary had to be put on the altar. I see the necessity of going to the States. It just makes me sad for so many reasons, and this was one of them.
This unsolicited job offer came from an organization fighting human trafficking in South East Asia!
It came from a dear friend, Laura Parker. We met about five years ago through our blogs. I was the first person who came to her mind when the position was being made. The job is Communications Manager doing the online stuff of: the bloggers community, facebook, twitter, pinterest, etc. It’s a part time gig.
They want to pay me, too! Where do I sign?
Me officially accepting the job I start January 5th, even before we get to the States. I am so excited!
This gift came to me on Thanksgiving and I have not stopped giving thanks for it. I am so humbled to be invited to be a part of this phenomenal team empowering rescue and fighting to end modern day slavery.
When I sat down with my children to tell them about this new job I used my words carefully. “I will be helping an organization who operates in Asia to legally shut down places where people have women and children as slaves. These slaves are forced to do things with their bodies that they do not want to do. Using online connections I will help people get the word out so more people will join in to help free those slaves.”
One of the kids said, “So basically your job is a super hero.” I have such great kids.
The name of this amazing team of super heroes is called: Exodus Road. <– Click the link to read more.
I began this post speaking about patterns. A pattern is emerging. I am so thrilled to see it happen.
One of my closest friends, Andrea Baker, and her husband Andy lead an incredible ministry called Word Made Flesh Bolivia which serves to give abundant life to woman and children affected by prostitution. I have always admired their work.
Our former interns, Melinda and Romon Gore, have begun a ministry in the Dominican Republic to house underage girls who were victims of child trafficking and prostitution. Red Roots is all about bringing restoration to the broken. Love that!
My desire to become a midwife has led me to become informed about the dire issues worldwide regarding victimized women. The passion to become involved has been slowly growing.
It would seem that my path has been leading me in the direction of helping bring freedom to women.
I am humbled and honored to be invited to help in the abolitionist movement of my time.
Thank you to all who have been praying for us through this transition. This is one of many answers to prayer that we have been seeing. Though undeserving and still messed up I receive this kiss from Heaven and I am so very thankful.
We sat on the concrete bench. My eldest son, only five or so at the time, looked out over the city from our perch. Cochabamba boasts of possessing the tallest statue of Christ in the world. We took some visitors up the hill to see it. As they meandered we sat.
“Mama, you know, God is nice to mean people, too,” he said without breaking his gaze.
“Oh, why do you say that?” I asked.
“Well, even if you are nice or mean you still get the air and the rain and the sun,” he explained.
One of the most ancient names we know of God is ‘I AM’. Later we hear the words of Christ and know that I AM is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Our eternal Lord inhabits the expanse of the Heavens and the Earth, He influences all of time and space, He exists.
To know and believe that God exists unconstrained by our human constructs, yet moving and being within them, is to trust that His character and power affect us all. Regardless of the definition one might give to the way she or he relates with God, or avoids relating with God, we are subject to the Sovereignty of His Majesty; Our Humble King reigns.
God is Love. Sovereign Love casts out all fear. He leads me beside still waters, in paths of righteousness, and through valleys shadowed by death, for His name’s sake. But I gotta still move my feet.
I AM in the air, the rain, and the sun.
I AM in the seen, the unseen, and the hoped for.
I AM in all.
I AM with the evil, and with the kind.
I AM with the doubter, eyes wide open, and with the believer, eyes pressed shut tight, in prayer, in denial, in defeat.
I AM with all.
So I trust that He is in all this happening in and around me right now, as he has been from the beginning of time, and will be for all eternity.
Side by side we walk, He and I. Sometime I veer this way or that and He enjoys the exploration, as long as we are together. Sometimes I feel Him take my hand and whisper in my ear, and I lean into His woos. Other times He and I commune in the simple talks between friends, in the deep thoughts shared, in the confessions laid bare in intimacy. He is there, He is here, because He is.
A woman told me that when she was a child she carried one of her mother’s high heeled shoes in her backpack. She was so scared of God’s punishment that she armed herself in the case He should jump out and try to get her. Her plan was to throw the shoe at Him and run away.
Can I tell you that with all these hard times we are living there have been moments when I want to throw a shoe at God? But not so much in fear, rather in indignant anger. I thought I did everything “right”. I thought I followed all the rules. I thought I took the path of greatest devotion. I’m a missionary, for Christ’s sake!
All the while that I am throwing shoes of deserving dutiful devotion laced with manipulative attempts of purchasing a good life at God’s chest, He doesn’t go away. He takes it. He opens His Easter arms, smiles wide and tells me, “Come on, take your best shot, give it all you’ve got, get it all out, I can take it.” He doesn’t run and hide from my insults and fury. He is the I AM Who can withstand my deepest outbursts of rage.
Then my arms fall limp, battle sore and weary. He is, still. He bends His battered form next to mine. He leans my head on His bruised chest. He is, still.
God is in the voice of my counselor. God is in the tears of my friends as they weep with me. God is in the arms of my daughter wrapped around me. God is in this, all this, everywhere. I trust Him.
I trust Him to be able to take it when I question the silence. I trust Him to be able to take it when I want to blame, accuse, and judge. I trust Him to take it all and make it all into something that will be well, and good.
“It’s not like Bolivia is a blanket that we were using and now we are throwing it to one side. Bolivia is woven into me and it’s threads are a part of who we are forever,” I said with tears blurring my vision as I spoke with my oldest Bolivian friend sitting in front of me in the coffee shop today.
She gave me a butterfly ring as a going away gift, to match my first tattoo. “These are wings as you go on the next part of the journey God has for you.” I settled in and listened, as I have learned to do when I know the time has come to listen, to her speak out from her heart blessings, encouragement, sweet memories, and kind wishes. Bolivians know how to make heartfelt speeches. I was touched.
Bolivia has given me many ‘firsts’. I came as a 25 year old mother of three small children, practically a blank canvas just getting started with life. Remember those lists I was talking about in the previous post? Here’s a fun one I did.
Firsts in Bolivia
1. Kiss on the cheek greeting
4. Climbed a mountain to the summit
5. Got a massage
6. Went to a spa
7. Changed my mind about drinking
8. Learned I prefer white wine over red
9. Officiated a wedding
10. Served as a pastor
11. Ate Indian food
12. Stayed at a 5 star hotel
13. Got a tattoo
14. Got on social media
15. Used the sci-fi predicted miracle that is Skype
17. Wrote a book
18. Bore a Bolivian child
19. Adopted a Bolivian child
20. Had major surgery
21. Learned Spanish
22. Held a baby abandoned on a the doorstep
23. Held the hand of a friend as she was losing her baby at 19 weeks of pregnancy
33. Traveled internationally with only my nursing baby as company
34. Traveled internationally with only my five children as company
35. Built a snowman with my kids
36. Won an award for my photography
37. Visited children who live in a prison with their criminal parents
38. Ate Bolivian food
Since I am now 38 years old I’ll stop there.
We are looking at a season of some new firsts for our family. Some will be fun, some terrifying, some silly, and some very serious.
Please pray with us about a huge first for our youngest, Kaitlynn. She will soon, by the grace of God, become for the first time in her life a citizen of the United States of America. There is paperwork, appointments, and other rigamarole to get through for this to happen. Not impossible, just needs to get done along with all the other stuff that is happening right now. Thanks so much for praying with us.
Since we started moving in the direction of moving I started moving towards resources to help with the move. More specifically, I started to gather aids to help our family with this impending Time of Transition.
One thing I have learned from being on the team of A Life Overseas is to not take the resilience of the children for granted. Third Culture Kids need to be given the gift of vocabulary to be able to communicate as they process their transient life. They need to know where they belong and how they fit; and it is our privilege as parents to guide their eyes to the truth of who they are.
I have also picked up on the fact that transition is inescapable in life. We can choose to be intentional about the work it is doing in our lives, or we can ignore it and become emotionally constipated and bitter. The emotional ups and downs and sideways and backwards and loop-do-loops that everyone in our family is experiencing all at once must be validated.
Funny thing, too, I have discovered that we are not the only ones doing this kind of thing. Tons of others have been-there-done-that and tons more are right here in-the-thick thickness of it all. Following is a list of some of the things we are using to help us through this transition. Feel free to add your thoughts in the comment box. Also, following the list I have included a very special request about a “dream tool” I would like to add to our Transition Tool Box.
9. REAL LIFE PEOPLE: Geographically close people who I can be intimately authentic with
10. REAL LIFE PEOPLE: I call, skype with, email, facebook chat, etc. who I can also pour myself out to without fear of rejection
11. Journal – – A magical awakening of my spirit stirs to life as my hand makes the shapes of letters, words, and phrases. As my ears hear the slight scrape of the pencil on the page the crusty, dry encasement of my soul scrapes away to reveal a clarity not known before the slow quieting of writing.
12. Reading aloud to my children – – I read a portion from a book or a new article I have found about transition, third culture kids, etc. aloud and then we talk about it. I ask leading questions to get them to voice what is going on inside of them. This has also built a beautiful trust within the siblings.
13. Charts around the house – – Like the image above
14. Lists – – I make some kind of list or chart every day for all kinds of things. Allowing myself to go a little overboard with the list making as we go through this transition has been soothing and helpful.
15. Crying, Laughing, Shouting, Sleeping, Watching Shows, Saying the Hard Things… living in the moment. For most of my life I shunned emotions. This has been a huge point of growth for me to value emotions, and not be scared of any of them. Attentive to my emotion at the moment I allow it to be expressed in a healthy manner, then I move on.
17. Enneagram study- – This is an ancient tool aiding in self awareness and appreciation for the diversity in the people around us
18. Travel – – If I don’t have a trip to look forward to I can become stir crazy; I know this about myself. To keep sane I plan trips.
19. Exercise – – I jog
20. Nails – – Self-care is the catch phrase I hear often as I educate myself about transition. Getting my nails done is a tiny bit of that. Every time I see my cute nails I am reminded that it is good and necessary to take measures to care for myself.
Almost every missionary who has been through a similar transition speaks of debriefing. Most recommend this one in Colorado called MTI. Here is what a friend had to say:
“…the program at MTI is just wonderful for the kids. That is one of the reasons we went there rather than somewhere else. Just wanted to let you know, too, that the debriefing program is not actually counseling. They will recommend counseling afterwards if they think you need it but they don’t do counseling. It’s really just a place to share your story and process what you have been through. The most valuable part for us was being with others who were sharing their stories and realizing that even though locations and circumstances were different, we were all going through the same processes and we were not alone! Just normalizing our experiences was so beneficial. The program at MTI is also just one week.”
Here’s the thing folks, and I am just being real here, the week for our family would cost thousands of dollars. Oftentimes when a missionary is connected to an organization these kind of services are provided. As independent missionaries in a bit of a money bind this idea sounds unreachable to me. But I want so much for our family to being able to do this! Can you pray with me? Should God desire for us to attend a debriefing I trust that He will provide for it. Thanks friends.
Join the Facebook group a friend started for us if you would like to help with practical needs as we set up our new home:
We tried really hard to be good missionaries in Bolivia. For thirteen years we tried so very hard. It started even before that when in my youth the passion for mission life burned in my heart. DaRonn and I met as teenagers and found commonality of desire for ministry, for setting out to change the world, for making our lives count for something. We rushed our young family off to a foreign land with such a sense of urgency.
Missionary life has many hardships. It’s hard to wrangle the tongue and make it make new sounds. It’s hard to ask people for money all the time. It’s hard to live amongst socioeconomic extremes whilst examining our own lifestyle choices. It’s hard being away from the comfort and acceptance of family. It’s hard reminding ourselves of why we are struggling with sickness in our bodies and maladies of the soul. It’s hard being misunderstood, judged, and criticized by those we are serving as well as those who are supposed to be on our team. It’s hard weighing the sacrifices we require of ourselves, our kids, and our family back home for perfect strangers. It’s hard when perfect strangers become dear friends and true family then we have to say goodbye.
We gladly assumed those hardships for the sake of the mission. We viewed the discomforts as necessary in order to win the lost. We pushed and pulled, we strove and struggled, we gave everything we had and took only loads of responsibility. We overextended ourselves. And then we broke.
Now we are leaving Bolivia worn down physically, mentally, and emotionally. Our finances are suffering. Our family is in need of restoration. Life got way too hard.
If things are hard it is because we care about something. The hardship is indication of a set of values. The definition of our standards determine how hard (or not hard) something is going to be. Indifference about the outcome makes it not so hard because we would not give it any effort.
Sometimes hardship or hard times are imposed upon us. The desired outcome differs from the present reality. If the hardship came, and we didn’t care about what happened as a result, then that thing would not be hard because we would not be putting forth any effort towards changing that reality.
When things just kept getting harder and harder I began to ask some hard questions:
Is this hardship a necessary part of reaching what is hoped for? Do we know for certain what we hope for? Do we know for certain that the hard parts in our life correlate with that hope? What do I need to do differently?
Those kind of questions led to an overhaul of our lives. Granted, not all missionary careers follow the pattern ours took. Our unique path led us face to face with some realities we know need to change.
The ability to voice our values is helpful because then we can determine if the effort is worth it. We can look at what we seem to care about so deeply that is requiring this great force of effort from us and we can decide if this is actually where we want to put our energies. We assign worth to the outcome thus justifying the effort required of us to reach that place.
If we don’t think it is worth it, we’re not going to work for it.
If we do think it is worth it, we will work for it, we’ll assign creative energy towards it, and we will suffer hardship for it.
We determined that a clearer definition of our hopes is needed. Our efforts need to align more closely with our hopes. We need to set aside one set of hardships (the ones that don’t match our hopes) and take up a different set of hardships (ones that will carry us to our hopes).
We began in Bolivia with the greatest intentions. Over the years we have done amazing, wonderful, and fabulous things that have altered eternity, I am sure of it. The adventure of it all has been spectacular. Somewhere along the way, though, we chipped away too much, compromised, and became crippled.
Life is hard. We’ve heard that saying so many times. But why is it hard? Because we care. And because we care we will put forth hard efforts.
It’s hard to break destructive habits like overeating, smoking, laziness, etc. But the hardship is worth the efforts expended to attain a healthier lifestyle. It’s hard to acquire the relationship skills to overcome harmful patterns such as anger, blame, victim mentality, etc. But the end goal of a more peaceful existence with society gives us the motivation to do the hard work to learn a new way of relating to people. It’s hard to admit when things are not working and then start the even harder process of finding out why, what to do about it, and where to find help.
This decision to move our family to Omaha, Nebraska in the United States was reached after more than a year of deliberation. It is a hard, hard, hard choice. The implementation of this change is proving to be one of the hardest things we have ever done in our lives.
I hope this move will remove some of the pressing obligations so that we can find a more livable rhythm
I hope this move will allow us to see more clearly where we want to invest ourselves
I hope we can find some healing of body and soul since there are more resources readily available in the States
I hope to be able to give our kids some really great opportunities, and that they will be able to connect with their heritage
I hope that we are not so far gone that this is “too little, too late”, that things can be better
One thing has been made clear through this all: we cannot do this alone!
I have narrowed my choices down to four schools. These provide distance study programs to become a Direct Entry CPM (Certified Professional Midwife). This path of schooling is distinguished by the fact that I am choosing to not become a nurse first.
These schools share a few things in common:
First 2 years – technical training
Second 2 years – technical training, clinical hours, and attendance of a certain number of births with a certified preceptor
Finalization of the training – taking the NARM test to be certified
Ordered by preference, Est. total cost* ($US) for the 4 years of study
*Includes: application fee, administration fee, tuition, other school fees, NARM application ($1,000), book costs ($2,000), materials costs ($300)
*Not included: travel costs to attain the necessary clinical hours and attend the required number of births with a qualified preceptor
The U.S.A is playing catch up
My search pulled up so many fabulous programs based out of Australia, New Zealand, England, the Philippines, Belgium, and The Netherlands. The midwifery situation in the U.S. seems to be tangled up in many political issues which has stunted its progression. It only makes sense for me to study with a program from the States because of my citizenship, paperwork realities, and financial aid options. For the travel requirements of the second half of my training the logical country to ping-pong back and forth from is the U.S. so I might see friends and family while I am there.
As I continue to explore my options other more brilliant choices might present themselves – especially for the second half of my training. I am excited to see where this path leads, quite literally.
My realistic aim is to be enrolled to start classes August of 2015. That’s a year away. One year to sort out the financial side of things, apply (and get accepted), and find a way to get my hands on some text books. Doable, right?
My natural inclination after so many years as a missionary is to invite you to participate in this journey with me. Thank you for doing that already by reading, showing interest with your comments, and for encouraging me along the way. I think a support group of people is so vital.
Another way you could help me out is to continue to pray for: clarity in my brain, creativity to solve the logistic realities, energy to see this through, provision, and connections with key people. Thanks for that!
I am really so very excited about this. DaRonn has been super supportive and encouraging, I love that! All my kids are happy for me too.
This morning I had a revelatory moment as I pondered my favorite tree. I first fell in love with the tree during my time living in Santa Cruz, Bolivia so very long ago. My oldest were toddlers at the time and would call these trees ‘honey pot trees’ because they are swollen in the middles. In Bolivia this tree represents femininity because of its form and the pink flowers that fill their branches in the Spring. Even way back then I was drawn to a womanly part of nature. The deeper significance of that yearning has reassured me once again of the good path I am on.