it takes a lot to do a lot. @tessblue - Tumblr Blog

Posts

By the looks of it, you'd have thought that I did all the work! Don't be fooled, this mother laboured like a champ, and I had the honour of welcoming her baby boy into the world! Like many FIlipino families, a name had not yet been chosen. Born on my best friend's birthday(who is ironically pregnant right now!), I casually suggested the name John Paul (after my best friend's husband). They ended up naming him Saint Charles. You know. It's close enough. :]

#naturalbirth #midwife #filipinobabies

beach snack. my current beachy tunes.

based on the real story.

Earlier this month our class had an art assignment. As you might have read in my newsletter update, we each had to write stories relating to midwifery as part of our project. I thought it might be nice for some of you to read mine, and wanted to give you that opportunity, so here it is!

“It's like trying to squeeze a watermelon out of a lemon” that was the only thing I knew. No doubt, multitudes of other girls felt equally as ill-equipped, confused, and fearful. As I can remember, this was the only information circulating in elementary schools on the topic of birth during my day. I can also recall my amazement that something could spend nine whole months hanging out inside of a cozy den, that once departed, could never return. It all seemed rather sad and quizzical to me.

The first birth I ever attended, was very much like the second and third. I could scarcely tell you a difference between them, besides the age and appearance of the women involved. As part of my schooling, I shadowed doctors and nurses throughout the largest county hospital in the south, and throughout that program, I came to witness many circumstances and procedures hidden to the normal citizen. In the case of these births, the nurses consulted a big board, or rather, a wall of names, and numbers. It was a towerous, ever-changing, collaborative chart: documenting the progression of labours in each of the rooms throughout the ward. Lines of numbers changed colours as women approached nearer their time, much like a stoplight cycling from red to green. It was a deceitful trick, this board, seemingly a considerate and tactful way to monitor women while leaving them to their privacy. I was fooled as much as the next person, thinking that the grand chart meant the women achieved a sort of distance from the hospital environment in order to labour more like fully capable women, than patients. Following a nurse into the rooms proved contrary. First, I had to adorn myself in the hospital green tissue gown, cap, and booties, and while encouraged to wear a mask, I politely declined. I thought, am I entering a quarantine zone, or a delivery room? “it's almost time!” quipped one of the floor nurses, eager for my observation as a young unseasoned student.

Peering past the nurse, I saw the woman. She was rocking the same pale green tissue, though in a much more complicated array, which allowed her legs to be splayed apart in the direction of the far wall, without revealing anything to the entries. The nurse carefully checked all of the wires linked up to the figure in the bed, as other nurses sifted in and began to arrange tinkering tools all about the room. There were subtle beeps and flashing numbers, and the stinging scent of antiseptic. The nurses chatted above the patient as she uncomfortably writhed and gritted her teeth. They had no need for me here, in fact, the way they bantered between themselves in ignorance of the labouring woman seemed to communicate that they could have this baby even without her. After checking all of her vitals, a doctor entered without so much as glancing at the patient. No, that's not true, he made a bee-line between her knees, gloving up and telling the tissue-draped darkness that he was going to check her dilation. Seeming satisfied with his discovery he retreated a few steps, snapped off his gloves, and whisked out of the room as quickly as he'd entered.

We all stood around awkwardly for awhile, watching this woman ball into intensity, and melt again into exhaustion, a few of the nurses chirped encouraging remarks as they watched. I could feel a confusion welling up and fighting within me. I did not know this woman, nor was I familiar with the progression of birth yet, but I wanted with everything inside of me to come up beside her, hold her hand, and fight through her contractions with her using empowering remarks. I felt helpless, I felt useless, I felt limited by this strange environment, that made me feel so out of place.

Hardly having time to cope with these feelings, they were shattered by urgent hollers and undecipherable exclamations. A nurse yelled for the doctor, a button was pressed, the door swung open, the transient man adorned a fresh pair of gloves and marched right back between the woman's legs. Things were yelled, recorded, passed, and somewhere someone mentioned a barbecue and homemade lemonade. I watched: a wallflower, no, an elephant, backed into the corner, trying to take it all in. Amidst all the hurry, I noticed, not a one was looking at the mother's face. In fact, she was scarcely looked at the whole time, I recalled. It seemed that despite the careful wrapping of green paper, all of that privacy was created only to have her integrity steamrolled by an armload of “capable” workers. The baby was extracted, severed from the mother, carried to a corner, looked over carefully, washed over once, wrapped up, and taken to the mother. The snap of the doctor's gloves were heard once more as this time he caught my eye and said, “that's all.”

It wasn't until much, much later, that I discovered, that was NOT all. I hadn't gone to Africa with any intentions of delivering babies. I had spent the past four months training in Primary Health Care for missions, and the previous three years figuring out that that was what I wanted to do with my life. I was excited to be working alongside doctors, nurses, midwives, and various other health-care providers, trekking out into african villages. We began our stay by teaching a primary health-care seminar to locals, and I hoped for myself to learn as much from them as we were planning to teach to them. I dissolved any ideas in my mind of what I hoped this outreach would be, and tried simply to be available. Available to God's prompting, and people's needs. I didn't think that would mean being available to assist in a birth, but as I walked past the L&D corridor with one of the midwives on staff, we heard a forceful grunting sound, with a shrill intake of breath echoing through the empty hospital.

The hospital, during it's prime time, had been maintained, and staffed by the Portuguese. A large concrete building amidst fleets of mud huts. It exhibited the peak of technology in the time that the foreigners ruled the land. A sugar plantation stood nearby, a remnant of the western control and her struggle to squeeze resources and revenue from the otherwise desolate land. Yet, when the country gained independence in 1975, the white men left, taking their doctors and fancy equipment with them. The hospital was abandoned, a lavish exoskeleton, to be ravaged, along with the country, in civil war for 15 years before peace. This was the heart-wrenching reality that we had come to.

Knowing that the doctors were scarce, the curious midwife who had been pacing to the classroom for our seminar wasted no time diverting her path. She crept through the wide archways of peeling blue paint, and disappeared into the dusky room. Checking around me, I saw no one else to come to help, and promptly followed her in to rudimentary excuse for a labour room.

A woman lay rolling from side-to-side, her belly stretched tightly, and bulging. She was on a plastic mattress, suspended on what seemed to be pure rust, in a room that was empty, aside from a bucket of bleach in the corner, and a tray with scissors and gloves perched at the foot of her bed.

My friend had already come to her side, and began to massage her back vigorously, relief evident across the woman's face. Within minutes, the pains overtook the woman's body, and for a minute the woman yelped, and breathed out a shrill , “mami!mami!”, but then as my friend encouraged her, prayed with her, and upon her “amen”, the woman looked her dead in the eyes. She clung to the bed with an incredible strength that rippled throughout her toasted skin. She swallowed her pain, a fierce determination overtaking her. Her lips pursed, as she locked eyes with the midwife, and she fumed deep, shuddering, breaths through her arrow-shaped, nose. She shone. She was raw, human strength. I was mesmerized. She was the most beautiful sight I could ever remember seeing. smooth velvety, cacao skin, licked by toffee knicks and scars, the upper half of her body lightly tangled in the brightest allure of african fabric that the colour spectrum could handle.

A clear, sweet-smelling fluid surged across the mattress and began to drip over the edge into the sunlight, and my companion wasted no time slipping the gloves onto her hands. I hastened to the spot she had left and began to fill in the role that I had just witnessed. I don't know where she summoned her strength, but this goddess of a woman throbbed energy and power. She briefly tossed her head back, and let out a slow moan. Enraptured by it all, I heard my comrade let out a laugh and I quickly looked down to see her dewy eyes engaged with the slippery, screaming, soul she held in her hands.

In the moments following, she handed the baby to me as I passed it to the mother. The baby's eyes fluttered open, and rested on her mother's. They shared an intense look of love encompassing them like a force-field, and I wondered to myself how many other stunningly beautiful moments I had never seen in my life. The midwife captured my attention, and directed me to aid her in the delivery of the placenta and the cutting of the cord. She guided me in checking the mother for any complications, as she and her prize snuggled below us in contented joy.

It could be different, it could be SO MUCH different even in the absence of the 'essentials' of the western world. This realization struck me with an eagerness to experience more, to understand more, to teach more, this pinnacle experience was merely the fuel for a journey I knew was far but over.

#midwife #shortstory #birth #labour #missions

This is Princess Kesha. (though maybe the parents spell it with a "$"?) I assisted in welcoming her into the world tonight. She was my last assist before catching. Next shift, I'm carching! #ivecomesofar #midwifeforlife

#midwifeforlife #ivecomesofar

My very first assist! Mother came into the clinic with a fever, fully dilated, and pushing already. Shortly after, she delivered this beautiful, tiny, appx. four weeks premature baby boy. More on this story In my next newsletter.

love covers all: shock, exhaustion, fear, and anxiety.

In a recent birth, the woman laboured difficultly for hours, and for awhile it seemed that her labour wasn't progressing, and we thought we would have to transport her to the hospital. The mother was beginning to be discouraged, her husband had left to gather money for the birth bill, and because of her difficulty we had to start her on oxygen and an IV. I got to sit on the bed beside her, look her in the eyes, encourage her, massage her back, and tell her that I believed in her. Before long, the baby was crowning. We urged her to reach down and feel her baby's head, and as she did so she shifted into tears of happiness, and began repeating, “My baby! My baby!”, laughing between sobs, and continuing to stroke it's head. It was SUCH a beautiful, emotional moment, and I along with some of the other attending midwives teared up and sniffled through our preparation for this baby. With new-found determination and hope, the mother pushed her baby out within minutes. Rubbing the newborn to clean her and encourage the lungs as she rested on her mother's chest, the beautiful birth was immediately shattered into urgency. “TRANSPORT!” was shrieked throughout the birth-room, as midwives scrambled frantically, gathering up the baby and rushing to the ambulance. The baby had been born with an umbilical hernia, organs and intestines spilling into it's cord. With little explanation, just seeing the purple-y, apple-sized mass, and watching my supervisor's reaction, I remained at my post by the mother's side. With fear widening her tired eyes, she begged of me, “am I okay, ma'am? Am I okay?”. I was able to hold her hand tightly, look straight into her eyes with confidence, and tell her that she was fine, she'd done SUCH a good job, I was SO proud of her, and that we just had to make sure her baby was okay. With my limited training so far at the clinic, I wasn't of much use elsewhere, so I was able to stay with her, looking straight into her eyes, overwhelmed with love for her as the other midwives skillfully stabilized her and delivered the placenta. (The mother, Rhea has recovered well from her delivery. You can continue to be in prayer for her baby girl, Zhea. I have heard that she has just received the first of many surgeries to come. Prognosis in America is very good for her condition(umbilical hernia), but it's hard to know here in the Philippines with such limited resources.)

I continue to cultivate a deeper and deeper love for this country and the people around me. It just feels RIGHT, you know? I'm challenged, yet needed; tired, but rewarded. Even after a long day of school and then shift, I get to come home to girls that are willing to talk with me, or somehow conjure up some silly de-stressing method.

The night after the fright of baby Zhea, and the craziness of having FIVE other babies born in that same eight hour shift, me and Tori came home to a completely dark house. Feeling adrenaline still rushing, we perched on the kitchen table and began talking. Somehow we wound up discussing the discrepancy and reliability of battery operated thermometers. Before long, I had three thermometers popping out of my mouth, and one shoved beneath each arm. We hadn't even caught the absurdity of our actions until they began beeping intermittently; we were riotous fits of laughter.

Just last night after shift, we decided to keep the theme going, and busted out our fetal heart dopplers to test on ourselves. Sliming ultrasound lubricant on the dopplers we searched for our own heartbeats, and you can imagine our delight when we found we could use the dopplers on our voice-box to project our voices like microphones!

Our souls were meant to meet each other.

That's what I think as I bounce on the back of a motorcycle down windingly absurd traffic. I am joking gaily with the motorcycle driver in my very limited visayan while returning home after my second outing with my newest best friend Sarah.

I don't know how many of you can identify with the feeling of relief when you move to the other side of the world, and after being bombarded by cultural adventure, compromise, and non-stop movement and meeting, you finally find someone who GETS you. Not to say I haven't had FANTASTIC conversations and relationships built since being here, but in meeting Sarah, it was like seeing eye-to-eye, stripped down, no shame, just deep appreciation, understanding, and inspiration for each other.

All it took was one slow shift in the birth clinic, and as we shared the tidbit- “get to know you”'s we were dropping our jaws low enough at each other that we inquired more and more personal questions only to learn that we shared so much more than anticipated. Our beginnings remind me of the quote by C.S Lewis “Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” I'm sure MANY such exclamations crossed our mouths as we sat on the couches in the birth room while the other shifters looked on our exciting exchange in wonderment.

After that first shift together, running off of caffeine fumes, and four hours of sleep we were unfazed by our lethargy and starving to talk more. We went straight from our shift out to coffee.

We spilled our entire lives to each other at a tiny round table in the back of a coffee shop, i'm sure, much to the filipino onlookers entertainment, and before transitioning to our next daily responsibilities, we scheduled our next date. Tonight was our second outing. We began by traipsing downtown to find a little souvenir shop in the heart of Davao. We giggled and fawned over the goods, while I practiced my Visayan, and she found presents to take home to her family in two weeks.

We left, and as she mentioned her blood sugar dropping, being diabetic, we began searching the street food stands for vittles. We finally shuffled into a dark “shake shack”(my brother, living in NYC would have LOVED the irony) with pre-cooked meals we could point at and choose. We selected a delicious stick of chicken barbecue (Davao is FAMOUS for its delicious barbecue) the size of our heads, a spiced squash and green bean mix, and rice. It cost grand total of three dollars to feed the both of us jam-stuffed with plenty to spare!

Sitting in the darkened shack, we began to notice our curious surroundings. A man descending from the ceiling with a crate of sodas, horses painted across the entirety of the back wall , two women sharing a durian while singing karaoke, and a server wearing a Boston Red Sox tee (Sarah is from Boston!). Laughing at the humour of our surroundings, we shouted above the woman singing“the girl in the mirror”, and continued to tell stories of traveling and trusting, and miraculous provision.

Before leaving, a group of begging children swept into the joint and snatched the leftovers off of our plates before we had a chance to register what was happening. Encouraging them to take what they wanted from the table, they thanked us profusely for feeding them, and left us feeling significantly blessed for every little thing such as meals we tend to so easily overlook in our lives.

Our date didn't stop there! Making our way down the bustling, blinking streets of davao by night, a street vendour caught our eye and Sarah, knowing I love rings, ordered me to pick out friendship rings to remember each other by. I scolded her for thinking I could EVER forget her, but she commanded me to finger through the glimmering jewelry. We laughed and laughed, feeling like 11- year olds again buying matching things, and joked with the vendour about being big white women with 'fat fingers' as he carried so many teensy filipino sized rings.

Continuing to one of city's larger malls, we mounted steps to the fifth story, just so we could see the glowing fountain and coax the security guard(this one didn't yell at me!) to take pictures of us like real tourists. Craving further conversation about each other's dreams and desires for the future, we segued into a shiny white boba tea cafe and created some milk-tea anomolies to gulp away over exaggerated story-telling.

While her body began to beg for insulin, we decided to call it a night. And quite a night it was! I felt completely spoiled by our lavishness. We decided to make just a quick stop at the money exchange in the mall before returning to our respective homes.

Mistake. NOTHING in the Philippines is “a quick stop”. When you check out at many shops it requires three cashiers to ring you up. Then bag, staple, seal, and mark your purchase, sometimes totaling half an hour to buy a pair of flip flops.

In this case, it took three people giving us three different directions to the money exchange, only to be redirected to another one: a tiny window in an information kiosk in the MIDDLE of the mall walkway. As if THAT wasn't enough, the money vendours are VERY picky about our dirty american money, and will not accept it if it is dog-eared, highlighted, or de-faced in any manner. They tabbed through EACH bill, scanning its purity, and decided half of it was worth exchanging, while they returned the other disgraced stack to Sarah. Then they proceeded to manually log in a notebook the dates on each bill? I tried on every pair of sunglasses in the kiosk beside us and modeled them for Sarah as this process dragged on.

Exhausted, we trudged out of the mall together after the exchange, and said our goodbyes as she decidedly took a taxi, and I finally caved in and let a motorcyclist drive me home. I will be sad to see her go at the end of the month, but there's no doubt that we met for a reason. With a heart for the same countries and similar ideas on what we'd like to do in the future, we have discussed meeting back up after our schooling is finished. Also, with her living in Boston, very close to my brother, we have more than ample excuse to reunite.

Thinking on the fantastic plot of our friendship: delivering babies beside each other, encouraging mothers, discovering filipino culture, exploring this asian island, challenging and encouraging one another, love, colour, flavour I can't help but think: THIS IS LIFE.

#davaocity #new friends #barbecue #midwife

some of you are not where you want to be in life, yet you party every weekend. remind me again what exactly you're celebrating?

It's life. Just more colourful.

I arrived here in the Philippines a little over a week ago, and life already feels full. With channels of information pouring into our new-coming minds, we've been rather effectively tossed into this exciting culture while meeting cluster after cluster of our new community.

Orientation has been encompassing most of our time since we, the fresh “Newlife-ers” stepped foot in Portland, two weeks ago. It's just changed scenery and intensity as we've arrived here in Davao.

I'm thrilled to report that we've already bonded like sisters. From the start, we even cuddled shamelessly on the airplanes as we fought for sleep on our accumulative 25+ hour flights. I live in a big house with fourteen other girls. Which some of you know, was more terrifying to me than moving halfway around the world. Yet, they are all so relate-able, with such incredible stories, and beautiful backgrounds. I'm really blessed to be bunking up with such unique women. Plus, there's always SOMETHING interesting going on. And plenty interesting things to eat!

I toured the clinic for the first time this week, and was impressed with its size and efficiency. I could NOT be more excited to begin serving at Mercy Maternity Center.

#philippines #maternity center #exotic

two men fist bumped each other as I asked to take the middle airline seat: this was going to be an interesting flight. I quickly questioned whether I shouldn't reconsider my choice, but on a full flight, the seat was near the front of the plane, and I was in a hurry to dismount upon arrival. They seemed to be pretty harmless older men, and I figured I can handle myself, so I scooched in and settled into my seat. One thing you should know about me is that I seemingly carry a phantom sign on my forehead reading: "Tell me your life story". It's not something that I disdain, it just continues to shock and surprise me: the number of strangers who pour their hearts out to me. I'm always happy to listen, as I did so also, in the case of these two grandfathers.

Anthony and Jim were just the start to a very exciting and unique weekend. They told me stories of one of their pro-basketball playing son, Puerto Rican roots, and days building the San Diego-Coronado bay bridge. While dropping their jaws at my testimony, and eagerly asking to hear more about my take on life. Every one of us stepped off the aircraft feeling encouraged.

It was the perfect primer for a beautiful holiday in San Diego yielding beautiful walks, beautiful talks, delectable food, and SHAMU! The best way to describe my weekend: radiant.

I was thrilled to be spending quality time with a good friend in shiny san diego, with sunshine spilling on every street, and shimmering waters to stare at.

My return to texas proved to be equally as exciting, as for the first time in my life, the airplane made an emergency landing to dodge some apparently very threatening storms.

The man beside me, after watching me sleep soundly, face-down on a tray table through the turbulence on the first leg of our flight (yes, i awoke with a sore noggin, and have since sprouted an indicating bruise, but the sleep was SO WORTH IT.), finally struck up conversation. "Is that a LIBRARY book?" he asked incredulously. My reply, an equally quizzical: "Uhmmmm, yes?" transitioned seamlessly into discussions about family, travel, american culture, our faith, and personal callings. Then when I told him about my becoming a missionary midwife, he looked more shocked than a baby in a room full of bubbles. Telling me that he and his wife were expecting their second next month, he informed me that she uses a midwife, and has been trying to get her to do a home birth, and urged me to tell him more about my thoughts and feelings about childbirth. Not exactly the typical response i get from middle-aged men! hahaha

Our flight being detoured, and having to back-track back to Albuquerque to allow for the majority of the passengers' connecting flights, we finally landed in Dallas at one a.m.

Walking through the creepily vacant airport (wildly zombie apocalyptic, like every corner is lurking with some ominous danger.), I ended up waiting for my ride outside in the empty loading zone. There was one other person waiting outside, hovering beside the only outdoor electrical outlet, which I needed in order to preserve my phone battery in this airport wasteland.

This, too, became a challenging decision in my mind as I approached a black man in his mid-late thirties, dripping in jewelry. It was not for the afore mentioned reasons that I hesitated, but for the fact that this man wore sunglasses.. at one a.m.

Considering him quirky, I decided to go ahead and take my chances, and charge up. He must have also seen this elusive sign on my forehead urging him to share his life story with me, because he quickly struck up conversation and began telling me of his plans to go visit his children in Minnesota. He shared stories of his children, his ex wife, and his struggles, while we mutually recounted motorcycle stories.

Thanking me deeply for keeping him company as I departed, I couldn't help but feel blessed to be used as such a tool of comfort and encouragement to such various arrays of people. Somehow I, an equally undeserving mortal, carry the reflection of my own redemption and grace, and have the ability to communicate hope and joy despite all my own flaws and failures. Hallelujah!

#tell your story #airplane travel sandiego strangehappenings makingfriends

Christening Instagram with some Monday-night love. #bff #latenights #indoorvariationsofvolleyball

#indoorvariationsofvolleyball #latenights #bff

"[we at Newlife] are fully exposed as we immerse ourselves into chaos of rescuing teenage prostitutes,

helping abandoned babies,

working with pregnant drug addicts,

protecting the dignity of a confused 13 year old pregnant girl who's scared to death of what’s happening to her body.

Newlife is not for the faint of heart. It’s not just a midwifery school. Ours is a unique school unlike any other in the world, and our students are invited to join something far bigger than anything they’ve ever experienced in their walk of faith and immersion into what missionary life is really about. “ Read more about my newest plans to attend school in the Philippines by clicking the link arrow next to the title, or visit:https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B1KJcQXkcvqtRlRVZ0NEaDJHOFU/edit?usp=sharing ! And feel free to shower me in words of encouragement and prayers.

#midwife #philippines #so excited

We're going to go see "Lincoln" in theaters today, and maybe "les Miserables" aprés! we'll be quite the parade, seven women, with Rebecca in her motorized wheelchair, and then Paul sneaking in the back door of a Belgian movie theater!

KITTENBALL. can you believe that i'm missing these precious additions? #my nikita had babies! #icoulddiethey'resocute

chamomile breath.

I sit out here on the deck as Rebecca has her quiet time. I hold a cup of chamomile tea and before me lays a low, opaque sky of clouds.

I can hear snow crackling, so it must not be quite freezing anymore, yet the wind is still fierce. She thrusts herself between the trees causing the tall, stubborn pines to emit a resisistant “whoooooooooooooooooooooossssssshhhhh!” The birds don’t dare approach the feast-laden feeders surrounding Rebecca’s room with me, the hooded creature, sitting watch, though I can hear their sing-song chatter in the distance. I can even hear a rooster crowing between the toppling gusts of wind.

Despite the cold, it is undeniably beautiful out here. In fact, the chill adds a sort of peace to the windy, winter scene, completeing its serenity. It seems fitting to be drinking fresh chamomile, the queen of calming teas, her flower heads floating around hot, steamy milk.

[that is NOT chamomile. for some reason, i've never thought to take a photo of the pretty flowers floating around in my beverage, however here is some frost-bitten hydrangea.]

Without warning I am JOLTED out of the serene setting by a page on rebecca’s beeper. When she’s left alone, as she is for her quiet time, naptimes, and bed time,(along with carious OTHER “times”.) she wears a pager around her neck so that she can reach up with her left hand and page us if she needs anything.

I jumped up to rush to her aid. As she is quadriplegic (with some use of her left arm and neck) and she is unable to do many (well, most) everyday tasks(including many involuntary ones), this buzz could mean anything. It could be as serious as her blood pressure dropping rapidly, threatening her consciousness; her accidentally pouring hot coffee on herself (since she only has partial use of her left hand and cannot always execute fine motor skills gracefully). It could also be as simple as checking her daytimer to remind her of a time/date/name or plans; adding a blanket to her lap(she is VERY sensitive to temperature, as her body does not regulate very well on it’s own.) However, THIS morning, she has asked me to find one of her memory verses and read it out loud to her. What a welcome addition to my already peaceful morning. The particular selection she has asked me to read to her is Psalm 89:13-17

13 Powerful is your arm! Strong is your hand! Your right hand is lifted high in glorious strength. 14 Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne. Unfailing love and truth walk before you as attendants. 15 Happy are those who hear the joyful call to worship, for they will walk in the light of your presence,Lord. 16 They rejoice all day long in your wonderful reputation. They exult in your righteousness. 17 You are their glorious strength. It pleases you to make us strong.

We sat there together in that glass room for a few silent moments. The snow began to fall once more as we remarked on the beauty of those verses.

I spent the rest of the morning meditating on these things and what they mean to me. REALLY mean to me:

unfailing love. truth. glorious strength.

breaking me back to belgium.

It seems only a few posts ago that I was in Belgium... well SURPRISE, I'm back again! Since my leaving the Petrie's last time, Rebecca had called me nearly every other month asking if I could come back. haha All of us felt so strongly that my time there was too short, and that God had so much more in store for us. I was able to spend the most WONDERFUL Christmas with my family. All of us together for the first time in many, many, years for a special, lazy, playful and WHITE Christmas. I couldn't have been more thankful for the time to stand in the front yard in footy pajamas catching snowflakes on my tongue, seeing my oldest brother wearing my father's passed down lederhosen, toasting 32 times through dinner, and frankly just spending every mundane moment munching and playing with family.

So, my apartment lease expired January first. With sadness, but phenomenal support, I left my new church community, and set out for another season of service in Brussels. I hopped on a plane early New Year's Day, while the rest of you were sleeping off parties, and I tried my best to embrace the abandonment of my own agenda (SO hard, but SO necessary to let myself be taught and shaped). I have not been disappointed since arriving. My time here has been full, and ripe, and precious. The other cheery, and unique caregiver here, Melissa, must have been DIVINELY chosen, as we have become the best of friends, and a great team together sharing physical, and emotional burdens together.

I'll share with you just a few thoughts on my being here so far: There really is NO way to prepare you for this job. Even since being here before, it's astonishing to arrive and re-realize how incredibly emotionally, and spiritually applied one HAS to be. It's funny to think that you can remember being tired from physically demanding work (You're thinking, but she's a quadriplegic, what does she do? the answer is: A HECK OF A LOT more than most non-paralyzed, healthy sixty-seven year olds! and in the role of a caregiver, being her hands and feet, one has the privilege of doing MUCH of it for her!), but that the great rewards from "soul-service" (as i like to call it), are so significant, that the drudgery required to get there is rarely worth noting. If you don't get it yet, LIFE IS LEARNING TO LET GO. and even as this was a truth I learned years ago in my DTS, I have since experienced that you will have to let go again, and again, and again. I suppose it's all part of rising to the full stature. the pain becomes less and less pronounced if you can learn to cling to something lasting instead of the people and things of this earth that will continually let you down. When hope is near, the pain and weariness loses it's edge. Where is your hope?

The very least you can do in your life is figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.

from animal dreams, by barbara kingsolver

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

it takes a lot to do a lot.