what your missionaries really need when they come home

I’ve wanted to write a post like this for a long time, but it always felt weird. I’ve always thought about it right before a trip to the states, but I never wanted to post it then, because that seemed… I don’t know, bossy or annoying or demanding. But I’m thinking about the topic this week in particular because our partners, the Suells, are about to fly out for their first trip to the states. So I’m just going to borrow some inspiration from our friends’ upcoming US visit to share what I’ve always wanted to share about what missionaries really need when we come “home.”  

For your information, entertainment and revelation, I give you THE NEEDS (in no particular order):

Acknowledgement that home is now ambiguous

            After a time, we started calling Zambia home, and yet America is home too, and that can be confusing and weird and put our stomach in knots as we are both glad to be home and miss home and don’t want to leave home and can’t wait to go home all at the same time. Be patient. This is hard.

emoting the hard

Cultural latitude to be weird

            In the mean while, we’ve gotten too used to the fun(ny) Zam hand shake and awkwardly giggling and dancing at (in)appropriate times. These habits are hard to shake and so if we invade your personal bubble or forget that time is important to some people or don’t know what’s going on with Game of Thrones, forgive us. We will be henceforth be weird and hope you will love us anyway.

Time reserved for immediate family

            No one – even our most beloved, faithful, supporters – misses us as much as our families. Or, at the very least, Grandma and Grandpa miss their babies and once they have us in their arms, they never ever want to let us go. The schedule of a church-visiting trip can be quite demanding and while we want to see everyone, we need to reserve time for the mom and dad who raised us to be the missionaries we are today and without whose support, work on the field would be so very hard.

the last time they were together, that "baby" was  10 weeks old

 Salad

            Despite all of the dreaming we do about chocolate chip cookies and chicken casserole and mmmm… just… all the delicious things… if you eat “special” (ie, rich, delicious, spoil me and I don’t care about the consequences food) three meals a day for weeks on end, it actually starts to sit pretty heavy. Too much of a good thing is still too much and sometimes a nice full bowl of ruffage is exactly what the body needs. So thank you for the sixteenth bowl of ice cream this week… we’ll get to that right after this heap of spinach.

Early bed times

            Whether it be jet lag or travel fatigue or talking to people all day every day, trips home are crazy exhausting. And with kids? Multiply that cranky-tired by about a thousand. We clearly want to laugh and talk late into the night, but please kick us out at 8pm and tell us to go sleep. Somewhere in the world it is 2am and our bodies hate us and our children are on the verge of one massive come-apart lest we put them to bed at a decent hour. Please and thank you.

more tired than a college student is apparently a thing

Opportunities to talk about work

            Since these trips to the states are largely about connecting with those supporting the ministry, we want to share absolutely everything that God is doing in this place. We want to share in large groups and small groups and up front and out back. Setting up these meetings and audiences can be more work thank climbing Kilimanjaro for lack of a personal secretary and the need to coordinate approximately 60 other people’s schedules. Be merciful. Schedule early and schedule often.

To talk about something other than work

            While we never actually tire of talking about our work (because it’s clearly awesome), we do like to know what’s going on in other people’s lives! What’s new in your family? WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON IN AMERICA! Mama needs her girl-friends and Dad needs man-time and after 748 consecutive days of being the fish in the fish bowl, its important to just let your hair down and fit in and hang out for a while… which is easier to do when you are not the center of attention in a presentation context. Games, movies, feeding the ducks… these things feed souls.

geese are scary, but ducks are the best

Logistics

            Consider stepping off of a plane into another country with only that which fits in a suitcase. You don’t have a car… or a hair dryer… or really anything useful. It is a gift straight from heaven for individuals to loan out these items.

Marriage Counseling

            Life on the mission field is hard on marriages. It just is. Not all people are qualified to be actual marriage counselors, but those who are older and closer to the couple, please ask the question, “How are YOU TWO as a couple doing.” The strength of the marriage is vital to longevity on the field.

we tend to display our best selves professionally. this is not always the truth. 

Alone Time

            Jeremy and I were apart from our daughter for the first time ever when she was TWO AND A HALF. Bless Grandma’s heart for watching her so we could have our first real date in literally forever. As much fun as it is schlepping kids around to different cities and different churches and different homes… its not. Sometimes we need to get rid of our offspring so we can talk about something other than how much we need to get rid of them. If you are good with littles, bless your soul.

Show extra love/grace/kindness to the kids

            While little kids are extremely resilient, going “home” can be very stressful. Bronwyn had no experience with church nurseries and she had no indoor voice and she was used to spitting things on the ground. I got enough side-eye’s from strangers that I wanted to cry. Bless the angels who loved on my girl and gave her a little extra attention and took pictures of her for us and told her she was just beautiful and loveable and fine. Bless.

the aunties that came out of no where while we were holding microphones were in fact angels

Money

            The third goal of any home visit, after visiting family and communicating the mission, is to raise financial support. This probably goes without saying, but if you want to lift a burden off of your missionaries’ shoulders, you’ll write them checks and set up those recurring paypal and give verbal promise of more to come. All missionaries know that finances and hearts go together – and so when God’s people come forth with the financial support, we are encouraged, knowing we’re taking your love with us as well.

Words of Affirmation

            When all is said and done, “Well done, good and faithful,” is the ultimate affirmation we all long to hear. If that sounds too end times Jesus-like, equally encouraging sentiments are, 

“You guys are doing a good job.” 

“We are proud of you.” 

“It’s our honor to be a part of this work.” 

“Keep it up.”  

“Thank you for your faithfulness to your call.” “

Bless you both.” 

"We pray for you every day.”

            Verbal affirmation is a gift from the Lord. Get all sappy and don’t hold back. We’ll treasure those words for the next 836 days.

Missionaries who are well cared for at home are more effective while on the field,  and I just have to say thank you to everyone who has helped sustain us and advance us to where we are today.

Missionaries: anything I've forgotten?

transitioning, ugly-crying and carrying on

 8 days, I tell people. I have 8 more days until I get to go home. This is the conversation that has been happening a lot lately. My husband is across the ocean and I have two little girls who are heavy and poopy and we’re all hot and cranky and tired of waiting and ready to get back to real life. Jeremy made Bronwyn a cardboard calendar with quarters on each of the days with a message underneath each coin. The messages say sweet things like, “I love you” and “give mommy a hug”; I think I look forward to pulling each quarter off more than she does.

We were in the States to have a baby and now that Leonie is here and truly healthy and happy and all loaded up on immunizations and mommy milk, I feel confident that we are indeed READY. It has been long haul, and I’ve been honest about my discontentment in a few different posts here. It’s hard being in not your home, driving not your car, eating not your food and generally being at the mercy of all the people around you for basic sustenance. The lack of self determination has worn me a bit thin, and I’m planning on bellowing a William Wallace-esque FREEEEEDOOOOM the moment I step off that plane. (Because I'm dainty like that.)

But for all of my excited anticipation, I’m simultaneously sifting through the curious grief that I’ve learned accompanies all transition.

I’m well aware of the fact that I don’t transition “pretty”. After college graduation, I shut myself in my room and wept heavily for a good hour. I had an Ivy League diploma and great things ahead of me. Was I really mourning the end of finals? No more all-nighters? No more walking to class in blizzards? Hardly. And yet, I couldn’t escape that pressing sense of loss.

Here’s another goody: thirty seconds after Jeremy and I had left our wedding reception, we were driving down the road on our way to get our honeymoon started and I burst into full body sobs. Poor Jeremy, he silently patted my hand and let me cry but was probably like, Um, I’m really happy to be married now too, babe! Was I not thrilled to have married my best friend? Did I really want to go back to being lonely and single? Of course not.

I cried when I left for the Peace Corps even though I was excited beyond words. I cried when I finished the Peace Corps even though I was not even moving out of the village. I cried for days after Bronwyn was born even though I'd never imagined loving a floppy baby so much. 

sometimes I feel like the one on the right, sometimes the left

Transition brings into acute focus the good of what once was. And sometimes, seeing that good catches us by surprise, particularly if it previously seemed commonplace, or maybe even overshadowed by a whole lot of not good. You don’t know what you’ve got till its gone, go the words. Thanks, Joni Mitchell, for setting my angst to tune.

Now again it’s hitting me. I at least recognize the symptoms this time. I was completing a simple task, writing a thank you note to a lady. My girl loved so much the VBS so had just attended and I wanted the team to know how much it meant to me for her to have that kind of experience. I rambled a bit, explaining that we were missionaries and we were going back to Zambia soon and I knew my girls wouldn’t have access to that kind of programming for quite some time because we live in the bush and a VBS will only happen if I run it… and my eyes started leaking all over the thank you card. I started thinking abut the Sunday school teachers she’s had these past 8 months and the friends who have loved her and the resources for growth and learning she’s had available to her. I started thinking about the lack of malaria here, and the clean beds and the grandma hugs... and the waves of emotion just kept rolling.

this. good.

so good

In the days since, my mind has continued to add to that “this was a good thing” list – and not only with regards to the kids, but for myself as well. I’m happy for the safe place to deliver my baby and the nutritious food that was always available. I’m thankful for the small group that took me in and showed me such kindness. I’m thankful that I got to witness the beauty of all four seasons and that I had appropriate clothing for all the weather. I’m thankful for the internet access that let me stock up on planning materials and needed supplies. I’m thankful for the hugs that I received in person and not just over e-mail. It was hard in so many ways. And yet, SO VERY GOOD.

more than good

lovin' all the good

So if you ask me how I feel about leaving, I’ll still likely over-emphasize that I am totally ready and I can't wait! But I might also start to tear up too, because I know both the good I’m going back to, and the good I’m leaving behind. Part of me hates the constant flip flop of emotion, but strangely, I take comfort in knowing that this too is grace. All transition is loss, largely because God works everything for good, which means we’re always leaving something good behind.

all kinds of good

and more good still

If you’re in Dulles airport next week and see a bunch of sorry looking white girls who are schlepping luggage and ugly crying, know that its ok. Just flash me a sign of solidarity and say carry on, sister. And that we will.

where there is no circus

If anyone needs me, you can find me in the front yard replenishing my vitamin D supply while I watch Bronwyn run barefoot and blow bubbles.

To say that we are excited to be outside again after surviving the tundra months is an understantement. If you live in the North East United States, I know you’re feelin’ me. Brutal, man. Brutal. I’m not entirely sure how we made it through but I know every individual and family had their own version of a battle plan.

I sure did. I prayed. And wept. And watched far too much HGTV. I slid my way down the hill for church and one other weekly interaction with humans. I flipped pages on the calendar. I jokingly harassed my husband in Zambia for never wearing a shirt because it was “too hot.” I waged war against SAD. I referred to my maternity leave as exile. I slept for nine hours a night. I sang the hallelujah chorus when we broke freezing. I was unapologetically melodramatic. I held on.

The one thing that made it all doable was the realization that, for me, this was all temporary. Next December through April, the chitlins and I will be religiously applying sunblock. We will not fear for the safety of our ears in the two minutes it takes to get the mail. We will SEE THE NEIGHBORS MORE THAN ONCE A FORTNIGHT.

Living in Zambia has shown me over and over that human beings were never meant to live in isolation. The cold keeps Americans locked away in ways that are unhealthy even for us introverts. And what I discovered in this season of cold hibernation is that, unfortunately, no one feels the sequester more than the stay at home moms.

I actually started to think of myself as a priosoner or war, (or maybe a nut house patient,) as all the hours of all the days were filled with imaginary play and the merging of my brain with that of my child. The days wore on and on. I longed to send her outside to find nature-based entertainment, but every time I opened the back door to chuck a poopy diaper into the garage, I felt the bite and remembered just how much nature hated us.

I would like to see a correlated graph of winter temps and wine consumption of NE housewives. Because had I not been pregnant… mmhm. A local analgesic is exactly what I needed. I love one-on-one time with Bronwyn - I really do. I think she’s the greatest. She’s the short, blonde love of my life and I can’t get enough of her.

But Zambia has ruined me. It’s all I’ve ever known in the realm of mommy-hood, and I now see that I’ve been conditioned to be a very specific kind of mother. My entire parenting strategy and my ability to invest solid chunks of love and happy feelings into our home while still feeling like a fully functional, sane adult, is completely dependent on this: the circus showing up at our house every day to lend me a hand.

I’m a little ashamed to admit this because Bronwyn is surely an amazing kid, but I maintain that I am a happy parent because I willingly outsource 90% of the kiddie play to the other kiddies who never run out of imagination and youthful nonsense.

This is our Zam-life. Every day, for all seasons. Including “winter.” I could set my clock by the prompt morning arrival of short people at my door. I live for this cycle because it is during the play time of the tinies that I do absolutely anything I want to. I clean. I write. I prepare. I plan. I do my job. I think grown up thoughts. I am mindful of what’s happening out there – I know these kids lack certain “be careful” brain cells, so I am always peripherally paying attention, but otherwise, I am FREE. It is the most beautiful system ever and I still cannot fathom how the perennial Tundra Moms survive without it.

But the US vs. ZM contrast gets worse. It is mid-May here and the tuplis and my belly are both in full bloom and the sweet refrain of our days is “Hey girl! You wanna go outside?” The fresh air is lifegiving indeed, but the SAD sticks with me in some ways. I think I had an expectation that with the rising temps I’d start to feel more Zambian – more at home. But there was one thing that I miscalculated. Despite the return of the sun, we still don’t have a circus.

I shed a tear when I took this picture (true story). 

All of this wide-open space and a grand total of one little person. In my former life, I would expect this hospitable land to be occupied by no less than a hundred short and sweet humans. I mean, we have BUBBLES here, so clearly this is the place to be. And yet, my kiddo is all by herself.

She’s happy enough, gloriously flexible and low maintenece that my child is, but my heart sinks a little knowing what it will take to give her the gift of socialization: a play date. My Zambian nose wrinkles at every mention of play dates. As much as I love them – oh, how do I say this without sounding heinous – ok I confess, I just don’t. You see, the beauty of the circus coming to my house to play is that I can then disappear and do my thing, whereas with a play date, I’m still obligated to be present and attentive and participate in the kid world. Sure I have another mom to talk to, and I do love that! But it also means I get no ME time. No writing, no planning, no thinking of the deep thoughts.

America has disrupted my rhythm. I have zero mojo. I have not blogged since NOVEMBER because my braincells have gone to mush.

Dear Lord, get me back to the circus.

I will never again complain about excessive noise or over-crowding in my living room and I willingly accept the consequence of a neighbor kids peeing on my floor every afternoon because it will mean friendship for my children and precious freedom for me and that is worth all the golden eggs in the world.

And simultaneously, I’m so sorry, Tundra moms, that while I’m escaping back to happy circus land, you are stuck here, and will endure again, and again. I don’t even know what to say other than I will light candles for you.  You are clearly on a higher latitude of motherhood and have transcended to heights of enlightenment of which I can only dream. You are strong and resilient, steady and amazing. I pray that you are the recipient of random acts of kindness and that bouquets of flowers randomly appear on your kitchen counter. I hope that when your tinies are grown and no longer needing your constant entertainment and play-date-planning, that all the people will rise and call you blessed. 

I already am.