celebrating Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s legacy
/
what I think about when I'm exhausted
/
On my Bible study's prayer request slip for this week, I wrote, "I don't know what to ask y'all to pray for."
"I love parenting all six of our darlings, but I am EXHAUSTED."
"It's a daily challenge to meet everyone's needs and not collapse into bed before the kids' bedtimes."
Yep, that sums it up.
But as I sit as my computer, in my warm home, with one child napping in a cozy crib and one child mesmerized by the show he's streaming on Netflix and two children playing in the sunroom and two children enrolled in a spectacular public school, I can't help but think of a different place.
On five different days during our six weeks in Uganda, I visited the pediatric HIV clinic in our part of Uganda. I would show you pictures, but it felt inappropriate to take out my camera or phone in the waiting area where children were literally wasting away and where all eyes were on me as the only mzungu (white person) around.
I'll do my best to give you pictures with my words.
Each time, our driver dropped us off at the bottom of the hill. As we walked up the stairs to the registration pavillion, I'd pull my child's blue card from my bag. This card told the registrar all the vital info needed to find our child's thick medical file. After waiting in line, I exchanged our blue card for a number.
Our number told us how many other children waited ahead of us. We usually arrived about an hour after the clinic opened for the day. We usually received a number in the 60s or 70s.
Yes, that means 60 or 70 children with HIV were in line ahead of us.
To offer some perspective, at the end of 2011, our state North Carolina had only 54 recorded cases of HIV+ children under the age of 12. In other words, more children with HIV were seen at one clinic in one city in Uganda in one day than in all of North Carolina in 2011.
Sobering.
After getting our number, we climbed up a steep hill from the registration area to the pediatric clinic. As some point during the hike, I'd start carrying our child. Sweating, we'd arrive at the large white party tent at the top of the hill. Instead of housing a party, though, it held the waiting room for the pediatric HIV clinic. After checking in at the desk and getting recorded in the days ledger (name of the child? age of the child? are the parents alive or dead? thank you, you may sit down now.), we sat under the tent. Most days, we waited for an hour or sometimes two.
At some point during that hour, one of the nurses would come out, read a portion of the Bible in Luganda, and pray over the group. Some days she brought out runny porridge. The children and parents drank it up, while my children and I opted for the snacks and sandwiches in my bag instead.
I was thankful for the days with porridge because I simply couldn't bring enough snacks and sandwiches for all the children there. On the days without porridge, their hungry eyes watched us eat and broke my heart.
Then the nurse would call our number - in Luganda, at which point someone sitting by us in the tent would tell me, "Mzungu, it's your turn" - and we'd go up for weight and height to be recorded on a scrap of paper. After handling the scrap to me, it was back to the tent for another hour or so.
I'd look around the tent. Some children looked like mine: scrawny but so healthy looking that you'd never guess at a diagnosis of HIV if you met on the street. Some children looked... well, not like mine.
I'm having to pause from my writing to weep. We've been home for almost two months, and I still can't bear to think of our days at the clinic without becoming a snotty, sniffling mess of saline.
These other children were too limp to stand. Some bore sores from head to toe. Others had obviously intellectual disabilities, likely the result of neurological injury due to HIV's effect on their brain.
Some had parents with them. Some were alone, despite being too young to be unattended.
While I felt like I stood out in much of Uganda, there was solidarity among the parents here. We made eye contact. Entire conversations passed in our eyes without a single spoken word. Despite our differences, we were all mothers with sick children. All of us would wait as long as it took. All of us would do everything we could in hopes that HIV would not steal our children's lives or minds.
Then my child's number would be called again, and we'd leave the tent for the last time that day. We'd go inside the clinic for the first time that day, where a nurse wiped off a thermometer with a napkin and took our child's temperature. I think she took blood pressure too. I know she recorded the pulse. She'd ask me for the paper scrap to get height and weight. Sometimes she'd walk us out again to check weight and height one more time, surprised by how much growth had occurred between visits.
After recording our stats, the nurse would direct us to the main clinic. The toys and murals were appropriate for children, except their age left them dirty and broken. The kids didn't care.
Inside, we waited longer. After another hour or two, we'd see the doctor to review the records and adjust prescriptions as necessary. To get ARVs, the life-saving medications needed for people with HIV, we'd wait another hour to see the counselor, who used flashcards and quizzes to make sure we understood when to give the meds and how important each one was.
When all was said and done, we walked back outside, across the parking lot, and up another side walk to the pharmacy to pick up those vital medications.
Then we'd sit on the curb to wait for our driver, watching as other parents and children left on foot, without the luxury of modern transportation.
Now back to today.
Yes, I'm exhausted.
On days like today, I make myself think of those long, hot, rainy days in the tent and clinic. I make myself think of those other mothers. I make myself remember, even though the now familiar tears well up with each memory.
Yes, I'm exhausted.
But I am so very blessed.
"I love parenting all six of our darlings, but I am EXHAUSTED."
"It's a daily challenge to meet everyone's needs and not collapse into bed before the kids' bedtimes."
Yep, that sums it up.
But as I sit as my computer, in my warm home, with one child napping in a cozy crib and one child mesmerized by the show he's streaming on Netflix and two children playing in the sunroom and two children enrolled in a spectacular public school, I can't help but think of a different place.
On five different days during our six weeks in Uganda, I visited the pediatric HIV clinic in our part of Uganda. I would show you pictures, but it felt inappropriate to take out my camera or phone in the waiting area where children were literally wasting away and where all eyes were on me as the only mzungu (white person) around.
I'll do my best to give you pictures with my words.
Each time, our driver dropped us off at the bottom of the hill. As we walked up the stairs to the registration pavillion, I'd pull my child's blue card from my bag. This card told the registrar all the vital info needed to find our child's thick medical file. After waiting in line, I exchanged our blue card for a number.
Our number told us how many other children waited ahead of us. We usually arrived about an hour after the clinic opened for the day. We usually received a number in the 60s or 70s.
Yes, that means 60 or 70 children with HIV were in line ahead of us.
To offer some perspective, at the end of 2011, our state North Carolina had only 54 recorded cases of HIV+ children under the age of 12. In other words, more children with HIV were seen at one clinic in one city in Uganda in one day than in all of North Carolina in 2011.
Sobering.
After getting our number, we climbed up a steep hill from the registration area to the pediatric clinic. As some point during the hike, I'd start carrying our child. Sweating, we'd arrive at the large white party tent at the top of the hill. Instead of housing a party, though, it held the waiting room for the pediatric HIV clinic. After checking in at the desk and getting recorded in the days ledger (name of the child? age of the child? are the parents alive or dead? thank you, you may sit down now.), we sat under the tent. Most days, we waited for an hour or sometimes two.
At some point during that hour, one of the nurses would come out, read a portion of the Bible in Luganda, and pray over the group. Some days she brought out runny porridge. The children and parents drank it up, while my children and I opted for the snacks and sandwiches in my bag instead.
I was thankful for the days with porridge because I simply couldn't bring enough snacks and sandwiches for all the children there. On the days without porridge, their hungry eyes watched us eat and broke my heart.
Then the nurse would call our number - in Luganda, at which point someone sitting by us in the tent would tell me, "Mzungu, it's your turn" - and we'd go up for weight and height to be recorded on a scrap of paper. After handling the scrap to me, it was back to the tent for another hour or so.
I'd look around the tent. Some children looked like mine: scrawny but so healthy looking that you'd never guess at a diagnosis of HIV if you met on the street. Some children looked... well, not like mine.
I'm having to pause from my writing to weep. We've been home for almost two months, and I still can't bear to think of our days at the clinic without becoming a snotty, sniffling mess of saline.
These other children were too limp to stand. Some bore sores from head to toe. Others had obviously intellectual disabilities, likely the result of neurological injury due to HIV's effect on their brain.
Some had parents with them. Some were alone, despite being too young to be unattended.
While I felt like I stood out in much of Uganda, there was solidarity among the parents here. We made eye contact. Entire conversations passed in our eyes without a single spoken word. Despite our differences, we were all mothers with sick children. All of us would wait as long as it took. All of us would do everything we could in hopes that HIV would not steal our children's lives or minds.
Then my child's number would be called again, and we'd leave the tent for the last time that day. We'd go inside the clinic for the first time that day, where a nurse wiped off a thermometer with a napkin and took our child's temperature. I think she took blood pressure too. I know she recorded the pulse. She'd ask me for the paper scrap to get height and weight. Sometimes she'd walk us out again to check weight and height one more time, surprised by how much growth had occurred between visits.
After recording our stats, the nurse would direct us to the main clinic. The toys and murals were appropriate for children, except their age left them dirty and broken. The kids didn't care.
Inside, we waited longer. After another hour or two, we'd see the doctor to review the records and adjust prescriptions as necessary. To get ARVs, the life-saving medications needed for people with HIV, we'd wait another hour to see the counselor, who used flashcards and quizzes to make sure we understood when to give the meds and how important each one was.
When all was said and done, we walked back outside, across the parking lot, and up another side walk to the pharmacy to pick up those vital medications.
Then we'd sit on the curb to wait for our driver, watching as other parents and children left on foot, without the luxury of modern transportation.
Now back to today.
Yes, I'm exhausted.
On days like today, I make myself think of those long, hot, rainy days in the tent and clinic. I make myself think of those other mothers. I make myself remember, even though the now familiar tears well up with each memory.
Yes, I'm exhausted.
But I am so very blessed.
books of 2014
/A lot.
This year, I want to keep track of my reading, so I figured, "Why not share my list?"
So here goes...
My fiction in progress for January...
And my January non-fiction...
And our read alouds for January for the kiddos...
Books I've read in 2014...
So what are you reading?
in need of friend time {aka an open invite to stop by unannounced}
/
As I watched these girls let loose after homework and sight word time last night, I was struck by my own need for kindred spirits.
I saw two girls who share life together.
And I thought about how much I've enjoyed friends dropping in with meals and coffee and hand-me-downs and clean laundry and diapers and gallons of milk and money and gift cards... we have been so very blessed.
But the greatest blessing, even more than all those tangible helps? It's been the flow of people who love us coming by with smiles and hugs and conversation.
I need that. With six children, it's hard to come by.
Actually, it was hard to come by before our newest additions, because we're homebound most days after carpool, Zoe's therapy time four days a week and the naps she needs before and after, and my therapy time (aka going to the gym each morning).
The meal schedule ended last week, and the visits have mostly stopped. I am finding myself missing the constant flow of friends in and out of our home.
So here's my open invite: please, please, please keep coming.
No need to bring food or other goodies. I'm not afraid to be cheesy and say it's your presence I need more than your presents.
If the idea of just dropping by is too much for you, you can text or email or FB or call first. But you don't have to do that.
Just promise me one thing, okay?
If I'm in sweatpants with a messy ponytail and no makeup and the laundry pile is as tall as you are and the house looks like it hasn't been cleaned in a week, please try not to look as judge-y about all that as Jocelyn did in the photo above.
(But seriously. C'mon over.)
(I mean it.)
I saw two girls who share life together.
And I thought about how much I've enjoyed friends dropping in with meals and coffee and hand-me-downs and clean laundry and diapers and gallons of milk and money and gift cards... we have been so very blessed.
But the greatest blessing, even more than all those tangible helps? It's been the flow of people who love us coming by with smiles and hugs and conversation.
I need that. With six children, it's hard to come by.
Actually, it was hard to come by before our newest additions, because we're homebound most days after carpool, Zoe's therapy time four days a week and the naps she needs before and after, and my therapy time (aka going to the gym each morning).
The meal schedule ended last week, and the visits have mostly stopped. I am finding myself missing the constant flow of friends in and out of our home.
So here's my open invite: please, please, please keep coming.
No need to bring food or other goodies. I'm not afraid to be cheesy and say it's your presence I need more than your presents.
If the idea of just dropping by is too much for you, you can text or email or FB or call first. But you don't have to do that.
Just promise me one thing, okay?
If I'm in sweatpants with a messy ponytail and no makeup and the laundry pile is as tall as you are and the house looks like it hasn't been cleaned in a week, please try not to look as judge-y about all that as Jocelyn did in the photo above.
(But seriously. C'mon over.)
(I mean it.)
my word for 2014: receive
/
In the past few years, the blogosphere has been big on the idea of choosing a word rather than a resolution at the start of the year. I've liked the idea of it.
In fact, I've chosen words in the past without blogging about it.
2012's word was intentional. I didn't realize the number of things we'd have to be intentional about that year: finishing my recovery from knee surgery, starting our first international adoption, putting our house on the market, selling our house, buying another one, moving across town, finishing the adoption and bringing Zoe home, starting our first child in kindergarten, coping with Robbie's seizure and epilepsy diagnosis, and seeking help for myself when I realized I wasn't handling all the change well.
2013 was trust. Wow. I didn't expect to have to trust God so much with so many unknowns, and I certainly didn't expect to trust a plan to double our number of children... but God knew. And we stepped forward in trust.
And this year?
mainly from God.
Receiving isn't easy for me.
I like serving.
Giving.
Doing.
Working.
I struggle with receiving.
The chaos in our lives in the past two years has taught me to receive from others: meals. help. friendship.
I'm still not great at it.
Receiving from God?
I struggle with that even more.
I tend to be more comfortable with a faith focused on what I have to do than with what I have to receive.
Me? I'm a Pharisee at heart. I like rules and boundaries and effort and work.
As I realize how much I have to pour out as I parent all six of our blessings, I know one thing: I can't do it without receiving abundantly from Him first.
So in 2014, I will receive.
Wanna join me? If so, what's your word?
In fact, I've chosen words in the past without blogging about it.
2012's word was intentional. I didn't realize the number of things we'd have to be intentional about that year: finishing my recovery from knee surgery, starting our first international adoption, putting our house on the market, selling our house, buying another one, moving across town, finishing the adoption and bringing Zoe home, starting our first child in kindergarten, coping with Robbie's seizure and epilepsy diagnosis, and seeking help for myself when I realized I wasn't handling all the change well.
2013 was trust. Wow. I didn't expect to have to trust God so much with so many unknowns, and I certainly didn't expect to trust a plan to double our number of children... but God knew. And we stepped forward in trust.
And this year?
mainly from God.
Receiving isn't easy for me.
I like serving.
Giving.
Doing.
Working.
I struggle with receiving.
The chaos in our lives in the past two years has taught me to receive from others: meals. help. friendship.
I'm still not great at it.
Receiving from God?
I struggle with that even more.
I tend to be more comfortable with a faith focused on what I have to do than with what I have to receive.
Me? I'm a Pharisee at heart. I like rules and boundaries and effort and work.
As I realize how much I have to pour out as I parent all six of our blessings, I know one thing: I can't do it without receiving abundantly from Him first.
So in 2014, I will receive.
Wanna join me? If so, what's your word?
RECEIVE instruction from his mouth,
and lay up his words in your heart.
(Job 22:22)
And whatever you ask in prayer, you will RECEIVE, if you have faith.
(Matthew 21:22)
And when he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “RECEIVE the Holy Spirit.”
(John 20:22)
For if, because of one man's trespass, death reigned through that one man, much more will those who RECEIVE the abundance of grace and the free gift of righteousness reign in life through the one man Jesus Christ.
(Romans 5:17)
For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have RECEIVED the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!”
(Romans 8:15)
But when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might RECEIVE adoption as sons.
(Galatians 4:4-5)
Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may RECEIVE mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
(Hebrews 4:16)