Is There a Way?

After a long blog hiatus and only sporadic posts before that, I thought I would try to pick back up again now that we have finally moved into our own home, settled into a routine, and resumed ministry.

The trouble with picking back up again is that after such a long silence, what do I say? How do I start? And where do I start?

How do I summarize the long weeks of being separated as a family while our home was being built? The loneliness and never-ending days for Blaise here in Tonj, and the exhaustion and weariness for me in Kampala? The struggle with depression and facing that alone? The overwhelming desire to pack it all up and head back to the States? The joy of getting to spend our first Christmas together as a  family of three, but the sadness of spending our 10th wedding anniversary and Blaise’s 30th birthday apart?

How can I explain how stretching it was to be a single parent with a really sick baby? How do I explain the fear that choked me as I made late-night runs to the hospital when Clark wouldn’t keep anything down? Or when his urine turned red? Or when the diarrhea was so bad he was literally pooping water as many as 15 times a day?

Is there a way to describe the fear, the excitement, the dread, and the anticipation of packing up my entire life–again–and moving to a new home, on a new compound, in a new village, in the bush of South Sudan? To put into words the moments when I was so frustrated and overwhelmed with packing and the idea of beginning again so late in our term that I would throw my hands up, sit down amongst the piles and trunks, and weep quietly while my infant slept just feet away?

How do I accurately depict the first days back in South Sudan with a baby? The joy of finally hugging my husband again? Of him getting to hold his son again? The feeling of being home once my feet touched South Sudan’s soil again?

How can I paint a picture of the days that followed in which Clark’s dehydration was the key theme, that is until the first scorpion was caught (and killed) inside of our house? Of the nightly sweeps of our house with a flashlight and a knife looking for scorpions hiding on the walls? Of every last shred of my sense of security being yanked away when we found one on the wall just 12 inches above Clark’s crib? Of realizing with horror that malaria isn’t the most dangerous thing here, or even the thing that will occupy most of my worries? Of knowing, but being reminded again and again, that Clark’s life is in God’s hands? That I can’t protect him from every danger?

Is there a way that I can tell you how beautiful it is when my little 18-pound baby reduces grown men, usually so stern and serious, to making silly faces and noises in order to get my son to laugh? Can I possibly put into words the feeling of sisterhood I experience when I sit with fellow mothers and we nurse our babies together, side-by-side, uncovered and unashamed? Of the respect that is given to me now that I have become a mother? Of how foreign it feels, as an American, to completely lose my individual identity? Of either being called “the wife of Blaise” or “Mommy” by all of our friends here?

How do I describe the deep, resonating peace I get when I sit under the tree with my friend Mary and share Scripture with her in story form? When I hear God’s still, small voice assuring me that His word never comes back void? When I know that despite it all–the fears, the pain of beginning again, the struggle with depression, the desire to protect my son even over obedience to God–I’m exactly where God wants me to be, doing exactly what He wants me to be doing?

Is there a way to portray the gentle rhythm of our days? Of waking up to Clark’s cheerful face? Of boiling water for oatmeal and coffee? Of how refreshing it is to breathe in the cool, lightly-scented morning air? Of warring in prayer alongside my teammates? Of playing with Clark, washing diapers, and sweeping the floors? Of sharing bible stories under a tree, answering hard questions, and equipping my sister to become a missionary to her own people?

How can I verbalize the frustrations that come with living in such a hard place? The bugs, the scorpions, the dirt that is forever blowing in through my windows and coating everything we own in red? The heat that zaps our energy, soaks us in sweat, and leaves us parched and exhausted? The immense amount of time I spend each day giving Clark ORS (oral rehydration solution) so that he will keep peeing? The seriousness of getting behind and finding a dry diaper after 6 hours? The desire, some days, to run away from people who want to chat when all I want to do is walk to the latrine uninterrupted? The difficulty and frustration of not having the words to speak to that person because my Dinka is so small?

Can I explain the satisfaction that comes at the end of each day? The way I delight in the temperature cooling, the smell of kerosene as we cook, the soft glow of lantern light inside our mud house, the feeling of a warm bucket bath, and whispered conversations after Clark has gone to sleep?  

I think I do not have the words to explain all of these things to you, to give you an accurate depiction of our life in Tonj, to fully describe how normal and beautiful and terrifying and exhausting and precious these days are to me.  

So I won’t.  I will leave you here for now with a promise to sign on again soon.