Still in My Heart

My home.

My kiddos’ home.

The view from my bedroom window.

Still in my heart one and a half years later.  Always in my heart…

Walking Through My Home

Tonight I sat on my couch and in my mind’s eye I walked through my home in Africa.

Then I cried.

I remember our comfy couch that we never had for the first six years living there and what a blessing it was when we got it. I remember what it was like to lay in my bed under the buzz of the AC and look out my bedroom window framed by thin white curtains. I remember the tall tree that would often be full of bright pink blossoms. The blossoms would blow of the tree and cover the balcony floor and dry up like fall leaves.

I remember the squeak of the bathroom doorknob. I remember the hallway cabinet and it’s thin caving walls. I remember the crooked nail that kept the living room window closed during most but not all dust storms.

I remember our big pink rug and our brown table that held a basket of baby toys on the lower shelf. I remember my striped curtains that I purchased in Qatar and brought back to hem myself.

I remember the fan mounted on the wall in Mike’s office.

I remember the toy shelf in the kids room. I remember their mosquito nets and the extra mattress under the bed perfect for pulling out to sit on. I remember how much I worried about putting one year old Sweet N in that room with H to sleep in the same room at night. And I remember how well they did.

I remember the dining room chairs that lasted us seven years. I remember the way they sounded when they scraped across the tile floor. I remember how ants that would swarm under the dining room table eating crumbs even before we could finish a meal.

I remember how the paint was peeling off the floor in the kitchen. And every other room.

I remember my white tile kitchen counter that my Dad installed for me when they visited. I remember baking Christmas cookies on that counter with my Mom.

I remember the way the stairwell would get dusty so quickly and there would be four sizes of footprints leading up and down.

I remember the creak of the porch swing that Mikey had made for me my first birthday living there. And I remember how the legs were a good 12 inches too long and my feet couldn’t even touch the ground from the seat until we sawed the legs shorter.

I remember how I used to peek over the side of the balcony hiding myself because I might have been only wearing a tank top in the house and if someone from the street saw me it would have been embarrassing.

I remember pulling our two plastic tables together on that balcony to host many-a-visitor. I remember the morning light on the balcony. I remember the dusk and the call to prayer on that balcony. I remember H riding his bike and N playing in her tripod on that balcony. I remember peeking out late at night to see Mike watering the plants in the dark while listening to a podcast.

I remember the wooden sideboard by the door where my mobile phone would sit all day so I could hear it ring from any room. I remember each shelf in that sideboard and I remember what I had stored on each one.

I remember the stains on our bathtub. I remember how filthy the windowsill in the bathroom would get. I remember filling our red baby bathtub and bathing my babies in that tub on top of the washing machine.  I remember that our bathroom mirror wasn’t made right and it was more like a funhouse mirror on one side.

I remember My boy H peering though his bedroom window into the hallway when he was two and he’d wake up from his nap.

I remember spending hours hanging laundry to dry on my two drying racks in the hallway.  I remember that pigeons lived on the outside wall of the house and made a mess.

I remember standing my babies at the kitchen window to wave bye-bye to Daddy as he pulled away to go to work.

I remember the way the kitchen faucet would spray water everywhere when I turned it on because it sometimes had such strong water pressure. I remember the way that same faucet would just gurgle when I turned it on to discover the water had been cut.

I remember that a box of tissues in the kitchen drawer was my equivalent of paper towels. I remember that I never had a microwave.

I remember all this. And so much more.

It’s burned on my heart.

And I miss it.

Easters Past

We had a great time celebrating Easter with our little family.

But as the evening wound down and the chaos that three little kids brings quieted, my heart turned toward Africa. Easter has been a very special holiday to celebrate there. Our community of co-workers and friends would all rise before dawn and meet on the bank of the Nile. The service would start as the sun was rising and we’d praise our risen Savior as an extremely diverse group of believers. And every year several would be baptized in the river.

It was so very special.

Then there would be sand sculpting and everyone would pull out their coffee, juices and breakfast items to share. There we’d have a delicious shared breakfast, spread on plastic mats and picnic blankets on the bank of the Nile.

It was a simple event but it drew our hearts together. Each year it was one of the highlights.

And I grieve the loss of it now.

Montana in Photos

 

One Year Ago

It’s one year ago today that we boarded a plane and departed our African home country.

One year.

I recall sitting in the car all loaded up to go to the airport in the wee hours of the morning. I looked up at our front gate and lighted stairwell and our front door at the top. The front door whose opening and closing sounds are etched in my memory. The front door that my kids stood by for their ‘first day of school’ photos. The door that heard a thousand “Keef, tamam? Inti quesa?” The front door that let in and out many dear friends and visitors. The front door I would decorate for birthday parties. The front door that allowed too much dust to blow beneath it. If I listen, I can hear the sound of the door opening and closing in my head and my heart leaps because that door opening and closing often meant that my love returned from a day’s work and was home for the evening. That was such a good feeling.

The approaching date of this anniversary has had me reflecting a bit more than usual. And in some ways I feel like my life is so very different from what it was a year ago. And in some ways I feel like not much has changed, apart from my physical location.

I guess it’s that our final season in Africa was when I really came into my own. I stepped into a new ‘me’. Understood myself more. Stepped up and into who God made me and the things He’s put inside of me. Using my gifts, just being me and God’s using me by just me being me. In that regard, I feel much the same on both sides of the globe. I’m still me and I always will be.

So I feel much like the same person. That’s good! I don’t imagine everyone who has been through what we have could say that. I’m thankful that my identity is not tied up in where I am. But I suppose that just because I feel mostly the same inside it doesn’t mean that I’m understood the same by those around me. I still get those moments, a year later, when I am reminded that I have a weird history. I lived where? I’m different is what I’m saying. I can always blend in and be fine and happy, yes, but inside I sometimes I just want to respond in Arabic, you know?! It feels so natural. But how many times can I mention this or that about Africa before people start tuning out? Um, like, once… MAYBE. But Africa is a big part of who I am. God used our time in Africa (oh no… too many Africas!!! Must stop or readers will stop reading!) hugely to shape who I am. But I often keep it to myself because few around me know that part of my life and I end up feeling silly mentioning it so often. I’m not bitter at all, it’s just how it is and that’s fine.

Aaaanyway. Enough about how I feel inside and out. Blah blah blah.

The other main components that make up my life that haven’t changed between continents are:

1. My family is with me. Halleluiah! Plus my baaaabbbyyyyy! Oh I love her so much, my strong little baby who went through so much in my belly. She’s in my arms, glory!

2. I adore caring for my family and my home.

3. I run a preschool. In many ways very VERY different. In some very small ways, the same.

4. I have joy!

Now, there were some rough patches in the midst, for sure. But the joy I had from life and loving and pouring out my life in Africa is the same joy I have here for the same reasons. That’s God’s grace people. He’s so good.

It’s been awhile since I burst out in tears over some aspect of loss that we have walked through. But when I think about that front door it gets me every time…

A year ago I walked out that door for the  last time. And now I have no idea if others are using *my* door. Do children walk through that door? Does a wife’s heart leap for joy (or sadly, fear?) when a husband opens it? Are there toddler footprints in the dust on the stairs leading to it? Has a dust storm blown it open and there is no one to close it again? Something about that door. It gets me every time I think about it.

Doors. Chapters. Seasons. Open. Closed.

We’ve experienced loss. But we have been renewed. I have joy. Expectation. Vision. I have supreme thankfulness for all the beauty and ugly from those seven years and all he taught me. And I have supreme thankfulness for where God has brought us now.

I am in his hands.

Amen.

(2010 desert road trip, one of my favorite memories)

Goodbye Tours–Our Pajero

We went through several cars during our years in Africa. The first three did not have A/C (in 120 degree temps!). One was literally 30 years old. Another was periwinkle blue. All of them were old and expensive and dented and had issues.

In our last couple years we had the opportunity to purchase an old Pajero from some friends.

We.Loved.It.

It was old. But it wasn’t crazy expensive. And it was dented. BUT IT HAD A/C. And it had 4 wheel drive. And it was big and bigger means we had more power and intimidation factor on the crazy-drivers-not-many-rules roads we drove on.

When you live in a place like the place we lived… you soon learn that you have to create your own fun. And one of the things we loved to do for fun was head out on desert road trips with friends. A big, somewhat reliable vehicle was an important factor in this equation and we were so thankful to get this vehicle for that reason too.

Here’s some photos of one of my all-time-favorite memories from our years in Africa. It’s when we took my parents camping with some of our dearest friends. We drove to see the pyramids, with lovely road-side stops along the way where we’d pull off to sip coffee that we had carefully packed…

Don’t you love how the other vehicle has things piled up SUPER high on top?

I love it.

 

L and I got to sit in the back. If it weren’t for her company back there, I probably would have been a cussing, fuming maniac. It was hot. And bumpy. And tight. And I’d do it all over again.

My boy! Oh my word he’s so small. And yes, it was always that dirty. Welcome to life in the desert.

After the pyramids we’d set up camp in the go-to camping spot for the ex-pats. Some slept out under the stars, including my parents! I’m still amazed and blessed by their joy in taking on any challenge we offered them during their visit.

Time spent with loved ones around this tree in the valley between the rocks was so so special.

Aaaanyway. Funny how a vehicle can be such a blessing and somehow get a piece of your heart? It’s silly. But it’s true.

And so, before we left our beloved country, the kids climbed in and said…

… “Goodbye car”…

Goodbye Tours–Syrian House

There weren’t loads of great restaurants in the city we lived in. And there REALLY weren’t many great restaurants in our part of the city. (No great restaurants?! Probably none, if I’m honest.) But you go with what you got, right?

And what we had was Syrian House.

 

A couple times we ordered delivery. And one time it came like four hours later. Nice! Trying to give directions for delivery in a place where there are no addresses in a second language is fun, too, but that’s probably a whole ‘nother post…

Anyway, the best thing about this restaurant was the Syrian bread, fatiira. It was quite comparable to flour tortillas and I bought it by then tens when they would let me, which wasn’t all the time.

The inside of the place was a bit manic. I’d have to work my way up to the front of the ordering desk. I’d order in Arabic, but the guy behind the desk wouldn’t understand me because he wasn’t expecting to hear Arabic coming out of a white face and he’d look at me all confused.

Eventually he’d understand my order of thirty pieces of bread and talk me down to twenty pieces. (Aim high, you know?) Okay, I’ll take it. (No locals order bulk bread here, just me. Everyone else orders, like, meals and stuff.)

So I’d pay and he’d hand me a couple tickets. I’d work my way through the crowd over to the counter where they serve salads. I’d give him my ticket for bread and he’d look at it confused. I’d explain in Arabic (a strange order, remember) and he’d begin counting pieces of bread. We’d chat and he (and the other ten guys behind the counter) would like the fact that I speak Arabic and that I like their bread. I always wondered in my head how many hours they had to work in that hot restaurant each day and what their living conditions must be like. (Help them, Jesus).

Eventually he’d hand me plastic bag full of fresh chewy flat bread and I’d exit the smoky hot establishment proud of my success and planning cheese quesadillas for dinner.

Aaaanyway. We’d also order whole chickens or chicken shwerma, which one friend insisted was laced with MSG. She might have been right. And their hummus was good and I’d order extra and put it in the freezer for when I was in a pinch for something to serve.

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Funny how places like this and routines like this were just a part of regular life last year. In some ways it seems so fuzzy. Like a whole different world. Like a whole different life. Like a whole different me.

Goodbye Syrian House.

Miss ya.

Goodbye Tours–Ozone

When we first moved to our city this garden coffee cafe was the only establishment of it’s kind in the city (country, actually!). It was western and clean and beautiful. I could go there and feel halfway normal. Over the years more similar places opened up but this was still a favorite.

Here’s some flashbacks…

We celebrated our third anniversary there in 2007 when I was pregnant with H! Wow. That seems like such a long time ago. Makes me think about the history we have in Africa. And it makes my eyes teary and my heart a bit heavy to think of it. I moved to Africa as such a girl and returned a woman. I honestly think that is is true in a lot of ways.

These goodbye tours are hard. I think that’s part of the point.

Okay. I can do this. Deep breath. Thank you God for our years there. Thank you. Thank you.

Alright… on a lighter note, you wouldn’t expect this to be served in a underdeveloped African city, would you?

I was always surprised at what they could do.

And unlike almost every single bakery I have ever visited in that region of the world… the stuff ACTUALLY tasted as good as it looked. Glory!

And another flashback, last summer…

We loved this place because it was unbelievably green for the desert. Lush grass, palm trees and even a glorious fence circling the whole place so you didn’t have to wonder if your kiddos were going to race into the roundabout that surrounded the café.

It was modern and beautiful. And it has the cutest little patrons!

So relaxing… :)

There was a fountain and shade trees. Misters to keep us cool on hot days and twinkle lighting in the evenings.

And clean space to run and move outside.

It honestly was such a blessing for many years. We’d stop by after church to buy fresh baguettes and buns. We’d go as a family to have ice cream and time together. I’d take the kids if we really needed to get out. I’d go alone for a break and to read. I’d meet friends there to chat.

But we had to say goodbye…

We went our last week in Africa and the kids had one last run around the grass circle.

(waving)

Goodbye Ozone. We sure do miss you.

Goodbye Tours–Bambinos

We didn’t have long to prepare to leave our African home earlier this year. Eight days. And there was a lot to take care of (understatement?)

But we had some advice from a friend on how we could still try to transition well for the kiddos sake even in such a short amount of time. One suggestion was going around and taking photos at a lot of our favorite places. Places we went a lot. Places that have memories. Places that we may very likely never see again.

So we did that in our last week. I honestly don’t know how we found time, but it was important to us and we made it happen. And I’m so thankful we did. Today is our first installment of The Goodbye Tours… Bambino Ice Cream.

There weren’t a lot of ‘nice’ places to go and eat in our part of the city. But this place was one of the few and we went there regularily. It was not far and it was very close to a few of our friends’ houses, so it made for an easy ‘Hey, wanna meet us for ice cream, like NOW?’ kind of deal.

I’m sure I have many more photos through the years from Bambinos, we went there all seven years we lived there. Their ice cream was delicious and cheap, too!

Four tree stumps sculpted from cement made great perches for four little ones.

Seating was only outside and we generally got a fair amount of attention since it was right next to a big road and we had lots of little white kiddos with us. Through the years our babies were passed around to complete strangers a lot, too. And I have memories of trying to avoid one particular young man known around town for creeping on foreigners.

Oh the memories…

Goodbye Bambinos.

Cozy Spots… To Remember

This post is mostly for my forty-four year old self. That’s how old I’ll be when my oldest is eighteen. And it’ll be so bittersweet. And I’ll want help remembering what it was like when they were small. These are such amazing years while we have small kiddos that can be so challenging, but so very special. I often think about a phrase that a friend told me in Texas this summer… “The days are long but the years are short.” That is oh-so-true. I want to fully love and appreciate each season for what it is. Jesus, help me.

Anyway, I just want to remember my kiddos little beds. With all their snuggle-ups (a handful of which were brought back from Africa with us and have given them a bit of comfort and continuity) and special blankets made by dear ones who love them so much. They have such sweet and cozy spots to carry them to dreamland in our home that is such a gift and a blessing in this season. The nights that I tuck them into their beds I crawl into bed with each of them and I wrap my arms around their little bodies and we talk and pray and my heart fills up like I never knew possible before I was a parent.

“The days are long but the years are short…”

Parenthood is such a gift.

My boy’s collection of little friends. Each of them special, with a story.

And my older girlie’s. Thank you God for clean, cozy, comforting beds for my babies to be tucked into every night.

It’s the little things…