Hao Tong

t-minus 5 days until we leave.  We have been about to leave for forever, months of preparation, selling, and saying goodbye. And here we are - 5 days. My lasts have been punctuated with joyful depth and tearful wonder. . .

last parties in golden light with giggling children

           our last dinners with dear friends where I cling to aloha and not goodbye in intimate, layered,  
           easy conversation

last playdates filled with comfortable imagination and impossible games of pretend

        last stolen moments with my nephews savoring rambunctious smiles and satisfied laughter
           
               last hugs from sisters that seem only to reaffirm a love that crosses oceans

last weddings where I wrap myself in black formal gowns, transform, and savor the joy that comes with capturing well the beginning of the rest of a life together

my last shifts with unprecedented busyness punctuated with long hugs that spoke louder than words

           last moments of encouragement from mentors that became friends as they poured life and
           passion into my doctor's heart

last moments, satisfying in the way they engage the heart and gut and mind. . .

Tears have come in expected and unexpected waves, and I have thought often of the Chinese words "hao tong." By a twist of linguistics, it means "very painful" and also literally "good pain".   Pain comes with a shot or needling, but that hurt brings healing.  The rending of our hearts as we prepare to move to Kenya carries this dichotomy.  The certain good of deep friendship and the pain that comes in transforming those relationships into something new.

Every tear confirms that we have a built a life here that we love, that we are preparing to bring this part of the world to Kijabe and Kijabe to our nebulous corner of intricately woven relationships that refuses to have reasonable boundaries.

Five days, and we are ready to go - overwhelmed with gratitude for the friendships that have made these last moments so perfectly difficult.

Glimpses

"You know nothing, John Snow".  

The oft-repeated line from Game of Thrones played in my head repeatedly through our time at Samaritan's Purse Orientation.  I stood on a mountain and listened to Ed Morrow, director of World Medical Mission, tell stories of his ministry in impossibly remote and hostile places.  I heard tales from Jim Moore, a ninja medical technician for Samaritan's Purse, who gave example after example of what he called "God's on-time supply chain" in which equipment would arrive in the warehouse at the precise moment of a need arising at a hospital in Africa. . .or when he traveled halfway around the world to repair a life-saving device and found the necessary replacement part literally sticking out of the sand in a desert junkyard.

I picture heaven less as streets of gold and more as the experience of perpetually having my mind-blown.  Finally seeing the behind the scenes - the plans that were orchestrated, the perfection, the love, the purpose.  Nothing accidental and nothing at all short of amazing.

I feel this week as if I saw just a little glimpse of it. . . that Ari, the girls, and I are just 4 drops of water in a massive tide.  We are being carried along by those around us, following those who have gone before us, and preparing the way for those behind.  Though it might appear chaotic or random at a glance, the tide is actually moving in perfectly orchestrated harmony.*

Orientation was just that. . .a reminder to orient and look north and have my mind blown.  Realizing that I know nothing, but catching a glimpse, an absolutely amazing glimpse, of just how loved we are.

*yes the tide is working in perfect harmony, but no, it is not Crimson as far as I can tell:)

"For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known".

What ifs

              Last week, we rested with my family in South Carolina. My mom and dad brought  together the men and women who have loved me from the day I was born, and they surrounded us with the peace that comes with unconditional love. I soaked in bits of wisdom on the waves of the lake, laughed so hard my sides hurt around the dinner table, got up on skis for the first time on a dare from my daughter,  and shared in the joys and struggles of my sisters, aunts, and uncles.  I paused for a moment, reveling in the humbling and certain reality that we are surrounded by phenomenal people who love us fiercely.

             From there, I headed north to Bristol for the beginning of our Samaritan's Purse Orientation. As I flew into Tennessee, the news flooded with the story of Dr. Brantly's fight with Ebola.  The risks involved in our journey confronted us on every screen and in every story. Kent Brantly is one of us -  literally - a Samaritan's Purse Post resident who had sat in our seats only 12 months ago. 

             Our colleague faced the crisis we feared, and we watched Samaritan's Purse mobilize -  seeing first hand the passion and love of the organization that has adopted us . We talked about replacing fear with strength, replacing worry with trust. I called David in tears and we played the "what if?" game.  What if the risk became greater?  Would we still go? And we rested in the insanity of the answer - Yes.

           Sitting in orientation, I listened to the stories of doctors who had come before us.  My heart resonated not with the stories of the best days or sunsets or safaris, but in the moments where God's strength resonated in weakness. Where He met them in the Rwandan genocide or the Kenyan bush or in the clefts of the Sudanese cliffs - the stories when the impossible was solved with the perfect plan,  the dilemma was reconciled with improbable schemes, and where provision came in desperate need. 

           The one thing we know for certain is that we are loved, and that whatever happens, this love is bigger than any illness or danger we could encounter in the world.  This love is so amazing that we don't want to miss a second of it because of fear.  So we go, not because it is safe or noble or even known, but because this is next for us and He goes with us.

-ari

Closing Time

We finally closed on the sale of our house this week. We are relieved, but too emotionally and physically exhausted to respond with much as far as tears or celebration.

Four months of hyper-vigilant cleaning, endless repairs and showings to make everything presentable and perfect are exhausting.  But, for all the stress and work, it was a wonderful home for us - absolutely beautiful and full of character and love.  There wasn't a single room where I didn't build or paint or tear out a wall. . .but it was a labor of love and will forever be a cherished place.

Now we are on to a new temporary home, an absolute blessing.  Chris, a nurse and friend of Arianna's  from the hospital, has given us the upstairs of her house. It is wonderful to have a new, safe, happy place in Birmingham for the next two months.  

Our girls have grown up what seems like years in the past weeks, spending time with their grandparents and best friends in South Carolina and South Georgia.  Annabelle, our strong-willed girl, taught herself how to swim, Madeline rode roller-coasters, body surfed, and caught crabs with bare hands.  

The biggest marker of the change was our last round of rabies shots today.  The first time, Annabelle screamed bloody murder and Madeline almost passed out from worry.  The second time was a little better.  Today, both girls hopped up on the table, didn't even flinch, and volunteered to hold Arianna's hand when it was her turn to be stuck.  

The coming weeks will be a blur of weddings, visiting family, and Samaritan's Purse orientation.  We will live out of suitcases and make memories and do more laughing and crying.  And then we will go, leaving home for home, leaving friends for friends, family for family.  Goodbye and hello are now sharply real.  We are nervous, excited, overwhelmed, optimistic, and all other emotions rolled into one.  Most of all we are grateful, for our family and friends who have absolutely saved us in the past weeks, and who are quite literally sending us on this crazy journey.  You who have fed us, clothed us, moved us, taken care of the girls, showed up when we didn't know we needed help, and prayed without ceasing -  thank you so, so much!

Madeline's poem: I Am

I was going through Madeline's paperwork from school today, sorting things as we pack, and I found this poem she wrote at school . . .a precious glimpse into her head:

I Am

by madeline

I am smart and kind

I wonder if I am fun

I hear birds sing about me

I see visions of angels

I want a good life

I am smart and kind

I pretend I am a bear

I touch a four leaf clover, wish

I worry that I will lose my school

I cry when I feel alone

I am polite and kind

I understand I will not always live in Birmingham

I say the oldest works hardest

I dream for happiness

I try to help - I hope I live in peace

I am smart and kind.

This is the first week the girls have expressed trepidation about moving and not pure joy - it's interesting to maneuver the situation, to listen and respond, to reassure but not dismiss. . . This move will  be wonderful for our children, but it is also going to be terribly hard.

Need. . .

Four  months from now we're moving to another continent. . .

Our house has been on the market almost 2 months now, and my day is filled with to-do lists about insurance and  licenses and packing and house projects. I am trying not to worry  - not about logistics and details and what-ifs, as I am prone to do. Those things will work themselves out.

 I worry about leaving well. I worry about securing bridges that span an ocean - about trying to express to my friends how much they mean to me and that I need them. And I feel I am failing daily.

I am struggling - struggling to be real, to be selfless, to reach out instead of retreat into myself. Leaving involves seeing my fallibility - the dichotomy of my desire to be a perfect friend and my inability give and receive generously in every direction. I struggle to not meet offers for help with the  inaccurate rebuff that we have it under control.

Admitting need is not something I do easily. I'm more the  - "help is great, and I appreciate it, but I would like to continue to spin these 17 plates at once and prove I can do it while trying to help you spin your plates too" kind of person. But these days, every moment has a way of pointing out  the impossibility in this. . .

Every day is a step in the direction  of me admitting that this move is really hard - that dismantling one life to build another risks watching everything crumble around my beautiful family.  Deep down, I know that nothing will crumble - that God is building our story and our bridges and our safety net with deftness and perfection. But some days, I know that with more clarity than others.

So, thank you for walking with us, and thank you for  having patience with me. Continue to laugh with us at the dichotomy each day brings. . oh, and hugs, lots of hugs. I need them.

-ari

Preparation

Our days are filled with packing and sorting, prioritizing, culling, and whittling down to the bare essentials.

This week, we organized massive piles of memories for our yard sale on March 1st. Today, we put Belle's nursery bedding up for sale, and I smiled through tears as my too grown-up girls played in the next room.  In 4 weeks, our house goes on the market.

This home, where Madeline learned to talk and climb, where we brought Belle home, where our marriage became stronger, where I crashed after countless nights of residency and fellowship calls learning how to be a doctor,  and where we became a family. Our yard - with its rocks that Madeline insists holds fossilized T-Rex prints, with its perfect light and memories of snowball fights, violet fields, safari expeditions, princess knights and tadpole parties. 

I am excited about the adventures that lie ahead  - about new homes and new yards with monkeys and views of the Great Rift Valley. We bought our plane tickets on Friday, and we fly from Birmingham on September 22, 2014.  Today, though, I am just so grateful for this life we have built -  for the joy and struggle and triumph this place and these things represent.