Manna?

I took a video of the snow falling today.  As I stood on the back porch with fat, fluffy flakes landing atop my head, I was transported back to Singapore, where I also stood on the back porch filming the wonders of nature.  Only there, it was monsoon season, and I was recording the pouring rain.  

The similarities and differences are jarring.  Unstoppable nature, doing it's thing, with me as the silent observer, documenting.  In Singapore the rain pummelled the plants and roared as steadily as the ocean.  Here in Switzerland, the absence of sound is just as noticeable, with nary a track in the snow, save Aaron's boot prints (because it's recycling day at the déchetterie, and no force of nature shall stand between the Swiss and their recycling).

It's easy to see how snow has inspired so many poets and songwriters.  It's absolutely awe-inspiring and breathtaking.  I feel the pressure and pinprick of tears at the corners of my eyes.  How does it create such wonder in my soul?  When the ground is blanketed in white, and flakes clump into feathery clusters, and trees in the background become gray and ghostly, I suddenly feel so small...in a good way.  It quite literally stops me in my tracks.  The steady fall gives the impression it will continue indefinitely, but this is my 47th time around the sun, and I realize, with a bittersweet pang, that this beauty is temporary and worth recording.  I allow myself to be still and watch and enjoy.  

I have this pressing urge to capture it in words, but I'm afraid they are insufficient.  Still, I will try...It's like watching rain fall in slow motion.  While the Singaporean monsoon surges felt overwhelming and fast-paced and energizing, the Swiss snowfall feels calm and slow and deliberate.  You can see the individual clumps and follow the path of each piece from the sky all the way to the ground.  It makes me wonder if this is what the Bible's famous "manna from heaven" looked like as it fell.  If I feel this much gratitude for the beauty of the snow, I wonder how much more the ancient, starving Israelites felt as they watched flakes of food fall from the sky and cover the ground.

Then again...It's all about situation and perspective.  How do the Ukrainians feel as they wake to sub-zero temperatures and watch the snow falling?  I sit by the warmth of a cozy fire as I type, laptop powered by reliable electricity, a nearby fridge humming and full of food.  But what if I were in Ukraine today?  What if a missile just took out the all power and the heat for me, my family, and a million neighbors?  I don't think I'd be celebrating the snow.

The same white, fluffy manna for my soul is quite likely a bitter curse for those struggling to survive. 

I know I tend to blog when I'm struggling with balance and perspective.  In psychology the mental discomfort I'm feeling from simultaneously holding two contradictory attitudes is called cognitive dissonance.  I know it's natural to want to relieve it.  But today, I am going to try to hold them both - the joy and the sorrow.  I am not going to pretend I have the words to tie a tidy bow around my heart and create some resolution.  

I can smile and cry.  I hope that wherever you are, you are finding warmth and peace today.  

Savoring the Solitude

I hear nothing but the sounds of a distant, rushing river and melody of birds.  Occasionally, our old, yellow lab harrumphs her way from the floor to the couch, tail thumping when I stroke her belly.  Her sighs turn into snores until they become so loud she wakes herself, flops back onto the floor, and starts the whole process over again.

The house is oddly empty for a Thursday, as is the town, for that matter.  Shops are vacant and locked.  The roads are quiet, save for a continuous stream of bikers - young, old, suited up in spandex, or simply meandering in sandals.  

It's a bank holiday in Switzerland.  Quiet is mandated.  Literally.  The rebel in me dared to use the pressure washer on the awning that covers the pergola for a few minutes this morning.  Luckily our landlord, whose home is stone's throw from our own, is out of town, and the nearest neighbor is at least a field away.

I'm sitting in the living room with the glass doors dangerously wide open.  The last time I did this, a swallow swooped all the way into the kitchen before turning sharply and flitting back out again.  

I wasn't surprised.  We live in a barn.  It's not like an American wood-sided barn.  It's an ancient Swiss barn with stone walls several feet thick, keeping us warm in winter and cool in summer.  It's nestled in a valley holding just enough flat land for a field to the south and one to the east.  It is tucked so deeply into the hillside that the third floor (housing our landlord's studio) is a walkout.  The surrounding hills are so steep that goats are brought in several times a year to trim the grass.

The kids had to be taught how to safely unhook the electric fence just to get to school.  The learning curve was steep and shocking, but at least they've earned the bragging rights to say to their own children: "When I was your age, I had to walk uphill to school..."

The goats are gone for the season, but there's no shortage of wildlife.  Falcons swoop to catch rabbits and mice in the fields, foxes trot along the riverbanks, cows graze on the distant hills, bees hum and buzz in and out of their colourful houses on the hill, songbirds fill the gardens.  

There is a rushing river just beyond the field and a flour mill (that was once powered solely by the river) across the way.  The icy water comes from the glaciers in the mountains above, and there is a pebble beach where we like to go and have a dip on hot summer days.

From the upstairs windows we catch glimpses of Lake Geneva and the Swiss Alps just beyond.  It is truly an oasis.  And today, at least for a few hours, it is all mine.  

Aaron and Maddie drove to Italy for some father-daughter bonding time over the long weekend.  The benefits of having a big family often come at the expense of individual attention, so we've decided to try to take some short, solo trips with each child this year.  

Parker just finished his exams, so he and his friends will have a night on the town.  Geneva has several teen-only nights per year, serving beer and wine to those 16+.  They will take public transport and crash here later tonight (or, more accurately, early tomorrow morning).  I will write another post about alcohol and Switzerland one day.  It's a whole thing.

Jack and Caleb are off at a friend's house playing dungeons and dragons with a sweet group of young boys.  When they are finished, they will walk through the woods, up the hill, past the soccer fields and cemetery, through the village, and back home again.  It's a 30 minute walk, and it's just a part of Swiss life.  They love it.  

(This photo is part of the boys' walk home.)

So here I am, soaking in the quiet, natural soundtrack. I'm basking in the solitude and grateful that it actually feels like a gift.  I know sometimes being alone and can feel, well, lonely.  But this?  Today, this feels like peace.  Maybe it's because I know that everyone's coming home.  Maybe when they are grown and gone it will feel different.  But I hope not.  I hope I can hang on to the lessons I've learned about gratitude. 

Because for me, the difference between solitude and loneliness is always gratitude.  When I take the time to name, appreciate, and focus on all the little tangible gifts of the present moment, my life is sweeter.  And, I realize, I've never really been alone.

“And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” (Matthew 28:20 NLT)

Is there anything more beautiful?

 Is there anything more beautiful, more precious than the privilege of watching your loved ones sleep?

It is just that, you know - a privilege.  

Tonight I'm seated between Aaron and Caleb.  Both are sick and dozed off early, just after dinner.  As I watch them sleeping, heads resting on soft pillows, brows unfurrowed with the cares of the day forgotten in dreamland, there's a sting in my eyes.  It is a pleasant, bittersweet feeling.  It is a feeling I recognize, whispering, This is sacred; pay attention.

I am thankful for this broad, soft couch.  I am thankful for cozy, warm blankets tucked up under chins.  I am thankful for the popping and murmuring of the fire, the heat that it gives off.  I am thankful for the sweet dog curled at my feet. 

I think of the news.  Pictures of hungry children and desperate parents, of war-torn countries and mass graves, of refugee camps and floods.  What a privilege to watch my loved ones sleep in peace.  May I never forget to be grateful.

I've written about it many times...the magic and wonder of watching people sleep.  Perhaps I've missed my calling as a night-nurse.  Does God do this, too?  Hover over us while we sleep, feeling the same heart swell of love and wonder?  You are mine.   You are mine.  You are mine.  I imagine so.

I am thankful they are mine.  I am thankful for this moment of peace in a world that feels full of chaos.  Goodnight, good night.

This is Christmas?

 I sit in my same morning spot.  It looks different this morning.  I'm usually staring at a black square of window, trying to squeeze in some quiet time, before sleepy-eyed children shuffle in to ask about breakfast as the the school day begins.  But today, the sun is streaming in.  It's nearly nine, and they are all still tucked into bed.

You really can't beat this view...roses by the window, heavy, full blooms nodding in the breeze.  Tall pine trees, arms outstretched framing the view of our sleepy little village, a collection of brown-tiled roofs and green, weathered copper pipes.  It's picture book perfect.  The vineyards that roll down the hills toward the lake have been trimmed back for the season.   Dipping and curving in neat rows, they carry an air of order and refinement that permeates the Swiss countryside.  Where the vineyards end, still-green swaths of farmland are cleanly split down the middle by the thin highway that runs parallel to the lake.  From up here, the lake looks more like a river, a blue-gray ribbon stretching as far as the eye can see in either direction.  Across the lake, the lights of France still twinkle in the shadow of the mountains.  Layer upon layer of purple peaks criss cross each other in imperfect triangles.  Above the jagged ridges, sits Mont Blanc in stark, white contrast, as if God began to build a snowman and stopped halfway through.  

As my vision zooms back in, my attention is drawn to the pink rose bloom dancing just outside the window.  How is that even possible?  It's December 25 in Switzerland.  Shouldn't there be snow?  Holiday music is playing on my phone, but it certainly doesn't feel like Christmas.  I remember this feeling.  I felt it in Singapore, where we celebrated a few hot, sticky Christmases, tossing marshmallows at each other in the kitchen (our Singaporean snowball fight) and swimming in the pool in the afternoon.

It makes me think...What is Christmas?  Is it the decorations?  I hope not.  Some are still in storage in the States.  Some of the sweetest ones, handmade on paper or wood, have been destroyed by the mould that grows in our storage area here.  One of the saddest holiday moments I ever experienced happened this year when I went to wipe off a preschool picture ornament, and Parker's entire face was wiped away in one swipe of my thumb.  Even Jack, who generally doesn't concern himself with decor, commented on the sad lack of Christmas decorations this year.  So, I hope it's not just the decorations.

Is its the gifts?  If so, Christmas is cancelled.  There is no 2-day Amazon in Switzerland.  I began ordering gifts for the kids at the end of November.  Some have still not arrived.  Since shipping here from the States is prohibitively expensive, family members send money electronically, and I do my best to buy gifts, but it doesn't always work out.  Or the kids want something electronic (game credits, gift cards, etc.), so that doesn't leave much to open under the tree.  

Is it Santa?  Nope.  Since Caleb learned the truth about Santa, and the tooth fairy, and the leprechauns, and the Easter Bunny last year [a sad year, indeed], the Christmas magic was missing this year.  We couldn't even locate the Elf on the Shelf in our mess of mouldy decorations.  I filled the stockings last night before the kids even went to bed.  Jack, in desperate need for tradition and magic, baked cookies for Santa.  And Caleb ate them.  Just sad.

I read the news last night before bed - never a good idea.  Thanks to the war and destruction, Christmas is cancelled in Bethlehem.  Really?  Really, world?  

So, if the decorations and the gifts and the magic are gone...if the very place Christ entered the world is destroyed...why bother?

Because, thankfully, Christmas is bigger than all of that.  I think the early Christians were pretty brilliant the way they hijacked the pagan solstice celebrations.  They didn't let the fact that Jesus wasn't born December 25 stop them.  They let the natural gift of light wash over their weary souls, a predictable, annual promise of warmth and hope to remind us of the love of the One who made us.  Though my faith has shifted and morphed in many ways over my lifetime, I still believe.  I believe that there is purpose in this annual reminder of God's love.  

Even when everything looks bleak - war, poverty, hunger, disappointment, pain, fear, uncertainty - the light enters.  Every year, there is the darkest night; then the light comes.  It's more certain, more reliable than a Swiss clock.  

So today, I celebrate the light.  I will allow my eyes and heart to open to the gifts set right before me.  I will hold them close, breathe them in.  I will savour the smell of their hair, the sound of their heartbeats, the press of their soft cheeks.  Even the dog hair on my sweater.  I am covered in love and light today.  It is a Merry Christmas, indeed.

Wishing you all a light- and love-filled holiday!

My Weird European Life

 We have a station wagon.  Let's start there.  It seats 7 people (our family plus one more skinny-tushed individual).  The two little boys, now ages 9 and 11, climb through a flipped down seat in the center of the middle row to reach the back row.  One might wonder:  Why would such a large family choose such a relatively small car?  Why give up the comforts of a minivan?  One day I will write a sonnet for my old mini-van...luxurious spacing, cupholders galore, enormous trunk, removable middle seat so I never had to hear about the injustices of sitting in the back row.  But back to now...We chose this car because the parking spaces here are teeny tiny, the public garage height requirements are super-low, and this car was available when we needed one.

Next oddity: My kids have mandatory ski camp each year.  Yes, they have to go away to ski camp and learn to ski because that is what you do in Switzerland.  I don't know if the local schools have such a requirement, but the international schools do.  Come to think of it, the local schools likely don't have that requirement because the locals learn to ski when they are 2.  Not even  kidding.  Smallest skis you've ever seen.  But back to this morning...We extracted ourselves from our clown car station wagon, pulling out all of the backpacks and extra luggage skiing requires.  I may have been [definitely was] muttering some swear words under my breath as I attempted to dislodge Jack's skis and poles from between the seats.  Good bye kids, have a great day!

I headed for my annual exam.  Which I haven't had in 2 years.  Because finding an English-speaking female doctor who is accepting new patients in Switzerland is akin to finding a unicorn.  But I finally found one.  And I got in!  In my broken French, I bumbled my way through the receptionist's greeting, was lead down a maze of hallways into an exam room, and was fairly sure the nurse told me to get undressed.  It's too bad the support staff didn't speak any English.  Luckily, I was right, as she didn't bat an eye when I started to disrobe.  Speaking of robes, there were none.  She just handed me a towel.  Awkward.

After my exam, I realised I was very close to the garage that had changed our car's oil.  This ain't no Jiffy Lube.  You have to take make an actual appointment (in French),  take it to a real garage, and leave it there.  For an oil change.  Recently, our car has been making a terrible noise when I pressed the brakes.  Clearly it needed some work.  I tried to reach the bi-lingual leasing agent for weeks to help me set up an appointment.  He's ignoring my emails.  So this morning, I decide to take a chance and head to the garage.  

After playing charades with the receptionist, I was directed to an English-speaking technician [cue the Hallelujah Chorus!].  Let me stop here.  I realise I am sounding very negative about the French language.  I am trying y'all.  I take lessons every week.  I listen to the news in French.  I have a French conversation group on Monday mornings.  It's just plain hard.   Back to the car...The dude takes a look at my wheel well and tells me I need to leave it with them to fix today.  It was in such bad shape, they didn't want me driving away.  That's good news and bad news. Great that they can fix it today.  Bad news that I have no ride home.  It's one degree Celsius, and I don't have a hat or gloves.  I hadn't been expecting this detour.

I walk to a tiny train station, buy a ticket on the Swiss transport app, and wait in the freezing cold.  The tiny train takes me to the big train station in Nyon, where I call Aaron to explain what's happening and cross my fingers that he can give me a ride.  Nope.  Full day of meetings for him, but I could pick up some coffee while I'm in town, he tells me.

I walk to our favourite cafe for the beans and some very late breakfast.  Sitting alone in the bustling cafe I catch snippets of conversations in French and English (it's a popular spot for expats).  I'm alone but don't feel lonely.  It feels so strange to be riding trains and walking through cities and surrounded by foreign language and feel okay.  That's when I realised, this is my new normal.  As strange as it is, this is my home for now.

I finish eating and head back to the train station where I ride into a town called Rolle and catch a bus to my village.  The last walk is up the big hill, winding past the old chateau and the vineyards.  The wind is whipping my hair around my head.  Reaching our drive, I check the mailbox and come inside.  

I don't even fully understand why I felt compelled to write this today.  Maybe because I think deep down we all have a desire to feel understood.  My life here is so different from the one back home that I guess I worry I may never be understood.  That when I want to share about what's going on here, it is not for the sake of complaining.  I'm okay.  It's just really weird sometimes.  And it's even weirder when it starts to feel normal.   That's all.

Something in the Way

 There is something in the way a child sleeps...

James Taylor's song "Something in the Way She Moves" is playing in the back of my mind as I stare at Caleb.  I would rewrite the song..."there's something in the way he sleeps..."

There is a magic there.  There is a feeling that catches in my throat and stings the backs of my eyes.  There is an involuntary tenderness that wells up, washing over any arguments or negativity of the day before.  

I remember when the kids were younger, I would watch them sleep and just cry.  I would cry over how much I loved them.  I would cry over their future and fears that the world may not cherish them or be kind to them.  I would cry over parenting missteps, regretting harsh words.  

I don't think I am alone.  I suspect these intense feelings hit every caregiver.  Maybe the underlying thoughts or concerns are different, but the feelings are the same.  I would argue they are there for a reason - that young children nap often for just this reason: so their parents may fall in love with them over and over again.

These moments happen less often as they grow.  This is mostly because I don't witness their sleep very often.  I still tuck the younger boys into bed, but I am often asleep before Parker and Maddie.  Mornings are busy, and I simply pop my head in the doors to announce, "It's wake-up time!"  Parker even uses his own alarm clock now.  And I find life is just "too busy" now to stop and take the time to observe and to document my darling, sleeping babies.  It makes me a little sad.

When I do catch them sleeping, it is usually on vacation.  I stand over them, creepily taking a million photos, trying to capture that innocence, that sweetness, until they inevitably wake and groan, "Mom!  No!" slipping under the covers again, elusive as unicorns.

But today Caleb is sick.  He has a cough (which sounded like croup the other night when he woke me, gasping for breath and barking like a seal).  He has a headache and sore throat.  He is staying home (much to the dismay of his older siblings who would also like "a day off").  Aaron is in India, so when it was time to drive everyone else to school, I whispered to Caleb that I would return soon and left him buried in covers on the couch.

He is sleeping on the couch because there is mould in the basement (where he normally sleeps).  He and Jack were arguing, and slamming the sliding door down there a few weeks ago, when it fell off its tracks - inside the wall.  I have been asking the landlord to fix it (along with the leak in the ceiling) for weeks.  They finally sent a repairman yesterday who removed a wall panel and found...you guessed it...mould.  While the repairman insisted it wasn't dangerous, I didn't think it a good idea for Caleb to breathe it in, given he already has quite a cough.  (The silver lining is that the boys won't be blamed for breaking the door, since it was likely the water damage that caused the door to fall off the tracks.)

So Aaron is gone, Caleb is sick, the basement is torn apart, I have left today's Welcome Club outing I planned for new parents at the school in the capable hands of my friend, Niamh, and I am free this morning.  I am free to take pictures of my sleeping angel on the couch.  I am free to take the time to breathe and remember all the moments of sitting and staring at sleeping babies and feel all the feels.  I am free to write and observe the beautiful rainbow that arcs over our village today, reminding me of God's promises.

I am not alone.  I will not be given more than I can handle.  I am the keeper of very precious gifts, and I will enjoy them today.  

A break

You'll notice a break.  A lapse in the birthday posts.  I told myself...when the school year starts and the house is quiet...that's when I'll "catch up."  Well, school started months ago, and here we are.

I'm not so sure I will catch up now.  Caleb turned 8, then 9, and we are well into his 9th year.  Jack turned 10, then 11.  Parker is 15, and Maddie will soon be 14.  And the sun rises and sets, the clothes turn in the washer, the finger nails grow and are trimmed.  

There was a break in the recording but not in the life.  Though I suppose you could say there was a break in that, too, depending on your definition of "break."  There was COVID.  There was my breakdown/awakening.  There was an international move.  There were a lot of disruptions to our daily lives.  

But isn't that exactly how life works?  I don't know.  I just know it's how our lives seem to work.  Nothing is stagnant.  We move a lot.  We find new spots for all the things...the beach towels and backpacks, the Q-tips and screwdriver, the stuff of life.  We don't have a junk drawer.  Because our "junk" is ever changing, constantly being recycled or given away.  I like to know where things go - a place for everything and everything in its place.

So when I have a mental junk drawer, a to-do list that has gone too long undone, I have trouble finding rest.  And my self-imposed pressure to make annual birthday posts has created enough unrest in me that I find myself trying to find a solution.  So this is it.  This is my catch-up.  I will not attempt to go back and recreate the years I've missed, but instead, I'll offer a snapshot of now.

Caleb.  Where to begin?  When I wake you in the morning with a kiss on your cheek, you immediately throw an arm around my neck, holding me close, pinning me to your soft cheek.  And I breathe you in -all of lovely little you.  Your tousled dirty-blond hair and twinkling blue eyes.  You dance with abandon, tell terrible "dad" jokes, love your video games and best friend, Henrique.  You are always up for going out, trying new foods, doing new things.  You have a strong sense of justice and become upset quickly when things seem unfair, which they often do, as you are the youngest.  You love to play pingpong with dad and card games with mom.  You are super-smart and incredibly loving.  You miss your TX friends but were very open-minded about the move.  It was tough, but I'd say you're settling in quite well.  You are my joy.

Jacky-Jack.  You are still the most creative person I've ever met.  You play "imaginary" and host your own private dance parties in your room, running and jumping, and battling creatures only you can see.  Transitioning into middle school has not been easy, but you are putting forth all the effort we could ever hope for.  You are so smart and witty and have made some very special friends.  I know it was hard for you when Zach moved away.  You had a special bond, like the one you had with your friend, Graham, in Kentucky and Maddie in Texas.  Sometimes I worry that people won't understand or appreciate your uniqueness, but you have proven time and time again that my fears are unfounded.  You always find your tribe.  You had a lovely 11th birthday party at the house and invited girls and boys, all of whom love you.  You continually try to convince me to let you "go bald."  One day you got your wish when dad was trimming your hair and the guard slipped off.  Your soft, short hair is so fun to rub that it has even caused some problems (since everyone wants to rub it).  I'm glad I still hold that special place in your life where I can rub it as much as I want.  You curl up into my lap, I rub your head and read the Dragon Assassin series to you.  Holding you is still one of my favourite pastimes.  You are my heart.

Maddie-Claire.  Baby girl.  You are so not a baby anymore.  As tall as I am with flowing wavy hair and a gorgeous, brace-free smile, you seem to be so much older than 13.  You didn't just come out of your shell, you shot out of it like a rocket.  You made a conscious decision to make more friends during this move.  Your best friend, Julia, moved to a new school this year.  It was painful but you rallied yet again and have become a friend to many more people this year, including upperclassmen.  You are in Mama Mia and have even helped to teach the choreography to the the newer students.  You excel in school and have discovered your own funny, sassy side.  No longer a people-pleaser, you are thoughtful about others' feelings while still honoring your own needs.  This is a huge strength and will serve you well in life.  You are your own person.  I love that you are exploring your spirituality and asking big questions, studying the Bible but not taking it at face value.  You have so many thoughts and opinions and feelings, and it's a blessing to have a front row seat as I watch your life unfold.  You are my treasure.

Parker.  Fourteen is not an easy age to make an international move.  Though exciting at first, we were quickly slapped with the realities of culture shock, language barriers, and a whole new way of life.  Leaving TX as the top of your game, voted VIP in the school's athletic program, surrounded by friends and adoring teachers, you sailed into Switzerland on a cloud.  Then came the storm.  You were (are) so so brave.  You are so good, down to your core.  You found it baffling that people could be mean or cold or rude, and it ripped my heart out to see you struggle through it.  You pinned your hopes on summer and a month "home" in Texas with friends, all the while dutifully, diligently building relationships here.  You tried and excelled at rugby, learning the French-speaking coach's commands.  You created friend groups based on mutual interests, resisting the drinking and drug culture that is so pervasive here.  You met a sweet girl.  Summer meant fun times with old friends and an awesome church camp, but by the end of it you were actually ready to return to your life here.  You see the beauty in the mountains, you have become a leader in your school, you are thoughtful, respectful, and kind.  Ever-changing, out of my control, wonderful to watch and to love - You are my dream.

Words will never capture you kids.  They are simply inadequate.  I hope one day reading these posts will bring back fond memories for you...that you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are fully loved, and not just by dad and me but by the One who created you.  Not a single tear goes unnoticed.  No small act of kindness is overlooked.  You are seen and known and completely cherished.  

Love, 

Mom