However in some ways, there is a bit of me that craves a little more excitement around the week. Large family gatherings and parties with friends that last late into the night…wine and flood flowing. That sort of thing. Of course to look at Facebook it would seem that everyone else is in the throws of fun and merriment, houses overflowing with guests, and traditions begin observed and revelled in. It makes me a little sad if I’m honest and I have to remind myself to not look to Facebook as an accurate picture of how everyone else’s life is.

However, sometimes a quiet non eventful Christmas is needed. Iona and Judah seem to have recovered from feeling a little off, and they seem to have bonded too. Here is where I will decline to say any more in case I give the impression that they are perfect and getting on beautifully and aren’t they wonderful? Only just saying they’ve shared some cute moments, but Judah has started that high pitched screaming thing again when anyone comes near anything he’s playing with.

Jon has been a mixture of relaxing in doing nothing and being frustrated with doing nothing. There will always be that tension. We’ve had a few good conversations though:

Middle Earth: I’ve read the Hobbit for the first time. I’ve read The Lord of the Rings, but never the Hobbit, and with the film coming out at the end of this year, I figured I’d better have it read. It’s sparked all sorts of conversations about Middle Earth which have been fun. Jon having been a fan and expert since the age of 12.

Theology: I’m reading Rob Bell’s “Love Wins” and it’s sparking a variety of conversations. I read bits out loud to Jon and see how he reacts.

Missions: Just before Christmas I had a friend come to visit. She’s been a missionary to Madagascar, and is currently working in a more professional but still missions focused role in Rwanda. It was refreshing to spend time with her and it stirred things up in me about some of my original passions and dreams. Somehow one evening I ended up talking to Jon and I mentioned Jim Elliot. I was shocked to learn Jon had never heard of him or the infamous story of Jim Elliot and his wife Elizabeth Elliot. I sat up on the couch saying “really? you don’t know???”
As I recounted the details of the story, my eyes welled up with tears and it took me by surprise as I have heard the story told a number of times from the age of 11 or 12. It was such a privilege to tell someone who’d never heard before, who I assumed knew. The tragic story of murder turned miraculous, beautiful account of grace, forgiveness, and beauty.
I will not attempt to tell it here in this blog, but if anyone is interested they can look it up.

It’s at times like that that I am so thankful for the way I grew up. I grew up being exposed to so many amazing things. Some would call it brain washing, narrow, and unrealistic. I’m sure in the midst of all the Bible clubs, Sunday School classes, youth group meetings, and youth events I went to, there were a few odd unbalanced things I heard, human opinions that were simply not Biblical, and distortions of scripture that were not the full picture. Yet….despite that, there was so much truth that made its home in my heart while I grew up, and so many amazing stories, stories that you can not argue with, testimonies that have been documented and verified, some recent, some hundreds of years old, from young, old, from people from all sorts of backgrounds, races, cultures….all who’s lives centre on the same story. The one I still believe with all my heart. The one I’m still learning about and enjoying new angles on…the one that shapes my own story, which is frequently attacked by waves of doubt and uncertainty, arguments, and oppositions….but still remains.

So casually recounting the amazing story of Jim Elliot, his wife Elizabeth, the Auca Indians, Dayuma, and Nate Saint’s Children felt like a breathe of fresh air to my soul.

Christmas always has a way of taking me back to the truth (even though I completely avoided Church this year at Christmas due to Judah’s 0 tolerance to sitting in any sort of row with something in front of him)  and the real meaning and the point of life….it’s not about how sentimental we manage to make it, (although I do love warm fuzzies), or how memorable or exciting…(which I still enjoy doing) The important thing is keeping the reality of Christmas alive in our home every day, regardless of the circumstances.

However I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’d like next year’s Christmas  to a be a little more lively I’d love to put some family up on the couch, sing more carols, and have a bit of a bash with some good friends…..;)

I often hear some of my current friends speaking about old school friends…or old work coleagues, or people who have shared significant periods of time in close proximity to them and how they see them often or how these people are still a part of their everyday life. It sometimes makes me sad because I feel like I have no one around me now who “knew me” a long time ago. There is nothing more fun for me than getting together with a friend and reliving memories and having a laugh over something that is still funny 5-15 years on.

These friends fast turn into memories and images that dance across my mind and in the pages of scrap books due to the long stretches of time that pass since the last time we’ve spent any real time together. Yet these friends carry pieces of me with them. They share memories that I share, and they still remain close to my heart and stay with me wherever I go.

There is something so precious to me about being known. About being understood. About having people who you can be yourself around and it’s fine because they know you. They know what you’re like. They can look at your life now and see it in the light of the larger picture of your world….and understand things that often hard to explain to someone who’s only known you in the most recent context of the present.

I hope now that I am settled for the moment that I will continue to nurture the relationships with those special people who have been a part of my history…and at the same time, nurture the relationships I have around me so that they become the friends that know me too. I have some wonderful friends here in England, and they too are now weaving their way into my history.

In July I spent a few precious days with Louise at Elaine’s wedding…a few days ago I also had a letter from the legendary Annie from South Africa….and most recently I’ve had my friend Nicole who I’ve known since I was 16 here with me in England for ten days….treasures for my soul….taking me back to me.

I have this overwhelming desire to simply stop talking..and listen…except my mouth keeps going, and I dread to think the rubbish that is pouring out for the umpteenth time. I guess maybe the thing is, I don’t have anything new to say…and I’m repeating myself, and It’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m also finding small talk is much more of a drudge than it used to be. If I can’t think of something to say, instead of smiling gamely and flowing with things, I am retreating, feeling like…actually, if I don’t have anything to say, then I’m out of year…see you later.

I look at my life and I look at this real live house I’m living in, and my two real live children I’ve had, driving one of them to a real live school, it’s like I’ve crossed this threshold and I am well and truly a real live parent. I have to cook real live diners and help with real live homework. Perhaps the pre school years are like the childhood of parents….we sort of play at having babies and looking after them, but now that they enter school it’s like the point of no return…and it really all has happened now.

I just don’t feel old enough… I just feel….strangely immature. I feel like a kid playing house with little dolls some days. It just doesn’t feel real. Until I’m sitting and chatting to people and I realize they all seem so much more grown up than me, and I feel like the token teenager in a crowd of adults. You know, the teenager who is mature enough to enter into adult conversation, but is still at the heart of it…a kid with not a whole lot of experience of life and terribly naïve.

I am doing adult things. Least of all things like…parenting. But goodness knows I’ve taken the lazy road more than once in that department. Gosh am I really ready to raise human beings??? I have certain responsibilities at church in various groups etc. but again, I feel like.I’m filling a role, but it feels hollow…like…I’m filling in until a the grown up can come along and take over.

All these last 10 years of living overseas….life has sort of happened around me. Time has marched through and I did indeed  cross the sea as a very naïve and young 22 year old. Plenty of grown up things have happened to me in the last ten years…but have I actually grown up?? People often talk about “being forced to grow up” and “that experience will make someone grow up” and I sometimes wonder if that’s happened to me yet. I seem to have had so many experiences…..but why do I still feel like I did when I was 17?

Have I not suffered enough? Have I not worked hard enough? Have I not really been educated enough? What makes someone grown up? I sort of feel forever locked in to where I am. Whenever people have me over to their house I’m like “wow, I’m in a nice place” and when I have people over I feel like they are sitting in my dorm room at college. I can’t explain it…..like I do a Sunday Roast and I think “did people really just eat that??? What in the world must they think of me?? Why am I even trying???”  I just feel like this teenager that is overstretching and trying to be grown up but in the end….still just coming across as the kid that I am, as though I’ve just tried making my parents breakfast in bed for the first time. Keen as anything…but totally, almost touchingly, clueless.

Maybe it’s that I’ve never really had a proper job and supported myself independent of anyone else. I mean..I sort of did when I first worked for New Life, but really..I was hugely dependent on Jason and Beth letting me live with them. Is it that I’m not earning a wage and feel entirely dependent on my husband and know my name would be no where near a mortgage if it was not for him? Is it that I hardly ever buy clothes for myself because I have no idea what to wear and that I subsist on favourite pairs of  jeans and clothes given to me by friends or sent to me by my mother?  Or is it that I just feel really out of step with everyone around me. The things that worry me don’t worry them, but at the same time, the things that they worry about, I don’t give a second though to. I feel like I’m just on an entirely different planet to everyone else sometimes.

Sure it can all be great and “what makes me me” and all that…but it can be unsettling at times too.

This isn’t said so much because I am overly worked up about what people think..it’s more to do with asking myself…where am I in life?? Am I were I need to be?? How can I grow up?? What is real maturity? Is it the kind of house you have? How much money is in the bank? How many years you’ve had a mortgage? what sort of job you’re working at?  Is it the quality of clothes on your back? The sort of meals you cook? The kinds of conversations you have? The books you read?

Or is it just that  I’ve become self obsessed recently..(like a teenager) and I need to start reaching out??

I’m not sure. But I’m asking the questions.

Today Jon and I have shared 6 years of marriage, where we have lived in 5 homes, visited 6 countries, had two 2 children, lived in 2 hemispheres, experienced a home birth, getting shot at, buying a house, (which was more stressful), Several Chai Tea Lattes, Four trips to London ALL involving obtaining Visas or Passports, a few trips through the refiners fire, and lots of strawberry pancakes on a Saturday morning.

I wanted to say more but it wouldn’t let me!!  it’s not all about the drama and how much we love starbucks…

I wanted to add that I am so thankful for friends. All the friends who have been so good to us as a couple. Those who have invited us around for dinners and Sunday Lunches. Friends who have let us live with them when we had no where else to go. Friends who have supported us financially when we were missionaries in South Africa, and believed in us. Friends who we have been able to be ourselves around and honest with and who still want to be our friends! Friends who we don’t get to see, but who have prayed for us and loved us from a distance. Thank you!

And thank you to God..without you, without your unconditional Love, without the new Hope you give every day, and without you in our lives, we would not be where we are today. You have provided the lovely amazing people who have befriended us, and helped us through the last six years and to you all the glory goes….

So we bought a tent and packed up and headed down. Soon afterwards, people arrived and tents were put up and soon the place was swarming with teenagers.  *insert huge long sigh* So much stays the same. Guys with guitars prowling around looking cool, girls laughing ten times louder than usual and screaming at the top of their lounges over mild injuries like stepping on each other’s toes. Each little set of tents  awash with inside jokes and banter. Then of course there is the main meeting where they swarm towards the front, jump around and dance and get all excited. This is where my evil twin steps in and remarks in the most cynical tone possible “it’s all so predictable”

I stayed out of the main meeting the first night. I wasn’t really interested. I mean, I’d seen it all before really. Jon came back all excited that over 100 had gone forward to become Christians and inwardly I thought “really?? did they? for real? hmmm we’ll see what happens”

Day 2. A huge selection of  smaller meetings on various subjects, all very interesting and lead by high quality speakers. I roll my eyes as I notice our group does not seem in the least bothered and would rather laze around on camping chairs. “typical” I think. I feel flooded with the frustrations of my own past experiences. All the thought, planning, heart, prayer, time, energy, risk, that would go into something….and half the time, (or in my case it felt like 95% of the time) they were not bothered. (how dare they not validate ME???”)

I knew I should not take it personally. Teenagers being teenagers and all that….but let’s be honest..of course I did!!! sure I knew that it was never about me, that I was just a servant, and that teenagers were not there to validate me or feel good about myself…that that sort of thing had to come from God alone, and my work with them was serving him..not them..or myself.  And it was genuinely out of care for them that I did what I did as well. However…me being imperfect and human, I often fell into the trap of wanting to “do” something that looked good, and that I could feel validated from.

Anyway, the first morning:

I remark grouchily that I won’t be able to leave Judah in the creche. He’s been crying on and off all morning and in a grumpy mood.

Judah takes one look at the vast assortment of toys and activities and scrambles out of my arms and dissapears into the sea of toys without a backward glance. Hmmm Ok.

So I make it into the meeting. Well, not exactly into. I’m in the lobby area and I decide to recharge my phone in one of the surprisingly empty sockets. (any available electrical outlet on the site is crammed full of several charging mobile phones)

I sit on the outside, I wander in to let Jon know I’m there, worship sounds good. Well of course it does. it’s flipping Soul Survivor..the birthplace of legends like Matt Redman and Tim Hughes..so I’d have to really be plunging into depths of cynicism if I started slagging off the worship. No, of course it was good. *sigh*

Mike Pavolichi takes the stage….I’m making it sounds like a performance, but I can assure you it’s refreshingly real. I love Mike. I mean, I don’t know him, but he was one of the early personalities in the world of UK youth work that I heard speak in the early days of my time in England. He’s incredibly raw, honest, real, and funny. I had to admit it was nice just to hear him speak again. The week’s topic for the morning sessions is Joseph and I do love a good old testament bible story. I have to leave before the end though to get the kids.

Later in the day a girl from our group tells me she’s become a Christian. I smile. “that’s great” I say. I am surprised that inside I am truly happy instead of flooded with my usual cynical thoughts…this is because…I can see it’s real. I know it is. Of course it is. Later that night while I’m making hot chocolate for the random delegates who drop by our tent in the evening, a lad tells me his story of coming to faith and how he’s “made his choice now for sure, no turning back” this week. I’m strangely warmed talking to him…and I start to remember why I got into this whole thing.

Day 2

The kids again settle into playroom with no issues whatsoever.

I actually worship this time. One of the first times in a long time that I’ve worshipped in a meeting  outside the rush of a Sunday morning. Some beautiful songs flood my heart and my ears. Suddenly I’m getting flash backs. I was here…a long long time ago.  Not here literally..but here…in this kind of place.

It’s a large auditorium at the Hyatt in Chicago…or a large massive conference room stuffed with teenagers in Miami Florida…a massive tent situated on a grotty college campus in Florida….I am between the ages of 13-16….and I’m so excited…I’m singing, surrounded by friends, and adventure is on the horizon. I am expecting God to do amazing things, I’m believing God for miracles, and I feel incredibly free. It’s all so real to me. I have no doubts…God is awesome, and I am going to live for him 100% no matter what.

Memories flood my mind. I don’t just see a bunch of self obsessed annoying teenagers….I see myself. I remember. I remember how great it felt. How real it was…and the reality was..it was so real…the fact that God loves me and has a plan for my life. It still is..it’s just…I’ve let it get a lot more complicated.  Somehow I’ve believed this lie that I am less lovable, less worthy, and less special now, than I was then. I hadn’t made so many mistakes then. I was fresh, I was unblemished by life and my own imperfections. I was not carrying around a load of failed attempts at youth ministry, at relationships. Several big decisions about my life were ahead of me, not behind me and irreversible.

Yet…I guess I forget this very OBVIOUS BASIC FACT that God is still God. He has not changed. He saw me now, as I am, back then, when I was there. No change on his part whatsoever…just mine. And again, this is something I’ve always kind of known…(because I’m smart) but….knowing it in your head is a lot different from knowing it in your heart.

So back to the present. I’m worshipping again….surrounded by thousands of teenagers who are on the edge of the rest of their lives. Their hearts are full, they are sure, they believe. God speaks to me and says “their worship is precious to me…just as yours was then….you felt my love then…feel it now..I saw the future back then…and you are still precious to me”

In that moment, the tears started to run, tears of healing. I became a little bit more free…..something dropped off me that I’d been carrying a long time. I’m sure there is a lot more to go….

As the week unfolded and more and more amazing things happened with and among the young people, I felt free to be happy about it…and believe it.

I love Soul Survivor as a ministry. I love how they are so free…it’s not about them, it’s about God moving and meeting with the young people. There are loads of kids on the fringes that don’t even come into the meetings are leave halfway through and don’t bother with the seminars….but at the right time…they get there in the end, because it’s not about how great the meetings are..it’s about the fact that God loves them and is after them and will get to them any way He can. I have to laugh at myself and think “If Mike P. can cope with kids not coming to his meetings…I think I can too”

In the past, my one criticism would have been that it’s “not a mission trip” being the mission trip junkie that I am. However, there were LOADS of non Christian teenagers there….so it really was like a mission. Christian kids were not just escaping to a bubble for a week, they were taking their non Christian mates with them..and introducing to God and seeing many of them become Christians.

So yes, there was a lot of running around after Judah, keeping Iona happy, (she was fascinated with the showers) eating rubbish, and waiting around for Jon, and walking ages to get to the toilet……and a lot of hyperactive know it all self obsessed teenagers….who are precious to God…but in spite of all that…God used it to remind me of a few things and continue the journey of my healing.

I recently had a conversation with a midwife. Not just any midwife. One who has been in the job for many years and has plenty of experience. I was sounding her out. I am aware that although I may have the best, most up to date information at my fingertips with regards to breastfeeding, it is no match to the spoken words of a health professional, whether it be a pediatrician, a GP, a midwife, or a health visitor. This is regardless of the extent of their actual knowledge and training on the subject of breastfeeding itself.

I can understand this though, my heart goes out to the new mother, who is in a less than straightforward situation, where things have not gone to plan and is feeling powerless, because “she’s been told” or “she’s been advised” by a health professional to do such and such. As soon as the words are out of their mouths, mothers often feel locked in. Yet at the same time, mothers are desperate for information, they want to be guided and reassured and they want to know they are doing the right thing.

So I asked the midwife, “if breastfeeding is not going well to start out with, and a baby has either lost weight, or is a low weight to begin with, why are mothers told to only feed every three hours?”

The midwife replied to me that in such situations, pediatricians are concerned more about the mental state of  the mother. Already this sounds slightly patronizing to me.  She said “mothers want you to give them a plan of action, they want to write it down, they want to be told what to do” I can understand this. Having to be re admitted has got to be very upsetting and as a mother you want to do everything you can to get things sorted out. So I said “ok, but why the advice to feed every three hours, is there a medical reason for this having to do with the baby having lost weight or something?” (i’m trying to be open minded here) She replied “well, there is the idea that if the baby waits for three hours it’ll be hungry enough to take more milk instead of  just taking little bits” Well, right there, is an example of outdated breastfeeding advice.  So I said “but shouldn’t a mother be encouraged to protect her supply by stimulating her breasts as much as possible? either by the baby or pumping? If a mother wants “a plan” could she be told instead to hold the baby skin to skin as much as possible, and given techniques for waking a sleepy baby and getting a sleepy baby to latch on?” She replied, and this is what got me. She said “Yes, that would be good, but, most women don’t want to hold their babies all the time, that is not what they want to be told” I said “really? Don’t you think some mothers simply need permission to hold their babies more often, with all the advice that seems to be rampant on the wards about not picking their babies up too much?” She said “no, I don’t think so, I think a small percentage of mothers are willing to do that, but not most”

I asked these questions because I have heard mothers receive this advice. I did some research and asked several breastfeeding experts as well as digging into the massive recently published Breastfeeding answer book, and could get find no information that would support or back up this kind of advice. The science of breastfeeding requires babies to feed often.  Short little frequent  feeds that some people dismiss as “snacking” have been shown nourish a baby and provide even more nutrients and fat than longer spaced out feedings. A new mother especially needs to protect build her supply, so having the baby close to her, preferably skin to skin  and feeding on and off throughout the day and night is the most effective way of stimulating her milk to come in and of stimulating the baby to feed. This is biologically how we were made. We are carry mammals, like kangaroos and monkeys, and our milk has the lowest amount of fat and calories to any other species’ milk. Carry mammal babies need to be held continually and fed continually. It’s normal. Sure there are babies that do seem to just naturally only feed every four hours and don’t seem to need to be carried very often, but I would say they are the exception.

So mother’s are allegedly adverse to this advice. Allegedly. I actually think most of the time mothers are under a lot of cultural pressure to make their babies as independent as possible from the moment they come out of the womb. “Don’t pick the baby up too much or he’ll be clingy” the midwife warns, and “you don’t have to pick them up every time they cry, you’ll wear yourself out” cautions the health visitor. The overwhelming message seems to say “if you hold your baby too much and feed them whenever they want  you will be its slave forever and never get any sense of order in your life and die of exhaustion and depression” Combine this message with the underlying pressure on women in our society to perform and be all things to all people in record time after having a baby, and to prove to the world how well they are coping and how they are “just fine” and hardly need any help” and information and a true picture of the realities of breastfeeding may not be so readily accepted. However, it does not mean women do not have a right to the information.

I found the midwife’s take on the situation (based on her years of experience)  incredibly sad. So medical advice, dispensed by trusted pediatricians, given to women in a vulnerable position, who are scared, upset, and hormonal, is based on what they feel the mother wants to hear, and not based on any real information that will help facilitate breastfeeding. It’s like “let’s calm this mother down at any cost as she can ‘t obviously handle the truth” I find it highly disrespectful  of women and patronizing. It reinforces the notion that only real superwomen can breastfeed, and it’s great and all…but only if you can.

This sort of breastfeeding advice is not helpful, it undermines a woman’s efforts, and her confidence, and in following such advice, a mother may really struggle to establish breastfeeding.

How many times do mothers say “I really wanted to breastfeed, but I was told I “couldn’t” or that I should stop because, or I didn’t have enough milk? ” What about what a mother really wants to do? How about listening to her, giving her honest relevant information and then determining a plan of action to help her achieve what she wants to as well as helpful suggestions for enabling her to cope and feel affirmed? Like, “Yes, breastfeeding is non stop at times and exhausting, but here are some suggestions to ensure you’re getting enough rest, food, etc” Or, better, “here is what your partner and family can do to help you” So many people think helping a new mother means physically taking the baby away….it’s more about helping the mother to simply be a mother..and taking on her other responsibilities for a time.

It seems like the system is more about managing mothers than it is actually helping them breastfeed. Many mothers seem to be given advice that provides a short term solution to her present state, but does not really take into consideration what she really truly wants to do, and may or may not improve things in the long term. My problem with all this is that it reduces mothers to nothing more than emotional wrecks that need managing. The big picture is hardly taken into consideration, and she is not really listened to or empowered.

Breastfeeding is 90% confidence and only 10% milk. It’s hard work…but mothering is hard work. It’s serious hard work. It’s one of the hardest jobs  a woman will ever do. No matter if they are breastfeeding, bottle feeding, imposing  a strict routine, or going with the flow, it’s hard, it’s tiring, and time consuming. There really is no getting around this. Even if a mother has a lot of support and has a hands on husband, a willing mother in law, or is paying a nanny, she is still the mother and the job of being a mother going to cost time, energy, and resources.

So where are all the health professionals six months later when all sky has cleared and the drama has ended? When a mother looks back at that tumultuous time and wonders….”maybe if I’d asked for a second opinion, or rang a helpline, or had more help with everything else…..or just not doubted myself so much..or just been told the truth..maybe I could have done what I really wanted to do”

Let me end by clarifying that the reason I am writing this is because I want to help mothers who want to breastfeed. I am not interested in any way of trying to persuade or convince mothers who have decided they don’t want to…as long as they’ve had all the information then I fully respect their choice. I feel women deserve to make choices based on truth, not on mis information. My heart breaks for a mother who really wants to breastfeed but is given advice from trusted health professionals that is flawed, and based on the assumption that they are too fragile to handle the truth.

I found this blog very telling. The mother has bottle fed and breast fed and so can speak from both sides. She also rails against the system where mothers seem to be shielded from the facts due to the belief that they can not handle the truth.

A distant memory some days. When immersed in a Marian Keyes novel, I find myself laughing hysterically and enjoying the dialogue , hearing it in my head as its written…yet at the same time forgetting that the reason I find it so funny and appreciate the humour is because I lived there for a stint.

When people asked me how I knew Elaine this weekend, you know, as they do at weddings..I replied that I lived with her for a year in Limerick. Well it was actually just over a year..but somehow in my memory it was a lot longer than that…yet at the same time…It’s become a memory now that is incredibly real one minute but then very fuzzy and distant the next especially when compared to the present.

When I think about the fact that I really only lived with Elaine for one year, and that Louise was practically living on top of us for that year…a close and constant companion to me…why does it feel like so much longer? It was an incredibly strange year for me on paper…but somehow those friendships remain significant in my life and have continued to. Sure they lasted beyond that year. There were subsequent visits and of course the whole dramatic event of my own wedding where I insisted they spend the entire week leading up to it with me, at my side. I suppose in the years where I tentatively settled into England, they were my constants. Although far away, I knew they were my true friends that I could rely on as I very slowly started to make friends in the UK.

My time in the UK before I had my own children and after leaving the sort of “single life” I had lead in Limerick was a bit of a no man’s land. I was working full time with teenagers, who I spent most of my time with, and then there were my fellow adults who were mostly married with young children. As I wasn’t quite there yet, I wasn’t really on their radar, so I was sort of too old for the teenagers and too young for the other adults. So although I wasn’t near them, during that time, Elaine and Louise’s  friendship continued to mean a lot to me because they were the closest friends I had this side of the Atlantic.

I had to miss Louise’s wedding due to us being in South Africa. I’m sure if you look somewhere in my blogs there will be some post where I’m grieving this fact. So when Elaine’s wedding date was set, I simply was not going to miss it. I had to go…..I had to be there. She’d been there for me…added her gorgeous violin playing to the worship at our service and stood as a bridesmaid for me..not to mention just being there during that insane week of  joy, stress and tears leading up to the day. Even though I’m not privileged to be part of the day to day of her life any more..I have this thing about honouring a friendship.

I suppose as well, there have been just too many wedding i’ve had to miss of good friends. I mean, really good friends. A good chunk of my friends who I was close with as a teenager got married while I was either saving up money to move overseas and the wedding was a considerable distance away, or else….I was overseas. The problem is, that when you are in a pattern of moving, you tend move somewhere, make good friends, and then move away before the significant events happen, then when you get to the new place…significant things happen to people, but you don’t know them well enough to be a part of  it. So you feel like you’re just missing out…not to be confused with being left out…because it’s not that at all..it’s just…being in the wrong place at the wrong time…even if its actually the right place.

So anyway, I was privileged enough to be a part of a special friends very special day.

Elaine..how do I describe her. She reminded me of a queen on her wedding day. A real queen. She held herself high and the word I’d used to describe her is exquisite. Much of the creative side of the wedding was borne out of her own creativity. She’s always had great ideas. When we shared a flat together, we traced ourselves on paper, and she then painted us. We put our images up on the wall so people saw us as we entered in!! It was great. She also came up with the idea of a guests book for our flat so to this day I have memories of all our visitors who came to stay with us there. She was highly intelligent and logical on one hand and then extremely passionate and creative on the other. If there is any modern day woman that can truly be compared to Elizabeth Bennet out of Pride and Prejudice…it’s Elaine.

There were times I felt a little intimidated living with her. She was of course a professional science editor working full time…while I was a slightly immature girl, fresh out of Bible college, in a slightly odd predicament living in Ireland and doing her best to grow up and work out the next step for my life. I definitely experienced the school teacher side of her at times….yet then I loved the times when she’d open up and I’d see the other side of her.

I will never forget one evening I read the entire Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe out loud to her while she just listened. I always see her sitting on our rather large comfortable leather couch in our basement flat in Limerick. She has a thoughtful look on her face….then she smiles. I loved the music side of her. Her playing the guitar effortlessly, practising her violin…at times entertaining our guests with our songs. A lot of the confidence I have now in my singing is down to the time I spent doing music with her.

She was wise….I could be quite foolish at times… I suppose she’d learned a lot of lessons already that I was sort of on the edge of, needing to go out there and learn myself. She never judged me though…..she had a lot of grace.

Anyway…words cannot describe how pleased I was to hear she was engaged. I sometimes got tears in my eyes just thinking about it. When she gave me the music for the wedding, nearly every song spoke so strongly from her heart and felt so privileged to give a voice to it for my part on the day.

I loved how she looked like a wood nymph..a fairy..but also like an incredibly strong woman..a queen..yet with that vulnerable side…she got it perfect on the day! Although I’d only just met her husband….I had this sense that he got her..he knew here…and that made me incredibly happy for her as well.

An added bonus to this whole thing was the time I got to spend with Louise and her new baby. She was my taxi for the weekend and I also got to know her husband a bit better as well.

The wedding was a whole pile of fun…a real country wedding. I stayed up far too late dancing and singing with mad Irish farmers and old friends. I enjoyed lots of cuddles with baby Rhys and all the marathon chatting with my precious Louise….time chatting with her is like…gold dust….it’s nourishing to my soul like nothing else.

I even got to have some quality conversation with Elaine as she did very well to stick around at her reception till 2:00 am!

So i’m back now..with some great memories. So thankful I got to be there. Thanks to Louise and Elaine for their friendship….I hope I can continue to give back in some way as time goes on.

Her verse for the wedding day was “You have saved the best…till last” from the gospels. and it completely sums up her love story with her new husband. I admire her so much for waiting on God for the best…it encourages me and blesses me in so many ways.

Suddenly an urge overtakes me….. a need…a desire…to make something. To create something that will take the edge out of the atmosphere. An idea flies into my mind….I dart over to the desktop where I quickly google for recipes….I scroll through a few…find one that is doable to do instantly, and before I know it, the kitchen scales are out…the oven dial turned to 180, and the fridge and cupboard doors start to swing open and slam shut.  Butter is sliced and measured and either melting over the stovetop or being creamed in the kitchen aid.  I know inside I should have cleaned the kitchen first and feel annoyed at myself so I flip on the tap and wait for the hot water before plugging the sink and quirting in the soap….bubbles start to rise as I throw in dirty dishes and utensils. I wash them and leave them to dry and go to measure more ingredients. Through a cloud of flour and smattering of oats or sugar, I also periodically wipe my hands, and sort of obsessively check my blackberry for messages…..Before I know it the recipe is slapped together and I am throwing it in the oven. There is a satisfied sigh that escapes me at this stage…like some kind of release. But now I am now surrounded in a colossal mess, the kind that only happens when you’ve suddenly decided to bake for no real reason.

I again start to throw things into the soapy water, and wash, dry, wipe surfaces….and as I wipe the kitchen aid clean and  put it away and the counters start to clear…. there is another satisfied sigh that escapes, almost a feeling of exhilaration. Suddenly I’m able to move on, think about dinner, think about the laundry, think about the floors that need sweeping…my head is cleared. By the time whatever I’ve made comes out of the oven, it’s slightly anti-climactic…but I feel better somehow…although if in the furry of needing to bake something I’ve actually neglected to make myself some lunch, I’m usually ravenous and end up on some sort of sugar high/crash after scarfing three or four of whatever I’ve made in one go.

I think I must be crazy.

So it should not have been a huge surprise, when I looked down at my phone one Saturday morning and saw an email from Phumeza, “sent from nokia phone”  But she lives in a township in South Africa!  how is this possible? They have smart phones there? of course. I hadn’t heard from her in so long. I had sent  emails, but knew how difficult it was for her and Noluthando, my other friend, to actually get to a computer. I had also sent text messages, but then I knew how expensive it was for them to text back, and so their replies were understandably few. I also knew that mobile phones change hands, get stolen, and swallowed up in the township, so when I started getting “undeliverable” messages back, I started to fear I’d lost contact with them.

But here it was, A message from Phumeza…from her phone. “It’s Phumeza!!!” I said, to Jon as I quickly read her message. She’d gotten married, she misses us, how are we?? etc. I’m so relieved to be back in contact. I reply to her and send pictures of our family, again so easy to do with my blackberry, and she replies back saying she feels like she knows my children, even though she’s never met Judah.  She’s starting an organization she says, and her name is now Nilakhe, because she’s married now. Also, Noluthando’s had a baby boy! Wow.

When you say a tearful goodbye to someone at an airport. Someone you’ve known for a relatively short time, but who you’ve shared a significant part of your life with, and who has taken you places you’d never dreamed. You can’t imagine ever not being in constant touch with them from there on out. But no matter how plugged in we are, distance is still distance. It’s sad because you want to hold on to that feeling of closeness. In the physical, I could hug her, I could share a meal with her, I could be there when things were happening. Now, I’m just a memory, and I can only pray for her and pray she knows that she really was and is still important to me.

When I close my eyes…I see our front room in Mt. Pleasant. The mismatched furniture, the gleaming wood floor, and the sliding doors that lead out to the patio area. That touch of Southern Hemisphere that makes a small humble house feel luxurious. She’s sat there in one of those armchairs that rocks slightly, and she’s silently having contractions, her face giving nothing away in the beginning, and only in the end, she starts to make faces. She doesn’t want to move, but I know she needs to. She’s been sat in that chair since yesterday afternoon, and all through the night…dozing on and off. I make her go for a walk, and we walk up and down the hills of Mt. Pleasant. Past all the lovely houses, the middle road of the “white” community.

Mt. Pleasant was nice in that it felt a bit more open than some of the other more enclosed and gated communities. Many of the houses were old and even shabby looking, dispelling the myth that all white south africans lived in 5 bedroom gleaming gated castles with four or five maids and gardeners looking after them. Sure, many do…but in Mt. Pleasant it felt just a bit more…like you could be walking around a neighbourhood in Wisconsin. Ok maybe not quite like that…but in any case, it must have still looked odd to see a white woman walking around with a heavily pregnant black girl, obviously in labour. In fact, I don’t doubt that some of the people who saw us thought I must be an especially hard driving boss dragging my poor maid around in the hot sun.

The walk did it though. When we got back, things seemed to be kicking in again. My husband who had been self consciously hiding behind his computer this whole time, intervened and suggested it was time to get to the hospital. I’d love to say at this point that full of confidence I insisted she didn’t need the hospital. That we could have the baby right there in our front room….that I would stay by her side while her body did what it was meant to do…but that was pure fantasy.  Especially as she was HIV positive and there was a real issue with the whole risk of  transmitting it to the baby, not to mention the whole blood being everywhere issue. I may not have been happy with the care she was about to receive, but I knew I was way out of my depth when it came to the whole HIV thing.

As much as I longed for Phumeza to have a positive birth experience, I did not have the knowledge, experience, or skill for something like that. I wished I did though. I wished more than anything that I would not have to drive nearly forty minutes away and drop her off at that prison of a hospital, (NHS African style for all you who like to complain about system here in the UK) I did not want to surrender her to the hands of those nasty nurses who shouted at women while they were in labour, telling them they were stupid, or worse, laughed at them.

I remember a friend asking me later, “did she have a natural birth???” and I had to smile when I told her she really didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t an empowered decision, it was just the way it was. However, I wasn’t upset about leaving Phumeza from a medical point of view. She was a strong young woman despite her status. It was not so much my concern that she would not be able to demand an epidural, but that no one would be there to hold her hand when she went through transition. She told me later that when she got to that point in the process she made quite a scene and the nurses were all laughing at her…she said it with a smile, laughing at herself. I mean, she had to, in the end, you make the best of it and you just get on with it and have your baby I suppose…maybe what I think someone needs or should have in labour is simply cultural, and not a reflection of Phumeza’s reality. I don’t know. All I know is that it was with a heavy heart that we packed her up in the car to take her.

I remember the hugely patronizing look on the nurses face when I feebly ask “can I stay with her?”  Of course I couldn’t. Tears sprung to my eyes as I walked back down those hollow creepy halls of Dora Nginsa hospital.  I drive home, texting friends while stopped at traffic lights, asking them to pray. She gave birth to a boy, Ashake. I can see her shack in the township. I am thinking  ”really? she’s actually going to experience her first few weeks with a new baby..here?”

Those first few weeks that are so hard. I remember my own. But I remember I had carpeting and a big couch to sit on while I stumbled through the early feeding issues, at least I could watch back to back episodes of mindless telly, enjoy someone else’s cooking and have a hot shower. Of course I was stressed and exhausted and worried about all sorts of things…but there wasn’t really anything to be worried about. I was not having to scrounge around for money to buy electricity because I needed it to boil water on a camp stove to ma a bottle of formula because I’d been told not to breastfeed because I may give my him AIDS.*

I remember Christmas Day…I see her walking on the beach, Ashake on her back in my Ergo baby carrier. She looks so free and beautiful. No hint that her life was at risk of being brutally cut short.  Back to our house in Mt. Pleasant, it’s dark outside, and I feel the broken bit of the two seater couch at I am scrunched between the two of them,  watching movies on the laptop and eating chocolate chip cookies. Jon is in Malawi and they are keeping me company.

One evening, there is a real chill in the air while the wind outside roars around. I am huddled up to our small electric heater, knowing they are just down the road…in a shack…with the same wind blowing outside their walls.

It was a different world. I don’t pretend to understand it…I simply dip in and experience it for a year.

Distance and time have taken their toll already, but certain memories are so clear. I  hear our front gate sliding open, the sound of the locks on our front doors, the splash of water as I do dishes in that kitchen, the hum of our two enormous fridges, and make shift cupboard doors slamming shut. Jon makes a  splash  in the pool every day after cycling home from the after care program where he plays football with township kids surrounded by barbed wire fencing. It’s a sunny day but it’s windy, and the wind  sweeps through the house and slams the doors with a force that  makes me shudder.

I walk out onto the road outside our driveway, taking Iona for a walk, willing her to have her nap…the ocean in the distance…the sky clear and blue.  I close my eyes… and I am back there…..

It’s the relationships I wish I could bring to life in the same way. I know in some ways they were flash in the pan encounters, made easy by the very nature of the fact that we were temporary foreign visitors…we could cross those cultural barriers and dive in and get involved with little restraint because…we were in fact…only there for the short term. It was easy….and I sometimes wish I had that same attitude when it came to reaching out to my people here…in the long term. Yet…no matter how short they were…they were real. I still care about them, and I miss them, and when I close my eyes…I am back there with them….and hopefully now…thanks to my addiction to my blackberry…I can carry them into the future with me.

The little blinking light…telling me I have a message…..when I see it’s from her….it floods me with joy. Keeping the connection is so important to me. It tells me that I’m not a superficial foreigner who simply had a dramatic cross cultural adventure  that makes a great story to tell…but someone who had the privilege of being a part of someone’s life….their real life…for a short time…and who still remembers them and cares deeply what happens…as I would for any of my friends that I’ve had the privilege of knowing so far.

So I hope our new “connection via smartphone” lasts. Staying in touch with her would mean a lot to me…because..I miss her. I miss her voice…her smile, and the way she told me stories.

*Months later I finally got a hold of what the official advice is to mothers in Phumeza’s situation, and it was that the risks of transmission of HIV through breastfeeding is less than the risk of infection and illness through bottle feeding in less than ideal circumstances. However, because it’s not sensitive to tell a country that most of their HIV positive mothers are most likely not rich enough to safely bottlefeed, the advice gets distorted and you get mothers in townships giving their babies unsterilized bottles and watered down formula.

Today was Judah’s dedication at church. For those of you who don’t know what that is..it’s sort of like a baptism, but it’s not that at all really. The only similarity is that it often takes place in a church, but it certainly doesn’t have to.  It’s mainly a time of thanking God for the life of a child and praying God’s blessing over their lives and praying for the parents and family and wider church family that we would all play our parts in nurturing the life of the child spiritually and emotionally….that we would be the best family we can be.

Sunday morning was a rush out the door. I was decorating cupcakes, mentally preparing for leading worship, everyone else was busy…we forgot our camera. Typical. So there are no good pictures to remember the day. No pictures of Judah in his gorgeous little Calvin Klein outfit, (except the one above, taken later in the day)  the purple T-shirt with the guitar across the front, or the chocolate cupcakes with purple frosting decorated with minstrels.  Never mind, the day was gorgeous. The sun was shinning and it was an unusually warm Sunday in April. Many of my friends turned up and it was such a joy to share the day with them as well as my church family at New Life.

My little boy, with the mass of blonde curls that may be messy but in my opinion are unashamedly gorgeous and beautiful. Like the mane of a lion. I find myself often having to repeat his name when asked. It’s not one of the more well known biblical names, but it’s a good strong one. If you google Judah on an image search, several pictures of Lions will come up. Jesus is often called “The Lion of Judah” which always makes me think of a Lion’s mane whenever I see his beautiful curly hair. He’s also got quite the roar on him that demands to be listened to and noticed…a shriek and a cry that could break glass….not to mention everyone’s ear drums. The amount of times I’m out and about and people turn to look whenever he’s given one of his famous shouts. I’m amazed at how strong he is. He can push his four year old sister off my lap with little effort. He seems to think whatever he wants is his right to take and own and snatch off people…oh the cringe-full moments to come at playgroup..the endless apologies…..I can see it all now…my little baby Lion.  But he can smile. His giggles and laughs brighten up a room like sunshine. They seem larger than he is. He kisses with his whole head. He nurses standing on my lap with his bum in the air. He crashes into me to give me a hug with the force of a battering ram, but his cuddles are soft and sweet. Although he can make a loud noise, he can also make the sweetest little sounds, including something that sounds almost like a purr….

Judah’s name means praise. In Genesis when Leah gave birth to Judah, her fourth son she said “I will praise the Lord” Leah had had a pretty rough time of it. Her husband did not love her, she was sharing him with her sister (who he did love) and even though she managed to give her husband many children, she never won his heart. In some ways her sad story is perhaps many women’s worst nightmares. But she said “I will praise the Lord”

Life certainly does not always turn out the way we imagine it. Things happen to us that we always thought only happened to other people. We make mistakes we thought only other people make. I know I have. Yet so many amazing things happen to us that we could have never dreamed up or imagined for ourselves. Our seaming mistakes and mis steps take us to places we never ever thought we would be.  We may not be living the life we dreamed of, or the life we thought we wanted, but we are being given the incredible gift of life every single day, and each day holds a potential that is unlimited.

My Judah has existed in three different countries. He has lived in six houses, and survived four major home moves. He came into my life when words like “transition”  ”limbo” and phrases like “settling in” and “up in the air” were starting to wear thin. The ground was unsteady and it nearly swallowed us a few times within the first year of his life. Even before he was born, he’s felt like an angel to me…giving me hope and reminding me to praise God…no matter what the circumstance. When I turn to God and stop dwelling on the circumstances, I find my strength, and most importantly, I find my hope.

I sang “Desert Song” today. I first heard the song holding Judah stood at the back of a church I was visiting in the States. The words filled my soul with hope during a time when I was desperate for it. Every word of every verse resonated with where I was at that stage.  The desert, the fire, the battle….and even the harvest…all seemed to happen in the short space of a year, and through it all, I’ve known what I’ve been meant to do. To praise God for the beautiful gift of life he’s given me, not denying any reality of pain or hurt or disappointment, simply finding a place where I can praise Him in the midst of it all….because when I do that….it does not magically make the problems go away…but it reminds me of who God is…and my faith grows stronger, and I am flooded with hope.

So Judah, may you praise God in every season of your life to come. May it be an extraordinarily rich life full of blessing…but as you go through your trials, battles, and desert times…I pray that praise would rise from within you almost as an instinct. That you would be drawn to your Creator…and that you would know in the deepest parts of your heart and soul…that He is God and that he loves you more than anyone else, even me, who cannot imagine loving anything else as much as I love the beautiful family I’ve been given.

May praise be always on your lips. Psalm 34:1