this gift

June 06, 2019 by Emily Dickson in Marriage, Brazil

Note: I am publishing Part One of this piece today, on our 2nd Brazil-iversary (!!!), because I know time will eventually glaze over the hard parts of this season. I want to remember though - the hard parts themselves and the incredible ways God has used them.

January 2017

It’s 2:30 am, I think, when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

It’s my husband.

“Hey, how are you?” I say, my voice hoarse and raspy.

“Not good.”

I don’t understand. Ten hours ago he sounded fine. Tired of course, but fine.

“I think this might be the biggest mistake of our lives.”

Silence.

Roughly 40 hours ago, Cora and I dropped him off at the airport. His destination: São Paulo, Brazil. We’re moving there. But not all of us, just yet, because I am seven weeks away from birthing a baby brother. He must begin this new job and this new country by himself.

The five hour time difference puts him at 7:30 in the morning. He should be heading in for Day Two at the office by now. Instead, I find out, he is still in bed. He is deathly sick and he doesn’t know where to buy water - because you can’t drink the tap - or toilet paper. His “furnished” apartment was stocked, sparsely.

He is physically sick, I can hear the congestion in his voice, but there is obviously more to unpack here. I can’t comprehend all the unknowns he’s facing. I’m wrapped in the covers of our own bed, in the town we call home, in a country I understand. I am ignorant of his worries, yes, but I have fears of my own. Fears for his safety after listening to the horror stories people felt compelled to share with us. Fear of this baby coming too early, of laboring without his hand to hold, of transitioning to life with two littles alone.

“We knew this was going to be hard.” I say. “Here we are.”

***

And so it begins, Lord. Our ominous adventure. We have been waiting nearly seven
months for this beginning and yet, we’ve been caught off-guard. Talking about grand adventures is very much not at all like living them.

Why are we doing this?!

I don’t know your plan, Lord. I don’t know what you are hoping for us, offering to us,
through this season in Brazil.

Is it good, this gift?

I know you are trustworthy, Father, sovereign and good.

You are a God of purpose.
Your works are not haphazard.
This is not haphazard.

So I will trust your hidden why.

And I will cling, once again, to these words from 1 Peter.
These words that have carried me through moves and fears and challenges past.
You have not failed me yet, Lord.

“And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace,
who has called you to His eternal glory in Christ,
will himself restore, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”

Establish us, Lord, in this season, in Brazil. Make us who we ought to be.

August 2017

He arrives home from work and finds me in the kitchen, washing dishes. He missed dinner again. Seeing the kids, too. I pass him the silverware and he rinses, begins transmitting the details of his day. Though his voice is but a whisper, I hear the notes clearly. Frustration, exhaustion and feelings of inadequacy weave together a dissonant melody. It’s not easy to listen to. His tired eyes and rounded shoulders tell me it’s not easy to play either.

At the office, he is in the valley of a learning curve that towers like Everest before him. Always the optimist, I am chock full of advice and suggestions for ways he could improve his work experience. He acts on a few of them, but not many, which is aggravating to me. It seems he doesn’t want my help.

Maybe though, he just doesn’t want its underlying message.

I would do this so much better.

It’s quite a claim coming from the restless, stir crazy, tired-of-single-parenting-this-gig woman I’ve become. Without a car of my own, and two littles to carry and pack for, I spend most days within the confines of our apartment grounds. I am so anxious to feel Brazil, to know her inside and out, yet I settle for a heavy-hearted, second-hand version when he gets home each night.

His lackluster appreciation of my “help” makes the stubborn independent in me cringe. Because I need his help. It infuriates me to have to admit that! I am supposed to be the world traveller in this marriage. Back then I needed only a backpack and a hostel bed. Where did that girl go? I blame the kids and heave all of my grand expectations on my consolation prize: the weekend. Two whole days when he can help me navigate this city. We’ll attend festivals and eat all the Brazilian things and explore neighborhoods and museums and parks! But the long work days usually deplete his drive to do anything more with those 48 hours than rest and recoup.

His angst builds during the week. Mine loves working the weekend.

There’s more.

Learning this Portuguese language is irritatingly slow. The two of us, we are both desperate for the other to learn it, to be proficient enough. It would ease our own burden considerably because we really only need one of us to figure it out.

But in this case, willing the other to win is not, exactly, beneficial. It’s more I’m backing you into a corner than it is edifying. I feel the tension rise when he looks at me to place our order at Starbucks, like I can say “chai latte” with a less-American accent than him. I know I play the same game though. A few months ago, we pulled into a paid parking lot and the attendant had a lot to say. He seemed to be warning us of… something. I purposefully busied myself with the kids, pretending I didn’t hear what was said, so he had to figure it out.

I thought the hard part of this adventure would get easier when our newly minted family of four could tackle this adventure together. I thought it would make us a stronger team. The actual experience though, feels more like an axe hacking its way vertically through the tree trunk that is our marriage. The blows keep coming and I now feel a space where there shouldn’t be space. A rift between his half of the trunk and mine. It unsettles me. Our long-lasting honeymoon phase has, abruptly, ended.

***

Jesus, what is there to say?
Brazil has been unlike anything I expected.
The frustrations will not end.
And I have a bottomless spring of blame I cannot stifle.

Life feels heavy. And hard.

I read these words this morning though:

“Discipline your thoughts to trust Me as I work My ways in your life…
Do not fear My will, for through it I accomplish what is best for you.”
Jesus Calling by Sarah Young

Help me, Holy Spirit.

Let this season change me, Lord.
Soften my heart for the work you will do. Let this not be for naught.

“But as for me, I will look to the Lord;
I will wait for the God of my salvation;
my God will hear me.”
Micah 7:7

Don’t miss the end of this beautiful story! Read Part Two here.

the day it rained

May 01, 2019 by Emily Dickson in Motherhood

The appointment is scheduled for 3:30 pm. My husband walks in at 2:40. While he changes out of his work clothes, I pack the diaper bag with milk, granola bars, crackers, puffs, fruit pouches and fig newtons. Also the little furby, the red jeep, the blue car, and Peter Rabbit. I’m not sure how long this will take.

I trade my workout gear for real clothes and add a little mascara before corralling the four year old, the two year old, and the thirty-four year old away from their post-quiet time show, Curious George. The clock reads 3 pm. It’s time to leave. Why has my dear husband not started the bathroom and shoes routine? The knots in my stomach turn a bit tighter.

Ten minutes later we are pulling out of the parking garage. Google Maps predicts a 3:25 pm arrival. Traffic must be light today. I relax, slightly. Fifteen minutes later, after managing the littles in the backseat, I turn to face forward and see the hospital entrance fading from view. My whole body tenses and a disheartened sigh escapes my lips. He doesn’t know this route like I do. Google said to turn left, so he did. It takes five slow minutes of winding through the neighborhood to find our way back.

It’s fine, doctors are always late.

We pull up to the door, crawl out of the car, and I feel my hands instinctively smooth my shirt over my belly. The belly I’ve been watching for weeks now, checking in the bathroom mirror each morning, wondering if the growth I feel is visible to the world just yet. I walk calmly through the hospital doors and settle my family onto a bench nearby. Calmly, because all emotion seems to be hanging in a cloud of suspense above me, waiting for a cue to release. I know this cloud will drench me with its rain today. But will the drops be of joy or dread? I am hopeful, though past experience calls for caution.

I check in at the desk. The woman hands back my ID along with a badge. One obstacle down, I herd my family on toward the next. Down the hall, through the overpass, up the elevator, into the second lobby. My gait is quick, agitated. Much too fast for the two year old in awe of the lights overhead.

“Appointment with Maria Cecilia,” I say, handing my ID over again. She calls my doctor’s receptionist, confirms my appointment, and sends us toward a smaller waiting room inside the sliding glass door. My doctor is running late. I am relieved, but I also wonder how late? Now that we’re here, I want the rain to fall, and quickly.

We fill five of the gray padded chairs between us, one for each body plus the diaper bag. The cars come out, the yellow furby too, and the empty square of floor before us transforms into a playroom, much to the delight of the woman just joining us. Eventually, the receptionist beckons me in. We’ve decided it’s best for me to go in alone because little ears always listen, and we’re not ready for them to hear. I tell the kids “It’s my turn!” with the tiniest bit of excitement, then turn toward the door.

Sitting in this office feels familiar, but only barely. I’ve been here once before. A routine check up back then. Dr. Maria Cecilia greets me with a hug and settles into her chair across the desk.

“So, are you pregnant?” She doesn’t waste any time.

“I think so.” I say, squeezing every last ounce of joy from my body.

I need a refill of emotion. I need the cloud to burst. I need the rain to fall.

She spreads her questions before me like a scroll, taking detailed notes of my replies. Usually, she tells me, she requests an ultrasound between seven and eight weeks. As I’m already in my 9th week, she recommends we just wait until the customary 12th week ultrasound. Dread leaks from the cloud overhead, showers down upon my body.

Three more weeks? I can’t wait three more weeks. Can’t handle the wondering three more weeks would bring.

“We can’t do one today too?” I ask.

I learn she does not do the ultrasounds herself. I must make an appointment with a different department in the hospital for such an exam. Understanding the message of my pleading eyes though, she calls her receptionist and asks her to find out if anyone is available today.

We proceed to the exam area and she hands me a papery robe to change into. As I undress in the bathroom, I see the sweat that has seeped through my tank top. I am more nervous than I thought.

After a quick evaluation, she concludes everything seems to be in its rightful place. A good sign. I redress and am welcomed back with news that the receptionist was able to squeeze me in for an ultrasound. After a few brief directions and a congratulatory hug, she sends me off.

Rejoining my family and acknowledging the two new friends enjoying their company, I whisper to my husband, “No ultrasounds here, we have to go somewhere else.” We pack up the snacks and toys and trek through sterile hallways once more. Another two check ins, another waiting room. I have no concept of what time it is. These walls hold neither clocks nor windows. The kids are getting antsy though and my stomach turns.

This hallway is deserted, save for the cleaning woman slowly working her way toward us. Minutes tick by. We begin wondering if the closed doors before us will ever open. This can’t be right. Our suspicions are confirmed when a suited employee comes to direct us toward a different waiting room, on a different floor, in a different wing of the hospital. This feels like a terrible joke. In route to the correct waiting room, we pass windows that reveal a darkening sky.

Within minutes we are greeted by a nurse with gentle eyes and quiet sincerity. This profession suits her, I can tell already. I leave the family behind and follow her through the sliding door. We move silently through an abandoned, dimly lit hallway before turning into the exam room. Another papery robe and I am reclining on the table before my examining doctor, legs wide in stirrups.

The image pops onto the screen and I search for what I want to see. I find nothing. Recognition seeps through my body. I know this moment. I’ve been here before. The doctor reveals no air of concern though, as she takes measurements of my uterus and shows in which ovary conception took place. She moves the ultrasound wand to a different area and patterns of blood flow appear, but I hear nothing. This is when we should hear the heartbeat, isn’t it? Finally she zooms in on the empty space that shouldn’t be, moving around until she locates the babe. The image does not look like a baby at nine weeks should look. Slowly the words come. “It might be a timing issue, but there’s a good chance this could be a miscarriage.” I nod. I know.

The cloud bursts three quarters of the way through that long, lonely hallway. I step into the bright lights on the other side of the sliding door and am swallowed into my husband’s arms. He knows this moment too. He’s seen these tears.

Thankful for the covering of night, we drive home in silence. Tears fill my eyes causing tail lights to twist. The road before me becomes my very own Starry Night.

The silence continues after tucking littles into bed. We sit down in chairs out on the balcony, side by side yet separate, and watch the flow of traffic below. The silence is aching to be filled, but with what? I have nothing to say.

“Just wanna go to bed?” he asks.

“Might as well.”

Moments later, tucked into our own bed, he whispers a prayer. There is no kiss goodnight and sleep seems like a lofty goal. Counting sheep never made sense to me, so I resort to the only other sleep-inducing method I know.

Awesome. Almighty.

Beautiful. Bright Morning Star.

Cornerstone. Creator.

Divine.

Eternal. Everlasting.

Father.

Ubatuba

April 23, 2019 by Emily Dickson in Family, Travel, Brazil

“I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”
John 10:10

We celebrated Easter this weekend in the midst of bold colors, bright sunshine, and big smiles in Ubatuba. The shore was breathtaking. Time with this family of ours, refreshing.

Day One:
London ate next to nothing for breakfast, only sat in his chair staring longingly at the waves, saying over and over again, “beach… beach... beach...” We finally let him down so he could sit on the steps, as close to the sand as possible, while waiting (kind of) patiently for the rest of us to finish eating.