coming home

One year ago today, on a cool, sun-filled morning, I gathered together the stroller, blanket, frisbee, soccer ball and picnic lunch. We stepped into the elevator and descended twenty floors to the main level. Upon exiting, Cora and London flung themselves over all four of the lobby couches. Settling onto the only bench outside the security gate, I requested an Uber. We sat there, the three of us, watching cement trucks work across the street and offering friendly “Bom dias” to others coming and going, until the little black car on the screen pulled up before us. 

London held my hand as he jumped down the entry steps, then climbed into the back seat after Cora. I slid the diaper bag and picnic supplies onto the floor below their not-yet-dangling feet while the driver packed our stroller into the trunk. The ride was relatively short and pleasant, both kids occupied by the usual search for flowers and Brazil flags out their respective windows. 

Parque do Povo was the right choice that morning. In the heat of summer, the playground equipment was almost always too hot to touch by mid-morning thanks to a complete lack of shade. In the dead of winter though, direct sunlight was a sweet relief - the only way to be warmed in a city that functions largely without centralized heating.

Upon arrival, Cora and London ran ahead of me, not needing my assistance to begin their adventures, and I enjoyed a slow, solo stroll. After catching up, I settled into my place for this season of motherhood as Cora’s amazed observer and London’s occasional booster. We moved quickly from one attraction to the next until sweat beads began to gather on little foreheads. 

Under the shade of a nearby tree, we stretched out the blanket and nibbled on grapes, at least half of each sandwich, and chips. Tummies sufficiently filled, Cora and London ran off to play while I enjoyed my own lunch. 

In those few moments of quiet, I recalled an excursion to the same park nearly two years earlier... a much more harried visit, under the hot summer sun, juggling a baby in the arms and a toddler with tired legs. The stark contrast between this day and that - it was as if I was holding the growth of our family in my hands. It was so heavily tangible. I felt my kids’ growth and independence, the relief it offered. And I felt my own, and the peace it offered. We had only four more months before this beautiful, hard season would come to an end. But we had four more months. I was so grateful.

All too soon, familiar little voices snapped me back to the present, though an air of revelry and delight lingered on - even after several proclamations that it was time to go home - and several more bidden pleas for one more time. Eventually, we packed ourselves into an Uber once again and headed home.

It wasn’t until the kids were tucked into their rooms for quiet time that I allowed my mind to settle on Greg’s earlier text: September! A simple message sent shortly after a phone call with the corporate office, the first conversation regarding our Brazil exit plan.

I rolled out my yoga mat on the tiny balcony off our bedroom, the only place in our apartment with direct sunlight, and settled into my “best naptime life” accompanied by two things: an almost empty bag of store-bought chocolate chip cookies and a deep, deep pit in my stomach.

September was only six weeks away. 

Though not the least bit hungry, I stuffed a cookie in my mouth, felt it crumble atop my tongue. Then I crumbled too, into heavy sobs and free-flowing tears, staring out over the train station and the river and the traffic, all whispering home.

For so many days, remaining in Brazil was the hard thing to say yes to.

That cool day in July, it became saying goodbye. 

***

I often say Brazil changed us. 

At surface-level, this is true. I usually have mangos in the fridge now. I can’t bring myself to complain about traffic, ever. And the dishwasher? It has my heart. 

But I don’t say we are changed because of the mangos. 

No, I’m referring to the strengthened marriage, fresh desires, and transformed hearts now pursuing a profoundly different path. These changes are not simple bi-products of living abroad. They are intentional ends accomplished by the God who sent us there. 

Incredible, right?

As we kept saying yes to the hard calling, we became more fully the family He designed us to be. Maybe that’s why the last three years in Brazil felt like “coming home” far more than that final flight back to North America. Maybe too, why He asks us to do hard things in the first place.

From now on, you’ll hear me say God changed us in Brazil.

Ahh, much better.

---

First photo: our empty apartment on moving day, September 17, 2019

Porto de Galinhas

Metaphorically, we are standing in the shallows. Giant waves tease and foam, inviting us into the depths from whence they came, but their swells cannot drench us yet. For now, only our feet feel their sway - and the sand slowly giving way beneath. An ocean of change lies before us. It’s not quite time to jump.

As in any season of change, there are so.many.things requiring so much of our physical, mental, and emotional capacities right now and yet, our days in this beautiful country are limited. We are determined to live them well.

And so, for a few days we stepped away from the metaphorical shallows and soaked our feet in the real ones. We took a break from all things urgent and built castles in the sand.

It was lovely.

An especially kind and protective driver accompanied us back to Recife, showed us around Praça do Marco Zero, took excellent family photos, then dropped us at the airport. Hospitality at its finest.

this gift (cont.)

Note: This is the conclusion to a two part series shared in honor of our 2nd Brazil-iversary. If you have not yet read Part One, I recommend taking a few moments to do that first.

---

December 2017

Sitting on our balcony one evening, we stare out at the flow of traffic twenty floors below. I’m wrapped in a blue blanket I found at Target a lifetime ago, holding a mug of hot tea - chá preto com leite, as they say here. The quiet of night, the cool breeze, the endless stream of headlights: this trifecta provides just enough soothing distraction to melt away poorly-managed emotions. My passive-aggressive edge too.

Our conversation falls into the well-worn rut of discontent. “It’ll be nice when…” introduces nearly every new thought.

    It’ll be nice when we have a dishwasher again.

    It’ll be nice when we can sleep without music blasting through our walls, all hours of the night.

    It’ll be nice when we can just talk to people, effectively, again.

If we were in the US, we would know exactly where to go to buy replacement light bulbs for the range.
That would be really, really nice.

We like to linger here, in this longing for an easier life.

But then I wonder how long I would have grieved over this opportunity had we said no? How long would the wondering of what could have been haunted me? Surely that would have been just as much of a dagger to our marriage. We didn’t let fear drive us and now we seem to have landed ourselves in a garden heavy on thorns. At least now we know. If we had stayed, I would have assumed we were missing only roses. Better to be here, experiencing both, isn’t it?

“I came here for you, you know. I knew you wanted this.”

His confession catches me off guard, takes me back. Back to wallpapered mauve flowers and matching carpet. Back to our fixer-upper the very first night we learned this country could be in our future.

“So you’d be up for this? You would actually go?” I asked.

He nodded, slowly but sure, then threw the question back to me.

“Oh I am a yes! But I didn’t expect you to be.”

My surprise was well-founded. This man has told me more than once he’s glad I did so much backpacking in college, before we met. India does not define vacation in his mind. What would make me think he’d want to move to Brazil? Sure there were benefits for him. An opportunity like this looks nice on a resume. It might even lead us back “home” to Kansas City afterward. But still, I should have pushed back against his easy acceptance a little more.

I drank the Kool-Aid instead.

Cozied on the old couch in our basement one night, having received news that we were definitely moving, I remember reveling in wonder and gushing over this glorious gift we’d just been given. “I thought my travel days were over when I married you. But it’s like God was hovering over us, waiting for this day, whispering just you wait.”

The headlights below continue to stream by, though more sporadically now. My mug is empty and this blanket isn’t thick enough for the cool of night settling around us. It’s time to turn in. I gladly take the cue, because how do you respond to a confession like that?

I came here for you, you know. I knew you wanted this.

Not until this moment do I recognize the magnitude of his sacrifice for me. How much he’s struggled, for me. This opportunity is a gift from God. But it’s a gift from him too.

***

Oh how narrow my line of sight has been, Lord. Forgive me.

Thank you for this man by my side. Thank you for his willingness to stretch waaay
beyond his comfort zone to live this adventure with me, for me. Help me appreciate him,
Holy Spirit. To support, encourage and honor him increasingly as he leads this family.
Help me love him the way You love him.

I asked you, so many months ago, to use this season to establish us, to make us who
we ought to be.

You’ve been answering that prayer all along, haven’t you? I see your faithfulness.
I also see my need to yield, to bend and break, to let you make me new.

I am but a lump of clay, fortunate to be in your hands.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds,
for you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.
Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be
mature and complete, not lacking anything.”
James 1:2-4

---

March 2019

We have a sitter booked for Saturday afternoon. There’s a few items left on our list of “city must-sees,” but nothing really grabs our attention. This weekend is whispering for something simple anyway. We settle on the German restaurant he’s been eyeing just up the road. And electric scooters, because we need to build up an appetite somehow and I’ve been itching to try them ever since the rental rides showed up on city sidewalks.

The afternoon arrives, as does the rain. Of course.

“Now what?” he asks, an hour before the sitter arrives, disappointment edging its way into his voice.

“It’s fine,” I say. “It has time to clear out.”

And it does, mostly. Sparse sprinkles are not enough to thwart our plans so we hop on the trail. He takes the lead, heading nowhere in particular. He’s swerving around puddles, popping wheelies and I know his eyes are shining from the sound of his laugh.

I’ve always said we wouldn’t have liked each other if we had met earlier in life. In this moment though, I’m not so sure. The teenager I was surfaces, chases after the cute boy up ahead riding too fast for my comfort. I am the speech geek crushing hard after skater boy. Maybe it would have worked out after all.

After thirty minutes of cruising we turn in toward Starbucks. We park the scooters beside the sign advertising new summer flavors. Once inside, I order for the both us. And, I notice, I’m not bothered by it. Iced chais in hand, we settle into chairs under the last available umbrella outside. He waves me toward the dry one, wiping puddled rain off his as best he can.

For a moment, we discuss the plausibility of introducing public scooters to the next city in which we reside. Maybe that could be our new thing? The discussion is short, hardly serious. A scooter business is just not our best next step. Pre-dinner drinks now drained, we hop back on the trail in the direction of the German restaurant. He offers for me to take the lead but I graciously refuse - because he goes faster than I do and, I enjoy the view.

Another exhilarating ride and we settle, once again, into chairs under an umbrella outside. He orders first as I finish making up my mind. The server says something we don’t fully comprehend about the potatoes and apples that are supposed to complement his dish. We both stare blankly for a moment before agreeing with whatever he said. Satisfied, he turns toward the kitchen with our order while we shrug our shoulders and carry on. This is normal. Maybe we’ll figure out what he was trying to say when the food arrives. Maybe not.

“So, how are we?” I ask. “Are we good?”

His head turns, slowly, from staring out at the road. A wave of caution (fear?) darkens his eyes as he remembers, I’m sure, another date, months ago that also involved chai, as well as tears and the words you’re better than this. Or maybe he’s remembering the night a few months later, when planning a weekend getaway turned into tears and his honest defense: you won’t let me change.

“Yeah,” he answers, hesitantly, bracing himself for the many directions this conversation could turn. “You?”

“Yeah,” I sigh contentedly. “I think we’re really good.”

The cloud passes from his eyes. We both nod and relish the simplicity of this conversation. For once, nothing more needs to be said.

We’re back and, better.

***

I read Cora a story this afternoon before quiet time about a seed who loved living in his cozy seed packet. He was comfortable and happy and safe. Until the day he received a gift from the kind farmer. This gift was different; it didn’t feel like a good one. Not when the farmer plunged him deep into the earth. Or as he sat in the dark and messy place far too long for his liking. Especially not when he felt his own shell begin to break. He wondered what the kind farmer was thinking, thrusting him into this new home, calling it a gift. The weight of the earth bore down upon him. It was heavy. And hard.

But one day, as he stretched, he began to grow, into… something new. Wonder and joy and awe propelled him upward until he broke through the heavy earth and found himself suddenly, finally, free. He found himself, a tree, what he was always meant to be.

I guess sometimes, the best gifts come in heavy packages that are hard to open.