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
