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a letter to my mom.

  • by nic
  • Posted on May 14, 2012

dear mom, the peonies are waxing, pink-feathered and fragrant, and i snap off a few…

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  • Africa

release.

  • by nic
  • Posted on May 4, 2012

we have this nightly read-pray-tuck routine at chez owens, something i’m reestablishing with the small…

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  • Africa

the beginning.

  • by nic
  • Posted on April 23, 2012

2010 kate joyce :: AIM over the course of numerous weeks and months and years,…

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Serving With

  • Africa Inland Mission
  • Epic Church
  • Excel Church
  • First Missionary Church of Berne
  • Kapaa Missionary
  • Lihue Missionary
  • Muncie First Church of the Nazarene
  • Old Stone Presbyterian

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PO Box 80
Kijabe, Kenya
00220

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“In the span of God’s wide and rowdy family, we all belong to one another and there is no such thing as other people’s children. Take a look around. Find someone to nurture. This is how we’ll rise.” - @shannanwrites #eatingisforeveryone #lovesongforthelonghaul #ministryofordinaryplaces #KenyaKidsCan
Two minutes ago I was the mom of small people, the kind of humans who slide notes about “I love you Mom and can we have pudding cups” under the bathroom door, the kind who find the physical act of closing their mouths to blow through their noses insurmountably complicated. Two minutes ago I was at that mom-stage: besieged but enamored. Only it occurred to me yesterday that I am now the mom of adults. Well, 2/5ths of them so far, but the youngers are well on their way toward autonomy. At four distinct points in my twenties, I wheeled out of the hospital with a warm ball of sleepy newborn, unnerved that they let me exit the building with an actual human. Like, shouldn’t you at least pop-quiz me first? And what if it doesn’t like me? I wonder sometimes about this path we followed to Kenya - CAR - Uganda - Kenya again. Our lives before this felt like a different planet, a sunny one that looked you in the eye and didn’t ask gutting questions. I wonder if we all feel fuller, more awake, or if Africa cost us a brightness we’ll never recover. Both, I guess. It’s usually a little of both. “I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world” (Mary Oliver).
One thing we’ve started telling our kids is to call us. If they find themselves in an iffy spot, we don’t care if it’s 4am or two countries away or 300% their own fault: call us. We will always come for you. My parents didn’t say these words exactly, but I absolutely knew this was true. Growing up, I was 85% the easy child and 15% the worst, but no amount of my own stupidity or betrayal kept my dad from showing up for me. That man would’ve shouldered continents aside to get to his kids, and I can’t think of a sweeter, more vital gift: the knowing that our parents were relentlessly for us. That we couldn’t step outside of their devotion. I know this isn’t everyone’s reality, and some people’s father-stories are lukewarm or shattering. If this is you, I’m sorry. I wish I could bring you home to meet my dad. In about two seconds, he’d sign himself up to be your dad too. I hope, though, that you find others who’ll stand squarely in that gap for you. When I was 5000 miles from home at 17, Dr. Erdel filled that father-spot for me. When we lived in different countries from our three oldest boys, a bunch of relatives and friends — steely men and women both — stood up for and beside our kids. (Y’all are still doing this for Braden, and we are the luckiest.) I tip my heart to every single one of you today. Keep showing up with your quiet heroics. You’ve made our lives possible and bright. #thisguy #fathersday2019 #peoplewhocare #thanksdad
Sometimes I google-map Zemio just to lay eyeballs on that place. I never quite realize I’m holding my breath till the satellite image loads and everyone still has their roofs. Zoom in on this earth-map, and nobody’s house is a burnt brick shell. The brush and vines haven’t shuffled back in to reclaim vacant neighborhoods. This is Zemio two years ago, a chattery town glazed in jungle heat, where you could slap soapy wash at the river, or duck into a shop for gingered tea. Where families gathered outside as dusk settled, curved around small fires like half-moons, and when you lifted your gaze, you’d see dozens of neighboring fires winking back at you. From the sky at night, our town looked like a jar of fireflies. Fast-forward to right now, and virtually no one has come home. From the sky at night, Zemio is a spill of ink pooling into the silence around it. I wonder if God misses the fireflies, but I know I’m framing it wrong. He’s not unmoved, observing from a clinical distance. He’s Immanuel, sitting with us in hunger, in the honest keening for home. “We are called to enter into one another’s pain, anoint it as holy, and stick around no matter the outcome” (Rachel Held Evans). So that much we do: we keep company in a topography of pain. Meanwhile food + seeds are rolling in, Sam’s Purse keeps wading in to help, our senior class here at school just gave a boatload of their own money for CAR. The way these guys stick around are a balm to that ache inside my ribs. This is the love song threading through our lives. These are holy days. #prayforCAR #Zemio #CentralAfricanRepublic
During our field study in Lamu, we spent an afternoon of soggy heat with the kiddos at Anidan Children’s Shelter. It wasn’t the point of our trip, but I’m so glad we did it. The thing about Lamu is it was hard for me. Most of the time I show up in a place and think, I could make a life here. But with Lamu I thought, I could make a life here if I really, really had to. Just maybe don’t actually sign me up for it. My hesitation boiled down to nothing and everything: the brine-sticky water from the tap, the undertones of female oppression, the way the air packed wet and dense in my lungs. These kids, though. They somehow didn’t get tripped up by hard things. Our student-kids and the Anidan-kids took all of three seconds to shake their shyness, then they teased and cheered and arced basketballs into the sun. I read this quote today in the NYTimes: “Relationship moves at the speed of trust. Social change moves at the speed of relationship.” I saw how quickly these kids extended preludes of friendship, their banter swimming in mutual generosity. If they can step into adulthood with their humanity intact, the decades to come look astonishing. @anidan_ongd
During Sunday church I sat behind Zachamonial and three of his sweetie-pie friends. It’s their last term before they graduate and scoot off to college, and I was maybe a little weird and weepy about it. All four of them can launch me into mama bear mode, where I’ll bring all the fight I’ve got to the table in order to protect them. (Yes, okay, but I’m surprisingly plucky for someone this small, so tuck that away for future reference.) At one point while everyone else was singing and being non-weepy and normal, I prayed over these kids. I prayed that God would hold onto them, that he would keep their hope intact. I prayed that they wouldn’t lose heart. I prayed that they’d know they can’t walk into any room, street, or war zone where God isn’t already on the scene. Z has enrolled at Vassar, and I have many feelings about this. One that looms extra-large is gratitude: Vassar is an excellent school that fosters curiosity and scholarship. An education like this should be out of our financial reach, but they’ve made it happen. It’s interesting in John 17 when Jesus prays for his disciples—he asks God to protect them, even as he sends them straight into a world set against them. It’s like, protect them but off you go, guys. I guess that’s the thing. As much as I want to keep these kids tucked away safe, I know we’d be missing the point. There’s brokenness to bind and injustices to redeem and so much joy and sheer beauty out there. So dive into that fray, kids, as wild and wounding as it may be, and know that you do not go alone.
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