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Out on a limb.

by nic
Posted on December 15, 2018December 16, 2018

The December I turned maybe nine, we arrived like ninjas in Indiana. My uncles and…

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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.

“My son, my son,” said Aslan. “I know. Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.”

Things we must discuss: One-point-five weeks ago I was sweating my armpits off on the gorgeous little island of Lamu. That place is sand and lemony fish and heat and stone alleys that spool out like a secret. I learned boatloads about coastal Swahili culture, but mostly I learned how these students of mine are knit from courage and kindness. While in Lamu, on an uncharacteristic whim, I got a beautiful henna tattoo. Turns out I am allergic to the chemical used to blacken the dye, and so now I have swollen elephant disease with pink floral skin-swirls. It’s nice. Some of our bestest people in all the earth came to visit us last week, and we are still basking in the afterglow. We fed giraffes and chased sunsets and felt wholly known and cared for. Today is the mister’s and my anniversary. I’m not exactly sure what he was thinking, signing up for my emotional control-freakism, but thank goodness he did. His patience and steadfast tenderness make my life possible. In the words of dear, wise @annvoskamp: ‘The bravest love is wildly faithful, and it falls hard again every morning.’ I have a thousand quiet stories about Todd, but this is the only one you need: When the night was a maelstrom of bullets and grenades, he tucked the kids and me in the bedroom, then hauled a mattress to the cool cement just outside the door. He sat there all night, slipping between prayer and sleep and strung-out vigilance. Resolute that any harm aimed our way must first get through him. He’s a good man.

This girl showed up in my neighborhood for one sweet, brief weekend, and I breathed the kind of lung expansion that comes from being known. Jannae did sweaty life with me in the Central African Republic. We’d sit in my back yard of dirt, on a log that was sort of still a tree in that it was plugged into the ground. And we talked all of the words till those shards of confusion and dismay burned off in the relief of understanding each other’s bones. Her sister is a chef, and so J has inherited cheffy genetics, and even in the African boondocks she plated meals that saved me. My spirit is not above rescue by stuffed Italian pastas. This past weekend, J delivered beautiful edibles from Todd’s mom, plus ziplocked gems from another soul-friend who understands my internal soup of angst and weirdness. (Thanks, @shannanwrites, for knowing how tea, peppermint soap, and thrifted hankies can feed a soul.) And J, thanks for scheming up this visit. You are the truest and kindest among us, and you will always belong to me. #lovesongforthelonghaul

Here’s to the women raising families in temporary homes feathered with palm fronds, existing in the careful margins framing paragraphs of violence. Who pound roots and leaves into dinner, who shush babies under diamond skies. Who teach their children math and stitching wounds and keeping a makeshift village alive. Who jostle each other crazy in elbow-to-elbow quarters, but choose the claustrophobia to keep watch over one another. Here’s to the women who gifted me most of what I know about being a neighbor. Who, even far from home, never stop making every human belong. #centralafricanrepublic #internationalwomensday #awalitibeafrika 📸: @todd_owens

These kids, though. Z&E (and their compatriots) are bright and stunning in their candor, and they act like the world is their problem to solve. They debate everything from the relative ripeness of avocados to worthwhile responses to an unjust global order. Plus they’re kind. Gutsy. Achingly funny. I’ve never been more hopeful about a future with them in charge. Also, PS: I understand that it’s too early for me to get serious about anyone, because hi. They’re in high school. But Zachamony needs to hold on to this girl, because if I have to choose between the two of them, I am keeping her.

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