Josiah's Broken Arm

It was the first warm week of April in the East Tennessee mountains; the first opportunity to let the kids roam free outside with their friends.  There is a small pack of them on our street.  Usually 4-5 kids, aged 5-11, with the occasional older kid and the occasional Annie bringing up the rear at 2.  This group has spent a lot of time together over the past couple of years, and we’ve spent a lot of time in the yard with them.  And in this crowd there is a bully.  We’ve known about this group dynamic, and have been more or less involved in parenting this as it happens.

But on this particular Monday evening, we are inside getting ready to host a dinner, and the kids are in the tree house in the backyard.  We hear the thud and the scream, and rush outside to see Josiah lying on the ground in front of the tree.  From the tree house we hear a chorus of, “she pushed him,” and register the words; but our focus is on our son on the ground, with the broken arm.

Over to the ER (where he knows which flavor of Popsicle he likes best), an X-ray and a cast, and we’re back home that night.  The arm doesn’t hurt so much anymore, but Josiah is very upset.  “She pushed me!” he says over and over.  What would you do with this?

Eventually, he goes to sleep and we go downstairs.  We’re sitting on the couch in the living room, and my blood is boiling.  This is my son, my only son, the one I love; and he has been hurt, maliciously not accidentally.  Hot tears are running down my face. 

And it is just a week after Easter.  The Spirit through Katie reminded me of this story.  There was a Father whose Son was hurt, maliciously not accidentally by the people who were supposed to be His friends.  The Father must have felt this pain, and more in a way I cannot imagine.  And the Son looked down from the cross and said, “Father forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.”

So we tell this story to ourselves, and to our son, and we become part of that story.  Josiah has a grasp on grace and forgiveness, and we are reminded.  And we go back out in the yard; we speak to the bully and her parents, telling them about what happened, that it mattered and that it was wrong, and that they’re forgiven.  It’s not a perfect story, and still awkward on our hill.  “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

Daktari wife: on getting ready

I wrote this entry in my trusty ol' paper and leather journal while sitting at the DMV.  It felt closer to "nature" that way I suppose.  This is the Daktari's wife entry into the Blogosfear.
 

Blogging is looking at me like a big rumbling yella school bus looks at a 5 year old.  Who knows that one day it will be coming for him too.
Do I want to get on the bus and party with a make-believe identity, indulgent in self-expression and independence? Or do I fear getting on completely unnoticed and totally insecure in bearing me wee little soul to the big wide world, like a kindergartner in with 4th graders? Yes!

The truth is, I fear not measuring up to the blogger mommies who write such pithy and literary accounts of life.   I fear not measuring up to insta-gramming enough documentation of my beautiful life.  Moving to East Africa in 4 months with our pre-schoolers, living at a hospital amidst infectious tropical diseases, sharing our family in community with strangers, crossing the cultural divide of east/ west, all these things thrill me!  But writing about it for the www makes me quake!
Not that other people's children don't make demands on their time or that other people aren't struggling to process their life as it is lived too.  But I still have trouble getting dirty dishes out of the sink every night.  Let alone contemplative journal writing.  Online.

But the fact is, we are moving to Kenya in 4 months and like getting ready for the first day of school, I've got a lot of preparation to do before we get on the bus and go (or 747, actually). First, we've got to get freed up from much of our belongings.  (anybody want baby toys?) Moreover, I need to figure out how homeschooling or MK schooling works for my real kindergartner this fall.  No actual big yella bus is going to take him into academia out there in Bomet. There's some "supply" shopping to be done: long skirts, rain boots, learning apps for the kid's devices.  One more things is, I need to start blogging to build a bridge between our family and the ones we have to leave behind.  I desire to build understanding of what Africa is like, what our kids are like, what God is doing in our lives.

Mostly though, getting ready to go for me means trying to listen for the rumbling sound of troops marching in the top of the balsam trees- for the God of Angel Armies who goes before me.  Listen for the rhythm of the Good News that pounds down everyday saying "You'll never measure up to my requirements."  You aren't good enough.  (what?!) And THAT is why Jesus came for you.  THAT is where Jesus brings life, drives out fear, gives His Very Self to bring little ole you and me through battles of life.  It's Good News because it's not up to me.  It's Good News because it's about Jesus taking care of all my fears.  Because His love is stronger than the power of death- what have I to fear?  Fear is about death.  I will not fear being unnoticed, unliked, unfollowed, unpinned.  Listen, Katie.  Listen for the sound of the Gospel.  For without that engine rumble, it is all in vain.