I was awoken by a phone call at 5:28am Tuesday morning asking me where I was because we were due to leave for the doctor at 5:45am. Why is it that people here are late for everything unless it is in the predawn hours? I silenced the phone, hid in the bathroom and promised my friend I was getting dressed and would be at my gate in 5 minutes and please oh please not to scream and bang as she is predisposed to do. I washed my face and donned a skirt, wrinkled blouse (opps!), and head covering laid out the night before in preparation for my need to be silent kabisa as I left the house (because J and I have sorta an unspoken rule that whoever gets up before dawn must sneak out of the house so as not to wake our slumbering angels and thus turn them into predawn whiny crabsters and thus transform said left behind parent into tired, cranky, pre-coffee lunatic Papa or Mama. Yes, it is a must or said offender will pay later.) I managed to leave undetected except for some loud greetings from neighbors on their way to the mosque or to sell their vegetables at the local market.
Last week I was drinking a latte on the beach looking at mountains jutting out of the ocean and talking with a dear friend that I have much in common with and this week I am listening to a life story I cannot even imagine experiencing. And that is my life. And it settled into my soul that the bipolarness of my experiences makes me who I am becoming, makes me appreciate and need each parcel of my life. I hug my children tighter, praise flows more easily from my lips, and compassion and mercy do not seem as difficult to exhibit because I experience amazing Grace and Love from my Father on a daily basis. I understand desperate praise offered in exhaustion and brokenness and I am thankful in new ways for what I am saved from and what I am being sanctified to. The latte drinking and soaking in sun seems so meaningless without engaging in the passion God gives me to love people that are very different from myself. And the daily bombardment of needs here would not be possible for my very- UN-Mother Theresa like and broken self without times of refreshment and fellowship. So here I am. Between two worlds spending many moments feeling the tension and uncomfortableness of that space. But I hold on tight because there is no amount of suffering or pain that Jesus can not turn to healing and wholeness. There is no brokenness He cannot transform into beauty. Mine and my friends. I am holding onto to this and praying and seeking.