The Pausing Place

In reality, the breaking down of the conventions of “safe parenting,” happened the moment we said yes to a crazy idea like moving to a developing nation. But even then, the yes was remote– still far enough away to only begin feeling uncomfortable.

And then there was the curb at departures, where I stood and told the friend kind enough to ferry us and our belongings to the airport to give away our $250 Britax car seats. Suddenly, I had crossed into new territory. Territory that redefined safe as not accidentally ingesting bath water, not leaning too far forward over the seat in a packed, moving vehicle, not picking up trash from the murky storm water canal.

Territory that hit deep into an area that has defined me for nearly two decades of my life: being a Good Mom.

Forty-eight hours into our life in Nepal, and I had explained to John Mark the intricacies of planting rice as we climbed a rugged path cut through paddies. I had made an uneasy peace with the palm-sized spiders that appear randomly near our baseboards. I had made new friends. I had celebrated my husband’s 43rd birthday. I had hugged my Nepali daughter– often.

Now, three weeks later, I am vastly uncomfortable, teeth set on edge every time I must encounter “the water situation,” be it for cooking or bathing. I am tired. I am looking at the pile of laundry and contemplating what it will be like tomorrow to go through the laundry routine, again, and then hang them dry on our roof.

I am stretched.

But I am learning. I am growing. I am leaning into God. I am trusting in new, deeper ways that remind me of the futility of car seats when they replace a real, life-sustaining faith in the One who authored the lives we attempt so valiantly to preserve.

These things, these trappings, these choices that protect our people– they are not bad things. But they are not the only things. At the crossroads of comfort and reality there is a way station, a pausing place. I am there now. And it is not as scary as I had feared it would be.