Trees Tall as Mountains (The Journey Mama Writings: Book 1)

by Rachel Devenish Ford

  2. We don't live in one room. This is the first pregnancy that I've experienced where I haven't been sharing a room with my snorkly kids. (Snorkly sounds like this: snorkle, sniff, cough, snorkle.)

  3. I have a comfortable bed. First time, yo! With Kai we slept on a futon that had the delightful springiness of cement. Why we did this for so long I cannot fathom. Oh yes, we had a blank space instead of a bank balance. But still, the floor would have been more comfortable. And then there was the bunk bed with the quarter inch foamy on top of metal rails. Oh, you don't really want to know. But now. Well, I've already told you how I love our mattress.

  4. My Superstar Husband is amazing at being the Superloving Husband of a pregnant woman. Emotions? He can handle them! Do I need space? Take the space you need, Baby! Dying and you can't move another inch? He'll pick up tacos on his way home! This is not to say that he doesn't still need reminders. Or that he has in any way improved in the Valentine's Day sector. But then, neither have I. And everyone needs reminders.

  5. I have a washer and dryer in my house, that I am not sharing with twenty people. This is a first. This is not undervalued by me.

  6. I'm not changing diapers. JUST KIDDING! Ha ha ha ha, ho ho hee. Not changing diapers. Chuckle.

  7. Spiced tortilla chips from Trader Joe's. Today I bought three bags of them. Three bags.

  I'm bearing in mind that this is all short lived. Soon I will be quite possibly sleeping in a tent on the ground with my entire family, wondering why I complained about that futon. Then again, I have been longing for this kind of travel for years, so maybe reason 8 that this is the best pregnancy so far is that I will walk through this one in many different countries. I'll remember that when I am craving salsa in a country where salsa does not exist.

  February 28, 2008

  Yesterday a tragic loss was suffered by our dear friends; the loss of a life-- of a son, a brother, an uncle. The grief is immense and deep and torrid. The community is shaken. I know that everyone is so thankful for this community at this time, for those who are so kind, for those in cars or planes or who fly across the world to be with the family. Many of us have lived together in the same house at one point or another, we have intertwined lives, and the family who is in mourning is a beloved family, a family who has touched many, many people.

  I don't know what more to say. This is beyond any of us. I don't think we will ever be the same. But underneath are the everlasting arms.

  March

  March 2, 2008

  There is something that happens. It makes it possible to keep for hurt people to get up in the morning.

  The something is a rallying, as to a long, high-pitched call from a mountain-top. Clusters of people circle around. They touch one another. Forehead to forehead, cheek to shoulder, hands gently rubbing in between one another's shoulder blades. We touch each other to make sure we are all still here.

  Food is made, piles of food stack up on tables, the help pours in, the people keep coming, they fly from across the world.

  Maybe tomorrow is possible.

  We call each other, just checking in.

  And then, the singing. So wounded, but so brave, slow hymns, wavering song in deep sorrow.

  This something, the people who drift into each other's arms. Maybe there will be a way through.

  March 3, 2008

  You know that kind of weariness when you are emotionally cracked and leaking, physically exhausted, and your brain doesn't work even enough for you to figure out what to make for dinner?

  That's the kind of weary I am. Yesterday was the service for our friend. It was beautiful and terrible. I am in the strictest awe of his mother, brave and still herself, no matter what.

  There are so many friends around, right now, a strange blessing.

  Maybe sometime soon I will have more to write.

  March 12, 2008

  Things I don't know:

  I don't know what it is like to love a child who has grown up.

  I don't know what it is like to lose something that I treasure above all other things.

  I don't know what it is like to be the remaining spouse.

  I don't know how to grow old.

  I don't know how tall my children will be.

  I don't know the depths of my husband, despite our years together.

  I don't know what will happen tomorrow, despite my plans, despite my ideas. I definitely don't know about next year. And I don't know what the consistency of my friendship is, whether it helps in grief, whether I am as clumsy as a pup, or slightly okay.

  I know that I love so much, clumsy as I am.

  March 18, 2008

  I had an interesting weekend. I was able to get together with some friends, right before developing a sickness that caused extreme crankiness as well as the sensation that a large person is sitting on my head. But I mused this weekend, as much as any woman with three young children with colds can muse. I thought about life, and calling, and writing, and time. I thought about my idols- those things that I feel like I can't be happy without. I thought about dryness, and drought, and long stretches of desert. And I thought about displacement, about moving, and about the rule of displacement- how if there is too much sand in the bucket, the water cannot fill it.

  I didn't mean to fill my well with sand, but I believe I have. Somehow bad habits have crept in, and I haven't been reaching my source. Habits like starting to work the minute I wake up, rather than meditating on the Words of Life and breathing prayers into the morning air. Habits like aimlessly surfing the internet. Or filling my mind with books or movies, afraid of silence, afraid of listening.

  It was good to re-evaluate.

  I am really afraid of change, and all my bravado can't really cover that. I'm starting to admit it. My dreams tell me, like they always do, as they show me every fear played out, and I wake up sweating and shaking. People in my dreams leave me, they get lost, they die.

  But thankfully I don't live by my fear, and perfect love casts out all fear, and today has enough trouble of its own. Right?

  So it's one foot in front of the other, oceans of grace, wide open spaces, hugs and kisses and phone calls, waking up to prayer, and playing with my kids.

  And, of course, packing. And eating pickles. And smelling my husband's face. And vacuuming. Just life.

  March 19, 2008

  I didn't sleep too well last night, worrying about a friend. This morning I found out he was safe, which was a huge relief. I'm sure you've felt something like this before. I can't tell my brain to stop at night, when it's moving so swiftly, and even when I managed to drop off into sleep land, my brain was going. In Technicolor. So it could have been a rough day.

  But then my friend Jessie called and asked me if she could drop by with lunch. Since I'm still somewhat deaf (or just a bad listener) from my "someone sitting on my head" illness, I didn't hear the "with lunch" part, so I was pleasantly surprised when she brought treats. We had a sort of picnic inside. And the kids didn't fight! It was awesome.

  During the afternoon, I worked on our Indian visa applications, and somewhere along the way, our UPS guy showed up. Can I just say that I love our UPS guy? He is seriously one of the nicest people- he acts as happy about packages as we are. "Looks exciting, it's Bed Bath and Beyond!" he'll say. Or, today, he said, "Must be something good, I need a signature!" And he's bubbling over while he says these things. Maybe it's the cool uniform, or the rockin' truck with no doors that makes him so happy.

  But the package was a good one. Our new camera, a little Canon Powershot G9. I'm ready for India now. Ready for all the shots I'll ever need to take.

  March 21, 2008

  Things have been rough around here, lately. Our little Sacramento community cluster has been taking some hits, the latest of which is our friend in the hospital.

  So, today, my friend Joy (the wise-cracking one) came over so that we could pray together. I think she also came over so that we could hang out a little, too, and so that she could chew on
my kids for awhile... but I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm just telling people to come on over, because I am locked down in my house until further notice. (Until my remaining things are contained in a few totes.)

  I was on the phone when she arrived, so she just came on in and started cooking some food that she brought with her. In my kitchen, with my pots. Just making herself right at home. Can I just say for a minute how much my delicate heart LOVES THIS? I love it when people come in and start cooking. Especially when they give me some food. Like Joy did.

  Anyways, after some food and some inevitable banter, we sat down to pray. I was sorting through photos also, and we paused to ooh and aahh over some of our long-time friends looking oh-so-young, like babies, in some of the photos. And then we realized, we really must let some of this worry and angst out, we needed to pray!

  So we started to pray. It's a mysterious thing, praying together. You sit and talk, not to each other, but to someone you can't see. And you mm hmmm and uh huh, if you're into that sort of thing. Whatever you say, you're pretty much baring your deepest heart in front of some other person. It's a little awkward. And it's holy ground.

  We had just gotten started, when Kenya came running inside. This is what she had to tell me:

  "Mama! Kai accidentally peed on my foot!"

  So, I'm all, alright. What on earth? Why right this second does Kai have to pee on his sister's foot? And how did that happen? And why is he peeing outside, anyways?

  "How did he accidentally pee on your foot?"

  "He was making mud for us, and he accidentally got some of the pee on my foot."

  OH. Okay. My son was making pee mud. For them to play in. In the front yard. And he missed, a little, and got some on my daughter's foot. Which doesn't really matter that much, since they were planning to play in it anyways, but that hasn't occurred to either of them, because that's not how they think. They don't think like that. Like sane people.

  Anyways, Joy and I pressed on, amidst washing the foot, and I need new pants, and get some out of your drawer, and I need the ones with the belt, and they're in the hamper, and these ones? and Kai, stop touching the negatives, and Leafy stop touching that photo, and I want it! That's DADDY! and you still can't touch it...

  Sometimes I am just so glad that God can hear our squeaky voices, even through all the din.

  March 22, 2008

  Yesterday I had some discouraging moments, as I couldn't work out some details with our shipping, and I'm just so tired of dealing with logistics for my whole entire life.

  But now I take a deep breath and let it out. I have about fifty hundred things to think about. And the wild children are asking me if they can take down the walls in our house and plant thousands of dandelions. (?!)

  Yesterday when we were sitting at the table eating, Chinua was telling me about his first experience in Israel (we are going to be in Israel en route to India) and I listened with my chin resting on my hand.

  "It's so strange, because you get there and it's the most familiar place in the world to you, because you've heard about these places forever. But you know nothing about it at the same time, because you've never been here before."

  While he was talking I thought about Moses and Mt. Sinai, and the Jordan River, and Jesus and the Mount of Olives, and I thought -about Jesus-, "Oh... I miss him."

  It was such an odd thought, but one that I've been having a lot lately. He is the man that I've decided to follow forever, sometimes dejectedly, sometimes with singing, sometimes barefoot, sometimes with hiking boots on. I just wish that when I arrive in Israel I would find him one day, wandering on dusty hills with a bunch of people running behind him, hoping to see something amazing. (Like that kid in The Incredibles.)

  Oh I miss him. He is with me, but I never read John's words, "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands..." without feeling a little bit envious. I had a dream a while back, that I was with a group of people, and we had found out that Jesus was going to visit us in the flesh. I was so, so, excited, and trying to figure out what I would do when he arrived. Finally I stationed myself by the door, figuring that I could touch his feet as he entered. But then someone picked up a guitar, and I realized that I had got it wrong, and that we were going to sing together, Jesus wasn't going to walk in.

  But even getting it wrong was beautiful. One day I will see my wandering teacher. That is the belief that I write the story of my life on. He sets the lonely in families. That is the theme.

  Traditionally, today is a day that he spent lying cold in a grave, and because we get to know the whole story, we know it gets better. But at the time? They were thinking, Oh- I miss him.

  "He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; and as one from whom men hide their faces he was despised, and we esteemed him not." Isaiah 53:3

  March 25, 2008

  Last night my beautiful, beautiful, beautiful grandmother passed away.

  I don't know how to say how much I'll miss her. She was a force in my life that was grounding and true. She loved me fiercely.

  I know my Grandpa will miss her beyond words (they just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary). My parents and all our other family will miss her as well. She was an incredible woman, with a red-headed temper and the most loving arms. She loved her family fiercely. You could feel her love, from way, way off.

  I wouldn't want her to come back and be sick again. I just wish sometimes that everything could stay like it was before.

  March 26, 2008

  Today we pack up the truck.

  Yesterday I finished training a new bookkeeper, got rid of a table and highchair, and drove to San Francisco to pick up our visas. About halfway there I realized I should have taken the train.

  I am halfway numb and halfway hurting. We lost another friend on Monday night (the friend who was in the hospital) and I've never experienced anything like this- three dear people in the space of a month. We have friends (multiple) who have lost not only their brothers, but their best friends, once again in the space of a month. My heart breaks for these families.

  The people who have left us I know are not gone. But they will be missed, here where we still touch things that are dirty and get up to wash our faces in the morning, here where people go into the hospital one day and a few days later leave their bodies behind.

  And in the midst of it, we pack up our moving truck. Nothing feels quite normal. Thank God for the wild children around here- drumming and dancing, demanding food three times a day. They keep things on the right track.

  Today, as I work, I'm going to think of the wildflowers that will be exploding across the landscape in Humboldt. Maybe I will lie in a bed of them, maybe I will be able to cry.

  March 27, 2008

  Understatement can speak volumes. When my Grandma got sick, and I used to call her to talk to her, we had a sort of ritual. She had leukemia, and thankfully had almost no pain, except for the yucky tests they had to put her through.

  But she would get really tired if her white blood corpuscle count was particularly low, and often she would need blood transfusions to help her. My grandmother was possibly one of the most energetic people on earth, and hearing her sounding weak and tired made me feel as though someone was holding back the sun.

  We would talk about all sorts of things. Mostly the kids. At a time in my life when Grandma and I were in danger of running out of common ground, I started having kids. And from then on there was no shortage of things to talk about. It's nice to have someone who could hear you tell stories about your kids ad infinitum, without ever getting sick of it. My parents and grandparents can always be counted on for this.

  But we would talk. I told her about my knitting, and quilting, since she was an avid sewer and knitter. And she of course expressed alarm about my plans to move to India.

  And then, always, when we talked about her sickness, I would say, "I real
ly don't like this Grandma. I just don't like it."

  And she would say, "I know you don't, dear. I know."

  March 28, 2008

  Here's some advice: Moving is stupid. Don't do it. Unless you want to end up lying on your carpet on your back trying to blow up an inflatable mat, because all the beds are moved and you don't have the right inflator thingy.

  You may also find yourself contemplating setting things on the various lawns of your neighborhood, just to get rid of them. Or at least putting garbage in the trashcans of your neighbors. And you will ask yourself whether the local thrift store accepts condiment donations. And you will cry, but not really. You will threaten to cry, but then nobody will rescue you because surprise! You're the Mom! Lucky you.

  So stay put, people. Just stay where you are. And when you think to yourself, maybe it would be fun to go somewhere, remind yourselves that it's actually a not-good idea. And you'd better just take a walk around the block.

  March 30, 2008

  We are almost all better now.

  I say almost because there is that great lump of grief waiting to pounce on me when I can finally make myself vulnerable to it.

  But, after yesterday, which was one of the most insane days ever, and the two days before, which were also insane, we are done with this part of our move. We got to the ranch last night just after midnight, after finally finishing and then driving for the five hours it takes us to get here.