Go Green

God spoke: “Let us make human beings in our image, make them reflecting our nature so they can be responsible for the fish in the sea, the birds in the air, the cattle, and yes, Earth itself, and every animal that moves on the face of the Earth.” 

God created human beings; he created them godlike, reflecting God’s nature. He created them male and female. God blessed them: “Prosper! Reproduce! Fill Earth! Take charge! Be responsible for fish in the sea and birds in the air, for every living thing that moves on the face of the Earth.” (Genesis 1:26-28 MSG)

Be responsible. Be responsible for… Earth itself. 

When the Go Green holiday program theme popped into my mind nearly a year ago, it sounded like fun. I grew up loving the story of the Lorax, I think reducing, reusing and recycling are important, and I find peace and comfort in nature. This would be an easy theme to bring to life for a few weeks. The children could learn a lot. 

And they did! In January we ended our long holiday with two weeks of Go Green, leading the children in activities about the water cycle, The Lorax, energy, pollution, and holding a two-month-long recycling contest where the children collected a total of 269 kilograms of plastic to sell to a local recycling plant. It was a big hit for all ages. 

A volunteer had planned to come during that time and had already prepared dozens of Go Green crafts for the children, but had to change her plans and come the following holiday instead. Because of that, and because of the enthusiasm of the children, we decided to extend our whole Go Green theme to a second holiday as well. 

Knowing my mom was the one who first instilled a love of nature and consciousness of the environment in me, I asked if she was interested in coming up with some ideas and activities we could do within the theme. I expected a few games and crafts to teach the children about caring for the environment. What I got was a whole curriculum. She wanted to teach the children not only how to care for the earth, but why. 

Before I saw my mom in the Netherlands in March, she sent me this message: 

“Just so you know, I am bringing books and resources and games for the holiday program, on the topics of: God’s creation—biodiversity, endangered species—stewardship, conservation—environmental connections, sustainability—renewable energy, water, trees. Do these work for the broader Go Green theme?”

Do these work for the broader Go Green theme? Did she seriously just ask that? That woman had taken the theme far beyond making a fun three weeks for the children. She wanted it to be downright impactful.

When we met in the Netherlands in March, she brought two suitcases with her. The small one had her clothes and personal items she would need for the week’s visit. The big one was full of Go Green activities for us to bring to Uganda. 

The more I read through what she prepared, the more excited I got… and the more daunted. This responsibility of caring for the earth is a big thing. And we are messing it up pretty remarkably. How on earth were we going to convince 100 children that a) the earth desperately needs our help and stewardship, and b) what they do actually matters? 

When the holiday finally arrived, we started from the beginning… the very beginning. One hundred primary school children gathered in the church (not to make it more spiritual, but because that is the biggest meeting space we have). We read Genesis chapter 1, ending with the passage above. 

“Be responsible!” we repeated. 

“Be responsible!” we challenged one another. 

“Be responsible!” we reminded ourselves. 

That day, we began to explore what that responsibility looks like. From the soil to the sky, from insects in front of us to species long extinct, from the pages of God’s word to the beauty of God’s world, we learned. 

We read a book about Jane Goodall and her life with the chimpanzees. She emphasized how she did not go into the jungle with the aim of changing anything about them or their lifestyle; she wanted only to learn, and learning took time and patience. We picked up our binoculars and looked at the area around the fish ponds with new eyes. There were no fish to be seen, but the insects and birds came in abundance. Then we went to the farm, past the goats, through the mango grove until we could see the valley behind Noah’s Ark. What used to be covered in forest is now speckled with half-finished houses and flourishing vegetable gardens. Sitting under the mango trees, we closed our eyes and kept silent for a few minutes, remembering that we can experience nature through more than sight. The animals, ignoring our moment of silence, filled our ears with hums and chatter and bleats and buzzes. “Be responsible!” they whispered to us. 

We followed step-by-step instructions and learned how to draw safari animals—warthogs and giraffes and elephants and crocodiles. After using crayons and watercolors to paint the beasts and their habitats, we laid them out on the basketball court. “This is a habitat,” we said, “where all these animals can live.” Then we built a house in the middle. It was small and took the place of only one animal and its habitat. But the people in the house needed food, so they removed two more papers to make space to plant their gardens. Before long, a few more people moved to the area, and what began as neighbors soon became a village. More animals gone. The habitats were beginning to separate. We pretended to be monkeys moving from one side of the forest to the other, following the animal-habitat papers. We got stuck. Our imaginary power lines made it worse. By the time the city came, there were only a few animals left, crowding onto the fringes of what was once their home. “Be responsible!” they told us.

We read The Lorax out loud—a creative, heart-wrenching children’s story with made-up words and a call to action for young and old alike: “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not.” Do we care enough to make things better? We made our own truffula tree craft and did a worksheet on the cause and effects of actions taken by different characters in the story. “Be responsible,” Dr. Seuss warned us.

We filled 97 cups with saltwater and 3 with freshwater and asked the children to guess how much of the water before them was suitable for drinking and cooking. “This represents the world,” we said. Water is everywhere, but it is also a precious commodity. Here on the compound, we are blessed with clean water that comes right from the faucets—a given in America, but almost unheard of in Uganda. We reminded one another that our closest neighbors have to walk uphill, balancing heavy, water-filled jerrycans on their heads just to have water for cooking, bathing, drinking and washing. We followed Drip the Raindrop through the water cycle and noticed that he never appeared or disappeared; he just changed places and form. “Be responsible,” he encouraged us. 

We each took a card and looked at the word. Some of us were flowers, some stones, some animals or other living things. We passed a ball of string around and made a web in the middle, each of us pinching our own tiny section that connected us to the others. One by one, we let go. Perhaps a dam was built that flooded all the flowers from a field. The bees felt it. Perhaps people chopped down a section of forest to build a school. The soil felt it. We played Jenga, imagining each block as a small but integral part of an ecosystem. With a few missing pieces, the tower was unstable, but still standing. When we removed more pieces from that ecosystem, however, even the remaining blocks could not stand. “Be responsible!” they cried as they crashed down. 

We made it our goal to find every piece of unused plastic on the compound—old jerrycans, yoghurt containers, broken pipe, discarded ice cream spoons, and everything in between. We searched the schools, the rubbish bins, the forests, the farm, the incinerator. We collected the plastic in classrooms until they were practically full to overflowing and our oversized sacks couldn’t get back out the doors. We painted recycle bins with “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” and “Hard plastics only!” and strategically placed them around the compound. We painted signs that said “Go Green!” and hung them from trees and buildings. “Be responsible!” we pleaded.

 At the end of the holiday, I got an email from my mom. 

“Here’s what I wrote while working on the program,” she said, “which was within my morning prayer: 

What are my hopes for the things I am working on for the holiday program?

I hope to have done something that is helpful and useful for Katie (ease her burdens); 

I hope to help the children (of all ages) have a better understanding of your creation so that they might be better stewards, finding renewal and peace and energy and joy in your creation; 

I hope to help the children enjoy learning about nature and to see familiar things through new eyes;

I hope to help the children (and adult leaders) know that individuals can make a difference, we can do better, and there is hope for the future. 

These are the things I pray for. And I leave this prayer open to the things you might do that I can’t even imagine.”

Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better, it’s not. Let’s take up our responsibility today, and every day. Let us be responsible for Earth itself.

Friday Night Bites

“Mommy, carry me!” 

“Elliot, we are ten steps from our house. You can walk a bit farther than that.” 

“Noooo… I want you to carry me!” 

“Nope, you can walk yourself to the gate. Then I will carry you. Who has the gate pass?” 

Pascal raised his hand up in the air, the small white paper trembling in the wind. He quickly brought it down again before the breeze carried it away, along with his chances of leaving the compound with us that afternoon. He shoved the paper in his pocket about as carefully as you can expect from an eight-year-old boy and walked happily down the hill, Patricia and Christian following close behind. 

“Isaac, are you ready?” I asked the thirteen-year-old boy next to me. He smiled and nodded, shouldering the small backpack we brought along to buy vegetables. 

And we were off. 

Patricia was in a good mood and ran ahead of all of us, reaching the gate first. She tried to go through to the road by herself, but fortunately the guards stopped her in time. 

“Who are you taking today?” one of the guards asked. This was our normal Friday routine, and they were used to seeing us move out with two extra children every week. I pointed to the two boys with us, and signed their names in the book for Noah’s Ark children while Pascal surrendered the gate pass.

“Have a good walk!” one of the guards said as we passed out of the small gate and onto the road. 

“Mommy, carry me!” This time I succumbed. His legs are short, after all, and carrying him is easier than dragging him to the side of the dusty road every time I hear a boda coming. We walked together in a group, asking the boys what they had learned in assembly that day and what their favorite part of school was. (Elliot also shared his favorite part of school, which let us know that he had once again escaped from daycare to join one of the nursery school classes close by. The teachers told us recently that we should start paying school fees for him because he spends more time in class than at daycare.)

This week, the road was medium-dusty. Not bad. In the dry season, when we can go weeks without a drop of rain, the dust becomes thick and powdery. When I stomp on it and see the deep footprint left behind, it makes me wonder if that’s how it is to walk on Mars. In the rainy season, the road becomes harder, and sometimes slippery on the hill. The back wheels of bodas glide out of line to the right and left like figure skaters. If it has rained that afternoon, the mud can be thick enough cake the bottoms of our shoes within minutes. We heavily—and slowly—trudge a mile in each direction before leaving our shoes outside to dry in the sun before attempting to clean them. 

As we passed the small stream that flows under the road, Patricia paused to lean over and look for fish in the muddy water. It reminded me of the very first time I made this Friday evening trek. It was one of the last times that Reny, another missionary, took children for rolex before she went back to the Netherlands. She was the one who started this tradition, and Christian took over when she left. That first time I went, Christian picked up one of the children and pretended to throw him in the stream, snatching him back from the edge just in time as the boy squealed in mock terror. “Every single time,” Reny said, rolling her eyes. “He does this every single week and the children are still amused by it.”

When Patricia realized she wouldn’t be able to see any fish in the brown water, she gave us permission to keep walking. Christian picked her up at the bottom of the hill and our pace increased considerably. Isaac and Pascal walked happily and quietly, squeezing to the side of the road when bodas passed and waving to school friends they saw on the way. 

“Isaac, I remember when you were young and we would take you for rolex,” I said. “It was so much fun to take you out of the gate because you were excited by everything! ‘Look—a mountain!’ you would say of an anthill, pointing to things left and right and amazed by everything big and small.” Isaac smiled, and once in a while pointed out something that caught my attention, more for my amusement than out of his own interest, I think. 

When we reached the pigs, we put Patricia and Elliot down. It would not be Friday evening if we didn’t stop to greet the pigs. Elliot, who used to seize up in fright when we approached the animals, ran to the ramshackle pen and began throwing leaves and sticks inside, telling them it was time for supper and that they were surely hungry. They seemed to like the attention, though not the food, and after a few minutes we said goodbye (out loud, of course, and in pig language) and continued on our way. 

“Keep an eye out for a bunch of bananas and a ready avocado, boys,” I said to Isaac and Pascal. “We can see where they are and buy them on the way back.” Between Noah’s Ark and the roadside where we were heading, there are half a dozen small stalls where we can buy fruits and vegetables. They span the length of more than a quarter mile and they don’t always have the same things, so we have to keep our eyes open and plan on the way. The boys started looking, and Christian and Patricia started skipping. (She recently taught him how to skip and after a few hilariously unsuccessful tries, he has, to my great disappointment, become quite good at it. It is very cute.)

Finally, after a mile of walking with two young kids and two hungry boys, we reached the rolex side. (We are, to my knowledge, the only ones who call it that. It is a term accidentally coined by the children combining “roadside” and “rolex”, but it is now a normal part of our vocabulary.)

I heard Christian counting under his breath to see how many rolex we needed to order. In the past, it was simple. Everyone ate one rolex. That was always enough, especially if you add some avocado like I do. As food prices have increased over the years, the price of chapatis has not. Most people know that no one will buy a chapati for more than 500 Ugandan shillings, so they don’t dare increase their prices for fear of making no sales. The way to compensate for that? The chapatis are growing ever smaller. Same price, less food. These days, I can easily put away two rolex, and Patricia can eat a whole one by herself. 

I should probably explain what a rolex is, shouldn’t I? No, we don’t go and buy new watches every week. Just like “rolex side” is a sort of compound term reducing more ideas into two words, “rolex” began as two words: rolled eggs. It is a chapati (like a thick, greasy tortilla and found all over Uganda) with a thin, omelet-style egg on top, rolled up to make a wrap. Rolled eggs. Rolex. Delicious. (They must be, if we eat them every week, right?)

After making the order at the rolex stand by the road, the boys and I had a competition. Isaac counted bodas driving toward Mukono. Pascal counted bodas driving toward Kayunga. I counted taxis going in both directions. I lost. Elliot sat at the side of the road and said “Wow!” at every shiny thing with wheels that passed by. Patricia found a friend who looked to be about a year old and half played, half terrorized her in an attempt to be friendly. And that is how we passed the 20 minutes or so until our food was ready and packed. 

We used to eat the rolex there at the roadside, sitting on a bench and watching the sky grow steadily darker. But when Patricia was old enough to start eating, we realized feeding small bits of egg to a baby and watching her drop every piece and make a mess was an activity better done at home. The habit stuck, so now we always get our packed rolex, buy the produce we need for the week, and go home before digging in in the light of our own living room. 

Pascal was the first to spot an avocado on the way home. I gave him the money and one of the plastic bags from Isaac’s backpack. We always pack our own plastic bags. In theory, we would not need to come home with any more of them than we left with. In reality, sometimes we confuse people by handing them a bag when they know they are the ones supposed to be giving it to us, and they pack their own bag inside of ours and the whole purpose is defeated. We shall keep trying. Maybe one day it will catch on. 

A few minutes later, with fruit in bags, the youngest children on shoulders and backs, and rumbling stomachs, we walked home. Some evenings, we manage to leave Noah’s Ark early enough that we journey both ways while it is still light. Some evenings, we meet delays and our walk back is in nearing-total darkness. The benefit of the latter is that we get to see the fireflies in the valley, which always takes me back to summers in Iowa. The best evenings, however, are when we walk back exactly at sunset. The sun dips below the horizon or the low-lying clouds just as we descend the hill, splashing its oranges and pinks and reds all over us as the toads in the valley sing their evening song, very nearly drowning out the rumble and whoosh of cars racing by not so far away. We live on the eastern side of a hill, so these evenings are the only times we get to enjoy a glorious Ugandan sunset. 

Our energy seemed to fade away with the light. Our pace slowed, our conversation ceased, and we followed the road through the valley in silence. (All the better to hear the toads.) The guards welcomed us home at the gate and we signed the boys in. On the way up the last hill, which always seems like the biggest, we stopped at the canteen to buy sodas. 

Almost there. 

We turned the last corner to our house and were met with darkness. We had forgotten to turn on the outside security light before leaving. We always forget to turn on the light before leaving. Who thinks of that in the bright, early evening? 

It was the home stretch, but our night was far from over. There were hands to be washed, rolex to be eaten, children to be bathed, extra beds to be made for our two guests who would spend the night… just a typical Friday night. 

PC: Ecosi Paul from the Noah's Ark PR team!

Motherhood

As I pondered today which picture I could post on social media depicting the joy of motherhood and thanking the children and family who have made me a mother, I quickly realized it wasn’t as simple as finding the best recent picture of Patricia, Elliot, and myself. For one, they would not exist if it weren’t for my husband. A picture with the four of us then? Or just one with him and me to highlight the fact that he is the one who made me a mother? Still not enough. 

When I pray for my children each morning, the beginning often goes like this: “Father, I thank you for Patricia, Elliot, and the rest of my children.” The rest being mainly Noah’s Ark children, with a few other gems I have taken under my wing in one way or another over the years. 

It is a strange situation, this partial-parenting business. So many different aunties and a few uncles, each standing in the role of parent in one way or another for children who do not have their own. We all know the scenario where if Mom says no, a child can go to Dad with the same question and get a more favorable answer before Mom has any idea she has been double crossed. Now imagine that, but when you have 50 different parents to which you can go. Consistency is a challenge, to say the least. Structure is provided on an institutional level—wake up at 6:00 am, porridge at 7:00, when to bathe, what time to go to bed. 

In two months, I will have been here nine years. The baby I picked up from the police station in my first month now stands as tall as my shoulder. My namesake, “Little” Katie. Now instead of sitting on my lap and playing drums with a pan and wooden spoon, she cooks a whole meal with instructions and supervision but very little physical help. Is this parenting? Is this motherhood? 

When exactly did I become a mother? That question has been pestering me today. 

Was it when Patricia was born? On some level, yes. That was the first time Christian and I were 100 percent responsible for the survival of a breathing, crying human being. I remember the night she was born, at three in the morning when the last in-law and midwife left the apartment, and it was just us. No one left to tell us what to do. No one else to interpret our newborn’s cries or instruct us on the next step. We felt the weight of responsibility like we felt the exhilaration of first-time parenthood. Was it that night, listening to my infant suck on her own fist like her life depended on it, that I became a mother? 

Or was it earlier, when her life started growing inside of me? At the Oregon coast the first time we heard her heartbeat on a doppler, or sitting in the airplane in Dubai when I felt the first flutters of her kicks? At that point we were still calling her Norbert. It was a magical thing, having a child that we didn’t yet really know. Especially those first weeks, when we were the only two people in the world who knew of her existence. I remember feeling like it was a miraculous secret, something I was bursting to tell everyone but also treasuring in my heart just for us, for now. 

But I don’t think that was the moment I became a mother either. The problem is—okay, maybe it is not a problem, per se—the thing is, I cannot pinpoint a moment when motherhood began. 

Was it in 2013 when six-month-old Josephine curled up on my chest and fell asleep and I knew I was in love? 

Was it when nursery-school-aged Isaac ran to me with a flying hug on parent-teacher conference day and jubilantly cried, “My parent!”? 

Was it when I picked up Katie and Colin from the police station and she was named after me? 

Was it when Thomas started spending every afternoon at my house as if it was his second home? 

Was it when I read books in the children’s home with the oldest group of girls every night, or when I went room to room singing lullabies as the children went to bed? 

Was it when teenagers started confessing sins and struggles to me, asking for advice and prayer and acceptance and forgiveness? 

Was it when one by one, other aunties and staff members left Noah’s Ark, leaving only a handful of us who have been a part of the children’s lives this long? 

Does it go back even further, to LWBC and our Ellie Adventure Days and afternoons at camp with Will? 

The first children’s sleepover in my house? The first time I cried at their pain? The first time I had to discipline? The first time I had to ask a child for forgiveness? 

Where does motherhood actually start? Is there a real beginning? 

In this culture, motherhood is fluid. Aunties and grandparents are often called mothers if they have taken on a role of caring for a child. In the beginning, it confused me—a friend could tell me her mother had died years ago and then next week go for the burial of her mother. Or someone could introduce me to two different women in the same day, calling both of them her mother. It took some time before I stopped second-guessing what I had heard and realized that yes, all these women were mothers. It takes a village, doesn’t it? 

Our church service today illustrated the complexity of institutional parenthood. The CEO did not ask all mothers to stand up. That would have been a simple request, but one that would leave more than half of the adults in the church in a gray area. Biological mothers? Adoptive mothers? Mothers by profession? Instead, he asked every woman 18 years and older to stand up. He acknowledged that some of us have families in our own homes, some are aunties whose job is literally to parent these children, and some—like our grown-up teenagers—have no official parenting role or title, but have been caring for young ones for years already. Every one of us was a mother in some sense of the word. And every one deserved to be celebrated and appreciated today.

This Mother’s Day, my (biological) children and I spent some time thanking the other mother figures in their lives. Elliot spent the morning with Ruth, his favorite teenage baby-sitter. We made cards and delivered cookies to Auntie Rebecca, who runs the daycare with such love and care that we never have to worry whether our children are in good hands. After the church service I gave Priscilla, another of our teenagers and favorite baby-sitters, a quick hug and thanked her for her love for my kids. And that is barely scratching the surface. I have to say, I am a big fan of our village. 

I still need to sift through my pictures and find one that can fit with this post and this day, but I am relieving myself of the pressure of finding one perfect photo to sum up what motherhood means to me. One will not suffice. Not by a long shot. (I haven’t even mentioned the mothers it took to make me, and make me a mother!) But let me end this Mother’s Day with a heart full of gratitude for the mothers, children, and family who have made me a mother in so many different senses of the word. On this day especially, I thank God for you. 

Happy Mother’s Day. 

Go Home and Sit on the Couch

As I was reading my book this morning, the author made a contrast between doing something meaningful with your life versus going home and sitting on the couch. Now, I agree with the point one hundred percent, but it invited the question: Is my couch really that bad? As I pondered the literal implications of never going home and sitting on the couch, dozens of images flashed before my eyes of moments—big and small, alone and with loved ones, recent and years ago—in which my couch set the scene for love, honesty, change, relationship, rest, meaningful work, and a host of other abstract nouns of which I would never want to trade in. And it made me realize that sometimes going home and sitting on the couch is exactly how you can do something meaningful with your life. 

I think of the countless mornings I have carried one of my children like a baby from their bed to the couch, snuggling together in an attempt to wake them up gently. Inevitably the other one wakes up in the process and joins us in the living room, sometimes settling comfortably in beside us and sometimes fighting for the “best” space. What begins as drowsiness develops into play-sleeping until finally someone cracks a real smile or lets a giggle erupt from their mouth and lets us all know the tiredness is now an act and we should really get started with our day.

I think of the teenager who sat across from me on the couch one evening and told me a long story about how her mother had tried, on more than one occasion, to marry her off during lockdown. How she ran away from home when she saw another potential suitor coming and how she was nervous about going back to that home in the school holiday. How she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to forgive her mother. 

I think of the dark, quiet mornings when I sit on my couch with my Bible and a cup of tea, centering my day on God before the rest of the family wakes up and fills the space on the couch and in my mind. I have lit candles, prayed, cried, kept a long list of gratitude, read my Bible, journaled, and sometimes fallen asleep. Blessed moments in the comfort of my own blessed home. 

I think of all the meetings we have had on this couch, planning the holiday program, camp, Sunday school, assemblies, cantatas, and more. It has been a productive space as our colleagues from all ages and departments have, in turn, taken a seat on our couch to pray and imagine and plan and dream. So many ideas have taken root or bloomed from the comfort of our living room. 

I think of both times Christian and I sat on the couch together and I told him I was pregnant. The first time was met with a joyful and anticipatory hug as we began to imagine how much our lives were about to change. The second time was met with wide-eyed disbelief, as our daughter was not yet one year old and this was definitely not our plan. 

Then I think of the evening after Elliot was born. Patricia sat in her high chair, making a mess as usual. She half paid attention as we watched Jumanji and ate pizza we had ordered in. Christian and I sat on the couch, with 20-hour-old Elliot nestled in the crook of my knee, sleeping peacefully through the commotion of the movie. It was one of our first memories together as a family of four. 

I think of sitting side-by-side with a teenager, holding hands and praying after they confessed their addiction to porn and asked for help growing closer to God again. This has been a sacred space. It has been a space of repentance. 

I think of how on Thursday mornings the four of us pile onto the couch, everyone except me with eyes still half shut and mouths wide open in yawns as we Skype with my family in an inconveniently different time zone. How as soon as my mom shows the tower of blocks she built or shows the “guess what’s in the bag” bag my children begin to sit up a little straighter and open their eyes a little wider. And how by the end of the conversation they are so awake and riled up that any adult conversation is finally thrown out the window as the toddlers demand any and all attention from both continents. 

I think of playing four-on-a-couch with the Good Samaritans, laughing hysterically and making fun of one another for making a bad move in the game. On those Monday nights as we pile twelve extra people into our house for fellowship, Bible study, and service, the couch is quickly filled with more teenage tushies than it is designed to hold as they come here to grow closer to one another and closer to God. 

I think of snuggling up to my husband on the couch after we have had a hard conversation, sharing the same space and reminding each other that we are in this together, no matter what. From the days before we were dating when he used to help me with my post-burn stretching while we watched Big Bang Theory (because I liked him, not the show), much of our relationship has transpired in this very place. 

I think of the nights I sat on my couch in the dark, breastfeeding one of our babies in the living room so I wouldn’t wake up Christian. Or the nights my baby stayed asleep and I sat alone on the couch to pump milk for an undernourished baby in the children’s home, hoping that what made my own children so fat would work the same wonders on her. 

I think of the children who have slept on our couch for a night, excited to have a sleepover and stay up much too late watching movies. 

I think of how Patricia and Elliot need only seconds to lay all the couch cushions flat to transform it into their very own bouncy castle, no matter how many times we tell them not too or how many times they bounce off and hurt themselves. 

I think of being sandwiched between my two favorite little humans in the evening, teeth brushed and pajamas on, reading Dig Dig Digging one hundred times over, and occasionally another book if they are feeling adventurous that night. 

So no, I will not say that going home and sitting on the couch is the opposite of getting up and living a meaningful life. If the events that have transpired on my couch are not full of meaning, I can guarantee I won’t find it anywhere else either. So go ahead—go home and sit on your couch today. See what comes of it.

Marine

I met Nate Walker in the summer of 2008 at Lake Waubesa Bible Camp. He was simultaneously one of the most serious people I have ever met, his heart set on joining the Marines and serving his country, and one of the biggest goofballs who has ever walked into my life. If you look at pictures of him, I feel like you basically see those two extremes and not much in between. 

We worked together at camp for two summers, and in that time became best friends. We spent countless hours sitting by the lake, by day or by night, discussing every issue under the sun, laughing about a good deal of it and crying sometimes too. We upheld one another in prayer and wrote letters when he was in basic training and deployed to Afghanistan. We liked each other at different times--never the same time--and that was okay because our friendship was exactly what we needed it to be. 

Seven years ago, I consciously stepped out of his life to make space for someone else. It was one of the hardest decisions I ever made, but I always assumed someday the time would come to step back in again. 

I did my best to prepare myself to lose him when he joined the Marines. I wrote Part I of the following poems as an assignment for English class shortly after he enlisted. I was scared he would not come back, or that he would come back a different man than the one I knew. "When You Go" details some of the different ways I imagined I would hear about his death, even before he left the country.

I wrote Part II yesterday as a way to process what had actually happened to him. On the one hand, Nate has not been an active part of my life for several years. I lost him long ago; I just didn't expect it to be forever. On the other hand, letting go of the hope and expectation that my best friend of seven years would one day be a close friend again is proving difficult. 

My heart goes out to his wife, who has lost her best friend in an infinitely bigger way than I have. To his children, who are so young they will grow up without a single memory of their loving and goofball father, never knowing the man he was. To his parents, who are some of the most caring and faithful people I have had the privilege to know, and who were incredibly proud of him. To his sister, who looked up to him and cheered him on. And to the countless others whose lives he touched--and saved, given the nature of his work and life. 

Nate... this is for you.

-------------------------------------------------

MARINE, PART I  (2009)

PROMISE ME 

The dock is shaking. Splinters 

needle their way into my shoulders, 

but if I sit up I won’t be able to see 

the lightning. Not that it’s visible 

anyway with you dancing over me

like that. You with that goofy smile, 

crooked as it may be. Distant thunder 

plays the bass drum for your midnight 

dance, announcing the end of training 

for camp. Only June, but time needs

to slow down already. Soon you’ll be 

at another training, the one where they 

cut your hair, hand you guns, and name you 

“Recruit.” That is who you’ll be 

in two months, but I like you now, 

even if you are blocking the summer 

storm. Back and forth, back and forth, 

your hands are upside-down pendulums. 

“This is my windshield wiper dance!” 

You goof. The Marine Corps necklace 

bounces off your chest with every step, 

in rhythm with my head resonating 

against the dock. It’s jumping with you. 

Ka-plu-clunk. Ka-plu-clunk. Promise 

me something. Promise me that when 

you come back, you will still 

do the windshield wiper dance.

CONNECTIONS

As I step out of the shower, 

your necklace (my necklace?) 

is cold on my bare chest. The dull 

silver an accent mark on my pale skin, 

surrounded by goosebumps. It looks 

bigger on me than it did on you. 

You’re on the phone, returned 

from a week in the field,

sweaty, hungry, exhausted. 

They built you fake 

cities, gave you blank 

ammunition, bandaged your counterfeit 

wounds, all for a twelve-hour battle 

in the California desert. 

Private First Class Walker, 

bullet-proof vest and buzz cut, 

ready for action. Of course 

you were grinning the whole time. 

This real life video game is 

what you love. 

You had tanks, you had enemies. 

The dust stuck to your face paint 

and your pants caught on barbed wire. 

It was like Black Hawk Down, 

you say. Have you seen it? 

Yes, I’ve seen it, I say. 

People died. 

I don’t say that. 

The string has been on my wrist 

for a year now. Please 

tell me you are 

                invincible 

like string. 

I protect it like I wish 

I could protect you. 

You tied a good knot.

WHEN YOU GO

I was standing by the mailboxes 

in Harstad. Now I’m crumbling. 

Mail is supposed to be fun, but this letter 

is heavy, sinking into the carpet 

like I am. It fell before I could obliterate 

it, drown it, make a paper grenade 

and pull the pin. It screams white, 

but instead of surrender it slays 

me. Huddled against the wall, the mailboxes 

carve into my head, but I’m motionless. 

In one sentence, I was paralyzed. I want 

to fold the paper up, place it neatly 

into its envelope and send it back, demand 

a return, this letter for your life.

I’m walking by the pond, on the path 

with the two cracks that have met 

and made love and then multiplied 

into crevasses in the concrete. My body 

shudders like your mom’s voice 

on the phone. Why, why would you

ever make her say this? Color 

drains from the world around me, or maybe 

it drains from my face. I am numb, hard 

like the pavement. I want to jump inside 

the crevasse, bury my head and let my tears 

water the earth that has lost its color. 

I am in my room. No phone, no letter, but 

I can feel it. I know. Emptiness is tangible 

as the autumn air sneaking past the cracked 

window. It tickles the hairs on my arms 

and whirlpools around my soggy face. 

Every once in awhile, my heart pretends 

to try. Thump, sniffle, thump, thump, gasp. 

When I know you’re not breathing, sometimes 

I forget too. Absence suffocates me.

Funny thing is, you haven’t even left yet.

-------------------------------------------------

MARINE, PART II  (2022)

Where 

is the box? 

I rummage through 

my overcrowded, cluttered 

mind, knowing I tucked it away 

somewhere—somewhere safe, to retrieve 

at a moment’s notice, only the moment never came. 

The box full of experiences, laughter, conversations, 

tears, arguments, dances, smiles, games, jokes, 

forgiveness, memories. So many things I 

knew about you, I had hidden in the 

box for safekeeping, only now 

the box is nowhere

to be found, 

just like

you.

My eyes sting, and my heart aches

because I can’t remember your 

windshield wiper dance. 

I can imagine it, but I can’t remember it.

Which dock was it?

What were you saying? 

Was I scared you were going to

jump on my head? 

My eyes sting, and my heart aches

because I can’t remember the

moment you tied the string on my wrist. 

Where did the string come from? 

Why did you tie it on me? 

What were you saying? 

Did I consider removing it? 

Did I give you one too? 

The string that had been on my wrist

for more than a year 

came off. 

It was not invincible. 

Neither were you.

When you came back from war

I thought your battles were over. 

I didn’t know they were only beginning.

Slowly walking along the dock, 

listening to the water kiss the shore

and tickle the pier’s legs stretching 

down into the gentle waves, 

I do not hear you. 

(You are a sniper, after all.)

I see your toes first, and they

surprise me. Panning up, as

in a movie, I take in more

and more of you, standing 

three feet in front of me, until 

my eyes land on your goofy smile

way up there in the atmosphere

laughing, incredulous that I had 

not heard you coming; did not know

you were there.

You were always there. 

You would always be there. 

For years, that was the truth.

But then you weren’t. 

And neither was I. 

We are both to blame. 

I always assumed one day, one time

you would resurface in my life. 

Real best friends do that, do they not? 

It was never a question of if, 

only when, where, and how old we 

would both be when that time came. 

And now? 

You are the one who cannot resurface,

but we are the ones who cannot breathe.

I had almost forgotten

you were the one who chopped

down a tree while I was 

still in it. 

Who will laugh about that with me now?

An email washed up after

some deep-sea diving in my archives

from me to you, seven years ago. 

We never imagined this would be one

of our last conversations. 

“I’m scared of losing you,” I said.

“I love you, and I love our friendship

and I am so, so tired of things

changing and of having to say goodbye

to the people I love.”

To one of the best friends

who has ever walked unexpectedly 

into—and out of—my life, 

thank you and

(dare I say it?)

goodbye. 

Nate and I praying together before
he left for basic training in 2009.