Okayest Mom

Ethiopia, 2011

Shukriya opened her eyes to the dim morning light. The sun had not yet cast its blanket of heat over the dusty fields. As she lay on the hard ground, she pulled her single cover more tightly around her and enjoyed the last remnants of the cool night air. She heard her mother stirring and rolled over to face her.

She could barely make out her mother's form bent over the pile of baskets in the corner. The only light in their hut came through the cracks in the mud walls. In the early morning hours, she had to strain to see anything. She felt, more than saw, the shadows of her brothers and sister as they lay sleeping on the floor beside her.

Faint wisps of smoke rose from the fire in the corner and escaped through the straw and branches that formed their roof. Shukriya's mother hummed softly as she readied herself for the day. Soon she would be calling her name, rousing her from her bed to help with the morning chores.

Shukriya breathed a prayer in the darkness.

Good morning, God. Will You stay with me today? I need You here with me so I am not alone. Help me to not be afraid.

Shukriya did not like being left in charge every day when her mother left. She much preferred having her older sister to rely on, but since Hamdiya had started working alongside their mother, it fell to Shukriya to care for her little brothers.

She knew her mother and sister had to work so their family could eat, but she felt lonely when they were gone. And she hated that her mother locked them inside. She said it was to keep her children safe, but it made Shukriya feel trapped.

"Shukriya." Her mother's voice cut through the darkness. "Time to get up. The fire needs to be tended, and you need to go get the water for today."

Shukriya left the warmth of her blanket and stepped over her sleeping brothers. Little Eyob, barely more than a baby, lay curled into the warmth of his brother's back. She tried not to disturb them as she arranged her scarf over her dark curls.

She picked up the large yellow water container from its place near the door and stepped outside. Shukriya never minded the walk to the river in the early morning. The sky was painted pink by the rising sun, and the fields of corn all around her turned to gold. The birds whistled as they flew overhead, and Shukriya smiled at the picture they made against the clouds.

"Thank You, God, for the birds," Shukriya prayed out loud. "They make me smile. And thank You that we have enough shiro and injera for lunch today. I won't have to worry about Eyob and Eba crying about being hungry. Thank You that the river is full so we can have enough water to drink."

Shukriya liked talking to God as she followed the path to the river. It made her feel happy inside. She wasn't sure who God was, but she imagined Him to be kind and loving. She had heard about God from the pastor at church. Much of what he said was confusing. She didn't understand why God was so different from Allah. Yet she knew that He was. Most of her neighbors were Muslim and talked about how great Allah was. But Shukriya rather preferred the God their pastor talked about. He sounded like a God who would watch over her. She liked the idea of a God who was with her all the time.

At the bank of the river, Shukriya set down her jug. She tipped it on its side and let it fill slowly. She watched for just the right moment to pull it from the river. She wanted enough water to last them all day, but not so much that she couldn't carry it home.

Struggling to lift the heavy container, she balanced the bright jug on her head as she straightened. Her family wasn't rich enough to have a donkey, but Shukriya liked to imagine they were. How nice it would be to allow the animal to carry the heavy burden. The pastor had told a story about God riding on a donkey. She liked to imagine God doing the same kinds of things she did. But she doubted He ever had to carry water if He had a donkey.

Some families could afford a donkey, but Shukriya knew hers would never be one of them. Some people had enough money for extras like animals and schooling. Some families had food every day. Maybe her family would, too, if her father were still around.

After he had gotten sick, things got harder. Her mother was doing the best she could, but sometimes at night Shukriya could hear her crying. The other day her mother had talked about sending Hamdiya away to work in a bigger city. She worried about what that might mean. First her dad had gotten sick, then their family had to move from their farm to a tiny hut. Now they barely had enough to eat.

What would happen to her? It scared her, sometimes, when she thought about the future. Hers seemed to hold only pain.

Shukriya sighed as she climbed the riverbank. She did not like to complain, so she silently moved toward home. By the time she arrived, the ache in her lower back had begun. She knew it would grow worse for the rest of the day.

She placed the water inside the door and moved toward the fire. Her brothers were awake, Eyob sitting quietly in the corner playing with a corn husk, and Eba scooping peanuts into a basket.

"You are just in time," her mother said. "If I don't hurry, all the best spots will be taken and I won't sell any peanuts today."

Her mother gathered up the baskets of peanuts, the blanket she used to mark her space on the roadside, and one roll of injera for her lunch. She hurried Hamdiya out the door in front of her.

"Good-bye, children. Obey Shukriya while I am gone. Wudahalo." (Wudahalo is Amharic for "I love you.")

Then she closed the door, plunging the hut into darkness. Shukriya knew their eyes would soon adjust. By midday the sun would be high enough that she could see the food she prepared for their only meal of the day.

Shukriya heard her mother drop the heavy bar across the door and the jangling of keys as the padlock was secured. She felt a stab of fear. Once again they were locked inside. Alone.

Then she remembered God. The pastor had said God was always with her.

Thank You for being here with me, God. Thank You for always being with me no matter where I go.

As Shukriya talked to God, she could feel how much He loved her. She did not know much about this God, but she loved Him all the same. She knew He would stay with her no matter where she went. Knowing He was there with her in the midst of the darkness, she felt peace.

Before I sat down to write today, I looked over my to-do list. Tuesday: Bible time, reschedule doctor's appointment, write 500 words, edit blog post, put together playlist for spin class, prep dinner. Now, I prep dinner every single day of my life. It is a task not easily forgotten. And yet I still add it to my to-do list.

I have extraordinary list-making skills. I can write a list with the best of them. And do you know where I really shine? Crossing those tasks off my list by the end of the day. Laundry? Check. Email children's teachers? Check. Make doctor's appointment? Check. Prep dinner? Check.

I find great satisfaction in those check marks. The more lists, the better: to-do lists; honey-do lists (my husband really likes my keeping him on track); Saturday chore lists (my children look forward to these all week). And I'd sooner die than grocery shop on the fly.

Every Sunday I write my week's grocery list. I'm sorry, Pastor Bill, but it seems the best place to do this is in the sanctuary. I'm listening to you preach; really, I am. But when the Holy Spirit reminds me to buy milk and shredded cheese, I have to obey His prompting and write it down. During your sermon on grace, I was inspired to buy ingredients for mango chicken curry.

Once my list is complete, I'm ready for my weekly trip to the budget grocery store. If you're looking for me at 10:30 on a Monday morning, I'll be at WinCo. Every single Monday. It's part of my weekly plan. Plan-making is also one of my strengths.

I could teach a master class on making lists. I'm addicted to them. I've not always been that way. I don't remember being a list-maker in elementary school. Planning playdates and filling in my calendar wasn't high on my priorities then. This addiction is one of many results of my childhood pain.

My memories from elementary school are admittedly vague. I have a vivid mental picture of our family's Irish setter, silky ears hanging low, tongue lolling, sitting on the front porch in the sunshine. I can picture the daisies that grew in the field behind our house. In my mind I walk through the sliding glass door into the backyard, and I am instantly surrounded by white flowers, all nodding their heads in the wind. I see myself eating watermelon on a wooden deck, wearing not a stitch of clothing, sticky red juice making rivulets down my round belly.

I especially remember my fifth-grade teacher. Mrs. Surroze planted in my heart a love for words. She taught me to read simply for the pleasure, to sit in silence and let the stories come alive with pictures and colors on the life-size screen in my mind.

I can picture the skirt my mother helped me to sew that year. Pink and covered in a tiny floral print, longer than was strictly necessary, slightly crooked at the hem, but in my mind absolutely beautiful. I remember the night our family snuck into the community pool after closing time, giggling our way through the dark as we followed our father through the summer heat.

And I remember standing outside a McDonald's, squeezing tightly the handrail that led to the doorway, scuffing my toes in the dirt along the edge of the parking lot and willing myself not to cry as my parents told us they were getting a divorce. I cried anyway. To this day I cry at the most inopportune times. Especially when I hope to hide my deep hurt, the tears seem to come of their own volition.

I cried as my parents tried to decorate the ugly reality of our newly broken family with all the pretty words they thought I needed to hear. I can still smell the smoke from the hamburgers being readied for the lunch crowd. I can see the faded blue dress I wore. I can feel the sunshine on my hair and the storm in my heart.

Although both parents eventually remarried, and I was loved and cared for, my broken family provided the framework for the rest of my childhood. Weekdays in one home, weekends in another. Alternating Christmas and Thanksgiving. Feeling the pull to love everyone equally. And always monitoring my words so I would not say anything to one parent about the other.

My siblings and I divided our time between homes. We quickly learned to adapt to our environment. Here we are quiet and orderly and have a bit of spending money. Here we are loud and laugh a lot and sometimes don't have quite enough to eat. Here we get lollipops and lemonade. Here we search the couch cushions for enough change to pay for entrance to the summer swimming pool. It was not ideal, this new lifestyle of shifting between homes and expectations and personalities.

This childhood, though I did not know it until years later, would give me an insight into my children's brokenness. My children and I, we all come from broken families. And we have all, to varying degrees, experienced restoration.

The turmoil of my elementary years gave me a great love for order. My list-making, my desire to exert control, appeared in my junior high years. It was a symptom of a heart condition, my desire for security. I thought if I was organized enough, if I had enough plans in place, I could control my future.

I began making plans for high school (AP classes with an eye toward college); college (small Christian university with an eye toward a teaching credential); career (elementary teacher until I had children of my own, then I'd become a homemaker); and relationships (date only good boys who love the Lord and find someone who wants to get married young).