Celebrating Cait

I recently did an article for Evangelical Missions Quarterly on the potential of expatriate professionals to global mission. I’d been asked to write about what I do, but wanted to say something of more substance. “Tales of a Trailing Spouse” shares stories of several like me who, though professionally skilled and experienced, have set career aside to “trail” their mates on expatriate assignments in “closed” countries in the Middle East. Along the way each was drawn into surprising and fruitful ministry, with access and legitimate presence to people that would never be available to “full-time Christian workers.”

As I often do, I invited Cait to read and comment on the draft. Her exuberant feedback: “I love the article, Mom! And I see myself—I’m a ‘trailing daughter’! I love being part of the ministry you do in Abu Dhabi.”

The thing that is so cool about that is that Cait has been on a journey shared by lots of bright, able, well-trained professionals in this economy. She left the Albanian mission field to seek work in her profession (environmental health) just as the world economy crashed. She spent nearly a year in the US, during which she found few openings for which to even apply. Never idle, she washed dogs and cared for children, served her grandfather and enabled him to have a last year in his own home. She took some hard hits, too. A meanly jealous supervisor in one job; the employer’s health crisis and bankruptcy (yep, lots of unpaid wages) in another. A paid-for education in the school of what-the-working-poor-face taught her compassion for people she might never have noticed had she not lived what she lived. Then she joined us in UAE, hoping that jobs would be more plentiful. She continues to search.

Along the journey, all the emotions: self-doubt, loneliness, anger, confusion, regret. Seasons of ardent prayer; seasons of prayerlessness because it seemed all had been said over and over. Self-pity. Feelings of worthlessness, of hopelessness, of being the only one no one wanted.

Through it, I watched Cait lean into her Lord Jesus. Then came a season like the dawn of a new day. Reflections on biblical stories that celebrate quiet humility, unorthodox fruit, like Mary “wasting” her precious perfume to lavish Jesus’ head and feet so that it ran down and the fragrance filled the house. The value of investing in lives over financial or career success. The freedom to walk her own journey without anxiety or fear. A coming-alongside of Jesus in the things He holds dear. As I prayed from the sidelines, I saw Cait take on joy and gratitude around a uniquely-precious love of her grandfather and quiet opportunities to encourage others. I listened to words that showed she went deep with the Lord and journeyed hidden paths of nourishment and satisfaction in His presence most rare in 26-year-old Americans. I saw her grasp that God’s economy and values are not of this world, that her life and destiny are truly safe in His watch-care, and that what will bring Him glory unfolds in the mundane of everyday life.

Today, in Abu Dhabi, Cait is a catalyst for connections and community. The pair—Cait and our daughter-in-law Eda—are unstoppable hostesses and homemakers. I know her as ministry partner, whether it’s about cooking or communicating or taking her grandfather (who lives with us now) to medical appointments. She has become research assistant on my book for the Albanian church, organizer of all manner of dynamic fun for singles, willing help around the church, and prayer partner to several young women. Perceptive, solidly grounded, gracious communicator. Generous.

And yes, she continues the job-search. We continue to pray for sustaining and engaging employment for her. All the while, full of joy in her noble (yet fun) beauty, proud of her intelligent maturity, and oh-so-grateful to know her not just as daughter, but also as ministry partner and friend.

Happy birthday, from Mom

From the departure platform

I pull up to the curb on the departure platform--again. I crawl out of the car, and help drag bags out of the back.

Mid-day and 42 degrees Celsius. Sweat beads on Margje’s face and flows down Gordon’s as they wrestle luggage, stroller and babe dressed in their destination garb—black trench-style jacket over long slacks and blouse for Margje, with scarf around her shoulders ready for the mandatory head-covering of Iran. Long trousers and long-sleeved shirt in place of Gordon’s favored shorts and polo that announce his Afrikaans heritage. I take Eli-Anne from her mom for a last hug. Margje and I embrace and the tears flow. Then to Gordon for the cheek-to-cheek etiquette that gives way to a bear hug.

Though they’ve been out of their apartment and staying with us for the past ten days, we’ve all managed to ignore the coming separation. Such dear friends that Eli-Anne knows us as “Grandma” and “Grandpa.” Best camping buddies, dune-bashers extraordinaire, game partners and co-hosts with us of innumerable adventures and feasts. They stood alongside us as Daniel-fans and Cait-supporters, taking Eda in as family with the rest of us when she and Dan married in January; we stood with them as doting grandparents through invitrio, pregnant health crises, and their first year as parents.

I drive home (in Gordon’s SUV, now owned by Dan) and walk through a house so empty without Eli-Anne’s giggly, jumping explorations. Curt comes home and no 15-month old runs to hug his leg and crawl into his lap. No sharing of their days between the two men. No foursome in the kitchen pulling together something wonderful to eat for dinner.

Curt and I both grew up in mobile families. We’ve lived in transient communities before. We’ve moved a fair bit ourselves. But never like here. Expat life in UAE is defined by the frequency with which people come and go. Someone new to welcome and make place for; someone you’ve allowed in as a heart companion takes off on a different journey. When Gordon called to tell us about the job in Tehran, my heart cried out even as my brain told me that if they didn’t leave we’d be gone in a year anyway.

I’m thinking about that cracked-pot thing. With each dear leave-taking we crack a little bit more. Or maybe that’s a choice. Will we seal the cracks against the pain and form a shell that looks nice but is a hard surface that people connect with and bounce off, with nothing real coming through? Or will we allow ourselves to crack open a little bit more, so that the life of Jesus continues to pour through?