This project has been so very long in its making stages that it’s a bit surreal to actually hold a hard copy in my hands. Written years ago when I was still a young, sleep deprived mom of only three little hellers, rewritten just for fun when Four came along, and years later came to life when One painted its images on scraps of watercolor pages. Lovingly designed and laid out by my sweet sister-in-law, these treasured pages are priceless to me. And I’d love to share them. 🖤

To purchase, please visit

https://shop.ingramspark.com/b/084?params=P9Z7aBPVqW6j3EOiys8HWvobxIoUaJhCevjkxpThMm1

“A backyard is a novel about us, and when we sit there on a summer day, we hear the dialogue and see the characters.” Garrison Keillor

The birds flitter from high branches down to the patches of yellow grass that litter the Truxton’s yard. They seem joyfully unaware of the silent man who keeps vigil on them every afternoon.

Dad sits quietly beneath the shade of the ndu, its grass roof stretching above him like a separate sky. His soft eyes move carefully from tiny wings to the bright colors on the backs of these West African birds that peck at the seeds near his feet. They chirp quietly, serenading the stillness of ferns that surround the ndu and climb the base of the old Flame Tree.

 A small bird leaps from the ground and darts up towards the branches of the large tree, carrying Dad’s gaze with it. His eyes linger there, caught by the brilliance of red flowers that spring from its branches and shower down in petals upon the grass and the dry roof of the ndu.

The West African savannah is dotted with an endless sea of low thorn bushes and tall grasses. Yet there exists a giant among them: the Flame Tree. It towers above the land with its broad branches that provide shade when the sun beats hard, and shelter when the rains cascade. Its red flowers paint splashes of color onto the persistent greens and browns of the landscape. Its large roots pull up through the soil and serve as an evening resting place for sleepy villagers, while strong branches facilitate the games of young children. Seed pods dry into shaker instruments to use in church, and the strong wood from its limbs are burned for heat and for cooking. The Flame Tree has served Nigeria for generations, protecting and providing for its people. Yet of all the Flame trees that have rooted themselves deep within Plateau soil, the largest and most beautiful stands behind the Truxton’s house, stretching its branches over their tin roof and over their lives.

Dad notices that his thoughts have been wandering with the moving branches above him. The tips sway slightly in the gentle breeze, dropping three red petals onto the grass.    

This tree hasn’t always been there. It took shape many years ago with the first arrival of Charles and Beverly Truxton in Nigeria. They were new missionaries, eager to experience a foreign culture and to work side by side with Her beautiful people. Yet they must have moved with some trepidation…they had needed to leave behind them everything that was familiar. They left behind family. They left behind friends. They left behind the comfort of certainty. Were they doing the right thing? How much of a struggle would it be? And what if they decided to have children? What then?

They settled in a small town in Plateau State, above the humid heat that the rest of the country lay in. A house made of cement block awaited their arrival, sitting patiently behind the other houses that lined the dirt road on the hospital compound. It was empty, but soon filled with the love and determination of two human souls. Together they grew a passion for the Nigerian people that crossed their paths each day. They prized the beauty of the savannah and the Plateau, and they felt the wonder of the giant Flame trees which spread their long full branches over the dusty earth. They, too, felt its mysterious and unexpected security.

As the years passed, the Flame tree grew. And as the new Flame tree sunk its roots deep into Nigerian soil, the new missionaries planted their lives deep into Nigerian life. And the tree grew with them, standing firm beside their house, spreading its branches over their tin roof, reminding them of the care with which they planted and cultivated this new seed in a new country. It became their symbol of the beauty that can lie in one single act of trust. It became a favorite story for their three children who through the years played on that tree, hanging from its branches, crawling over its roots, begging to hear the story again and again about the big tree that came from a tiny seed.

But time can never stand still, so the years ran by us and now all of the stories have been told, and all of the children have grown and traveled back across the ocean, and all the fear and excitement of newness and change has settled into a kind of peace. Yet through the years of growth and change, there was one thing in the Truxton family’s yard in Jos that never moved: the Flame tree that Dad planted. It remained there, solid and constant, and I believe it still does. It has endured. With the flourishing of its flowers, the spreading of its branches, the strength of its trunk, the laughter in its memories, and the depth of its roots, the Flame tree grew to be the largest, strongest, and most beautiful of all in its area. And I do truly believe that it’s because it was nurtured with the most love.

As a young third culture kid I often felt…misunderstood. Unseen. To my Nigerian peers, I was (for the most part) just another expatriate living in their country. Not quite fully belonging. To my American peers, I was a little bit weird. A little bit behind. Not quite one of them. And even amongst my fellow third culture peers, I always felt out of place. Misunderstood. Unseen.

I took my invisibility with me over the ocean when I left Nigeria at the age of eighteen. I carried it throughout my college years as I struggled to find my voice. To find my people. But nothing stuck. My voice faded and so did my friendships. Still misunderstood. Still unseen.

In my husband I found a deep friendship that fought to see me. He fought hard. (He still does.) But then I was pregnant and the isolation hit. None of our friends had children at that time, so we were immediately hurtled into a space that was deserted and confusing for us both. Our friends moved ahead with their lives, while we diverted down the joyous (yet desperately isolated) road of parenting. But I sunk much deeper into the loneliness than I could have expected, falling away from Jon. Falling away from our new daughter. Falling away from everything.

A part of me did eventually begin to surface, but not all of me. Not really.

As our family continued to grow and Jon became increasingly busier, I threw everything I had into being a mother. I spent every waking hour with our babies, as well as every sleepless night. Some nights their bodies cuddled in our bed next to me, other nights I was in their beds—reading one last story, singing one last song, rubbing their backs until they fell asleep—and many nights I spent on the floor, laying next to their bed, holding their hand.

I was mama, but Martha was still trying to find her voice in the chaos and in the quiet. Still invisible. Still unseen.

I poured so much of myself into my children’s lives as little ones that now as teenagers I feel completely emptied. I feel desperately inadequate. They pull away from me, as teenagers do, and I have no idea how to reach across that distance and bring them back. I have no idea how to let them know that I see them. I have no idea what words to say. And every time I do reach out, I’m reminded of just how far away they have moved from my grasp. With each day that passes I feel myself falling away again, from everything. Deeper this time. Much, much deeper.

Today I find myself looking in the mirror at a stranger. She looks like me, but I don’t know her. I don’t even like her, really. She has wandered down a thousand paths, grasping for her voice, desperate to find something that helps all of the falling away and the loneliness make sense. Something she can grasp confidently amongst the ashes strewn behind her, some way she can feel known, if only to herself. I stare at the brown eyes looking back at me now, trace the age lines appearing, each one marking a decade I barely remember. A series of moments piling much too quickly into years that I can never reclaim.

Martha, moving perpetually from one state of isolation to another, never truly being seen. Not even by herself.

I did look for her…I did try. Really, I did. But in all those years and through all those moments and amidst all that uncertainty, I guess I never did find her.

One day, I know I will. At least, I hope I will. One day I hope I can sift through all of these moments and realize they were a beautiful story all along. And I will find myself amongst its pages and I will smile. But in the meantime, I’m trying to learn to love that stranger in the mirror. One age-line at a time.

This year felt saturated with loss.

My oldest child removed all of her belongings from our home that she’s lived in since she was a young girl and moved three states away from us. Mid-year, I had to leave a job and coworkers that I adored. My hopes for my thirdborn returning to in-person school in the fall failed. My youngest decided (quite abruptly) that he was now too old for bedtime reading with me. (I know that sounds insignificant, but those moments were so precious to me.) My sweet, dear father-in-law breathed his last, and we are all still trying to figure out what this new, emptier normal is supposed to be like. And lastly, my own precious family of six is walking through a dissonance amongst us that I am grieving so deeply, and that I know will be long and difficult to rectify. So much loss. …

We went into town the other night to walk around the lake, and the lights felt so calming. Each little candle—lit carefully and quietly night after night by people I’ve never seen—had such a small flame, flickering now and then in the cold night breeze. On their own, they were so simple, so faint. But they were placed one after the other, encircling the whole lake, and it was so beautiful. So calming.

I guess my hope for 2024 is that I can find the little candles of joy in each day—I know they’re there, somewhere, amidst the disappointment and the loss—and that I can place them on my path, one after the other. And maybe some day I will be able to step back and see that I’ve managed to illuminate the entire dark lake.

Most mornings before work I park my car and watch this willow sway quietly in the breeze. As the months have slipped by, I have watched silently as it’s leaves turned from green to gold, and on these chilly mornings I have watched them slip quietly from its weeping branches. One by one they have fallen to the ground as this beautiful giant begins releasing its hold on what used to help it breathe…what used to help it drink in the sun. It’s doing what it needs to in order to survive the cold, dark days ahead.

Today—Thanksgiving Day—felt a lot like trying to process a strange kind of grief; a grief that can’t really be named…can’t be grasped or even touched. It mingled uncomfortably with moments of joy and laughter. I know I have a lot to be thankful for, but I have felt so deeply this quiet, slow death of the way I used to think my life would be. So much has fallen away from me. Each day I release another leaf, my fingers growing tired of gripping these things that no longer help me breathe…can no longer offer me life. And as painful as it feels in this moment, I will keep releasing whatever I need to in order to survive the days ahead. Because my people need me. My dearest ones…they need me. So although at the end of this I may be nothing more than bare, weeping branches, I will brace myself against the winter, knowing that on the other side—one day—there will be green again.

On our last day of vacation, storms came through and completely changed the shape of the shore. My youngest, being curious about anything that he doesn’t yet understand, was drawn to it. So we went for a walk. It was breathtaking. Tide pools, sea foam skittering across the wet sand, the angry waves, the strong wind, mini rivers barreling over channels that had been cut into the sand by the powerful tide… I drank deep of it. And it struck me how even there—amongst the chaos of storm’s aftermath—I still felt a sense of peaceful wonder deep in my spirit.
I’ve never been great with change. I crave it and I hate it all at the same time. I’m pretty much always a mess, wanting things to be different, but resenting it when they are…
This fall our family is facing some major changes, and I’m wrestling with the fear, the excitement, the hope and the dread all swirling at once. And as I try to come to terms with just existing in this dissonance, I can’t help thinking back to that stormy morning on Emerald Isle, walking barefoot with my youngest. Despite the chaos of the shore that morning, we were excited to see what lay ahead as we sunk our toes in the wet sand, feeling awe at Mother’s power all around, the warmth of the ocean, the wetness of the wind, the immense beauty of it all… and that feeling of peaceful wonder deep in my spirit, that I get to be here in this life, breathing it all in.

As my eyes open, I know we have been traveling for quite some time. At least, I believe we are moving…I can feel the wheels turning beneath me. Beyond the window is only darkness. This road I travel offers no answers to the questions I prod my weary mind with day in, day out. It is a long road. The darkness outside creeps upon me and surrounds my body with its cold, questioning emptiness and I sit, knees touching, hands clasped, tightening themselves deeper into the warmth between my thighs. The only place that brings solace. Crumpled this way, the loneliness almost disappears. I am closer— if nothing—to myself.

I lean my head against the window, face turned, brown eyes desperately searching beyond the scuffed glass of that backseat window belonging to an old Peugeot. I search for something—anything—a form that might emerge from the fingers of the night. My five year old voice whispers out into what feels like an endless void, Paint me something—sand, palm trees, ocean—anything at all… Anything to ground me, to make sense of this moment…

But we keep moving along this road, the absence of street lights creating a thick darkness where landscape should be. Yet I know there is an ocean somewhere beyond the deep night…I feel it’s presence. I can hear the steady crash of the waves, smell the salt thick in the air. Those waves, somewhere beyond this glass, crashing onto saturated sand that still does not hesitate to drink its fill. I can almost see it. But can I? Do I dare to drink in the hope of something I cannot see? Cannot touch? Were I to stumble from the confines of Peugeot’s glass, would my feet carry me far enough—close enough—that I might stretch out my hand and touch the very waves that soothe my ears tonight?

My soul still wanders at this moment, just as on a road in Liberia so long ago, and I know not where I travel to. My mind searches a dark space that offers no images to satiate my desire for something real—for something to see—something to grasp. Answers. Direction.

And yet, sometimes I believe I can hear the distant crash of waves somewhere, or catch the briefest whiff of salt in the air, and I think maybe. Just maybe there is an ocean somewhere beyond all of this endless night.

Creator, Ubangiji, Allah—lead me to the soothing touch of rhythmic waves on warm, tired flesh. I long to touch it.

I have cried many oceans for it.

Lately I’ve felt unearthed. Squeezed tight and pulled from my grounding. Quickly yet quietly removed from my community.

I’ve had voices telling me that I can’t believe what I believe and still be a true believer. I’ve had people I respect telling me I can no longer serve if we don’t see eye to eye. I’ve had loved ones imply with painful silence that I can’t truly love One while accepting the other…

This new, unexpected reality has left me reeling. How can it be so easy to see and to love someone exactly the way they were created to be, yet at the same time so heartbreakingly difficult to reconcile the voices swirling around that see it all so very differently?

I’ve heard so many songs lately about finding hope in the dark places, but where is the true dark when I see it one way and you see it another? When what brings one person joy is the very thing that causes another to grieve? Where is the true hope when it’s the believers that seem to be causing the most harm to the marginalized? Where is God?

The warm breeze yesterday was such balm for my weary spirit. I opened one of our windows, curled up on the couch and just sat there, breathing it in; watching the sun set behind the pines… the slow descent. The gentle softening of the day. The quiet. The warmth. And as night descended, I found my way outside to be enfolded in it; the clear dark skies enveloping all of me with its saturated quiet and its sprinkling of stars. I laid my head back and looked up, drawing lines between the heavenly bodies, wondering where my faith was to be found in all of this loss; all of this unearthing. And then the bells began playing from somewhere in Churchtown, a delicate shattering of the deep silence. Praise to the Lord, the Almighty. It was brief, almost distant. Once through, on the hour. I tried to remember the words I had learned as a child…But will it even matter? I feel stranded now in this endless desert; uprooted, wandering…faithless? But then the words ignite recognition, awaken the hope I thought was gone: “Ponder anew what the Almighty can do.” Oh those sweet bells. So brief. So life-giving. Creator reaching down and reminding me that I haven’t been forgotten. My family hasn’t been abandoned. My sweet children are seen and loved exactly as they are, precisely at this moment. Ponder ANEW what the Almighty can do. The Almighty. The Reconciler. Teacher. Outcast. Crucified.…Oh to breathe deep of this reminder that I am seen and cared for even here, when I can no longer reconcile what I was taught as a child with what I know in my heart.

As the chill begins to settle on the night air, I know I must wait for reconciliation. It may not come tomorrow, or even in the brief while that I have breath in my lungs, but I will do the work. I will begin the painful silencing of the voices that deepen any despair in my spirit, and searching instead for the hope that Ubangiji whispers in my ear. Behold, He is doing a new thing. Do you not perceive it?

As the sun rose the other morning, it was hidden behind a wall of fog so thick that the 36 acres of farmland behind our house completely disappeared. I was mesmerized looking at it. It captivated me, the way it softened all the edges, left so many things hidden. It felt…familiar. Close. I stood in the grass for a moment, drinking in the thick air. It was as if I was standing at the very edge of the world; the very edge of life itself. As if I could walk straight through the trees and simply fall off the end of the earth.

I suppose I spend many of my days this way. With all the rest of the world veiled behind a wall of fog. I know there’s more up ahead—in the distance—but I can’t see it from here. And I guess it feels safer that way. I know if I get close enough to the edge, I’ll see the expansive field stretching out before me, with its dried, broken stalks and sleeping grasses. And I’ll remember that there’s more. So much more.

That’s where I often get lost. When I can see clearly all the expectations that extend out in an endless field in front of me, and I can turn around and see all that I’ve walked through winding out in a muddy path behind me.

With a new year unfolding, I’ve found myself stranded. Looking out at endless unknowns, and trying to make sense of all that has come before. The path behind me is littered with the skins of people that I used to be, and I’ve been so many. In the last twenty years alone I’ve been lost TCK, angry MK, roommate, close friend, girlfriend, wife, isolated new mother, nanny, estranged friend, grieving friend, exhausted mom, sister, daughter, band widow, perpetual caregiver…but where does all of that leave me now?

When I stood there breathing it all in, I was reminded that I’m not quite okay with it all. I’m not quite okay with all the decisions I’ve made that have brought me to this point. I’m not okay with all the times I’ve let my kids down, let my husband down, let my friends down, let my family down…the many times I haven’t been quite what they needed me to be. The many times I haven’t been what I needed me to be.

I can dream up a million different endings for my life: how I move forward from here, how I thrive and make dreams happen…but they are all exhausting. And if I’m honest, the ones that have offered the most relief are the ones that end early. I’m weary of being disappointed in myself. Of disappointing the people around me. And I can’t wrap my mind around more years upon years upon years of the same. Most days, I almost wish I could walk straight into the fog, and instead of finding that endless field with all the dormant grass and the possibilities, it would be the very edge. And I would simply fall off.

And that’s the tricky thing about mental illness. You know how you want things to be—how you want things to change—how they can be better. But you spend your whole life just doing the next thing. Because it’s how you get through each day. It’s how you remain. It’s how you manage to show up in the world in pieces here and there. You do the next thing. Then the next. You focus only on what’s right in front of you at that moment. You try to show up for the people you care about in the ways they need, but you often fall short. And when you do have dreams about the future and its possibilities, you suddenly find yourself buried in all the unmet aspirations you once had and were unable to pursue. Because you were too focused on simply remaining.

But standing in that fog the other day—breathing in the thick air and watching the sunlight scatter through the haze—I realized that just simply remaining isn’t quite enough anymore. I want to find ME in this pile of bone and flesh at my feet; the old skins cast aside. I want to find my path forward through the wreckage left after unmet expectations, and labels, and decades of disappointments. I want to walk to the edge of it all and see what’s hidden beyond the mist.

Around this time last year I found the wings of a Luna moth. Although it was so natural to awe at the strikingly large and beautiful wings, I couldn’t ignore the subtle ache that ran through me as I held them in my hands. The American moon moth is rarely seen by humans; they only come out at night, and their adult lives are extremely brief (only about seven days). This stunning creature is truly beautiful and truly rare and there I stood, actually holding one in the palms of my hands…but it was in pieces. Lifeless.

It’s said that the Luna moth signifies new beginnings; a continuing quest for truth and knowledge. I guess most of my life I’ve been looking for new beginnings. I learned early on that I wasn’t like everyone else, and that I didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s expectations. So I found myself constantly comparing, repeatedly trying to change, to figure out where I fit into the worlds that collided around me.

Now I’m a mother of four, and I still find myself comparing, continuously second-guessing, waiting for the next new beginning to cancel out what I did today, or yesterday, or last year…

This time of year–as schools are drawing to a close–I’ve found myself unable to check all of the boxes that the other mamas in my life are checking. Don’t get me wrong: my kids are just amazing. They are wonderfully unique in their personalities, their physical features, their joys and their dreams and their struggles. Each one of them sees the world around them so very differently. I have a son who is not neurotypical, but insanely intelligent; a daughter who is wildly creative, yet her social anxiety can get so crippling it’s hard for her to even be around family sometimes. I have an artistic, free-thinking daughter who sees beauty everywhere, and values all life down to the smallest bug. I have a son that gets so overwhelmed with joy that he squeals and gives bear hugs even though he is over six feet tall. A son that hates being the center of attention, yet is a continuous source of laughter for everyone he meets. And because of their unique personalities and anxieties and neurotypes, my kids aren’t following “typical” paths right now. And being a compulsive comparer, I feel as if I’m failing these beautiful children by not pushing them harder to have all of the typical experiences, to win all the awards, go to all the dances, hit all the teenage milestones like jobs and driving and dating.

But of course, I am no typical mama. I’m a mess. Medicated since high school, I wander most days in an exhausted haze, trying to grab at small moments of joy or clarity, and then wanting to retreat completely into the dark before I break.

My kids have been raised by a mama who often just can’t. I have broken down in front of them so many times that I fear I’m not teaching them to be strong….and they need to be. God, they need to be. This world and its people can be so dismissive and unwelcoming towards the ones who are different. Most of them will give up on you. Or forget about you. Or never really see you at all. I’ve been there. I’ve felt it.

And so I’m left here, staring down at these gorgeous wings from a stunning, rare beauty laying lifeless in my palms. In pieces.

But here’s the thing I desperately need to remember: I can’t keep comparing myself to other people. Our stories are not the same. And I can’t compare my kids to other kids. They are navigating the world in their own unique ways, and I have the absolute gift of helping them find their way through a space that is—quite honestly—not very forgiving. I’ve gotten a lot of stuff wrong as I’ve been struggling to figure this all out, but if there’s one thing my kids learn from me, I hope they know that they are seen, and that they are fiercely loved. I might not ever completely understand where they’re coming from or what they’re thinking or how they feel, but I hope they know that I try. With everything I have, I try.

I’ve spent my entire life comparing; hoping to blend in, or to stand out, or to measure up. And every time I feel my life is ugly, or not worth the struggle, God reminds me that He makes beautiful things out of the dust. And when I stop comparing, and I look at each of my babies for who they are—exactly as they were created to be—I am overwhelmed. They are simply stunning.

So to everyone out there who is not typical—if you feel like you are fighting every day just to be seen—or if you’ve already retreated because it just doesn’t feel worth it anymore, know this: There are people to whom you will always be a disappointment, because you don’t look like their expectations of you. But you are NOT disappointing, lifeless fragments. You are the elusive, stunningly beautiful Moon Moth.

And even if no one else in this world ever catches a true glimpse of exotic, queer, nonconformist you—I see you. And your Creator sees you. Every bit of you. He cradles you in His palms—especially in those moments when you feel unseen, unloved, and broken—and He whispers to all of your shattered pieces while He patiently knits you back together: “I love you, exactly as you are.”