When It’s on the Child

This week has probably been one of the toughest, to date, here in Budapest.

Minna has started at óvoda (daycare).

Our morning routine now consists of me waking at 7am, having a few minutes to myself, and then I wake Minna up, stuff a quick piece of toast in her mouth (for the road), get her dressed and ready, and then head out the door by 8:15 for our 15 minute walk to óvi. Because of the times we live in, I was allowed in for one hour on the first day, but after settling her in I’m no longer allowed in the building. So I buzz the bell, sign her in, give her a quick squeeze and a whispered “I love you, have a good day”, and then watch her head up the stairs to the Turtle Room with the three year olds from our neighbourhood. She’ll be given breakfast and lunch, spend the day playing and exploring, and I’ll come back to pick her up at 4pm.

She’s a tough little bird, but this is requiring a lot of adapting and processing. And Glyn and I are watching all this as loving parents, but also as the ones who chose this for her. As other parents well know, every single thing we decide for our daughter is carefully chosen, overthought, talked through with friends and family, overthought again, chosen again, adapted, chosen one last time, and then acted upon. So the decision to send Minna to public óvoda, with full immersion into Hungarian, was not something we chose flippantly. We thought through all the options and chose this one with the full weight of each option carefully weighed and balanced out.

But it’s still hard watching that choice play out.

It’s one thing having to lie in the bed we made, but every morning Minna comes bounding out of her room toward ours for a quick snuggle in that bed, literally and figuratively. She is here because we felt like this was something we needed to do. She is at óvoda because we decided that was the best for her out of all the options. She’s nearly five, and has been placed in with 3 year olds because we’re here in a new country where she hasn’t caught up on language yet. She’s playing by herself, and waiting for some brave Hungarian kid to reach out to the strange girl who does not speak their language. And it’s because of us.

I like to think I know my kid pretty well, and I can feel the tension in her soul when she’s feeling nervous or anxious. The very first image here on this post even makes me well up, because although she’s excited and smiling, it’s a nervous smile, full of uncertainty. I understand how daunting it must be for her looking ahead to a full day where no one speaks your language, where she won’t know how to communicate basic needs and desires. It’s hard for us to face, even as adults. So I understand.

But I choose to lift my chin and remain in hope.

I’m clinging to the knowledge that we didn’t decide to do this alone. We were already parents when we felt the call to missions. We prayed diligently about this before deciding to come here. God knew we had a child, and it seems even back then, he had given us a girl who was well capable of adapting and being flexible. Minna has always been face forward to the world, ready to give it a go. But I don’t think he did that for her alone. I think he also did it so that we would feel a little more capable of taking her on this crazy adventure with us.

God knew what he was doing. He knows what he’s doing with us. He knows what he’s doing with Minna.

And that’s an assurance we have that a lot of people might not; the security of knowing that we are completely and entirely held by the hands of a loving God. I can’t imagine the weight of parenting and/or moving to a different country without the stability of trusting in a God who loves us and wants the best for us. Thank God.

So I put a smile on my face as I drop my daughter off each morning. It might be fake sometimes, but it’s also faith.

I teach her that even though it’s hard now, it’ll be worth it in six months, an amount of time that she doesn’t even comprehend yet. I teach her that we can do things we don’t feel capable of in the moment. And we can grow and develop in ways that won’t come to people who never had to struggle in this way.

I teach her to trust my God, in the hope that it’ll shape her into a resilient girl who will know she is loved and looked after, even when things are tough.

And I do it all in the hope that, one day, she’ll recognise my God as her own God, the One who walked with her through the corridors of her óvoda.

Even when her Mama could not.