Moment of Grace

I was about twenty feet behind them, a string of boys on their bikes, following each other down the trail, my husband in the lead as I brought up the rear running as fast as my body would allow. Twelve, five and three...peddling away, smiles on their faces. No more training wheels. Moving faster than I could possibly keep up. 

The sun was dappling through the trees in that peaceful way it does in the hours before sunset. Irises in bloom, summer perennials peeking up, starting to bud, knockout roses dazzling in deep pink.

Over it all, a light breeze, a calm.

Something I could feel that went deeper than just the gorgeous weather and the moment in which no one in my house was arguing or struggling or crying or needing.

A moment of grace.

It's that feeling when the world comes deeply, but peacefully and hopefully and joyfully, into focus.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it takes my breath away. It's as if God is shouting "wait, listen, look, remember this moment."

Remember it, because not all moments can be like this. Remember it, because so many moments are simply the ordinary. The mundane. Not necessarily ugly or lacking in beauty, but they pass us by because of that very ordinariness. They just ARE. Cooking dinner, watching that soccer game, dropping another kid at school, waving to the neighbors, mowing the lawn, riding our bikes together.

We just go through most of our days and it's fine.

But every once in awhile, we get that gift. That special warmth in a moment, that strange but clear urging to stop and drink in what's around us and be grateful. Those moments don't always come when something is going well and they don't necessarily stay away when things are challenging.

But, oh how I love them.

I am a doer. Not someone who easily stops and ponders. Not someone who spends hours gazing or dreaming. I appreciate people who do that well. But I am not one of them. Even when I try to sit in my backyard and admire the garden, I inevitably stand up and start weeding, because, well, it needs to be done. And the doing is part of the joy for me.

But I feel like for those of us like me, we need these moments to stop us dead in our tracks. To remind us that there can be purpose to slowing down. Reason in stopping. Joy in simply being.

And in that moment, even though I was sprinting and breathing hard and looking at the back end of my string of boys who were hurtling with full abandon down a bike trail, I felt like I was still. 

My soul stopped it's churning, for about 20 seconds.

And I just drank in the deep beauty and privilege of a healthy family and a beautiful neighborhood and a generous husband and a glorious spring and a blooming garden and meals on the table and a newly accomplished goal.

And oh, friends, I am so grateful. I never expect those moments and they come so infrequently.

I am amazed at their staying power, at the ability God has to use them to shore up and encourage and remind us of the possibilities and joys we can wake up to every single day, no matter what challenges lie ahead.

God, in all his grace and wisdom, knew I needed that. And I am so glad He did.

After This I Looked

20,000 people standing together in a great crowd, singing without the help of guitar or drum, just voices. People from countries all over the world. From every state in the union. People who spoke English and Mandarin and Spanish and Igbo. People who were joined together, in all their beautiful differences, by their belief in a good and beautiful God.

I once stood in the midst of such a gathering.

Putting that moment into words is nearly impossible. That many voices joined as one. To be able to hear the solitary voice next to me while at the same time hearing the words "Hallelujah, salvation and glory" sung in glorious harmony by thousands of others, a song that literally shook the rafters of that colosseum, well, there are really no words.

It was a taste, just a taste, of heaven. 

And it was a taste that I know has driven much of who I have become. 

Revelation 7: 9-11 says this:

After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. They were wearing white robes and were holding palm branches in their hands. 10 And they cried out in a loud voice:

“Salvation belongs to our God,
who sits on the throne,
and to the Lamb.”

That scripture, that perfect picture of humans, fully reconciled, fully themselves, worshiping together in harmony. Not in one assimilated "heavenly" language. Not as ethereal whitish beings floating around. But as God's glorious creation, without hatred, beautiful in their outward differences, free from division, worshiping as one.

That picture is beauty my friends. 

And that scriptural picture is one I hold tightly side by side with my shining earth-bound moment of tasting it. I let it drive what I see and what I hope for. I let it color my conversations and anchor my faith. I learned at some point to pray the Lord's Prayer often and fervently. To pray it as more than a discipline, but as a declaration. The calling down of God's presence here on earth. Saying over and over again "on earth as it is in heaven" and believing that even though we know the world will always be broken, that God is active and loving and calling us into the work of hope and action that believes we can see the beauty of heaven in the everyday. 

For the last three months, I have been privileged to co-lead a group that is trying, in our tiny little corner of Virginia, to be a part of inviting God's will for reconciliation and diversity into our church. 

For three months, we have studied the scriptures and talked about justice and oppression and hope. For three months we have talked about slavery and the Native American Genocide, about power, about Black Lives Matters and police brutality, about unfair housing practices and redlining and whitewashed school curricula and segregation and white supremacy. We have talked about awareness and self-education and lament and repentance and forgiveness. We have shared our own experiences of race in America and in the church. There has been anger and defensiveness and tears and frustration and guilt. And sometimes, yes, even joy and laughter.

It has NOT been easy. 

Why? 

Because it is not supposed to be easy. 

in his book "Coming Together: The Bible's Message in an Age of Diversity" Curtiss DeYoung says this says this:

"Systems of injustice in society and in the church exact a heavy cost on those outside the centers of power and effectively block reconciliation" and "declaring that we are equal without repairing the wrongs of the past is cheap reconciliation."

The true work of reconciliation is deep, hard, soul-wrenching work. 

We could have sat around and declared our equality in God's sight and charged forward together singing Kum-Ba-Yah. But that is what churches have done over and over again and change never happens. It's cheap reconciliation that is not founded on repentance and hope. It's cheap reconciliation that seeks action without personal and communal repentance. 

We wanted better for our church. For our tiny little piece of heaven on earth. Our emotions in this process don't scare God. The Be the Bridge curriculum we have used says that the "ultimate aim of reconciliation is the restoration of broken relationships, whether between individuals or entire communities. True reconciliation requires commitment and sacrifice from both sides." 

As anyone knows, the work of restoring relationships is some of the hardest work we are ever called to do. It can be painful. It can require us to work through anger and bitterness. It usually invites us to lay ourselves down for one another. That is messy, gospel work.

So here we are: 

Men and women (with a few precious faces missing) who participated

Black and white. Men and women. American-born and internationals. Northerners and southerners. Republicans and Democrats and Independents.

Falling at the throne of God together to ask for deep grace and forgiveness. Admitting the ways we have not known. The ways we have failed to act. The ways we have chosen comfort over risk. And clinging to the hope and beauty of the cross together as we do it. 

We want more. More for our church. Our neighborhoods. Our schools. Our nation. 

And so we will continue to meet. We'll talk about reparations and restoration. We'll dig into the continual and cyclical process of awareness, acknowledgment, lament, repentance and forgiveness.

And we will do it together, messily and unashamedly and in ways that will bring healing and positive changes to the world around us.

Because that, my friends, is what the church does.

The Sad

I walked into his classroom on Monday and saw my little boy sitting by himself reading a book. I could see the dried tracks of tears on his face. I could feel, almost physically emanating from him, his sadness. He (all 60 pounds of him) wanted to be carried out to the car. My boy, my bundle of energy who lives life like it's a competition to get anywhere first, who usually sprints to the car, his beautiful head on my shoulders, slumped in defeat.

On the drive home, I asked him how he was feeling.

"Mama, I so sad." 

"Why, buddy?"

"They took the pictures off the wall. School is ending. I don't want school to end." 

While so many kids around the country are literally bouncing in their seats with anticipation of this Friday or who have already celebrated that last day all the way home in the last few weeks, there are kids like my son. 

Kids for whom school, its regularity, its comforts, its amazing teachers, its friends for the raging extrovert, is everything. Some kids have tough home lives and summer is a long, terrifying unknown. Some, like my son, have a diagnosis that means that any kind of change in his routine causes him actual neurological distress. 

All he could do on Monday was cry. And all I could do was hold him, help him understand that camp is coming next week and try to remember that it's ok. 

I am not a failure as a mom because my boy would rather be at school. It's taken me awhile to be alright with that fact that I am "at home" with my kids but that I have a 3 year-old in school five mornings a week. To know that I am not abdicating responsibility. To be comfortable in the knowledge that I am actually doing the absolute best I can to give him what he needs in all his challenges and gifts. 

On Tuesday he came home sad again. And I knew that we needed to go to his happy place. 

So, after nap, we skipped swim practice and went to Target. Yes, Target is my 3 year-old's happy place. He picked out end of year gifts for his teachers. (And those who know him well will be unsurprised to learn that he chose to give them new water bottles.) We headed to Kid-to-Kid next because he had outgrown yet another pair of shoes and really wanted some new red sneakers. That kid scored some red and white Jordans for 8 bucks. He wore them out of the store, charged home, colored his teachers some pictures and wrote them notes. His smile was back. 

All these rituals. The gifts, the notes...even the buying of new shoes for the summer. They were comforting to him. Things he could do, even at 3, to process saying goodbye. To think about what the summer will hold for him.

And that next morning when he went to school? That child sprinted in wearing his new kicks, hugged the administrators on the way and tackled his teachers with his gifts. 

And they know him so well. 

"Look at your new shoes! Those are amazing! Did you find those at Kid-to-Kid?"

"I did, I did!" 

When I left, there was a little less sadness. A little less clinging. A little less panic. 

Will the next few weeks be hard around here? 

Yep. 

It's ok, though. We are ready.

We are armed with our social story full of pictures of his camp. We have our visual calendar we will do every morning and night. We have our theri-putty and our trampoline. We have our "sensory diet" and our "no drama discipline" to meet him where he is each morning. 

Most of all, we have hugs. Tears are ok. Saying goodbye is hard. I want him to know that it's ok to be sad. That it's fine for him as a boy and one day as a man to FEEL. To be unashamedly who he is in all his chaotic and beautiful and emotional glory.

All You Need Is Love?

It's Valentine's Day.

And just like last year and the year before and well, pretty much every year that I can remember, I couldn't actually care less. That's not because I don't have an amazing husband and a lot of love in my life. It's just because I've come to believe that a lot of little, wonderful moments of doing life together goes a lot further for me than a fancy dinner and chocolates. Not that a fancy dinner and chocolates aren't welcome - but at this stage of life, we take dates when we can get them. And we've already got a fun one planned for Friday that has nothing to do with the holiday.

Valentine's Day is a day when we are meant to celebrate love by buying little trinkets and spiderman valentines and saying "I love you." (Which means that I, as a parent, spend time buying, filling out and making sure said little gifts get sent to the right places so my children can still participate in a holiday I don't care a whit about. I'm not yet so cruel as to force on them my own level of grumpiness about it.)

Like Christmas and Easter, we have learned to express love through gift-giving in our culture. And like with those holidays, sometimes the gifts are meaningful and other times they are just "stuff." Some people love the holiday and the exchanges and others would gladly skip it since it leaves them feeling empty or disappointed.

Some, like me, just don't care.

People like to toss around the phrase "all you need is love." I don't know if the phrase predates the famous song or if the song introduced the now-famous phrase. But I read it and hear it all the time.

It never sits well.

I've had a lot of love in my life. I grew up in a stable family. I married into a family that has made it clear they love me. I got married almost 14 years ago and love my husband more today than on the day we said "I do." I have three boys who express their love for me in countless ways. I have friends who speak truth and make me laugh.

Love is beautiful.

But, at least in earthly form, it's not everything.

In adoption circles, you hear about it a lot. "Those kids just need love and once they are in a "stable" family, they will be fine." Yes, they obviously need love just like every kid out there needs love. They are human. But they need a lot more. For my kids, they need me to be the kind of person who recognizes the importance of their culture, the reality of racism and the challenges of a multiracial family. Who takes research and listening and humility seriously and is willing to risk failure. They need me to care about their hair and learn how to do it correctly. They need me to speak well and often of their birthparents so that they feel the freedom to explore their own history when they are older. They need to be able to tell me they love their skin color and ask why mine is different without me panicking and shutting down the conversation. They need us to make choices so that they are in schools and churches and neighborhoods where they are not the only black children and so that there are authorities in their lives who look like them. They need us to recognize there is trauma in adoption - that even though we brought them home as infants, there is loss in their life, loss that love can seep into but not obliterate. That the identity questions with which they will struggle as black adopted children with white parents are no small thing.

I truly wish all we needed was "love". That I could fill up my heart with all the feelings and emotions and joys that are associated with it and be whole. But the way love is sold to us is so often lacking. It is shallow. It is impatient. It is all about what we get out of it and rarely about what we are meant to give in its name. God's love is the opposite. It is bigger and stronger and more sacrificial than anything we've ever seen. And it calls us to love in response. Not in small and frivolous ways, not just in words, but in action, in hope, in sacrifice.

So, yes, today my husband might come home with flowers because it is Valentine's Day. He will give me a kiss and ask how the day was and my little ones will giggle. He'll scoop them up and hold them close and kiss their curls and hug my oldest. He loves them and those actions are still powerful and good.

But I'm grateful that love is so much more than what we settle for so much of the time. That it is, in the immortal words of the old school DC Talk song, "a verb." It's action and sacrifice and challenge and choices, its sometimes choosing someone else's good over our own, all rolled into relationship and held together by God.

Let's celebrate that today. And tomorrow. And every day that we are fortunate enough to have people are in our lives. Let's do it in real and honest and challenging and beautiful ways.

Because if we could really see and live love in all its depth, poured out in service to those around us, the way it was taught to us by a sacrificial God who loves us more than we could ever ask or imagine, maybe the world really would be a better place.

Maybe that kind of love really would be all we need.

Fall Down Tree

Every Sunday morning our family unceremoniously and rather chaotically piles into our minivan to head to church. Snacks packed (because when you have kids with allergies and sensitivities, sunday school goldfish could derail your whole week), lunches packed (because, let's be honest, with three growing boys, it's a long time from breakfast through church and Sunday School and that fifteen minute ride home is much more peaceful with mouths chomping) and a sense of having accomplished the impossible, getting all five of us out the door by 8 am, permeates the atmosphere.

No matter how we enter that car, I know now that something is about to change for our family. We are about to encounter "Fall Down Tree."

Just after we started coming to this church, we came across it. A huge tree, roots upended, laying right by the side of the road in someone's front yard. Somehow, this tree has become the focal point of our ride. It is cause for speculation, pontification and flat-out aesthetic awe.

How did it fall? Why don't the people who live there clean it up? How old might it be? Can we knock on their door and ask to play with it?

All these questions and more are answered in serious and silly fashion. (Maybe Joshie bonked it with his bike! Maybe Nate pushed it over with his strong arms! Maybe God blew on it and, poof, it fell over!)

But however it has happened, the conversation always ends with a chant. My youngest laughing and pumping his arms in the air as the middle and oldest chant "Fall down tree! Fall down tree! Fall down tree!" Dissolving in giggles at the end, we often enter church with lighter hearts and goofier outlooks.

Friends, this is a powerful thing.

You see, Sunday mornings have traditionally been calamitous. Screaming, crying, multiple changes of clothes, arguments. Usually this has culminated in two very exhausted parents who spend the greater part of the church service trying to remember why we even attempted to come to church in the first place. Too exhausted and defeated to even attempt to open our souls to what God may have for us that morning. Just grateful on some level that childcare is provided, we  would fight to stay awake during the sermon and then trudge back home again.

But now we have "Fall Down Tree." This strange and unexpected beacon of distraction and hope. No matter what mood everyone is in when we enter that car, as we turn that bend and "Fall Down Tree" comes into view, there is a shift in that minivan.

And entering church in its aftermath is a whole different world. Laughter has helped us shake off any early morning tomfoolery. Chanting has helped us loosen up our rigid need (ok, MY rigid need) to be early for church and the ensuing stress when someone has caused us to be late. Again. The camaraderie of three boys rejoicing together, united in spirit for even 5 minutes, gives everyone the chance to take a deep breath. To enter church with thanksgiving. To walk in with a posture that invites rest and redemption and joy.

Some day I am certain that that family will clean up the tree. We will turn the bend and as the chanting begins to rev up, the car will fall silent. There will be disappointment and mourning and the end to what is, at least for now, a tradition. Possibly we will pull some deep lesson out of its disappearance.

For now, though, I am relying on "Fall Down Tree." Because right now it is a tangible, beautiful reminder that any day can be reset. Any hard moment can suddenly turn into one of laughter and joy and lasting family memories. That giggles and silliness can be powerful preparation for inviting God to do His work of healing in our souls.

I know that one day, a long time from now when this tree is a distant memory, we will look back and tell the boys about it, about this tree that brought hope and life back into Sundays for our family.

Maybe God did blow it over for us, after all.

Angels

Just a few weeks ago, my middle child pulled out a book that had been in storage since last Christmas. Last year, he wasn't quite ready for it. It had a lot of words that required the art of sitting still for more than roughly 4 seconds at a time. Not his jive just yet.

This year he can, just occasionally, enjoy a good book. And as we read through it for the first time, his eyes got big. He pointed and asked questions. And every day he asks to read it again.

The book?

An Angel Just Like Me by Mary Hoffman

It's the story of a young black boy during Advent who wonders why all the angels he sees are blonde girls. Who wonders if it's possible that an angel could look any differently. Who goes looking in store after store to find an angel just like him.

Ultimately, he can't find one. And a family friend, an artist, comes to the rescue and makes him one. He opens it Christmas Day in wonder...and then asks if his artist friend can make more for all his other friends that wonder if there are angels just like them.

It's a beautiful story. My son's very favorite.

And when we get to the end, my son always points to the black boy angel and says "Just like Nate?"

Yes, buddy. He looks just like you.

Maybe the concept of angels not all being white is new to you. Maybe the concept that people in heaven will not be some weird pale ghostly representation of humans is surprising. But God makes it clear in the scriptures that he has made us all in his image. And that when we share that heavenly feast some day we will not actually look all that different from how we do now. Because how we look now is beautiful and purposeful and good.

My son has noticed his skin is brown from before he could really articulate it. He would point to black characters in books and then to his own skin. He would run to black men on the playground and yell "Daddy!" (Yes, that was painful for most involved.) He thinks he is handsome with his dark skin and black curls and brown eyes. And he's right. He's pretty dang handsome.

But a lot of what he sees around him, in stores, on billboards, in the toys at school or the nursery? A lot of those things are white. White people playing. White people speaking. White characters in books.

And because he has white parents and a brother, he sees a lot of white at home, too.

And friends, it's ok. White isn't bad. God made me this way. And my husband. And my firstborn.

But if white is all he ever sees, he can unconsciously believe it's better. That it's more desirable. That it's somehow more important.

And that is the last thing we want him to believe about us or himself.

So when we read a book like that? And he relates to the character?

Well, Mama starts combing the stores. Where can I find an angel just like him? And one that he can touch and hold (read, not breakable) and doesn't cost more than I can afford?

Well, almost nowhere, to be honest.

I had just put on my list for this week to get to a craft store, buy an angel and paint it black. Because I wanted him to have that angel he so desperately wanted. And when you can't find what you need, you make it, right?

This morning, I posted a picture on my facebook page of a Santa canvas that I had painted for him a year ago. Well, really, I painted it for all my boys. I don't want my white son to grow up in a white-washed world any more than I want that for my black sons or for me. Culture and differences are rich. I want us to bask in them around here.

I posted that Santa picture and shared a story about how much it meant to him to have a black santa in our house.

And just a few hours later, I was out walking my youngest. A neighbor of ours, one I am just getting to know, ran out of her house with a gift for us. She smiled, walked up to me and handed me a black angel. A black boy angel. That happened to look a LOT like my boys.

I was almost speechless. I assumed she had seen my post this morning and was so grateful.

But no. She had seen me coming down the street. She had owned this angel for years and she just knew, in that moment, that it was for my sons.

Ya'll.

I picked up my son from preschool, brought him home and handed him that angel.

Pure. Joy.

"It's me?? It's me!!! I'm an angel!"

Yes, baby. You are.

The Shirt

The shirt made a brief debut in December 2008. Size 3T, "Awesome Big Brother." I found it at a little second-hand shop the same day I found out we were expecting. These days, everyone tends to think early on about how they'll announce such joyful news - I was going to have Josh wear it and post the picture. And invite the world to rejoice with us.

But just 4 weeks later I was packing that shirt away, deep in the throes of silent grief. I remember thinking that I should just trash it - what were the chances it would still fit him if and when we ever got that chance to announce? 

Months went by, then years. 

I forgot about the shirt.

Just a few weeks ago I was going through our 3T box and pulling out clothes for my ginormous 16 month old and there it was. 

Size 3T, "Awesome Big Brother."  

Just days after we found out that he would, indeed, be one. And soon.

It's funny how life works. You find out news, you plan something out. You dream, you hope, you mourn. You roll with what life brings next or scream about it's unfairness. You rail at God some days, you forget to care others. You pray and then stop and then pray again.

And then suddenly you are this family of five. And this shirt that was meant to announce joy to the world 7 years ago, this shirt that you so painfully packed away, gets new life. New, unexpected life.

Isn't that the way things happen sometimes? One dream dies and we even forget about the little ancillary details that might have surrounded it. Meanwhile, God is working in the background. Things are happening that we can't see and wouldn't understand in their uncompleted form anyway. They are too big for our human mind. Life moves forward and we never see the ways that dreams might come back around in a renewed form until they are thrust before us.

And let me be clear here: I am not saying that God likes that my two younger boys have lost their first familues or that years ago when I bought this shirt God was working then to make it so my kids would go through that pain of loss and possible eventual struggles with identity that can come with adoption. In my opinion, it is never his plan that families would not stay together- but situations happen and adoption exists for a reason. These boys are not the lucky ones  - we are the ones privileged to have them be a part of our family, to enrich our lives, to be our sons even as they deal eventually with their own losses and questions.What I AM saying is that we dreamed of being parents to more than one child. We mourned and waited and struggled and almost gave up. But in just 20 months, we now have two more children and feel overwhelmed with fullness and joy. (And, obviously, sleep deprivation ;-)

My sweet oldest boy never wore that shirt. But man has he lived up to it's wording. And just a year and a half after becoming that awesome big brother that he so longed to be, he gets to do it again and watch his little brother become one, too. 

My oldest actually leapt up from the table and did a happy dance when he found out the news and asks constantly to hold him and feed him and cuddle him. My middle boy has no idea who this little person is who has invaded his life, his space, his parents' attention.

Sweet boy in his drooly shirt- give him a break, he's working on 4 molars!

But he's wearing that shirt. That shirt that represented a lost dream, a deep sadness, an unfulfilled announcement. 

That shirt is living proof that God is faithful. 

Poems and Rainbows

It's difficult at this point to remember the years upon years of bedtime prayers issued by my oldest son in humble petition of a baby brother and sister. The questions he would ask about why his friends had them and he didn't. The conversations about why he wanted one and how much he looked forward to what it would be like to be a big brother. The practice of those skills on the children of dear friends of ours. The yearning, really, to love someone in that special way only siblings can. Before he even became a brother, he knew that role meant something.

One year into that reality, this kid has gone through a big transition. An only child for seven years with only memories of one home, we uprooted him from that home, school, church and friends, moved him across the country and gave him a baby brother all in the space of 7 months. And those long-awaited dreams of playing with his brother and teaching him soccer and legos, well, those dreams were still deferred to the reality of a little person who really just laid around and cried. A lot.

We, of course, have the obligatory joys and memorable pictures. Older brother holding younger brother for the first time, feeding him, letting him sleep in his lap, reading him books, pushing him on the swing or stroller, holding his hand while he learned to walk.

But the real fun? It's just beginning.

These two are finally becoming friends. The younger one reserves the majority of his hugs for his brother during the day. He likes to ride on his back like a horse. He likes to imitate every single thing his older brother does. Already. If his brother is at the table, the meal goes better. In the car? Smoother ride. And my 8-year-old, who I worried would be bored until his brother was much older, returns the adoration. Asks for hugs. Loves to be the first one in the room when he's getting up from his nap, loves to chase him around the house and help him down the slide and teach him his sign language.

We see how they feel about each other in these sweet daily interactions.

But just yesterday, we saw even more clearly what is going on in my eight-year-old's heart when his teacher sent a poem home from school. Apparently the kids had been asked to write a poem about something they love during creative writing time. The teacher was so overcome with the sweetness of what he wrote that she made a copy and sent it home.

Seriously.

There it is. And in case you are having trouble making out that final line? "There is some magic flowing through us". I gotta admit, I don't totally know what that line means, but it's pretty dang sweet.

We worried so much about what it would be like for him to want something so badly and not be sure if the reality would live up to the hype. We worried about his transition from only child. We worried about those months when his brother kept us up all night and we had less energy and patience for him. And now that we are out of that first year tunnel that involves mostly survival, we are so grateful to see what God has done in his heart towards this little guy, towards this brother for whom he longed and waited and prayed.

This mama's heart is melting today. I know their relationship won't always be poems and rainbows. I know the first time the little one wrecks a lego creation we will have a serious issue on hand. Or when he won't leave my older son and his friends alone on a playdate. But right now? Right now I am taking a moment to be thankful for the ways that our family has changed, for the ways my older son has grown in his capacity to love and for the reality that my younger son is growing up with a brother who loves "everything about him."

Digging Into the Wait

One year ago, I was in a very different place than I find myself today.

One year ago, I dreaded Advent. Experience had led me to believe it would be a painful season, a season that only heightened my feelings of loss and frustration.

One year ago, God surprised me.

Not only with an Advent experience that ended up being full of peace, an experience that taught me more about Him, that helped me take the focus off myself- but weeks into it's celebration when He had already shown up and worked some healing in my soul, we also got the call that changed our lives. Last advent, the Lord met me in powerful ways- both spiritually and tangibly- with the gifts of hope and the (almost) fulfillment of a dream that was to come to fruition just a few weeks into the new year.

This year, I have been eagerly anticipating this time. Remembering dark, quiet mornings, sipping coffee, pondering the stillness. Knowing that there will be mornings I don't quite get to enjoy it that same way this year, but for a pretty good reason. This year, I have a crazy one-year-old careening around the house, pulling ornaments off the tree. We can't put up our stockings or he'll pull them down. He won't understand a bit of what goes on for the next month, but he'll enjoy the sparkly lights, the crinkle of the wrapping paper, the Christmas boxes that will be so much more fun than the actual toys that come inside them. My older son, however, continues in that sweet spot of parenting. Old enough to enjoy, old enough to participate, to continue to learn and young enough to want all three of those things. To find magic in awaiting the Christ child, to anticipate our nightly readings with the Jesse tree. We don't do Santa or the Elf around here- and I'm pretty convinced his Christmas is just as magical, and certainly as or more meaningful, as any other kid's.

This year, though, I want to dig in in a fresh way. I want to blog my way through the experience. I want to see it from my son's eyes, to experience the Jesse Tree like he does, to do my morning Advent Experience and to continue to train my heart that grew up without much idea of liturgy what it means to really live Advent.

So, today I start. This morning I'll start the Advent Project online. Then I will head to church to worship with my community where hymns and choruses will be sung, where the first candle of Advent will be lit. Later this afternoon, I will head back to celebrate with 70 of those people and our children as we make our own, fresh advent wreaths and celebrate the beginning of the season with a meal together.

Let's go, Advent. Let's see what fresh joys and challenges await.

The Delight

No one ever said that parenting is easy. Well, maybe somebody said it, but I'm sure if he did he was delusional. Or particularly gifted in dealing with unreasonable and illogical humans. 

I've learned, though, that finding small things to enjoy and delight in each day goes a long way. And one of my favorite parts of being a mother these past 8 years is watching my sons with their father. 

The way my firstborn would wait at the back window with the dog for his daddy to get home from work. 

The way my youngest now goes charging in his loud, passionate way down the hall when he hears the kitchen door open, yelling until his dad picks him up. The difference between the two ways they deal with this is so telling of their personalities- one, cautious, thoughtful and always a little older than he really was and the younger who never stops moving, exploring and throws himself at everything.

Hands down, though, one of my current joys is watching the youngest at the end of dinner. 

It's become habit that when the youngest is clearly finished, my husband will get up and walk over to the piano and play some music to keep dinner time going a little longer so the oldest one (and usually me) can finish our food. The sheer anticipation and joy of that walk and those first few notes played cannot be described with anything other than a video. 

Seriously, people.

The grinning, the clapping, the dancing. The realization dawning on his face of what's going to happen as his daddy walks across the room. It's almost too much. And I know this is one part of the early years that I will miss deeply when he's older. When he goes through apathetic phases or times when he doesn't feel like a rousing family band moment is all that cool. 

It struck me this week as I watched this scene unfold for the umpteenth time, how much my husband's actions mirror the Lord's. How we are going through the day, the regular, mundane activities of cooking, eating, cleaning up and how he sees us. He knows what we delight in. He knows the aspect of His character that we need to see, to know better, to yearn for. And he reveals himself to us. In sweet, moments like this. Like a daddy walking slowly to the piano to create music for his infant, he longs to bring delight to us. I love how watching my husband be a father has shown me so much of my own heavenly Father's heart for us. 

It brings to mind a verse that has always meant much to my music-loving, dancing soul:

The Lord your God is in your midst,

    a warrior who gives victory;

he will rejoice over you with gladness,

    he will renew you in his love;

he will exult over you with loud singing. 

Zephaniah 3:17 (RSV)

This picture of a God who loves us, who fights for us, who renews us and who covers us with his song. That is a picture of fatherhood that is one worth pondering, one worth embracing. 

I am so grateful my sons are growing up with a daddy who knows how to delight in them and to bring them joy, who is constantly discerning what it means to cover them with his love and exult over them. When the evening piano times fade, as most phases do, I eagerly anticipate what new and fresh and delightful ways the Lord will continue to teach us who He is through this crazy and exhausting thing we call parenting. 

That Final Piece

This morning we stepped into a courtroom with a mixture of butterflies and confidence. You can't help but feel nervous when standing in front of a judge but we also felt the surety of having done our part. The paperwork, the waiting, the post-adoption visits with the caseworker, all the medical paperwork we had to fill out and send in, the emails and calls to ensure everything would go through. The hassles with the insurance company who just could not understand why we didn't have a social security card or birth certificate for our son, as if we are the first people ever to adopt a child. But today it's all done. Today we stand here before this woman who has the power to make everything final. Legal. Done. 

A dear friend of mine with three adopted children recently posted a profound quote:  

"A child born to another woman calls me mommy. The magnitude of that tragedy and the depth of that privilege are not lost on me." 

As we stand here today, I remember that. I etch it into my soul. So many people like to focus on or emphasize that fact that we have done something here. That WE have been saviors in some kind of way, rescuers. For me, it never feels that way. It feels like we have brought a child into our family, just like anyone else, but maybe in a slightly less "regular" way. I look at my child and see the huge losses that have already been stored up in his baggage- his birth parents and their extended family, his foster family, whatever life he might have had without us -good or bad. I hear his belly laugh and get sucked into those gorgeous brown eyes and wonder who he looks like and whether one of his biological parents laughed like that. We'll likely never know. But we didn't do any rescuing or any hero work here. We are simply parents; flawed, exhausted and grasping for a daily dose of hope and grace, just like anyone else. 

So today, the magnitude of that quote hits me. The depth of the privilege it is to call this child son, to embrace the responsibilities, challenges and joys of what it means to be his parent, that he is irrevocably, legally and (like he has been from the moment he was placed in our home) heart-rendingly ours. That there are already significant tragedies in his life that we'll have to work through together some day. 

But the point is this: we WILL do it together. Today it's final. It's done. The final piece of a dream. With a few short words and under the smiling eyes of a judge, we were pronounced a family. 

It feels really good. 

The Whole Story In One Place

On January 9, 2014 we brought a beautiful baby boy into our family through domestic adoption. For the sake of having it all in one place, here are the posts that tell the story of his homecoming. These were written in real time and posted after he came home with us.

Introduction - Telling the Story
Installment One - The Call
Two - On The Day We Met
Three -  Praying for Her
Four - Missing the Milestones, But...
Five - Two Days
Six - Deep Breaths
Seven - Final Preparations
Eight - Today is the Day
Nine - That Unforgettable Moment

Thanks for all the celebrating and encouragement along the way. We are so grateful for this story and what it has taught us about God, ourselves and what family really is.

Lessons From The First Month

During our long wait for this adoption to become reality, there was always one large fear I had- getting through the infant months again. The first time around, I was a sleep-deprived, raving lunatic. I really was. You can ask my students. I give them full permission to totally trash my ability to be creative, sympathetic or even mildly intelligent when on campus. I was a hot mess.

Consequently, as we've prepared for everything, I worried about doing this part again. The sleepless nights, the crying, the being touched by someone ALL. DAY. LONG. I am 7 years older this time around and I wondered if I could hack it. Could I even haul myself out of my beloved (and, frankly, warm) bed 3 times in one night? Would my kidneys start to shut down if I didn't take in the appropriate caffeine:water ratio each day? Would I be as emotionally insane as I was the first time? Would I feel like a failure when I couldn't give my older son what he needed because of time and personal limitations during this phase? Oh, the list goes on. My perfectionist side collides with my ability to retain guilt for long periods of time and what comes out is pure ugly. Worry, apprehension, fear, self-doubt. All the things that really aren't particularly helpful in life, let alone when a new baby is a part of that life.

And so it's been one month. One month since he came home. A month filled with fantastically terrifying diapers(this kid can clear a room), little sleep and the remembrance that no, you never go outside without spit-up or feces somewhere on your body. It's actually physically impossible to smell nice during this phase.

But here's the thing. At some point during the 30 days of our final wait, I told myself to calm down. To trust. To remember what the Lord has done in me since Josh was a baby. To take things in a laid back fashion (and yes, I can hear any and all friends who have ever known me well falling out of their chairs laughing at the thought of that). I decided to go into it with a strong attempt to lean into God and leave the worry, apprehension, fear and self-doubt in the past. To treat this as a new thing. To not expect this child and the experience raising him to be the same. After all, I AM 7 years older and while my body may object to the routine, I've grown up a lot in that time. I hope.

So what have I learned in this one month?

(1) There is a time and place for being caffeine free. Here and now is not it.

(2) Not all babies scream all day long. Also, not all babies need to be held all day long. Also, not all babies take 2 hours to fall back to sleep every time they eat at night. Who knew?

(3) I can actually spend midnight feedings in a state of expectation, rather than despair. I can pray for other friends who are probably awake with their own babies all around the country (and that number is not small) rather than mentally computing how many hours total I am actually getting that night. It turns out if you don't know the actual number, you are more alert anyway.

(4) My 7-year-old is exactly the kind of big brother I thought he'd be, thoughtful, helpful and patient, and that fact has filled me with more joy than I even anticipated. His first questions when he walks in from school every day? "Where is Nate and can I hold him?" We should've hired a first grader the first time around to help out around here.

(5) The amount of grey hair I am growing is directly correlated with the number of hours I have slept in any given night. I swear to you, I can SEE IT growing. But it's ok. Grey-haired mamas are cool, too.

(6) If I remind myself every morning that if I only accomplish feeding, burping and changing that little guy - if the laundry stays dirty and the dishes undone, if I can't even manage a shower- then I still will have done enough and am able to stay surprisingly sane.

(7) The only foolproof way to lull this baby to sleep is to sing him Lauryn Hill's version of "His Eye is on the Sparrow" from Sister Act II. I am not kidding. Halfway through the first line, he visibly relaxes.

(8) Middle of the night spousal communications have reached insanity levels around here. Apparently we are both delusional and are taking turns shouting, jumping and careening into unseen objects in the dark.

(9) When you only own one pair of flannel sheets and live in an arctic tundra, there is no good time to wash them with a baby in the house. You need full adult nap preparedness at all times and you may as well burn your cotton sheets for all the warmth they provide.

(10) I will fail. My husband will fail. My son will fail. WE WILL FAIL. And Nate will still love us. There is no such thing as a perfect parent or family. God in us is good enough.

(11) It turns out that I actually DID grow up some over the last 7 years. I can see the comedy in this phase, the grace I need each day. I can lean on God for help as I attempt it a lot better than I did the first time. Phew.

(12) What everyone said is true and I'm glad I didn't doubt it. This was worth the wait. And this is beautiful- adopting a baby, bringing this little guy into our life, feels just as full, just as difficult, just as overwhelmingly heart-achy as did having a biological baby 7 years ago. There may be a difference in their needs and their personalities and a difference in how I handle the chaos, but he is as fully mine as is my firstborn and has been from day one.

That, my friends, is a crazy, mind-boggling thing, a thing that makes me even more amazed at what God has done in adopting us as His very own, and yet it seems the most natural miracle in the world.

These Ordinary Days

They say those first days home with a new baby are a blur. Certainly, I have trouble remembering Josh's early days. All I know is I had never been that tired and that achy in my life. Labor recovery and a tailbone injury added to sleep deprivation and a fussy baby is not a good recipe for the making of good long-term memories.

This time around, though, things are a little different. This little guy has already done the super newborn sleep crazy thing. He has already done the eating every two hours and the unable-to-be-put-down-ever phase. Before he came home, he was sleeping 6 hours a night in a row. We had really hoped that would stick but apparently uprooting a baby who has bonded with one family causes some interruptions in that type of progress. We're ok with that- if we need to hold him a little more, reassure a little more often, it's worth it. He will eventually be as comfortable here as he ever was there. More so.

But this whole newborn in the house without labor recovery thing? Hello, perk, nice to meet you! Having not been sleep deprived for months leading up to this, having not done the most aerobic workout a person can do leading up to this, not getting used to nursing and all the pain and soreness that comes with that- all these things are pretty golden, I'm not gonna lie.

But the reality of this child actually being home?

It's really quite surreal. When you wish for something long enough, envision hard enough, wait painfully enough, you can never quite imagine what it will actually feel like for that deferred dream to come true. To walk around a corner and see a little baby in your husband's arms and think, oh right, he's here. Forever. We're not babysitting again, we're not practicing on someone, we're not visiting. He is home.

And with the home comes all the normal. The sleep deprivation, the learning of routines, the sore arms from holding a 16 pound baby all the time. The excitement of packages and flowers and meals arriving by delivery and tons of texts and emails and phone calls and rejoicing. The constant laundry and smelly diapers and ordinary days of crying and sleeping and tummy time and spit up. The older brother getting used to sharing parent time with the younger one.

Because that's the thing- the extraordinary moment of the bringing home is quickly moving into ordinary days of new life. And it's not a bad ordinary- it's an ordinary we've wanted for a long time. And if I'm a little loopier, a little more forgetful, if I need grace to remember to reorient my idea of productivity, if I struggle to form normal sentences after talking to only a newborn all day and accidentally ask my 7-year-old if I changed his diaper yet, this is the new normal. The new ordinary here.

And you know what? It's hard and tiring and frustrating and all the other challenging things that life with a new baby are. It's tense conversations between two married and exhausted people, it's short tempers all around and a dog who is not adjusting well to moving even further down the totem pole. It's being trapped inside due to an abnormally frigid winter and slowly going stir crazy.

But the new ordinary is also pretty spectacularly good. It's smiles and coos and laughter and reading and brothers bonding. It's gratefulness and sweetness and treasuring of new memories being made. It's venturing out occasionally with the ergo and slowly meandering through target just to get out of the house and answering questions from random people about who is this little guy strapped to my chest.


It's hard, it's good and it's slowly feeling like reality.

It's life.

That Unforgettable Moment

We sit in the car driving east on I-94. Driving towards this little man, this child who would become a part of our family. Usually during the drive, I would read or chat with Josh or wonder if you would be awake when we arrived. Not this day. This day, I pray for you and for this woman who is on her way to court. This day, I think about the things in my life for which I am grateful, even before everything is said and done and official. This day, I hope and wait for one last phone call.

We pull up to the house at the same time as our case worker and your foster mom is at the door. She panics because she thinks the birth mom is supposed to visit before we arrive. To say goodbye to you. She doesn't want to see us, doesn't want to have to articulate how she is feeling about this day to us. I don't blame her. There had been a change of plans, though, which hasn't been communicated to your foster mom. She is sick and not coming. Part of my heart breaks for you- I so wanted to be able to tell you she saw you this once, that she came and held you and kissed you goodbye. I wanted that for your story.

We finally come inside and there you are. One hour away from knowing if this is going to happen or not.
There is an enormous pile of paperwork, our job to fill out while we waite for a call from the courthouse. We hold you for a bit but let your foster mom soak you in one last time while we sign. You did live with her for 6 weeks, after all. This is a hard day of goodbyes all around. You will miss each other.

After all is signed, our case worker leaves to go to the court house and get the news. It is just one more wait. The final one, we hope. We feed you and burp you and cuddle you. We chat with your foster mom and stare repeatedly at the phone, willing it to ring. Josh plays quietly in the corner, unsure totally on what it is we are waiting but knowing this is a huge day for our family.

And then that unforgettable moment. You ae in daddy's arms when the phone rings. I pick it up, hands shaking. Everyone in the room inhales.

The case worker on the other end. Everything went well, he is yours, congratulations. One crazy phone call. One big collective exhale.

I hang up the phone, tears streaming down my face. I turn to daddy and we hug and cry together, squishing you in between us. Your foster mom is laughing and crying and Josh keeps asking, "What? What? Why is everybody crying? Is he my brother now?"

"Yes, darling boy, he is your brother now. And always will be." We are a family.

It's safe now to exchange gifts and take pictures as we celebrate. Your foster mom gives us an amazing book, filled with pictures and milestones recorded during your time with her- we get to see our first pictures of you in the hospital. I can't wait to show it to you one day!

We change you into your clothes to bring you home and get a bottle ready for the drive. Then there is this surreal moment when we just stand around. Do we really just leave with you now? After all this?

Yes, yes we do.

We go home. Finally.

Today is the Day

I woke up this morning with a verse in my head, one that I've had memorized for as long as I can remember.

"This is the day the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it."

Some days it is a chore to remember to rejoice. Some days it is hard to find the gratefulness and the happy. But not today. Today I am rejoicing. The heart-pounding, mind-racing, spontaneous-dancing kind of rejoicing. I am truly glad.

In just over five hours, we will visit you for the last time. And as long as everything goes well in court, we will feed you and change you and take pictures with you to remember this day and we will put you in the car.

Today you come home to your forever home.

And today I rejoice in this long-awaited fulfillment of a dream.

Final Preparations

You dream about what this will feel like. The first time around, when we had 8 months to think about it, we took our time. We registered, we attended the parties that our amazing friends threw for us, we installed the car seat. We looked forward to the day when we could pack that bag for the hospital. And we always did it with a sense of "when", never if. Possibly that was naive- there was no guarantee that Josh would be born healthy and come home with us. But this has felt different from the start. And 27 days of praying, hoping and preparing feels a lot different from 8 months.

Some would probably say, "but haven't you had five years?" The short answer? Yes. Yes, we have. But you hold yourself back a little. We had moments where we dove in, where we got a nursery ready, where I even washed clothes with the possibility of a little one coming home, only to see another dream fall, another disappointment happen. And the longer you wait, the more disappointments you feel, the more you move on. You just do life. No one in the grocery store asks when you are due. There are no parties to celebrate the impending arrival. It's just a quiet waiting. You aren't really doing any preparing because it's just too hard.

But finally. Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day. The day when we bring him home. After 6 visits, countless prayers, the assembling of a nursery (including homemade artwork) in under a week, the frantic ordering of a carseat (which is actually two days late due to UPS's freakout over the polar vortex) and the bottles he is already used to, it's here.

And today? Today I am doing what I always had trouble picturing. I am setting up the bassinet next to our bed. I am packing the diaper bag for the trip home. I am opening the box of diapers and filling up the basket on the changing table. I am peeling back the foil on the formula and pouring it into the dispenser in case he gets hungry on the drive home. I am charging the camera batteries. I am doing more than dreaming. I am preparing.

And while I rush around doing all the last-minutes, I keep pausing. Drinking in the quiet of the house. Thinking about these final hours as a family of three. Reading for pure pleasure because I have the time and the space. Asking God to fill me with patience and selflessness and energy- three things I know I will need with a newborn in the house.

A newborn in the house. After five years of hoping, dreaming and praying.

We are ready, little man. Come on home.

On the Day We Met

It started out like any ordinary day. It was a Saturday, so we all got to sleep a little later. Josh was up before anyone. I could hear him singing to himself in his room and wondered what he was thinking. He would get to meet you, his baby brother today.

I padded out of the bedroom and grabbed a cup of coffee. Headed downstairs to do my advent reading and just soak in the quiet. As I read and thought and prayed, I watched the snow falling for the fourth time this week. It's been a cold December. Refreshing, though. Full of sunshine and hope. Which is different from a lot of previous Decembers.

A quick breakfast and some chores and then Dad took Josh to a birthday party. I ran around the house, packing the camera and a few gifts for you, trying to wish away the minutes until we'd see you in person. Busyness is a gift in those moments.

Then we are picking Josh up from his party and all on our way. Driving in the snow, answering questions from the backseat. Can we feed him? Will I be able to hold him? Do you think he'll like my finger puppet? When will his birth mommy decide for sure if we can have him? One excited 7-year-old.

When we drive up, there is a woman, your foster mom, standing in the doorway. I see a bundle of something pressed into her shoulder and realize it's you greeting us at the door. You are so tiny. I knew you would be but man, you are. I want to reach out and grab you but I don't know the etiquette here. You might be ours but not yet. You are legally this foster mother's for now and we have to be cautious.

We come in, leave our snowy boots at the door. Act calm, as though this isn't the craziest thing we've ever done. Just drive up to a house, walk in and meet our child. You know, no big deal. She asks who wants to hold you first and I want to say "me", I want to shout it, but I know I should let the boys go first. Dad jumps in though and points to me with a big smile. He knows my heart. He knows I need to hold you. He knows I need to feel the life in this little child for whom we've prayed and waited and hoped and dreamed and, yes, sometimes despaired of ever coming.


I don't cry. Of course I don't, there are people in the room I don't know until today. I've cried a lot over the past few days so I don't need to anyway. I just gaze at you. I soak you in. I hope against hope that nothing will fall through, that in 30 short days you will be sitting in my arms in our home, wearing the clothes I've bought you, no foster mom in sight. I pass you to my son who has been praying for this moment from when he first learned to pray. "Oh, he's so sweet, mommy." Yes, son, he is. You are. So sweet, so small, so precious.

You go to Daddy and I remember that feeling I used to get watching him hold Josh. This overwhelming feeling a woman gets when she knows her son has the best dad in the world. And I know you will be blessed beyond measure by this wonderful man who holds you in his arms, overwhelmed, confused, unsure what the right reactions are on this day. You look so small but so safe and so, well, right there.

The hours pass quickly and we have to hand you back. You are unaware that you've just met your parents, that you've tasted your forever family. You don't really know much besides eating and sleeping right now but I know you will know us soon. Soon, we will be all you know, we will be your world. And only three days ago we didn't know you existed. Now we do.

On the day we met, dear son, I knew my life was changed.

The Call

After awhile you stop expecting the call. An unknown phone number pops up and you assume the mundane- a telemarketer, a dental appointment or someone reminding you that your dog needs a haircut. You stop expecting the unexpected. You stop holding your breath when you pick up the phone in that moment after you say hello. You expect the ordinary.

And then one day, you pick up the phone. You might be in the middle of something else, possibly you don't even glance at the caller I.D. You're cooking dinner or talking to your child or telling the dog to stop barking. So you pick it up and forget to hold your breath.

You should've held your breath.

Because what comes next is anything but ordinary. The opposite of mundane. You have been matched with a child. Your child. This someone for whom you've prayed about, cried over, filled out mountains of paperwork, hoped, dreamed, imagined. Suddenly, he exists. Suddenly he is a person. A boy. With dark hair and eyes, 9 pounds, 6 ounces, 21 inches. And with a name that his birth mother has chosen for him. And you have been invited into the amazing journey of being his mother. It's the call. That call you stopped waiting for at some point along the way.

When you burst into tears, your social worker laughs. She's never heard you cry before but she knows the wait has been long and emotional. You can tell she loves getting to make this kind of phone call. This, this is why she does this. It's still not final, you hear her say, though it's very likely. Things could happen, be cautious, and you know she's right. You know you must guard your heart against more disappointment but you can't help it. The tears keep falling and you find yourself laughing and stumbling over words. What questions do you have, she asks? Oh, just a thousand, you know. None of which you can put into words yet.

So you take a moment. You call your husband, share the news and burst into tears all over again. You tell him about your son. You take in his dumbfounded silence. Your lives have changed in less time than it takes to shower and get ready in the morning. You got the call.

Who do we call, who do we tell? How do we break the news to our son? Do we set up the crib or do we wait until the court date is done? What risks do we take and where do we move forward with abandon? Do we leave facebook for the next 30 days while we wait so we aren't tempted to tell anyone? Or do we tell the world and risk having to tell them all over again if something happens?

The whirlwind of what's and how's will not slow down for awhile. So you go about making dinner. You play with your son and repair his broken light saber. You listen to him talk with his guinea pigs and anticipate the look on his face when you tell him that night at dinner. You think about the fun of telling all the grandparents.

And you pause. You thank God deeply. It hasn't been easy. You haven't always trusted Him on this journey. In fact, you've been downright angry sometimes. But you know He's stuck by you. You know He loves this little boy and has been waiting for him longer than you have. And you know he'll be in the next part of this wait. These 30 days of paperwork and court appearances and tracking down of a birth father. You know the reality that this could fall through, but you praise God anyway and hope for the reality that this boy, this sweet little boy, will be a part of your forever family.

You got the call. And it changed everything.