The World of Jane Green

I don't precisely remember how it happened but I've found myself immersed in Jane Green books this summer. I've read two and am in the middle of the third.  Possibly the attraction is that her main characters are often leading a parallel life to mine: Young to mid-30's, moms, careers.  In the stories, these women are discovering they have at some point in their lives settled for less than what they want or deserve and they experience these epiphanies of longing. Of wanting a better life, a life that reflects who they really are, what they really want, not just what they've fallen lazily into. And suddenly life works out well. Things fall together, happiness ensues.

Clearly I'm writing this with a pinch of sarcasm.  Not because I think the endings are cliche but because I think there is a piece of me who feels the same way. That has trouble with contentment. That wonders "what if" about certain decisions I've made along the way.  I'm betting many women I know would feel the same way, deep down. It's not something we necessarily admit or talk about, but some vague discontent. I've heard some of the questions asked that I do ponder. Is it possible to be in purposeful mission when you're elbow deep in diapers and ABC's?  Can you really "have it all" and not be overwhelmed?  Is it ok to not feel totally fulfilled by motherhood and family life? What are healthy desires?

At the core of these books is the premise, of course, that each of us deserves in life to be happy. That our end goal and the means along the way should be self-satisfaction. Making the decisions that are best for us as individuals, moving on in marriage if you accidentally married the "wrong" guy, getting angry or, to be frank, bitchy to assert that we are not pushovers and can claim control over anything we want.  Over and over again these characters make poor decisions. And over and over again there is this glaring thing missing. The author stops short of identifying that core longing and doesn't choose to make much commentary on the ridiculous nature of these characters' sexual, moral and, to be frank, pretty selfish decisions other than that eventually they'll happen miraculously upon the "right" decisions. But to me, on each page, there is this clear void. This overwhelming need to be fulfilled and while the author rightly helps her protagonists realize that happiness doesn't lie in the number of Manolo Blahnik shoes one owns(I didn't actually know what these were before reading the books, given that my primary shoe store is Payless) they never quite get past finding happiness and contentment in relationships and self-fulfillment.  The longing stays a longing.

I imagine if there were a real-life epilogue to most of these stories, say 10 years down the road, these women would be discontented again because we are not meant to be fulfilled by anything other than God. I related so uncomfortably close to these women in some ways and had to be reminded that my happiness, first of all, is not my goal in life and, secondly, that no matter how much longing I have, the only place that space will be filled is at the foot of the cross.  Not filled by a new baby, not filled by a foray into grad school or a new career or anything I can achieve myself.

I'm convinced that this author has hit what a lot of women struggle with right on the head.  She has done so humorously and with elements of hope. But the success stops there. Without God, everything else is just so uncertain. Even with God, most things are still pretty uncertain. But at least when I'm pointed in that right direction, the uncertainties don't sway me as much. The lack of control isn't quite as terrifying. The "what-ifs" not quite as loud or condemning.  The poor decisions, hopefully, become fewer. The longing may stay, but the joy of it is that it's a longing with a clear fulfillment.

I'm thankful for these books, thankful that they've reminded me of my innate tendency to desire things, to desire fulfillment in my own achievements and to always, always seem to long for more.  I'm thankful that it is clear that nothing earthly can possibly fulfill those longings and that every time I put down one of her books I am drawn back to scripture, drawn back to true hope and the only safe place to truly process those longings.

I am also very thankful that these books make me laugh out loud. Anything that helps me take life less seriously is always a welcome addition to the day.  

The, um, Joys of Learning

There was a whole lot of new going on around here this summer.  Training wheels have came off the bike, the child wants to roller skate, has recently started regularly doing chores that don't involve just picking up the seemingly endless piles of toys in our home and has learned to swim.  What does this mean? As the rate of learning new and difficult things increases so proportionately does the parental need for patience and understanding(as well as does the use of ice packs on the lower back.)

So, earlier this summer as I was dutifully holding up the back of the bike as my child rode gleefully on in the 90 degree heat I was reflecting on what this summer had to offer.  We lasted roughly 20 minutes in the heat before a very wilted me and a very sweaty Josh stumped back into the house to crash with some watermelon and ice water in front of Dinosaur Train. (If you have a young child and haven't discovered this show, what more could you ask for in entertainment than the plot of dinosaurs who travel on trains to different eras to meet other dinosaurs? I submit to you, nothing.)  A few days later, we spent an hour in the pool- Josh "swimming" as I held up his stomach in a vain effort to get him to actually move forward while he kicked.  Another morning, before we rode bikes I also held him up as he attempted to roller skate which essentially meant "push one foot, push the other foot, fall and yank mom's arm out of her socket...and again".  There's a big theme of "holding" in all the learning going on around here.  Which translates very nicely to a tired and sore back for my increasingly aging body. There are days that I really do miss being 18. I'm guessing all this would be much easier in that body.

 But here's what I've learned. As I thought about three months without school or foreseeable structure, it seemed like an  endless series of "holding ups".  The bike, the roller skates, the swimming, the constant verbal holding up in reminding him to do his chores and talking him through the next LEGO creation he was working on.  I've already seen some of my values coming to the top. I've learned I cannot stand the words "I can't" coming out of my child's mouth and have found myself making those declarative family lore statements like "In our family, those words aren't allowed" or "Ogrosky's don't say can't!"  Where did I come up with that?  I've also found myself really irritated when my child seems to be illogically fearful.  Sometimes I've wanted to yell, "Just get over it and do it!"  I'm thinking this would not be a particularly helpful response to a frightened and cautious four-year-old so we usually packed up what we were doing and left the trying for a new day.  But I really do hate the idea of giving up. Not trying drives me crazy. These are values I clearly hold dear.

Some days I really wondered if the new day would actually hold a breakthrough.  I wondered if he'd ever really let go of the side and swim without being held. He did - he even jumps off the diving board now. I wondered if he'd ever make his bed without being asked- lately he's waking up, picking out his own clothes (which is a small miracle in itself given that I have a child who'd prefer to spend the whole day in jammies) and making his bed before he comes in to wake us up.  I'm still wondering if he'll ride his bike without training wheels but the unknown is now more of a when rather than an if.  He figures it out eventually. Even with all his holding on.  He eventually lets go.  He does persevere. He doesn't give up- he just does it in his own unique way.  Maybe that has something to do with being an Ogrosky or maybe it's just who he is.  Who knows.

Oh, parenthood. My perpetual lesson in patience and letting people be who they were made to be.  My hope as we head into the fall is that I'll really remember who my son is in those moments when he feels so "other".  That I'll hold him up for as long as I'm supposed to and help him let go when the moment comes.  That I'll confidently share our family values (that someday will likely be joked about to college roommates) in the context of grace and trust that they come across in love and not tyranny.

Mountain Release

My husband and I decided to take a few days away, just the two of us. There’s this great B&B up in the mountains of Highland County, VA owned by my colleague’s parents and recommended by friends. The views are breathtaking, the coffee flows, the owners are kind, the food is fantastic, the rooms are without televisions and it’s impossible not to rest. Anything you do involves fantastic scenery. Above all, it’s quiet. Deafeningly quiet.


With the quiet comes a slowing down. It’s not easy for me to slow down, to really let my brain stop. Sometimes my brain feels so busy that I can’t even pinpoint what it’s actually busy doing. When I hit that point, I know it’s not a good sign. And as we’ve started along this adoption process, I’m noticing my brain tending in that direction again, tending towards chaos. Keeping track of paperwork, wondering, waiting, waiting, waiting. Did I mention waiting? Trying not to be frustrated when someone takes two months to fill out one tiny little piece of paperwork and then when it is finally sent it you find out from the agency that it was done wrong and has to be redone. How many more months, my brain wonders?

It all comes down to a lack of control. I can’t make someone prioritize our adoption- to many people, it is just another piece of paperwork. To us, it’s a child and every minute that goes by is another minute in our lives without that little person in our family. Another prayer time at night where my 4 year old quietly begs god for a sibling and starts to, finally, hint at being impatient with this whole process and asks tougher questions. Why do some of his friends have multiple siblings and he gets none? Doesn’t God hear our prayers?

So, being here, being away, not checking email, not being able to know if, finally, this one person has gotten her part done has actually been a good break. As I type this I am gazing out the window of our room on a gorgeous pink and purple sunset over the blue and hazy mountains. I am reminded that no matter how much I enjoy the perception of control, it’s all an illusion, anyway. I can’t really control anything. I can’t control our adoption process, my fertility, the bee that just stung my poor husband in the neck. None of it.

This past Sunday our pastor preached another sermon in a series on discernment and decision-making. One of his points was that when we are waiting for something our prayer needs to not be that that thing would come or happen, but that we would be content, patient and faithful as we wait and learn to trust God’s heart. And as I’ve thought about that I’ve had to be reminded anew that I need to pray that I would know that there is purpose in the waiting – not that God is maliciously sitting up in heaven and chuckling as he decides how many months or years to make us wait for something but that in any waiting I can choose to listen and learn or I can choose to grumble and yearn. Pure and simple.

So, with mountain breezes here hinting at fall, with no phone ringing or child chattering, I am enjoying at least a few moments of sweet quiet, of just trying to wait and be content, of not checking email every hour or two to see if the agency has approved us. I am slowing down and it is everything I dreamed it could be.

Sanctification by Community Pool

Last summer we freeloaded on some friends a number of times rather than joining a community pool ourselves. In my estimation, Josh was still young enough that being at the pool was less fun and more work.  Going occasionally was good but going all the time sounded exhausting.

This year, however, after another successful year of preschool, a great first season of sports and still no baby to be cared for, we thought it was good timing to join a pool and Josh was really excited about the prospect of making new friends and learning to dive for rockets at the bottom of the pool.  I was, I think, blissfully unaware of the challenges to my patience that awaited.

Apparently my inability to even desire to understand teenagers or treat them with much patience was about to become a big liability in terms of pool enjoyment.

We've been going to the pool for a month now. Sometimes as a whole family, sometimes we invite friends, sometimes we end up being the only people there.  I have learned quickly when the "right" time of day is to go. Namely, the time of day when the fewest teenagers will be there. You see, in one short month, I have overheard all the gossip I'd care to, witnessed plenty of teenage mockery and disdain, been splashed, jumped on, swum into, seen my child's rockets stolen from right under him as he was about to dive, been used as a human shield in "marco polo" and watched my own 4-year old pushed out of the way while he was attempting to swim. All of this has been executed without a single "excuse me" or "sorry". Not a single one.

Now, I'm not the kind of person to randomly blow up at a person in the grocery store who does something rude or even really get too worked up in general when people are thoughtless.  But there have been moments this summer, and I'm ashamed to say many of them, when my very first inclination was to reach out and slap one of these kids across the face. The rage that has welled up in me when I've been knocked over or when my four-year old has asked me, ever so sweetly, "why do they keep taking my rockets, Mommy?" has overwhelmed me at times. It's like that surprising first moment in parenting when your child makes you so mad you could scream and you finally understand why your parents got so worked up when you did things wrong as a child.  My anger has surprised and confused me which is amusing because when I really think about it, I'm not surprised at all.

Most of us feel a righteousness in angry response if our space is invaded, if an injustice occurs or if our young are threatened.  I feel all of these things at once at the pool on a pretty regular basis. But the real reason I'm not surprised is because I've seen my heart. I've seen the ways I self-protect, the ways I choose myself and my family over others, the ways I choose "me"  and my agenda all the time. Rather than trying to interact with these teens and see if there's some greater way that I can care for them, I stand far off. I judge. I seethe. I complain. I rail about parents who can't teach their kids manners and vow that my child will be different. And I feel justified.

So, this morning, when I'm faced with a rainy day and no pool prospects, I'm taking pause. What does the Lord have for me at the community pool?  What can my child learn about God in how I treat these teens who don't treat us well? What can I learn in humbling myself and letting Him speak and act through me?  What do these teens need from Him?  I am more aware than ever of my need for His grace in this process of sanctification, of becoming more and more like Him.  Since I'm pretty sure Jesus wouldn't actually reach out and slap these kids, I'm taking pause.

Next time I pack for the pool, I'll be sure to not only include our diving rockets, but a healthy dose of grace, mercy, patience and self-awareness.  Maybe God will do something really crazy in the middle of "marco polo" and surprise me. 

When the Foxhole Needs to Change

Well over a year ago I wrote about choosing a foxhole, about settling down in a church community even in the midst of feeling burnt out and fearful about the potential tyranny of church commitments mixing with my inherent inability to use the word "no".   At the time, we settled on a church that's a good place. There are people there who clearly love God, love others and are seeking to follow him faithfully in this world. It's not perfect and it wasn't my style, but we were happy with the choice. The only problem was, after months and months of trying to actually fit in, at some point you have to ask yourself that question: "It may be good, but is it right?" 

I don't mean to raise any kind of theological debate in asking that question. I merely mean that sometimes in life we choose to do things because they are good things but not necessarily because we are supposed to be doing those things.  This is how I got in over my head in Richmond. All the things I was doing were good, but at some point they were just things I was doing.

So, having committed to a place and tried in vain to feel connected, in feeling frustrated every week at still feeling like an outsider, we had to ask ourselves if it was ok to leave. We had to have that wrestling match with the Lord, because I have had roughly a million conversations over the years about how you don't choose a church just based on what you want or because you like the music or because the pastor is a particularly sassy preacher. You choose a church because of what the Lord is doing in and through it and how you might be a part of that. Not personal preferences, but how God wants you to be a part of His story there.  So, in my typical fashion, I began to wrestle with a lot of guilt about the possibility of leaving a church. Am I leaving because, frankly, I don't love the music? Is it because it's too traditional for me and I just can't adapt? Is this selfish? Or is it right?

For a long time my story with the Lord has been deeply interwoven with the story of race and multiethnicity in the church. I've seen this play out in our choices of where to live, in what I've bugged my students about, in the most difficult struggles of my own prejudice and sin, in my passion for worship and in my communities.  So each Sunday as we entered this community the thing I was the most aware of was how monocultural it felt. The music was the same and reflecting one specific type of style, the way things were done were always one way. And I believe my heart felt stifled. Staff who've tasted both the highs and the lows of multiethnic community often joke that InterVarsity has ruined us for the church. I felt that this might be true- could we really find a community here that was talking about this, that was willing to change to reflect the people who were involved?  It didn't feel possible where we were.

In the midst of struggling with this guilt of possibly leaving a church, we began to look around.  I went into it this time around with a little bit of a different outlook, though. One thing I could say about not being able to plug in at this church we had committed to was that I had had time to heal from my overcommittedness in the past. I had had time to begin to really yearn again for community, to have hope in my own ability to make the right choices in how to serve and love there, to be able to listen again to the Lord as he challenged me in new ways.  So as we talked over where to try, I was doing it this time with eagerness.  With expectation. Yes, the guilt warred with both of these emotions each week, but ultimately the Lord really freed me from it. We tried two churches, one of which we had checked out initially when we moved here but had decided against because of some uncertainties they were going through at the time.

After just a few Sundays, I knew. I knew this place that we had tried two years ago was the right place. It hadn't been before- I know that. The year we spent at our other church was a good time of healing for me.  Possibly if we had stayed at this new church back then, I would've immediately jumped in and had no time to heal. There's no way to know for sure, but I suspect it.

But what I do know is this.   This morning, I woke up excited to go to meet with the Lord in community. I was looking forward into running into people we've just met and excited for Josh to continue to make friends in his Sunday school class. I wondered what creative mix of music the music director, a man I've recently met and really enjoy and respect, had put together for the morning and so grateful to be able to get involved with what he's doing in the coming weeks and months.  I was humbled to look around the room at an increasingly diverse group of people and know that the Lord was doing something really great here.  I laughed as the worship leader made us all join hands and sway at the end of the service as we sang and laughed even harder when for some reason it ended up not being cheesy.  I felt drawn into what God is doing here and excited that multiethnicity is a conversation that is being had loud and clear.

And as I looked around at kids running around with blue or red tinged lips because of the patriotic cupcakes they had at snacktime I felt sort of like a kid myself.  A kid with all these new opportunities in front of me, who has felt welcomed into this new community and released from the old, thankful for what the Lord did in my time there and excited for what He will undoubtedly do here.  Our last church was a foxhole. This one, I hope, will be more like home base.

Navigating Adoption

I recently saw a movie, one of those teen flicks that you go into assuming that it will be happily mindless and which is perfect for someone who is hoping to doze in and out of sleep on the couch with some noise in the background. You know the kind.  This was the day after camp, a day during which I literally ate, slept, read books, watched movies and slept again. (Thank you, dear husband.)

The movie that I'm talking about is called Easy A. It wasn't a movie I'd heard of, but Netflix recommended it so I gave it a shot. It actually ended up being rather entertaining. One of the subplots of the movie was the relationship of this young adopted boy to the rest of his family. You don't see adoption in most movies. In fact, I was having trouble thinking of any movies I'd seen with any kind of portrayal of adoption, let alone a positive one. It was not even close to the focus of the movie, but the interactions between the father and son nonetheless reminded me of the conversation. And made me yearn to move forward in this.  Funny how an almost insignificant scene can spark something in you.

For months now, my husband and I have been talking about it. We've talked to others who have gone through it, we've been reading books, we've been praying.  And let me tell you something. Adoption books are hard as junk to get through.  There are hard and sad stories, there are disheartening statistics, there are differing opinions on almost all aspects of adoption. Closed versus open. Domestic or international. Infant or child. Foster system or private agency.  Race, gender, prenatal care, sick, healthy. And the hows: how to acclimate an adopted child, how long the process of adoption takes, how to choose an agency, how to pay for it, who in the family gets an opinion, how to prepare your older child, how do you know if adoption is for you, the list goes on.

And one more "how" that I'll add to the whole process: How to stay sane.

Now, in my saner moments of this process, I have that thought that any foray into parenthood, biological or adoptive, comes with a huge list of unknowns. There are very few aspects of what kind of child I'll have that I can control. No matter how well I plan a biological birth, I could still end up with a child of either gender, one who may or may not have behavioral problems or attachment issues, who may have learning disabilities or health issues, one who might look like me or not...the only things I can control in a biological experience are who the father is and what I eat and do during pregnancy. That's pretty much it.  So, when faced with actual adoption applications, the ones where I need to check boxes, I feel so selfish. Who am I to decide exactly what I want or don't want in a child? Shouldn't I be open to whomever needs a home? I wouldn't get most of these choices in a biological birth, so should I really restrict our choices in an adoptive experience?  It's an amount of control in the process that I actually don't want. Sometimes I wish someone would just literally drop a baby on my doorstep in a cute little outfit, cuddled up in a bassinet so all the choices would be made for me.  Life is rarely like that, though.

One thing I do know is this.  I have an incredible template for adoption in what my Heavenly Father has done for me through Christ.  In those moments when I wonder if I'll love my adopted child as much as my biological, I am reminded of a Father who ultimately sacrificed his own son so that I could be adopted into His family, fully loved, fully brought into the inheritance normally reserved for biological sons and daughters. I have hope that the Father of all gifts, when He gives us this good gift, will also fully prepare us to overwhelmingly love this new addition to our family. That he will prepare my older child who, at the moment, is very confused about why his sibling will likely come from somewhere else and not his mother's belly, to be a fantastic older brother.  I am convinced that in this process of choosing and risking and waiting that I will understand whole new facets of God's character and his adoptive work in creation.

So, one week into submitting our application and already feeling the impatience settling in (yes, this will be a long road for this poor waiter!), I am trying to focus in on God's perfect timing.  That he sent His Son at just the perfect time to offer all of us orphans a perfect, forever family, one that brings life, security and significance in my status as child of God.  I'll take this process one step at a time and pray that as our family moves closer to adoption, my heart will move closer into the heart of my adoptive Father.  

Ten Years

It's just over a month ago now that college students and campus staff alike saw the end of the academic year, meetings slowed down and people on an academic calendar began to reflect on some of the bigger lessons of their year.  For me, this year feels particularly significant because of two things. One, it's now over ten years ago that I was in my final week of classes as an undergrad at Richmond. I was feeling that crazy mix of nostalgia, panic and impatience that plagues the seniors with whom I'm in contact every year.  I had a vague idea of what was next, at least for a few months, but beyond that I had no real idea what the future held.  It's now hard to remember not knowing what my twenties would look like! Two, it's ten years ago that my husband and I went on our first, albeit awkward, date. Ten years! I can still remember many of the specifics- the roommates convincing me to say "yes", the awkward front door interaction, Reed getting lost on the way to the coffee shop, my spectacular tripping episode while walking up the stairs at Palani Drive.  Ah yes, young love. 

Having a first date in the midst of so much transition and uncertainty was perhaps not the wisest I idea I've ever come up with.  I didn't know what I wanted out of life let alone whether I wanted anyone to share it with me. At that point in my life I was still really stubborn about men, still decidedly certain that marriage was not necessarily the path for me. Enter Reed. There wasn't this "starbursts and marble halls" moment, for those of you Anne of Green Gables fans, just this quiet, Godly man who wasn't afraid to be himself even if it meant our first few dates would be awkward. He didn't try to impress me or pretend he was some smooth talker, he was just, well, Reed.

Our courtship wasn't what you'd call a whirlwind. It was this slow learning process, playing football or basketball in the park, meeting each other's college and high school friends, learning the insanities and joys of our respective families, watching Office Space all the time as his time in the corporate world needed increasing doses of humor, the telling of childhood and college stories and those tentative moments of talking about the future (possibly together) that we hoped for.  We did have our romantic moments-running in the rain, hiking humpback rock, sweet and quiet dinners out, playing the guitar together at the gazebo on campus and, of course, his very well-orchestrated proposal involving trickery, way too many roses and a self-composed and well-performed song.

Now, on our eighth anniversary, I am so thankful for our story.  So thankful for the best friend that I made during those two years of dating and engagement and for the ways I have seen God work in both of us since we made those crazy and unkeepable promises to each other eight years ago. I didn't know what was ahead- the craziness of starting over in a new town, the joys of the sweetest little man on earth entering our family, the struggles with loss and infertility- but I knew he was the right man for me to share that journey with.  And so today, I'm deeply thankful. Thankful for 10 years of knowing Reed and 8 years of marriage to him, of learning to trust God when I'm a good wife and when I'm not, and so thankful that He has set this covenant relationship up in such a way that I can wake up each morning and confidently know that my husband is committed to God and to us and to our child.   

Happy Anniversary, Husband. Thanks for our life together. I can't wait to see what's next!