Rituals

Every night we have our sweet little bedtime rituals.  I lather everyone in coconut oil and we put on Jammies, then either a dance party, story, or show (depending on Mommy's energy level).  Then we brush teeth and set out for each kid's individual routine.  

First I set Mollie up with books in her bed and tell her I will be back.  Then I head into the boys' room to hand out books & set their iPod to a book on tape and promise to come back to give Charlie hugs, kisses, and high fives. 

Then I head to Grace's room to snuggle, sing 3 songs (typically Twinkle, Twinkle, La La Lu, and Jesus Loves Me), tuck in her 4 million stuffed animals, and say the Lord's Prayer.  

Then I head back in to kiss Henry and then Charlie tells how many hugs, kisses, and high fives he wants.  Typically it's 10, 10, and 5, with the occasional fist bump for good measure.  

Lastly, I head into Mollie-Moll's room.  We snuggle and sing Jesus Loves Me, and pray she sleeps all night long in her own bed (very.important.prayer).  Then I let her pick which song on the IPod she wants to start off with (always Lisa Loeb's Twinkle Twinkle but she still scrolls through the entire lullaby playlist I made). Then I give her a kids in her palm and say "Where's Mommy's kiss?"  Then she waves her sweet hand and I cradle her face with it.  Then she kisses my hand and cradles my face with it.  It is very dear.  

And just as we have gotten this routine running smoothly, I think we may have to change it up.  Because now we have a boy willing to read everyone a bedtime story.  

6

Life has been a whirlwind this past month.  We filed for immigration for the kids.  We had a fundraising auction that raised over 2k.  I've been shipping tshirt orders right and left and plan to get a new printing order in soon as we are sold out of many sizes and colors.  To order, check the sidebar over there <---- .="" nbsp="" p="">
But the bestest thing was celebrating the life of the boy who first made me a mom.  The lone boy to grow in my tummy as opposed to my heart.  Sometimes he feels left out because he only has one Mommy.  But then his darling father reminds him that he has a great Mommy and so that is enough. 

We celebrated with all things Wii and Lego.  I felt like a better Mom when he was obsessed with Thomas and trains.  Thomas is so wholesome while his non-stop chatter about Mario and Skylanders seems, well, it seems like I just let him play video games all day long.  Which is not the case.  (Full disclosure:  it sometimes is the case.  But when it is your birthday, you get to do what you want and the boy wanted to play with his new games.) 

We had a Super Mario themed birthday party at the house for him.  Once again, I was insane and built him a pinata. Some folks said I made the box too strong and feared it would never break.  But EVERY one of the 35 kids got a swing at it.  Henry went first and then we went in order of age.  It broke on the very last swing.  So the point goes to me.  I am a pinata genius.  So there.

 It was question box full of coins and other trinkets.

 And I made a couple pin the mustache on Mario boards.  Which we never even used because playing this game when you have 35 kids at a party is ridiculous.  I am taking it as a sign of personal growth that I was totally okay with scrapping this. 

And we had one up cupcakes. 

We did briefly try a Yoshi egg in spoon race.  But when the kids learned that I'd cheated a bit and boiled the eggs, it quickly turned into a "Let's throw boiled eggs at each other game".  Whatever.  They had a blast.

I did, however, learn a few lessons.  Like if you have a big back yard with a trampoline, a sandbox, a swingset, a sloped driveway and a bunch of big wheels and glide bikes, you really don't need any other organized activities.

Except for maybe a big handpainted Bowser target and some water balloons.  I fear we may have made this now a tradition.  Oh well.  It only took Sloan three hours and 4 Motrin to blow up 200 water balloons and me four hours to paint a target that was completely killed in less than a minute for this fun.

My darling Henry, I pray you always understand that you are loved.  You are a treasure.  You are kind and brave.  Smart and funny.  You tell me no less than 40 times a day that you love me, that I'm the best mom in the world, and that I'm beautiful.  And pretty.  And wonderful.  And kind.  Oh dear one, you are easy to love.  I pray you are always as quick to forgive and love and laugh as you are at age 6. 

My son, the little monk

In as much as there is an eternal disco party surrounding Grace, there is an abundant gentleness about Henry. He is kind and uniquely tender. Sometimes I worry that when he goes off to school next year he will get made fun of because of it. The mother in me worries he will get beaten up for telling some kid to stop making fun of another child. But then there is another part of me, the sister in Christ, that is in awe to see the Spirit of God at work in my dear son's heart.

Today we headed off to Target to buy baking soda to bake the "Thanks for letting me sleep in until 9:30" cookies. On our way, we had to pull to the side of the road to let an ambulance and fire truck pass. With no prodding from me, Henry chirped, "Mom, we need to pray for the ambulance workers! And for the people they are going to help." So my 5 yr old led us in intercessory prayer for strangers.

Later in the day, I loaded some new books on tape for him to listen to at night onto his IPod, including the entirety of The Jesus Storybook Bible. He usually listens to Dr. Suess and then I turn it off before I go to bed. But as I tucked him in bed and propped his IPod into his speaker, he said, "Mom, can I listen to the Bible as I fall asleep?"

"Sure honey," I replied.

"But please don't turn it off. Let it play all night long. Because the Bible is God's word and I want to hear Him all night long. Even in my dreams."

Oh, to long to hear God's voice speaking to me at all times.

Thank you Jesus for a son and brother who points me to you. Continue to bear fruit in his little life. Give me the strength to stand back and let him be bold for your sake.

A Real Conversation

Attempt #3,427 to teach my kids that good choices lead to happy consequences and bad choices to sad--

Me: If you let Mommy sleep in past 8:30 tomorrow, we will stay in our Jammies until lunch and bake chocolate chip cookies.

Henry: What happens if we wake you up early?

Me: Well, I won't have slept in so I can guarantee it won't include chocolate, cookies, or jammies.

Henry: So, like running errands and doing chores?

Me: Exactly. AND you will have to get dressed.

Grace: (dramatically falls to the floor) NOT DRESSED!!!

Green Belt Project

Our boy is now a junior green belt.  I'm so proud of him. 

He has been working hard on learning the answers to all of the questions on the tests, practicing at home his stances and kicks.  He can even count to ten in Korean.  The martial arts have certainly helped him to focus and have certainly improved his motor skills.  I'm just so proud of his determination.  And even more so how kind and tender he is to his classmates and how he is he only one to stay behind each week to help his instructor put away the cones, targets, and punching blocks. 

I can't wait to celebrate his accomplishment tomorrow night with a celebratory dinner at his favorite restaurant, Kabuto.

Note that Instructor Carlton cracked his usual serious demeanor because he clocked Grace.  She'd just used the water fountain and looked as though she had just had a cooler of Gatorade dumped on her head.  

Good things are coming...

So you were probably expecting this to be a post about how we only have two more nights in this house.  How Henry helped me pack up all his Thomas trains and tracks and said, "I guess this is really real because where my trains go, I'm going too.  Two more nights and then I get my new room!" 

But the post about the new house will have to wait. 

Why?

What could be more exciting than the new house?

This.  That's two signed and sealed referral acceptance letters.  That's right.  We've got kids! 

(And sorry if these descriptions are kinda cryptic.  I don't want to divulge too much identifying information on the interwebs that could possibly interfere with our adoption.) Our children are biological siblings from a town whose primary language is Swahili.  And because God likes to mock me with His sovereignty, the city where they are from was called Elizabethville under Dutch rule.  And we got the referral the day after we closed on the new house.  You know, when we actually had room for 4 kids.  One year to the day from when we learned that Grace had two younger birth siblings and we first thought that perhaps we'd be a family of 6 one day. 

Classic Jesus showing me what's up.  I get it.  I get it.  You've got this.  I'll just hold the tail while You skin this cat.

Our son, C, is a few months younger than Gracie.  Our daughter, A, turned 1 over the summer.  It is our fervent hope to have the kids home prior to her 2nd birthday.  From this point, the average time frame is typically 6-9 months.

We haven't yet decided 100% on what we plan to name our children.  With K and N, we planned to bump their African names to their middle names and give them family first names.  We had planned to call K an American nickname for his African name.  But our children's names given to them by their African birth mother are not your typical African names.  They are French and the family names we had picked out just don't seem to fit them.  We think we've settled on their names, but we aren't sure.  So we are going to hold those close to the vest for a little while.  So as for now, we are simply calling them their given names.  But Gracie calls her little sister something completely different.  She can say her sister's actual name, but prefers a nickname she has given her.

She is acting like a big sister already.  Bossy and planning to not share her toys. 

But we did get to send in packages for them to get at Christmas.  

For A. 

For C. 



Next month, we hope to send them shoes, but we don't know their actual shoe sizes, so I think we will try to get them some Crocs.  In order to insure that the packages make it through customs, it is best if we send them gently used items. Thankfully, I have friends who have kids roughly the same age as my youngest children. 


We are over the moon. 

A Change in Perspective

What if we've been going about this adoption the wrong way?  Searching the world over for the children who will fit into our family.  Scanning waiting children websites hoping to imprint on a child that pulls at some abstract maternal heart-string. 

What if, and here's a novel idea, this adoption isn't about me? 

What if the question is not what children will mesh well with our family but what children need what we have to offer?

What if this adoption is about meeting the needs of some Congolese children?

What if it isn't even about what I have to offer?  But perhaps what Henry and Grace have to offer as a brother and sister?

What if there is a little boy who needs a brother to hold his hand in school and to cheer him on? A brother who is tenderhearted and prone to compassion.

What if there is a little girl who needs a big sister to laugh with her?  To dance with her?  To share some space during an illegal bed jumping session? 

What if we just said to God "Take our meager loaves and fishes and dole them out"?  What would that look like? 

I'm not quite sure.  But I'm hopeful we will find out soon...

For forever and ever

We have entered the phase of toddlerdom that is horrible.  The only thing keeping me going is the fact that at some point, all of this will be a distant memory. 

Today I spent a cumulative three hours sitting on the bottom step with Grace.  At one point, after poking her brother in the eye for no reason other than she thought it was funny, she put herself in time out. 

I worry that I'm raising a psychopath.  She will slug Henry and then grin as if to say, "I know I'm too cute to be punished."  I will say, "Hitting is wrong.  Hitting hurts," and she will giggle and say, "No, it's not wrong.  It's funny."  And she is just so danged cute that for a little while, I believe her.  But then she slaps me as I take her hand to go back to the steps and I remember that no, it isn't funny.  At all. 

Raising a girl is different than a boy.  I remember the trauma of Henry at this age.  Grace is no more disobedient, but there is this added bossiness and sass and desire to be in control of every situation at all times that is just a part of who Grace is as a female.  It also happens to be a part of who I am, and well, there's really only room for one bossy girl in this family.

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to my son-in-law.  I tried.  Really.  All I can say that if you just do what she says, no one will get hurt.  I'm counting on the fact that during those three hours on the bottom step we prayed each and every time for Jesus to give her a calm spirit and kind hands to at some point kick in.  To say that I need Jesus to redeem my parenting is quite possibly the understatement of the year. 

Parenting any child is hard.  Providing appropriate consequences and discipline is yucky for both parties.  But parenting an adopted child of a different race adds to its complexity.  Once I add two kids who spent part of their life in an orphanage, it is going to get even trickier.

My saving grace is the fact that I see Jesus at work in Henry. 

Henry woke up with a sore throat.  He spent all afternoon cuddled on the couch, shivering in his pajamas and fleece robe watching Mary Poppins.  Grace would hit him or sit on him or toss a remote at his head.  We'd go back to the stairs.  Talk about why God gave us hands.  Pray.  Come back and apologize to Henry.  And each and every time Henry would respond, "I forgive you, Grace."  At one point, at that time of parenting when I was checking my watch wondering how early was too early to put her to bed, and he told her, "Grace, I will always forgive you.  I love you.  You are my sister.  So I will forgive you for forever and ever."

Dear Jesus, Thank you for showing me in Henry that this stage will pass.  I pray that you work in Grace's heart just as you have in Henry's.  Thank you for your continued faithfulness to our family.  Thank you for loving me and forgiving me for forever and ever. 

Phlippy Phuneral

Phlippy the fish hadn't eaten all weekend.  So on Sunday afternoon, I hurried to Petsmart to get, I don't know, drops that would make dying fish live?  Things for neutralizing Ph and such.  While the kids and I did a 25% water change and gave him his broadrange fishy antibiotics, Sloan reminded me that the meds cost more than the $3 goldfish and that he was pretty sure Phlippy had signed a DNR.

And I get it.  It's a fish.  But it is also my kids first up close experience with death.   I wanted to be careful with how it was dealt.  Henry prayed for Phlippy every night.  For Jesus to heal him and make him be flippy and swimmy again.  We'd be out shopping and Henry would randomly say, "Mom, I'm worried about Phlippy."  So even though there a a part of me that wanted to snicker, I said, "Well, sweetie, then we should pray for God to heal our fish because God is powerful and in control.  Just remember that sometimes a healing can come in the form of death."

Which then would then translate into a discussion of heaven.  How in heaven there is no pain or death or black spots on fish.  That when Jesus returns all things will be new and there will be no more tears.

Now some people don't believe all dogs (and fish) go to heaven.  And to be sure, I'm not exactly sure about the whole theology of it.  But it seems to me that if Eden before the fall had fish and animals in it, a new heaven and a new earth would include the animal kingdom.  Yes, there's the whole "but animals aren't created in the image of God" argument, but Romans also tells us that ALL of creation is groaning and waiting for the redemption of the Lord.

So I did not feel even the slightest bit deceitful when upon returning from the gym this morning and discovered that Phlippy was no longer breathing,  I told Henry and Grace that Phlippy had gone to be with Jesus.  That he was no longer hurting or struggling to breath at the bottom of the fish tank.  To which Henry said, "Uh, mom, but Phlippy is still at the bottom of the fish tank."

Details, details.  I am not getting into a discussion about souls and bodies and the like with a 5 year old before I've even had a shower.

We let Henry decide whether we should have an outdoor burial or, perhaps, "at sea" (thank you Nemo for teaching our kids that all toilets lead to the ocean...).  He chose to give Phlippy a watery grave.  Like the Huxtables, we prayed over the toilet.  For Jesus to receive our fish.

And then Henry scurried off to cry by himself.

It was hard for me.  I wanted to comfort him.  To wrap him up in my arms and tell him it would be alright and maybe we could go get some ice cream. That we'd buy him a new fish bigger and better than that old fish.  But I also knew that this very moment could possibly shape the way he handled disappointment and grief for the rest of his life.  (I tend to be a little dramatic. At times.) 

I went to him slowly, sitting next to him on our living room couch.  His whole body was shaking.  I wrapped him in my lap and kissed his forehead.  "I'm just so sad for Phlippy," he said.

"Darling, it is very sad that Phlippy is dead.  You are right to miss him and be sad.  But this hurt, this death, is exactly why Jesus came.  When Jesus rose from the dead on Easter Sunday, he defeated death.  And when he returns, there will be no more death.  Ever.  And so that's our hope.  That's what we look forward to.  But it is still sad.  So if you need to cry, cry."

He rubbed his eyes, then looked up at me.  "When I'm done crying, can we go get a new fish?"

I chuckled.  "Not today.  How about next week after we visit Grandma and Grandpa Phillips?"

At this point, Gracie ran into the living room chomping on a chocalate coin, her "treat" for going poo on the potty.  (Yes.  I use chocolate.  Stop judging me.)

"Okay.  Can I have a chocolate coin now?"

"Yes, my dear.  You can have a chocolate coin."

Because it's also true that even when something you love can't be replaced,  a little piece of chocolate goes a long way in reminding us that all things bitter can be sweet as well.
 

Mes Petits Enfants

We are hopefully in the final stages of transferring our homestudy and the like from China to the DRC.  We go on Wednesday to get our immigration fingerprints.

During this time, we have bandied around names and the truth is, I just can’t name them yet.  Or, I can, but I can’t talk about them by name.  When I hear Henry ask when we are going to the Congo to pick up Charlie and his little sister, my heart still hurts for J.  When I think of Charlie, I still see J's yellow fluffy coat and chapped cheeks.  So Sloan and I have decided to not talk about them by name.  (Read: I have made this a mandate and Sloan is complying because he understands that what is good for the goose is good for the gander.)

But it is weird to not call them anything.  At first I called them the Congolese.  But that was a mouth full.  Then I referred to them as the Africans.  And that felt, um, wrong on multiple levels.  The littles?  Well, they might not both be the youngest in our family.  

I wanted something that was both a term of endearment as well as something that was a nod to their heritage.  Well, French is the national language of the Congo.  More than likely, my children will speak (or have been spoken to in) Lingala or Tshiluba.  But mes petits enfants (my little children –or grandchildren, but I’m not adopting grandchildren) has a nice ring to it. 

 

So mes petits enfants, we adore you.  Whenever we return from the gym and your Daddy has left for a meeting, your sister Gracie asks “Did Daddy go get Cha-lee?”  

Every night when I tuck your big brother Henry into bed, he asks when we are going to get you.  

“Mom, when are you going to Africa to get my brother and baby sister?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps this winter?  After Christmas?”

“January is after Christmas.  In January?”

“I don’t know, hon.  Hopefully in the winter.”

“God sure is taking a long time to bring our family together.”

“Yes, well.  It took lots of prayer and trusting God to bring you into our family and that turned out pretty good.”

“Yeah, I’m awesome.”

Indeed.  Mes Petits Enfants, your big brother is right.  He is awesome.  And so are you.  

J'aime mes petits enfants.

This rock will become a monument to grace

I had two miscarriages before I got pregnant with Henry.  When I made it to the 12 week mark, we finally exhaled.  We’d made it out of that “iffy” time of the first trimester safely.  Certainly it would be smooth sailing from there on out, right?

I was 14 weeks pregnant when after bathing the kids for whom I nannied, I noticed my pants were soaked.  I figured the kids splashing had gotten me and moved on.  But upon hanging up their towels, I saw that I was covered in blood.  Like my socks were wet.  My face went pale, I stumbled into the office of the dad.  I stuttered, “Umm…”  He took one look at me and said, “Go.  Go now.  I’ll call Sloan.”  

I drove to my doctor’s in a daze.  Within minutes I was in the ultrasound room, exhaling as I saw the tiny birdlike creature that was Henry safe and sound.  I had placenta previa and was put on modified bedrest.  At 18 weeks, it became apparent I had a weak cervix and was put on shots to help reduce my chances of preterm labor.  At 23 weeks and a day, I was 4 cm dialated and admitted to the hospital.  

We spoke with countless doctors covering all of our options.  If Henry was to be born this early, there would certainly be complications.  Words like “viability” and “quality of life” were tossed around.  Unbeknownst to me, our perinatologist asked Sloan in the event of an emergency whom was he supposed to save.  Both, he said.  You save them both.

At 34 weeks and a day, Henry arrived.  6 weeks early and not without some feeding difficulties, but within two weeks he was home safe and sound.

During Grace’s adoption, we were initially placed with a little girl whom we named Emma Sloan.  We’d met the birthmother and our little daughter.  I hired painters and had loads of dresses and bibs quickly monogrammed, Emma Sloan.  I’d begun to tell Henry about his new little sister Emma.  Heck, I’d even changed my facebook photo. But then, 8 days after Emma had been born, I received the most difficult call I’ve ever received.  In the commonwealth of Virginia, a birthmother has 10 days to reinstate her parental rights, and this is what Emma’s mom had done.  I literally fell to the floor in my kitchen like some bad Lifetime movie.

But then our case worker began telling us about M.  You see, my family had been this girl’s first choice, but we’d been unavailable.  Our case worker didn’t want to pressure us and certainly was not expecting an answer right away, but would we consider a placement with M?  Quickly, assuredly, I said No.  I just wanted to grieve.  I wanted to pack up all my teeny tiny pink things, set them on fire, and then throw myself a pity party.  I knew God had promised good to me, but this was NOT good.

I mean, we didn’t even start our adoption journey having our profile being open to all races!  We’d begun, like most other well meaning white people, being certain that if we were called to adopt across racial lines we’d know.  And we didn’t know, so we filled out that our profile should only be shown to Caucasian birthmothers.  We said we didn’t want to confuse Henry, were uncertain about our parents’ response, and were unfamiliar with cultural customs.  We said we didn’t want to have to be the poster family for adoption and go give speeches about it in churches.  (Ahem.)

And then, out of nowhere, I was putting our son to bed, praying the Lord’s Prayer, and I got stuck.  God’s word pierced my heart.  I began crying because I could not speak the words “On earth as it is in Heaven”.  It suddenly dawned on me that I had been called to adopt transracially…I’d just let that call go to voicemail.  

And thankfully, Jesus came for me.  He pursued my heart.  He showed me my sin was interfering with the grace he was so desperately trying to give me.  We soon switched our profile to include all races.

Which is a good thing, because that day in the kitchen, I saw firsthand how little that stuff matters.  Seeing me collapse, Sloan took the phone.  Our case worker told him all about M.  That her doctors had stated they would not allow the birthmother to parent the child, but Bethany could not find a family willing to accept this placement.

Sloan pragmatically told the case worker, “Let us pray.  Let us grieve.  But don’t rule us out just yet.  We will call you on Monday.”  I remember looking at him thinking, “What are you doing?  I don’t need to pray about this.”  Fortunately, I was too busy sobbing uncontrollably on the couch to voice this.  Sloan sat next to me and held me.  And through my tears, I heard that ridiculous pursuing love of Jesus speaking to me through my husband.  Sloan said, “For whatever reason, Emma was not our daughter.  I believe this girl is.  I’m afraid too, but we cannot allow our sin to get in the way of what God is doing.  Let’s do this.  Let’s love this girl.  Let’s be the ones to tell her that Jesus has not left her an orphan.”

We called the case worker back immediately.  After all, she was a baby without a Mommy and I was a Mommy without a baby.

This moment, this tender caress and soft conversation in my family room, is the dime upon which our marriage, our lives, and our relationships with Jesus turned.  It was like meeting Sloan for the first time and once again falling head over heels in love.  It was also the first time I understood that trusting Jesus didn’t mean I had to understand His plans.  Or even not be afraid of His plans. It simply meant that I had to take Him at His word—that He, not my child, not my spouse, not even our family’s health, was my security.  That it was the Risen Christ upon whom I was to hang my hopes and that this child was part of the good work prepared in advance for me.  

And so we chose to love her and through God’s mercy, our resolve turned into genuine joy.  Within hours of saying yes to baby M, we were talking to NICU nurses.  They told us of the great pain she was in.  That she was unable to settle down enough to eat or sleep.  That at this point, she was failing to thrive, and were we really certain we wanted her?  Livid, I told the nurse this wasn’t the SPCA, but my daughter she was talking about.  The first time I held that sweet child, she quieted.  She took 5 ounces of formula and drifted off to sleep as her Daddy whispered in her ear, “We are here for you, my sweet.  Jesus loves you.  Jesus is fighting for you, you needn’t fight anymore.”  

This is why we named her Grace.  Because despite all of my own sin, my hemming and hawing and excellent excuse making, God kept pursuing us, entreating us to trust Him, and to receive His good gift to us.   Despite our grief at the loss of Emma, we found true, deeply rooted joy.  And from the first time I held her, I was smitten.  

So it should not have been such a shock to me to learn this morning that there would be roadblocks in the pursuit of our third child.  On June 2^nd, we submitted our Letter of Intent to pursue the adoption of Charlie.  These typically get approved within a week.  Having not heard anything in awhile, I began to worry.  We returned home from vacation to a cryptic voicemail from our agency.  

I immediately began coming up with worst case scenarios.  Chin@ was going to deny our letter of intent.  They were not only going to deny our accepting the referral of Charlie, but were even going to say we couldn’t adopt from Chin@ at all.  Sloan assured me that this wouldn’t happen.  I snapped at him, “I need you to feed my crazy for just a minute.”  He laughed and said, “I will not.  That boy is our son.  End of story.”  

But then I realized that actually, the worst case scenario would NOT be if Chin@ rejected us, but if something happened to that little boy whose picture is on our mantle and is forever embossed on my heart.  Something that prohibited him from being adopted by anybody.

So to some degree, I was relieved this morning when I spoke to our case worker.  That little boy is fine.  But yes, there are some pretty major roadblocks to our adoption of any child from Chin@.  To the point that our agency is sending a worker to Chin@ to advocate on our behalf in person. 

So at this point, it is as it has always been, in Jesus’ hands.  And he is for us.

A friend this morning reminded me of when Jacob thought he was alone, sad and using a rock for a pillow and then bam!  Jacob had a dream of God coming to him on a ladder and Jacob knew that he was not alone.  Nor are we.  God is here with us in our pain.  He has not been blindsided by this.  While the roadblock may be so big it can be seen from space, it is but a speck to him.  So like Jacob, we are confident that this rocky pillow will become a stone in a monument to God’s grace to us.  

Are we heartbroken?  Yes.

Are we frightened?  Yes.

Are we without hope?  NO.  My prayer is the same as it was that first night we found out Emma was not ours.   

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief.

From October 31, 2009

Dear Lord,

I thought I'd already fought Goliath.  Remind me that it was You who felled my giants and You are eager to do it again.  And again.

Apparently, You are not done forming Your image in me.  Give me the strength to be rescued by You.  Help me to stop splashing about in my own strength.  Give me the faith the drown in You.  Thank you that it matters not if I can hold onto You.  YOU WILL NOT LET ME GO.

Help me to not believe the lie that I am alone in this.  Grant me the faith to trust You as I step out in faith once again. 

You say You are the lifter of my head.  Lift it. 

I want to see Your face.

Through many dangers, toils, and snares, I have already come.  'Tis grace that's brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.

Laughing at His affection

This is my current facebook status:

Sometimes God's goodness to me is kinda ridiculous. I don't mean to sound irreverent, but seriously, I've met me. And the God of the universe delighting in me is just. plain. hilarious. So if you see me laughing like a crazy person, it's because that's the sane response to His scandalous grace.

It's true, y'all.

Those who are blessed enough to know Henry, know that our boy is one affectionate child.  He tells me I'm beautiful usually 40 times a day.  He says it so often I've come to doubt he actually knows what the word means.  (Trust me, I am anything but beautiful after an hour on the elliptical.  I'm sweaty, red, and hangry.  Hangry = so hungry I'm angry.) 

Often Henry's first words to me in the morning are, "Mommy, you're beautiful.  I just love you so, so much."  He often kisses me so often its embarrassing.  I try to remember that in a decade I'll be missing all the cuddles and smooches.  But really, when I'm in the midst of cooking or cleaning or tagging yard sale items, it can be cumbersome to be hugged and kissed 37 times in the span of 20 minutes.  I confess that at times it takes all of my good mommy will power to hug and kiss him back and not say, "Henry, I know.  You just told me three minutes ago.  You're in my way; Mommy is trying to do something."

This is what our adoption journey has been and continues to be like.  God is just smothering us with affection.  To the point of claustrophobia. 

If you long to feel God's tight squeeze upon you, might I suggest you take the opportunity to boldly obey him in some small way.  Forgive your spouse that misspoke.  Love the unlovable.  Uphold the cause of the weak and oppressed.  Defend the poor.  Care for an orphan or a widow.  I guarantee that is where you will meet Him in a new and profound way.  You'll hear God's voice tell you "You're beautiful" and you can trust that He knows what it means.

Five year Interview

Favorite Color: Light blue

Favorite Book: the Bible

Favorite Food: Pizza

Food that is yucky: Spaghetti with Sauce

Favorite Restaurant: Angelo’s

Favorite Sport: Soccer

Favorite Show: Thomas and Friends

Favorite Movie: Wall-E

Favorite Toy: Thomas trains

Favorite Game: Super Mario Galaxy 2

Favorite thing at school: Playing on the computer

Favorite Season: January, it’s the first one.

Favorite Place to Go: Our condo at the beach.

Favorite thing about Mommy: We like to play puzzles.

Favorite thing about Daddy: His pancake flipping skills.

Favorite thing about Grace: That she’s my sister.

Favorite thing about myself: Jesus is in my heart.

If I could go anywhere in the world, it would be: Disneyworld!

When I grow up, I want to be: a sailor, just like Daddy.*

When I was little I used to: Be in Mommy’s tummy.

Three words to describe me are: Awesome, Giggly, and Expert.

My one wish for this year: For Charlie to hurry up and get here.

*Ummm, Sloan is in sales.  He's not a sailor.  But this was Henry's answer.  Awesome.