I dropped a bomb on you, Baby. I dropped a bomb on you.

I dropped a bit of a bomb yesterday inadvertently. For those of you close to me, the fact that I dropped a bomb should cause no surprise. Launching grenades to stir the waters is kinda my thing. That said, it was inappropriate for me to divulge the information on my blog regarding being a rape survivor without further comment for a couple of reasons. Primarily because it occurs to me, after receiving several emails and messages, that some important people close to me did not know this information. And reading about it on my blog was not the correct way to divulge such personal information to those I love. I am sorry. You know who you are and you deserved better. I can assure you that it was not calculated, but an oversight. An oversight born of the second reason it was inappropriate-- I didn’t comment further about it to report my feelings on the situation or the redemption of the situation. So it became just a confession of scandal. A bit of sordid gossip. And it was more than that. And yet, so much less.

I say that I may have overlooked sharing the information because, quite honestly, I really don’t think about it all that much anymore. Key word—anymore. There was a time when it consumed me. But that is no longer who I am. God has healed this deep wound; it is NOT time that has healed this wound. Yes, time has made the edges fuzzy, but it has not erased the memories I have surrounding the two events.

Yes, two.

The details of the events are unimportant. It is enough to say simply that one event occurred during high school and another in college, and that I assumed the second occurrence was some type of punishment for not “handling” the first incident properly. What you do need to know, I suppose, is what I now know about myself, about the nature of sin and shame, and, most importantly, about God.

For starters, I want you to know that I am no longer ashamed to say I am a rape survivor. The word “rape” is like a black hole in a conversation. No one really knows how to respond or what to say. But I know now that I have no reason to be ashamed. I did nothing wrong. By definition, I could not have prevented it. And yet I bore the shame, alone and in silence, for many years. And it nearly killed me. Literally.

Shame enslaves the heart of every sexual abuse survivor. Jean-Paul Satre called shame a hemorrhage of the soul. Shame prevents us from speaking out. It combines the fear of rejection with the fear of intimacy. Shame is intense and is a shared emotion, taking into account the reactions of others. Attempts to dissipate the shame by giving words to the unspeakable seem only to increase it. Shame is mirrored by the listener, sometimes quite obviously by a blush, an averting of the eyes, a hunching of the shoulders, or by silence. The telling then feels like a confession, an admission of wrongdoing, and the sense of both shame and guilt multiply. And it was never my job to bear the guilt and shame of this sin.

The main problem with rape is not the act itself. That occurred in a moment. However, the rape left me with several lies I believed as a result. I want to speak to these lies because I know that, unfortunately, the lies I believed are not unique to me.

For starters, I believed I brought it upon myself. That somehow I deserved it. Do you see how damaging it can be for someone to believe that they do not even have the right to decide when and how they want to be touched? To not even have authority of their own person?

Secondly, I believed that God was not for me. I grew up in a Christian home. I was active in my youth group. I went to cheesy summer Christian camps. My parents would always tell me that God had great plans for me, plans to prosper me and not to harm me, plans to give me hope and a future (Jeremiah 29:11). And yet, what I heard and believed was that yes, God was a good God for God’s people. But because this horrible thing had happened to me, I obviously was not in that number. That God’s love and mercy was for some other girl, but not for me. I also saw no hope of this ever changing.

Scripture tells us that hope deferred makes the heart sick. And for most of my adolescence and early adulthood, my heart was very, very sick.

Unfortunatly, in high school, I was too afraid to seek help. In college, at the behest of loving roommates who saw me struggling, I began to get professional help. However, for some reason or another, I never actually talked about the incidents. I was misdiagnosed with BiPolar II disorder, which went well with my Creative Writing degree and made me feel somehow darkly special. But the meds never seemed to quite work or regulate me. (Probably because they were the wrong ones.)

It was not until I’d moved to Richmond to live with my sister and her family and began to see a new Psychologist that I actually began to clearly recognize what was going on. I was, and had been for some time, struggling through PTSD. I had attempted to redeem myself and failed miserably. I could no more redeem the situation than a cold cup of coffee could reheat itself. Both require the work of an outside power source. In my struggle to regain control and autonomy, I had been an agent of sin and bore that guilt and shame as well.

Once, while on a walk with my godly sister, she encouraged me to not believe in God. She said, “From where I sit, the god you are describing was not only absent, but powerless to help you and impotent to change you. You should abandon that god. He is doing you no good.”

I shared with her that I understood the promises of God to His people, but that it had become abundantly clear that I was not His people and so could we all just stop pretending I was? Again she told me that she knew the real Living God. The One she believed in had defeated death, had turned a denier into His first Pope, a murderer into His most acclaimed Apostle. She assured me that He did have plans for my future and for my good. I rolled my eyes and from memory quoted her the complete scripture, saying, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

She smirked. “You do not know. You know the words, but you do not know the context. You need to investigate the context.” When we returned home from the walk, she handed me a Bible. “Read the entire chapter.”

What I saw was that God was not bragging about his great and wonderful plans to His warm, fuzzy, safe, do-gooding people. He was proclaiming His hope to a people in exile. He was speaking to captives. People who, while in exile, had abandoned Him. And I read further--He would draw near to those who cried out to Him and He would bring them out of captivity. I saw a glimmer of hope that my station was not permanent.

I also began to see that despite the fact that I felt alone and forsaken, I was not. (Hallelujah our feelings are not barometers for truth!)

What I had in my youth failed to see was that I had never been alone. Never. And because I had never been alone, the sins were not just against me, but also God himself. It was His image in me that had been stripped away. The dignity I no longer felt was an affront to Him because He had given it to me. I slowly learned that not only was Jesus there with me in my darkest hours, but that he was pissed off about it as well.

I remember the first time I ever really understood what the cross was about. Shockingly, it was while watching the movie the Patriot. The scene in which Mel Gibson’s character was unleashing his grief over the murder of his son. And by unleashing his grief, I mean to say he was brutally attacking a British soldier with a tomahawk. He was singularly focused and covered in blood. His wrath was both justified and uncontained. It broke Mel Gibson’s character to tears. It occurred to me that that’s how mad God was about what had happened to me. And He continued to be mad about all the lies it had led me to believe about myself and who He was. It broke me to tears when I understood that His love for me was so great it really did cause a physical reaction in the heart of God. It also broke me to understand that His love for my rapist was so great that instead of taking it out on him, God bore the punishment Himself, on the cross.

I was wrong to say yesterday that Jesus only bore one cross. He bore a cross so big that it covered every sin of every person for all time. Every rape. Every evil look. Every adultery. Every lie. Every murder. He was forsaken so that I would not be. He bore shame so that I could hold my head high. He was separated from God so that I could not be. He did not consider his suffering on the cross to be greater than the need for God’s image and glory to be fully reflected and revealed in me. The depravity of what happened to me was great. The wrath it caused greater still. And yet, the greatest thing was God’s never ending, unstoppable, all-consuming love for me.

I will say that unlike my infertility, this has been a wound for which I have not yet seen its complete redemption. I can wholeheartedly boast in my infertility. It is truly the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon me for in it I have seen God work mightily both in the miraculous conception and birth of Henry and the adoption of Gracie.

I have not yet seen the fruit that this will certainly bear. Most likely I will not see it this side of Heaven. But I am confident that God’s image remains in me. I am confident that someday I will stand alongside many saints and we will point to our scars and say, “Come see this thing God healed.”

As for now, I simply trust that is true about all of us…

7 But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8 We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9 persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 10 We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. 11 For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. 12 So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.


13 It is written: “I believed; therefore I have spoken.” With that same spirit of faith we also believe and therefore speak, 14 because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you in his presence. 15 All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.


16 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 17 For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

-2 Corinthians 4: 7-18

Is Your Steadfast love declared in the grave?

Last night I noticed the first leaf sprouting on one of the giant trees in our front yard. I groaned. Because that leaf and all of its friends will wither, die, then fall to the ground and I’m going to have to rake and bag them.


Lately I feel as though I can’t even catch my breath from the effects of death surrounding me. I recently finished reading Mary Beth Chapman’s Choosing to See. I think you should read it. Now. It will break you in ways you need to be broken. In the book she chronicles her family’s journeys into both adoption and grief. It will make you a) want to adopt a Chinese special needs child, and b) cause tightness in your chest.

This past weekend, Henry was lethargic and without appetite all Saturday. To the point of asking to leave his girlfriend’s bounce house birthday party early. When we got home, he immediately snuggled up with a blanket on our living room couch. The living room is NOT the room with a TV in it. He said his legs hurt and he just couldn’t walk anymore. He looked flush, so I took his temperature and he had a low grade fever. Instantly, fear gripped me. It seemed random to me that his legs hurt. I asked if he meant his tummy. Sometimes he’d say yes his tummy hurt; sometimes he would just whimper and show me that his legs hurt. I’d try to massage his legs and he told me this felt good. So, of course, I Googled his symptoms. And, of course, as all medical Google searches end, I diagnosed my son with cancer.

I told Sloan I thought Henry might have Leukemia and I was going to take him to the doctor on Monday. Sloan said, “I’m sorry, was it before or after you streaked down North Street that you went to medical school?” I was not amused.

As I brushed my teeth, my chest tightened. I could not even allow the thoughts of what this would mean to fully form in my head. I began to barter with God. “Jesus, I’m a rape survivor, infertile, and adoption advocate. How many freaking crosses do I have to bear? For God’s sake, even you only had to carry one.”

I thought of how Jesus prayed for the cup to pass him, but that in the end, He perfectly prayed “But not my will but yours be done.” Again I prayed. “God, you need to listen to me. I will not pray for your will to be done if your will is for Henry to die. So just know that. You can find someone else to pray that for me, but I. Will. Not."

I couldn’t fall asleep that night. I just lie in bed, marinating in fear based on my Google diagnosis. Every hour or so, Henry would come into our room to remind me he didn’t feel well and that he needed cuddles. Around 2, I gave in and just went into his room, thankful the boy has a Queen size bed. Around 5am, Henry got up, staggered to his train table, and threw up.

I asked him if he still felt sick and if his legs still hurt. He looked at me as though he had no idea what I was talking about. “My legs don’t hurt, Mommy. I have a tummy ache. I need to go watch TV.” Immiediately I recanted my threats to Jesus, as it was obvious the boy did not have Cancer, just the pukes. I’m not crazy about pukes. But pukes I can handle. Pukes do not make my hands shake or my breathing labored.

Add to this, a close friend of my sister’s family just lost their 19 year old son in a tragic accident. Tomorrow, my nephews will bury T, who was like a brother to them. We are all in a state of shock as this family buried a young cousin just several years ago who also died in a tragic drowning accident.

And because I have the inexplicable talent of making all things really about me, their loss has brought forth the feelings of grief I still feel over my beloved friend from high school, C. I didn’t even have a chance to attend his funeral just 4 years ago. Henry had just been born premature and was in the NICU, so my parents chose not to tell me until we were out of the hospital. I have a picture of C attached to the visor mirror of my Suburban. This creeps Sloan out both because I keep a picture of another man around but also because C is dead.

I keep the photo to remind me to pray for C’s mom. I was always one of S’s favorites. She would write to me in college. I still write her letters from time to time when I think of a memory of C—the dorky thick glasses he wore in elementary school, the cowboy boots he wore in high school, the weeks I pretended to be his sister so I could visit him in the ICU after a bad car accident he had, the limp he turned into a swagger, the fact that even when he was relearning to walk he could still kill me in pool.

It is unnatural for a parent to bury their child.

Grief is hard wherever it comes from, but the loss of a child just sticks. We all take for granted that we will bury our parents, our friends, even our spouses, but not our children. Even as I type this, my chest is tightening. I can’t even let my thoughts of “what ifs” fully form for they scare me too much. I remember when I learned that Emma Sloan was not my daughter. How I fell to the floor, hyperventilating. And yet, even with that, I was and continue to be comforted that she is still alive.

And as a Christian, I can take comfort that I will see C again. That perhaps T will take the chubby toddler hand of J and they will together run into the arms of Jesus.

But the death of a child still sucks. Big time. I’d like to find a more profound way to express this, but I cannot. So where do I turn? What do I grab hold of when I find myself crying out “God, where the hell are you?”

My only comfort is that God knows this chest tightening well. That not only has he lost a child, but orchestrated that death for my sake. It was not a tragic accident nor an act of desperation. It was calculated, brutal, torturous. We like to think of Jesus as a victim to an extreme injustice. He is no victim. He willingly offered himself up on behalf of his friends who napped when he told them he was sorrowful to the point of death, on behalf of his friend who betrayed him, on behalf of his murderers. On behalf of us.

So I take comfort in knowing that through his death and resurrection, He is making all things new. That the day will come when God himself will again dwell amongst His people. And he will wipe every tear from our eyes for there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.

Rocket Man (Overheard)

I confess.  I was eavesdropping.  Through the closed bathroom door.  I love my son. 

Henry:  5!  4!  3!  2!  1!  Blast out the Pooooooopy!  Way to goooo Henry!  Yeah Henry's bottom!  You go poopy on the potty!  And now.....relax....and....pee-pee!  Woo-hoo!  Yeah Henry's penis!  You go pee-pee on the potty!  Henry. You.  Are.  Awesome.

Oh, to love myself enough to congratulate myself upon successful bodily functions.

Wrong Questions

People often ask me if we’ll adopt again. Today, I say no. More specifically, I can say that at least for the next three years, we will not as that’s my term on the Bethany board. But from that point on, I just don’t know.

Sloan tells me that he’s talked to Jesus and Jesus has assured him that we’re done. He likes to be pragmatic and discuss the finances of adopting again and says things like “You know that would mean you wouldn’t be able to get a minivan or probably ever move to a bigger house?” (My husband knows my idols.)

At first, I said to Sloan, “How about we pray for either your heart or my heart to be changed?” Which basically amounts to us praying against one another. Not great for the marriage.

Instead, we have decided to pray for more of Jesus. To pray to see his heart more clearly.

I have a feeling where this is headed…

When we adopted Gracie, it was to grow our family. To quench a thirst we had to be parents again. To give Henry a sibling. To feel a sense that our family was complete. What I did not expect was for God to use the adoption of Gracie to pretty much change everything about me. Through adoption, I expected to receive a son or daughter. I did not expect to be given a glimpse of God’s heart. I did not expect God to rudely invite Himself over to my house, set up camp, and change everything.

I do feel that our family is complete. We have a boy and a girl. The ratio of biological to adopted children is equal. Everyone has someone to ride with on the roller coaster. My heart is full. Overflowing, in fact.

But what if, perhaps, it’s not all about me?

What if God has more of Himself to show and give me through adoption?

What if it is not a matter of asking if we feel “done” but about asking if there’s “room”?

What doesn't kill you...

So apparently, the AAP is now recommending that kids stay rear facing until age 2 and basically in some type of booster seat car seat until age 12.  I have some thoughts about this but what really chaps me are the discussions going on between mothers regarding this issue.  Because that's just what I need, another reason for other Mommies to judge me.

For some reason (I think it was to comment on something about adoption), I "like" Today Show Moms on Facebook.  Today's topic of discussion between strangers is the new AAP car seat recommendations.  I kid you not, there are women on there using exclamation points and ALL CAPS saying to other Moms "well you must not be concerned about your child's safety," or "YOU ARE AN UNSAFE PARENT BECAUSE YOU CARE MORE ABOUT COMFORT THAN SAFETY."  One Mom pointed out that her toddler was too big for rear facing in weight and another Mom commented that she should put her toddler on a diet.  Another Mom was bragging about how she kept her son rear facing until he was in Kindergarten and she plans on having him in the backseat in a booster until he takes Driver's Ed.  I imagine she'll enjoy her son's honeymoon as well.  Let's all commit to pray for her future daughter-in-law starting now. 

As for me, Gracie is forward facing.  And she'll remain forward facing until the law in Virginia changes. I don't feel bad about this. If you want to keep your kid rear-facing until 2, that's cool. I think if this recommendation had been passed down prior to us switching her at a year, we might've gone with it.  But probably not as her being on the passenger side was a pain.  And a pain for me when I rode shotgun because I had to eat my knees while riding to accommodate the giant Britax Marathon.  Gracie hates riding in the car unless she can see someone.  I'm pretty certain it is more dangerous for her to be driven around by someone who has gone insane because of her yelling than it is for her to be sitting forward.  In addition, the majority of car seats even sold in the US aren't road or crash tested, and when they have been tested by Consumer Reports, most of your run of the mill Gracos and Evenflos are crap.   So while I don't place comfort higher than safety on my list of priorities, things like cup holders and a cover that washes well were a factor when purchasing both of my kids carseats. Also, to be clear, it's difficult for me to feed her by simply throwing chicken nuggets and french fries at her if she is rear facing. 

So go ahead and judge.  To give you more ammunition here is a list of other AAP recommendations I readily disregard...

*Neither of my kids were breastfed until age 1.  Not even until two months.  So suck it.  (Or, in this case, don't suck it.)

*Peanut butter.  Gracie loves it.  She'd like to be bathed in it if at all possible.  (Wouldn't we all?)

*Grapes.  Neither of my kids will eat them if they are cut up.  Because, and I quote, "They are icky and slimy."  I used to send them cut up in Henry's lunch box for school, in order to comply with the school's "quarters only!" rule, but each week the baggie of mushy grape pieces came back untouched.  So now I just send apples.  Which both of my children eat whole.

*Both of my kids watched TV before age 2.  In fact, they're watching TV right now. 

*Both of my kids have slept in my bed.  And as soon as they could roll over, both have been allowed to sleep on their stomach.  (Was I supposed to just hover all night long and roll them like they were hot dogs on a grill?) They also have large quantities of blankets, books, pillows, and stuffed animals and the like in their bed.  

*Both of my kids have been given cold medicine.  Because both of my kids like to breathe.  Here's the issue with cold medicine and other "parents are stupid" type product recalls.  Lawyers came up with this.  Because parents were not following dosage instructions properly.  And if you're not drawing up your cough medicine in a labeled syringe, it IS relatively easy to give your kid 10mL of something rather than 5mL.  And that's a big overdose.  Also, it is not the Bumbo seat's fault if you stick your kid in the seat, put them on the dining room table, then go take a nap.  And I really am pretty sure that sticking a sticker on the Bumbo that reads "Do not leave your child unattended" doesn't make the seat any more or less safe.  It's a chair; not a babysitter.  If you need a babysitter, might I suggest letting your kid watch some TV?

*I used candy as a motivator to potty train Henry.  And now we're using tattoos and "poopy presents" to curtail his poop in the night time pull up habit.  And unless my Pediatrician wants to come over and change his poopy pull-ups, he'll just have to get over it.  The NP at my office suggested telling Henry that he needed to sit on the potty and poop "Because it feels so good and it will relax you."  .......RIIIIIIGHT.

* Neither of my kids have a monitor in their room.  I own a monitor and when they were infants we used it.  We also used it when we transitioned Henry to a big bed we used it.  But I really don't want to hear their every word, gasp, breathe, snort, or sob in the middle of the night.  If they need me, they'll either come and get me or just yell for me.  Our bedrooms are all on the same floor.  I suppose if I had a 1st floor master and they were upstairs, that might change, but I'm not completely certain. 

*Henry uses toothpaste with fluoride.  Because he doesn't want cavities.  Yeah, I know.  You've been told it's poison and can make your baby green and kill them.  My kid's dentist, who just happens to be my Dad, assures me that unless I allow Henry to eat an entire tube of toothpaste, he'll be fine.  And even then, he'll probably just puke and get diarhea.  So if I'm not paying attention to my son for the hour or so it would take him to unscrew the cap, squeeze out and ingest an entire tube of Crest, an episode of poop soup is probably the best I can hope for.

I get that the well meaning Doctor's and their even more well-meaning Attornies are simply reacting to the overly-litigious well meaning parent.  The parent who wants to protect at all costs.  To control tomorrow at all costs.  And I'm not saying be cavalier with your kid, but folks, you just can't protect your kids from everything.  In fact, if your kid doesn't learn at 3 that falling off a bike hurts and bloodies your knee, I worry about your kid when he gets his Driver's liscense.  And if you want to teach your kid to shoot for the stars, there is no better place for them to learn than from the upper limbs of a tree.  Yes, they might break an arm or leg.  But the finer things in life all come at great risk.  My job as a mom is to prepare my children to be great man and woman.  Greatness requires bravery.  And a little bit of stupidity. 

Bumps, scrapes, burns, casts, scars--the marks of a childhood well lived. 

Lent, Drag Queens, and my Dad...

This year for Lent I am journaling and praying along with the World Vision Activism Network (see link and tab to your right). This week, we’ve been looking at poverty. As in, intense “African children digging through dirt to find rocks to sell” poverty. We’ve been asked to look at our lives, our own dependency upon luxuries, and even more difficult, to investigate the places from which we derive our self worth. It suggested this week that we give up a luxury to help with this.  A pillow, shampoo, and socks were literally some of the suggestions. It also suggested either fasting for a day or perhaps choosing one meal per day to skip in order to better acquaint ourselves with real hunger. I spent all of Monday sick, so I emailed a friend, who is also doing this devotional for Lent, the following question—“If I spent the majority of Monday lying in my nightgown on the bathroom floor, does this count as fasting and giving up my pillow? I know I spent a lot of time praying.”

I don’t think this is what the devotional was getting at. (Though really, I did spend a lot of time praying. However, pretty much only for myself and my bowels. And for Gracie who was stranded in her crib most of the day.)

But it has made me rethink the way I view the poor. Particularly the poor here in America.

And that, folks, is a MAJOR buzz kill. The truth is I don’t want to think about those with less than me. I’m too busy freaking out over here about what I don’t have. Sure, I’ll clean out my closet and pantry to donate to my church, but don’t make me change the way I live.

Dear God, please don’t make me give until it actually hurts. I’m cool with giving my little 10%. But please, oh please, can you at least wait until we recover from paying off our adoption loan before you ask me to give some more? What’s that? It’s your money anyway… Well, I suppose if you’re going to get technical about it, sure, but…but…but…

It’s also killing my buzz about an upcoming party I’m going to. Sloan and I have been invited to a “Trailer Trash” themed Murder Mystery party. I’m the park snob who is married to the trailer park owner. (I asked to be a mean girl). Sloan’s role is, well, he’s a drag queen. There’s really no way getting around it. (His desire is to be a Glam drag queen. And I quote, “I’ve seen bad drag and I won’t do that. I don’t want to look like I just woke up at the Trailways station and put on a dress.”) And as I gather all of my gold jewelry, borrow my niece’s body glitter, and begin to take antacids to help the tater-tot casserole go down a little more smoothly with my box wine, there’s a part of my heart that is a little sad. Sad because I’m making fun of people because they are poor.

I’m trying to remind myself that I’m not making fun of poor people, just people who pierce their fake fingernails, have two inch long black roots, and giant dolphin tattoos on their ta-tas. Oh, and drag queens. But I’m totally cool with making fun of drag queens. Drag queens make fun of drag queens, so I consider them fair game.

I’ve also begun to pray for the people who live in trailer parks. In particular, one family I knew as a child. I don’t remember their names, or even know if they still live in a trailer park. But their kindness, despite their poverty, impressed me. They taught me that dignity is not reserved for the wealthy. Literally, I don’t remember their names, so I’m simply going to call them Peter and Mary. Peter and Mary went to my family’s church. They had two daughters, both of whom were younger than me. I was around 10. Peter was an unemployed construction worker and Mary, a seamstress. As a kid, I remember Peter always around our house, my dad’s dental office, or one of my dad’s many rental homes. He painted, sanded, and wallpapered. He hung mirrors and paintings. I just sort of saw him as Dad’s handyman. Mary used to come over to our house with her girls and she would measure me for dresses. Then she’d return for another playdate, with pretty, monogrammed dresses. And usually about once a month, we went to their little trailer for lunch after church. The trailer park was far from the golf course upon which I grew up. Every Sunday lunch we had with them was the same--homemade vegetable soup. We ate it out of large mugs. Mary would carefully hand grate cheddar cheese over my mug and then hand me a thread-worn, hand-embroidered, cloth napkin. Sitting on a plaid ottoman (they had no dining room much less a dining room table), I felt like royalty. I wasn’t trusted to eat soup in the living room at home. I didn’t even know they sold cheese in giant blocks—it always came sliced or shredded in a bag at home. And in my 4th grade eyes, the dainty napkin was clearly meant for a Princess.

The sudden flashback of this has blessed me immensely. Not only for giving me an extraordinary example of just who lives in a trailer park, but also an approach to ministry that allowed for the recipients to remain dignified. In hindsight, my dad didn’t need a personal handyman. And my mom didn’t need to get me handmade custom dresses. Nevertheless, they employed this family. And moreover, they never once offered to take this family out to lunch. Or pay for the yummy vegetable soup Mary made each time we dined with them. Or buy them a dining room table. Maybe you think this was an oversight, but I don’t. I’m sure if Peter and Mary had asked for a dining room table, knowing my parents, they would’ve bought them a table, chairs, and a 12 place setting of China. Instead, my parent's generosity was not an attempt to fix this family, but a marker of the Provider whom both families served.


My parents are many things that drive me batty, but anyone who as ever met them will tell you they are generous. Extravagantly generous. Ever heard of those folks in front of you who buy your meal in the drive through line at Chick-Fil-A? Well, that’s not my parents because they don’t do drive through. But I do know they once paid a woman’s entire medical bill at my son’s old pediatrician’s office because they overheard the receptionist telling the new mother her insurance didn’t cover her newborn baby. I watched my Dad walk over to the counter, reprimand the receptionist while he handed over his credit card, and then he laid his hands on the child’s car seat and asked the Mom if he could pray for the child. (Please note that I said OLD receptionist. I mean we no longer see this doctor, not she was elderly…)

My Dad gets where his money comes from. He gets where his health and his talents to make money come from. Sure, he’s worked hard. Really hard. But if you ask him how the kid of a truck driver from Tennessee came to live on the first tee of Greensboro Country Club’s Farm course in a finely appointed home, his answer will be Jesus. And not I’ve done good things so Jesus has blessed me because I’ve earned it. But God has blessed me richly and he’s done it for the sole purpose of me being able to bless others. And that blesses me.

So God, I get it. Whereas I have (some) money, I have extreme soul poverty. I confess I seek comfort in material things. I derive my worth from the number of people who know me, from the number of shoes in my closet, from the clothes my kids wear. I’m afraid to give because it means I’ll have less of the things that I use to define me. But YOU want to define me. YOU want to be my worth. YOU want to be my comfort. I confess I don't believe You are enough. Forgive me. BE GOD TO ME, O LORD.

Blessed by cornrows

It’s not every day you get to experience God’s love anew by playing with somebody’s hair. But that is EXACTLY what happened to me today.

T and L before church.

My friend Tracy has a 4 year old foster daughter, T. Tracy is an interim care parent for Bethany Christian Services, which means she and her family bridge the gap between the time a birthmom relinquishes her rights and the ten days waiting time required in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Some agencies don’t use interim care parents, but Bethany has found it to be a blessing for all parties. Typically, this means that Tracy and her family love on babies from the time they get home from the hospital until they are 10 days old. Sure, there are sleepless nights, poopy diapers, and pediatrician visits, but by and large it’s a simple gig that assures Tracy meets her baby snuggles quota. (If you know Tracy, you understand that her baby cuddle needs are great. This is why she keeps nursery so often.) So when the case worker at Bethany called her to keep T, it was unusual. In fact, if you knew all the facts of the situation, your heart would break. And then you’d be mad. And then you’d kiss Tracy and her family for opening their home to T. You’d buy her daughter, L, a pony. L is also 4 years old and hasn’t minded sharing her toys, her clothes, and her bed to her new sister.

T has been with Tracy for 2 weeks. Before T can be adopted by her forever family, she has to visit a dentist, a pediatrician, and psychologist, and, I believe, an educational therapist. When T first arrived, she was quiet. It quickly became apparent that T had, at the very least, a speech delay. So while Tracy had hoped T and L would be playmates, T really is more similar to a 2 year old in speech and temperament. It also became clear that she’d never been really loved before. She’d never had limits set or consequences followed through with. And as T has grown more comfortable in her surroundings, she has struggled with learning that you can’t say “Shut Up!”, you must share, and that growling at people is not an acceptable way to say “No, thank you.”

But she has thrived in Tracy’s family. Within 48 hours, Tracy and her husband were called Mommy and Daddy. She has begun to uncross her arms. It no longer takes standing on your head to get her to smile for the camera. She’s gained 3 pounds. And so when, yesterday, Tracy attempted for the second time to take her to the Pediatrician, the Doctor could hardly believe that it was the same child.



At the start of the detangling process.



That’s what love does. It uncrosses our arms so we can take another’s hand. And I’ve been blessed to pray for her. And watch this transformation. And this morning, to participate in teaching her what it means to be loved.



Her hair was a mess. T came to Tracy with ragged box braids. Upon removal of the braids, it became apparent that T’s hair was VERY damaged. And her scalp was dry. And flaky. When Tracy first approached me helping T, I was overwhelmed. I decided my first priority would simply to be to work towards scalp health. And then moisturizing. Because I don’t care what type of hair you have—be it bone straight or kinky and coiled, brittle hair isn’t healthy hair.



Tangle free and ready to style!





As I’ve delved deep into the world of AA hair care, I’ve learned a lot. And most of what I learned is that all of us with typical Caucasian hair are idiots when it comes to AA hair. Even hairdressers. Even some African Americans. People are surprised when they touch Gracie’s hair and it is soft. It’s not because she’s biracial. It’s because it’s healthy. I put a sheaf butter and coconut oil on her scalp and hair every night. I spray a distilled water and jojoba oil mix on it every morning. And when it looks dry anytime during the day, I moisturize it. I only wash her hair with shampoo every 10 days or so. The rest of the time, I wash it with conditioner. Sometimes I don’t even rinse the conditioner out. And I put food oils in it—coconut, olive, grape seed, jojoba, and avocado—NOT petroleum based products. Petroleum products do not get absorbed into the hair, they just rest on top. Natural oils get absorbed and actually changed the texture of the hair and reduce the amount of water that evaporates from it, thereby increasing moisture content and decreasing breakage. So that’s why, AA lady who asked for my advice, you don’t understand why your daughter’s hair looks greasy and Grace’s does not. Your daughter’s hair IS greasy.



T came over this morning, while Henry was in school, for a hair party. We began with a bowl of pretzels, a sippy cup of juice, and Princess and the Frog on the TV. She was sitting in Henry’s chair in front of me while I had lined up detangler, my oil/water spray, a shea butter mix, and pure coconut oil all lined up. Her hair was washed last night. I was also armed with clips, a detangling comb, and a Tangle Teaser. I set to work in simply sectioning off her hair, clipping it, coating it in Kinky Kurly’s Knot Today detangler and then using my fingers to detangle it. I’m so accustomed to working quickly on Grace’s shaking head that it was a welcome change to work on a girl who was setting still. Every now and then she’d tell me "Thank you" for doing her hair.

It took roughly 40 minutes to detangle her entire head. I think it took so long because a) I’m a novice, b) I had to refill the pretzels, and c) it hadn’t been done in awhile. She shed A LOT of hair.



You can see the breakage on this side,
but I think the braid helps disguise it.



I decided to go with a quick and simple style that should hold up a week until hopefully she’ll come over for another Princess Hair Party. I gave her simple two-strand twists in the lamest part pattern ever known to man—the box. Because there was SO much breakage along her hairline, I opted for a large cornrow along her hairline to both disguise the breakage a bit and to protect her hairline from further breakage. I think next week we may try to trim her hair some to even it up. I doubt she has ever had a haircut.

By the time she left, her hair was soft and shiny. It soaked up the butters and oils. Her scalp was already remarkably improved.







Here you can see the parts and the twists.
Sorry it is wobbly; we were laughing.

Here she is at lunch.  Where she and Gracie
had an eating contest.  T won by half and apple and
a peanut butter cracker.   You know, after they both ate
a hot dog, some cheese, and pretzels.



I cannot tell you how much this morning with T meant to me. It confirmed to me that when my stint on the Bethany board is done we will sign up to be a Foster Family. Loving her gave me a glimpse of what Jesus sees and does every day. Gently with his hands undoing the damage. Working out the kinks and knots. Anointing and massaging with life giving oils. Creating something new. Something healthy. Something pliable to His touch. Something glorious.

Apparently, this is just how I roll…

In my mind, I’ve got it going on. My house is straight, my children relatively obedient, my priorities in order, my schedule appropriately filled, my legs shaved. Other than the fact that I’d say, yeah, my kids are about as obedient as one can expect a 16 month old and an almost 4 year old to be…well, let’s just say if everything is perfect in my mind, in reality, clearly, I am out of my mind.

A couple of weeks ago, as I was washing my face, preparing to go to bed, I noticed that there was a Dora yogurt label affixed to my shirt. No one had eaten yogurt since breakfast. So apparently, I’d gone to the grocery store, picked up Henry from school, and eaten at Qdoba, all with an aluminum foil pasty stuck on my left nipple like some cheap Janet Jackson impersonator.

Last Friday, on the way to Gracie’s follow-up RSV visit to the pediatrician, Gracie took off her socks and shoes. Too tired to put them back on, I carried her in shoeless, despite the cold temps. No biggie, right? But then, while in the waiting room, she had a poop explosion. So she was the baby with just a shirt on. And a winter coat. But it’s the doctor’s office, right? However, upon returning to my car, I noticed the Suburban was driving all wonky and I was legitimately scared my truck was going to explode. So I had to drive straight to the mechanic’s with my half naked baby. What was wrong with my car? It was in 4 wheel drive. Someone (who will remain nameless) likes to push buttons while sitting in my lap in the carpool line.

On Monday, upon taking my shoes off for Gracie’s Kindermusik class, I noticed I was wearing two different socks. Not two with just different colored stitching. But a shortie sock and a tube sock. How does that even happen without me noticing? And since I had grabbed a sock ball from the drawer, my lack of paying attention happened not only while dressing but while folding laundry.

Yesterday I dropped Gracie off at nursery without a diaper bag. I’d packed her one; it even had an extra outfit in it in case of poop explosions. Because, you know, I’d learned my lesson from last week. I just left the well-stocked bag on our front porch. Mother. Of. The. Year.

So when today, I found myself late because the clock in Gracie’s room was 15 minutes slow, walking across the parking lot of Henry’s school carrying an IKEA potty full of urine to dump in the bushes, barefoot in 50 degree weather showing my half worn off pedicure, in a shirt crusty from snot and applesauce, a head full of teeny tiny hair bows that I’d meant to put away, with a zit on my face so large that it felt wrong not to name it (Larry), I had to laugh. I wanted to make excuses--I was focused on sorting out the too small clothes in Gracie’s drawers and lost track of time. I didn’t want to be late so I didn’t put on shoes or change my clothes. But really, I think I just have to face it. Crap like this happens to me all the time. Apparently, this is who I am. The mom with serious wardrobe malfunctions and half naked kids.

Good thing I know how to rock hair bows and make yogurt label pasties look friggin' awesome.

Not what I'd planned for tonight

Proud Aunt

About 19 years ago, probably 19 years ago exactly as it was halftime of the Carolina-Dook game, my sister called to tell my family she was pregnant with her first child.  At fifteen, I was estastic!  And since the time little Anderson was born, he has been a joy.  He's smart.  As a child he would prefer to read than watch television.  He was in love with all things Star Wars and Tolkien.  Spending many an afternoon in a cloak in his backyard, defending the world against evil. 

In middle school, he read the Bible from cover to cover in a week.  On a dare.

As he has grown older, he has developed into an extraordinary young man.  He is tall, kind, working on being as sarcastic as me, and if I do say so myself, really, really, good looking. He's an all conference soccer player many times over.  He plays the piano and guitar.  He writes songs and is in a band called Painted Avenue.  He shoots and edits movies that will ensure his wedding rehearsal dinner is five hours long.  (If I have anything to say about it.  Which is why I probably won't.  Because some of them are hilarious.) 

He is an excellent big brother and also a wonderful cousin to my kids.  As a little boy, he too adored Thomas the Tank Engine, so he delights in playing trains with Henry.  Down on his knees at the train table, he plays with Henry and enjoys in making Henry giggle. 

He also is a hell of an actor. 

This afternoon we went to see him in CYT's Aladdin.  He played the lead.  There were parts where I was so proud I cried.  He was handsome and strong.  Engaging and talented.  And the best part, at times I forgot that he was my nephew and was just taken aback by the man on stage who was Aladdin.  It probably helped that the young lady playing Jasmine is actually his girlfriend.  (She is also talented and lovely and precious to my children.) 

I am so proud to call Anderson mine.  I will miss him next year.  He will be taking a Gap year between high school and college to study Shakespeare and acting.  At Oxford.  You know, in England, where Shakespeare lived?  Yeah.  He's THAT good.  And he's mine.

*Photos by Kaylin Grace Photography.  (aka my kids' awesome babysitter)

A Real Conversation

To give you some context, two of my sister's kids are staying with us this week.  Her eldest son is the lead in CYT's Aladdin and four of her other kids are in the show as well.  So she's a little busy helping people fly and the like.  She asked me to babysit a couple of times, but really it's just easier if they stay here and I don't have to drive anywhere to get them...  And Henry adores them.  Jonathan (7) and Isabel (4) are his closest besties.  It's been fun.  Particularly since Sloan is out of town. 

But the following is a real conversation between my nephew and me the afternoon before we went to Kids' Club at church.

Jonathan:  I don't want to go to Kids Club.
Me:  Why?
Jonathan:  It's not fun.
Me:  I don't believe you.  Pastor Brown is almost as funny as your Uncle Sloan.  He even knows magic.
Jonathan:  Yeah....but....I don't have any friends there.
Me:  Really?  None?
Jonathan:  No. 
Me:  Is it because you are kinda new there?
Jonathan:  No.  It's just.... everybody hates me.
Me:  Everybody?
Jonathan:  (growing more whiny)  Yes.  Everybody hates me.
Me:  I doubt that everybody hates you.  Maybe a couple of people.  But not everybody...

He sulked away and proceeded to hide in a crawl through tunnel.  Five minutes passed of him just sulking in the tube.  So I went to him.

Me:  Jonathan, come out of the tunnel.  Let's talk about going to church tonight.  I think you should go, but I'm not going to force you.  But I think if you go, you'll have fun.
Jonathan:  (really, really whiny)Well...it's not that I don't like it.  I just want to go play in the playground at Chick-Fil-A.  Chick-Fil-A is more fun than Kids Club.
Me:  (roaring laughter)  Go put your shoes on.  We're going to church.

No. I'm not dead. I'm intentionally not calling you back...

You may have noticed I’ve been blogging less. I’d like to say it is because I’m on vacation. Or that I’m busy living life. Or that I’m too busy writing the next great American novel. But that’s just not the case. There are some logistical reasons why this is happening and also some intentional ones as well.
Logically speaking, Henry gave up his naps in the fall. This was like a death to me. I no longer had three hours in the afternoon to blog, facebook, eat bon-bons, and ignore housework. I tried making Henry have quiet time, but this always resulted in a backslide of the potty training and let’s face it—pee pee pants and pee pee carpets add work. And I’m the poster girl for working smarter, not harder. So we read books, play with little Legos and tinker toys, and other things that prove difficult when Gracie is awake.

Gracie has begun to give up morning naps as well, so this has robbed me of the time to myself while Henry is in preschool. When this began happening, I resolved to use that time to go to the gym. Thankfully, she has been sick several times during the winter, so I’ve been unable to put her in gym childcare, thereby giving me a “Get out of going to the gym without guilt” card. At present, she is back to 2 naps a day, but that is because she has RSV.

We’ve also had a sicky winter. Puking. Coughing. Nebulizing and the like.

And Sloan got a promotion, which means he is travelling less and I’m getting to spend time with him at night more. I used to use the nights when he was out of town to catch up on blogging and reading, but now he is only gone two nights a week. And I like the fact that I like being with my husband more than I like typing on the computer.

However, I’ve also realized that with my getting a laptop and an Ipad, I’ve become attached (maybe addicted?) to technology. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing; it is not the technology’s fault. It is not facebook’s fault I now think in 140 character bylines. But it is MY fault if my children’s memories of childhood are ones of them playing by themselves while Mommy is on her laptop. Sure, I’m in the same room with them, but I am not with them. So I try to limit the amount my attention is divided.

I’ve also been getting more involved with Bethany Christian Services. I’m editing their monthly E-newsletter and writing articles for it. Some months it takes more time than others, but as I type this, I realize that I need to go ahead and write my “Letter from the Editor” blurb so we can email that puppy out. Nerts…But that busyness has confirmed to me that I’m using my talents for something that I’m passionate about. And more importantly, something I’m certain God is passionate about and so it is not a busyness that makes me weary.

I’ve also been taking this year to access and realign my priorities. My buddy Law-Momma often writes about the juggling act of being a working mother. But the juggling act, I suspect, is part of being human and not unique to working moms. We all juggle different roles, different dreams, different responsibilities and relationships. And the truth of it is, we can’t have it all. I don’t even believe we are supposed to have it all. We may want it all, but I’ve found that as I’ve stepped back from a few things (leadership in my women’s bible study, blogging less, saying No to some ministry opportunities I would’ve normally saddled myself up to out of duty, my goal of reading 52 books in a year), the experiences and relationships I am tending have grown deeper. Have been richer. I’ve become more intentional. And this, perhaps, is the point.

I want to not only accept the place God has me for now, but to cherish it. To stop looking across the way at the greener grass. To see that the grass is green where it is tended.

I don’t want to be known for being a great blogger. I don’t even want to be known for being a great writer. (Okay, I don’t HAVE to be known for that. But I won’t lie; it’d be nice if a couple people other than the folks related to me thought that.) I have the ear of the Creator of the world, the heart of the best man on the planet, and the teeny tiny hands of the best kids around. Do I really need any more adulation? Really?

My greatest desire is for my kids to know they are loved. By me and by God. Period. I believe that our self esteem can be traced back to the one who matters the most to us. For me, that’s God. And God thinks I’m worth moving heaving and earth for. He thinks I’m worth bleeding for. So I want that for my kids. And right now, I’m who is most important to them. So that’s what I want to be known for—loving my kids.

And yeah, I can do that through blogging. And working on my novel. And by diligently serving orphans to say, “See Henry and Gracie, you know how much I love you? That’s nothing in comparison to how Jesus loves you. And loves these kids. And loves me. So we have to let them know. We have to stand for them.” Because pointing my kids to what is right and good and true is loving them as well.

But I do have some posts in the works. I think about it a lot. For example, I’ve been thinking about and may just blog about the following in the near (or distant) future—

*How my son has “decided to be fwiends with” a kid in his class who “doesn’t talk good and doesn’t have any fwiends.” His teacher even told me about how she has seen Henry be intentional to befriend the Chinese boy for whom English is a second language. He does this by holding his hand on the playground and always picking him to be the goose to his Duck, Duck.

*The bonus of sick kids when it means lots of cuddles and Pixar.

*How my facebook newsfeed looks like a Planned Parenthood rally alternatively being protested by flash mobbing pro-lifers. And how I’ve never known anybody whose heart has been changed by being shouted at. And that what I really wish is that our culture would change its view on adoption, thereby making the issue null and void. That in the US alone, there are 140,000 orphans and perhaps we should stand with them. And shout for them. Or, here’s an idea, shut up and adopt them. (And, oh yeah, you buy a pet. Could you please stop comparing how you got your dog to how we received Grace into our family?)

*My continuing relationship with Gracie’s hair. Current RSV afro notwithstanding, I have begun to style it. This amounts to wonky parts, alien looking box braids, messed up coils, all ending up with me just saying FINE and putting it in toddler puffs because she won't sit still no matter how many goldfish I throw at her. She has more hair lotions and potions than I do. She sleeps on satin crib sheets. I keep all of her hair goodies in a purple and green tackle box. And, according to Sloan, there are anglers with their own ESPN shows whose tackle boxes pale in comparison to Gracie’s three foot tall behemoth.

So if you’re bummed that I’m blogging less, sorry. I’m going to try for twice a week, but just know that schedules and deadlines and self-imposed goals and the like make me itchy.  Any routines I adhere to are solely to keep my children happy and pliable to my every whim. (HA!)