Take two Leapsters and call me in the morning

I spent most of the night up with Henry (yeah for finally getting the whole puke in the toilet scenario!).  Thankfully, he awoke feeling fine.  No more sore throat or hurt tummy.  He even whined when I told him that we couldn't go to the gym.  (I thought about it, because I love my two hours of me time--if it takes lifting weights and sweating on an elliptical to get it, so be it--but I would be ticked if someone else brought their kid to the gym 5 hours post-puke, so I declined.)  I could tell that Henry still wasn't 100% because his appetite was shotty and he wanted to spend all day in his robe.  And headband.

 

Because he takes getting well seriously.

I used the day as a bit of a loll day.  I may or may not still be in the Tshirt and jammies I put on yesterday.  We watched a lot of Olympics, played some Lego Star Wars on the Wii, and Leapsters and Leappads were out.  A lot.  

I used this "let media parent your kids while they are sick without guilt" day to get a lot of stuff done for the adoption.  And by a lot, I mean I talked to several case workers in various time zones. I joined Yahoo Groups.  I scanned docs, prepped letters for FedEx, and sent emails.  I would say the next big turn in our adoption journey would be sending off our dossier to the Congo.  And y'all, I'm about to turn on my blinker.  I expect to be able to get the rest of our documents authenticated by the end of the week.  Which means I'll be scanning and emailing and fedexing stuff next week.  You know, for translation.  

I am SO ready to just be waiting.  During Grace's adoption, I thought the paperwork was easy and the waiting was hard.  But it taught me that God is really driving this thing and He is more than trustworthy.  I am SO ready to have it in His hands.  To stop the juggling of redwells and secretaries of states.  I am ready to know there is nothing left to do but trust.  No more papers or notaries or scans.  Just trust.  

But the blinker is on.  The blinker IS ON.

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. 

Snacks for Jesus

Thursday night I was jealous of Sloan.  He got to take his buddy E to the airport at Dulles.

Normally, you'd think driving a guy two hours to the airport and back again on a random Thursday night isn't enviable.  But Sloan was driving E to pick up his wife and two kids.  Whom he hasn't seen in close to a year since he immigrated from Egypt.  His wife and kids were finally able to come over safely.

Can you imagine what that was like?  To get to stand on the sidelines and watch God bring a family together after so much longing.  I get teary eyed just thinking about it.

I decided to pack some snacks.  After all, this mom has been traveling with two toddlers by herself!  (Can you imagine?  I'm sure her excitement over seeing her husband counteracted the sheer exhaustion that comes from traveling internationally with a 1 year old and a 3 year old.)  I planned on getting each of the kids some goldfish, a squeezy applesauce, and some milk.  But while I was at the store I also saw a cute doggy toy, and some matchbox cars, and some Colorwonder books, and...and....and...

Yeah, I may have gone overboard.  But I figured that my kids require 47 different snack options and a backpack full of toys just to cross the James river, so maybe Egyptian kids are the same?

Perhaps it was too much.  But I wanted these folks to see how they are loved.  By strangers.  By Jesus.  By God's people who were blessed enough to be given the opportunity to just show up and see Him do His thing.

I just couldn't help myself.  I get this from my mother.*    I got gender nuetral toys, board books, books and toys from drive-thru meals, chips, hummus, carrot sticks, strawberries, apples, grapes, baby food, fruit snacks, Nutrigrain bars, Peanut Butter crackers, Captain's wafers, Pretzel sticks, goldfish, animal crackers, pita chips, and babybel cheese.  We are blessed beyond measure.  Our cups runneth over.  So how could we not give them our extra umbrella stroller and buy a bunch of fruit and carbs and toys for these brothers and sisters of ours? 

Sloan said that the family reunion was a thing to behold.  E stood up everytime the doors from customs opened up no matter that Sloan told him the signs said their flight wasn't through baggage yet.  And when the doors opened up and E's family came through, he was off like a shot running into his bride's arms.  I'd post the pics Sloan took, but they aren't my family pics to share with you.

Sloan did tell me that the mom was beyond done having traveled with a 3 year old and a 1 year old.  While riding back to Richmond, the youngest child was fussing.  She and her husband were chatting away in Arabic when all of a sudden Sloan heard from the back seat, "Baby.  Shut. Up.  Baby, stop your crying."  Priceless.  I speak this Momma's language.  Perhaps I should've packed her a bottle of wine.


*If you were to come to our house at Thanksgiving, you would see that my Mom has prepped the favorite meal of each of her grandkids.  She has 16 grandkids.  We have potatoes mashed, roasted, baked white sweet potatoes, and sweet potato casserole, all because various kids at some time or another have professed a love for some type of tuber.  It is both hilarious and precious at the same time.

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.

Sweetsie Tweetsie

This past weekend we went to Tweetsie Railroad.  It's a Western themed kiddie theme park in Blowing Rock, NC.  We rode the train (upon which a tribe of Indians come aboard to help the Marshalls help stop a cowboy robbery--yes, it is very unPC, but also a blast for little cowpokes and Indian maidens).  And most of the amusement rides are for kids 48" tall and under.  Oh, and the best part, it was a complete surprise for Henry. 

His face when he saw the sign for Tweetsie Railroad...

 

Can you tell that they were both excited?  

 

Before we hopped on the train, we got ready for the shenanigans.  Gracie has been wearing her headdress everywhere.  And her doll?  She named Princess Wacka Wacka.  (We suggested the name Hiawatha.  Wacka Wacka is what we got...)

The train ride was a bit loud.  And it smelled of cap guns.  

With her hands on her ears, Grace kept saying, "It's scawy Daddy."  Of course, as soon as we got off the train, she was shouting, "It not scawy.  I love it!"  (This is also her reaction to spiders, flies, and the teppanyaki chefs at Kabuto.)

And of course, we rode the rides...

Towards the end of the day, I noticed my wallet was no longer in my purse.  We went to the lost and found and they radioed the places on the mountain we had been.  Nothing.  I was trying hard to not freak out.  Sloan was trying hard to lose it and yell at me.*  Mentally I was trying to discern everything that was in my wallet--credit cards, my license, an almost full punch card to Sweet Frog...

I decided to snag Henry and take the sky ride up the mountain to look myself in all of the places we went over the day.  As we scaled the mountain, I told Henry we needed to pray.  We needed to pray that I had merely lost my wallet and that someone had not stolen it from my purse.  And that God would find it.  So Henry and I began to pray and as soon as we had said Amen, we heard the crackle of a walkie talkie from a Tweetsie employee riding the sky ride down the mountain opposite us.  "Yes, I think we've found the wallet.  I'm sending it down."  I yelled at the man, "Hey, that's my wallet!"  

And so what had been a source of major trauma became a lesson to Henry and my own heart that indeed, God hears our prayers.

So we rode back down the hill and headed off for an impromptu visit with Sloan's brother at their house in Linville before we went to Tennessee for my great Aunt Margaret's birthday party on Sunday.     

And in case you needed a good laugh, I leave you with this video.  When I posted it to facebook, I gave it the following caption-- 

You'll notice 3 things in this video:
1. I will never win an Oscar for cinematography.
2. I don't like rides that spin multiple ways.
3. My husband never shuts up...

*Because Sloan rarely misplaces things and well, if it weren't for my neck, I'd lose my head.  These facts make the top 5 things I expect we will be fighting over for the next 50 years or so.  The fight usually goes something like this:  

Me:I didn't mean to lose it.  If I knew where I last had it, by definition, it wouldn't be lost.

Sloan: Well, how hard is it to keep up with your wallet?

Me: Apparently, pretty difficult.  Seeing as I don't know where mine is. 

Sloan: Are you even trying to be keep up with your things?

Me: (Insert intense sarcasm) No.  No, I am not.  And I don't expect to get any better at it anytime soon.  Aren't you glad I'm the one who stays home with the kids?

Sloan:  Can you honestly say you are doing your best?

Me:  Yes.  What are you my coach?

Sloan:  Coach?  What you need is a handler.

Me:  CAN YOU STOP MAKING FUN OF ME YOU GIANT JERK AND HELP ME FIND ME DAGGUM WALLET?

The one where a chupacabra ate my ceiling

On Saturday, the kids’ toilet was clogged.  I plunged.  Sloan plunged.  We poured a kettle’s worth of boiling water down it.  We snaked.  We wire coat hangered.  We (gasp) put on big gloves and inserted hands.  (Let us never speak of this again.)  All to no avail.  

On Sunday, we tried again.  And then Henry confessed that he had flushed a plastic Dixie cup down the toilet.  

Upon googling and facebooking about what we could to rectify the Great Dixie Cup Incident of 2012 (heretofore referred to as the DCI), knowing there was no way I was going to purchase large animal vet gloves or  do anything requiring pliers or actually lifting the toilet, I knew I was going to call the plumber on Monday morning.  

Oh, and did I mention that Sloan left for a business trip Sunday afternoon?  Yeah.  Awesome.

Oh, and did I also mention that Sunday night I saw a little black mouse dart across my family room floor while I was watching the Bachelorette’s hometown dates on Hulu?  Seeing as our last mouse was David Schwimmer, I decided to name this one Matt LeBlanc.  Except since he was black, I decided Matt LeNoir was more appropriate.  Sloan told me this was ridiculous and possibly racist.  I told him that when he was home he could name the mice whatever he damn well pleased, but since he was in Raleigh going to see Roger Waters with a client that he could just suck it.  The mouse is named Matt LeNoir.

Let it also be known that during this time I was finishing up Jenny Lawson’s memoir Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.  And in her book she has hundreds of scorpions in her wall and I think a demon goat.  So of course, I was pretty damn sure that our house was built on Native American burial grounds and our house was attacking us, avenging the long ago murder of a squirrel chieftain.  Every noise I heard, I was certain it was a chupacabra.  Yes, yes, I didn’t even know what a chupacabra was until I read this (because I’m not insane from Texas).

This did not help me sleep Sunday night.  

Monday morning, I was fearful of running into a goat sucker in the kitchen but was met with something actually more frightening, a wet floor and a sagging ceiling.  

It was unavoidable; I was going to have to call the plumber.  And the exterminator.

The plumber came quickly and fixed the toilet (in ten minutes) and replaced about ten things in our toilet.  I didn’t even know our toilet had ten things in it, and that’s counting the stupid Dixie cup (which has yet to be located, by the way).  He also drained the ceiling.  (Since the Tupperware cereal container I had placed under the drip was now full.  FULL.)

Monday afternoon, the handyman came to look at the ceiling and we made plans for him to come this afternoon.  Monday evening, however, when I went to straighten up the kids’ bathroom, I discovered a huge puddle of standing water in the base of the kids’ vanity.  You know where I usually store all the toilet paper and paper towels I buy at Costco?  Throwing away 24 rolls of waterlogged toilet paper and five rolls of paper towels was beyond gross.

I sent this picture to my handyman who is also a plumber.

And when he came to set to work on the ceiling this afternoon, it was discovered that it was not dry yet.  In fact, as he set to pull some of it down, it sagged off and even more water rolled out into our kitchen floor.  

So now the hole looks like this.  

Awesome.  That smaller hole in the back?  That's where our pot holder chandelier used to hang.  And to answer your next question, yes.  We did go out for pizza for dinner.  It was $7 pizza night at Angelo’s. 

With 6 you get eggroll...

Sometimes I like to pretend my life has a soundtrack.  Before I had an Iphone, this was aided by my cell’s ringtone of Toto’s Africa.You can’t have a bad day singing, “Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh…I hear the drums echoing tonight…”

I think right now, the soundtrack would be The Cars’ You Might Think I’m Crazy.  

You see, Sloan and I are adopting from the Congo.  Which is a pretty dangerous place to go.  It is, in fact, the poorest nation in the world.  It is the most dangerous place in the world to be female.  There are roughly 5 million orphans.  515 out of every 1,000 children born in the DRC will not make it to age 5 due to malaria, malnutrition, parasites, or HIV.   And after that, life expectancy tops out at 42.  We have close friends adopting from there, an acquaintance who has just returned from there, so it seemed a natural fit for us.  

But the more we researched and subsequently fell in love with the Congo by watching the Congolese symphony and reading about other folks’ adoption journeys, we both knew in our hearts that there was no way we could go into the Congo and bring home only one child.  We always felt that after this adoption there would be another, so we are prayerfully hoping that we can be a family of six sooner rather than later.  A boy AND a girl, preferably a sibling group ranging in ages 0-4.  

People’s responses have varied from the excited to the quizzical.  Someone responded, “Wow, four under the age of 5.  You must be very patient.  Are you a patient mother?”  

I had visions of me snapping at Henry because it took him (no lie) 35 minutes to get dressed in the morning or how most days Gracie has lost all stuffed animal privileges because the child can't seem to keep her hands to herself.  So I responded,  “Well, not particularly.  But I’m guessing that an impatient mommy beats no mommy.”

Then I’ve also been told about how hard it will be.  As in eyes getting wide and saying “Oh, wow.  Are you sure, sweetheart?  They will be African.  Will you even know how to do her hair?”

Ahem.

It is only by the grace of God I haven’t stabbed anybody in the eye with a fork.  I consider that a sign that I’m really patient.  Also, I have a toddler in my house right now who is making me well aware that adding another toddler and an infant to the mix will be difficult.  The depth of the pool that we are jumping into has crossed our minds more than once.  

The truth is, the folks who REALLY know our hearts aren’t surprised by this in the least.  Didn’t Henry say all those months ago that he needed a brother and a sister?  So while we are a bit afraid of the noise and chaos it will bring, we are eagerly looking forward to seeing God show up in our lives.  While we have very little to give, we know that in Jesus’ hands, our meager abilities will be enough for a multitude.  We will be a LOUD party of 6, but Jesus will be our hope and salvation.

You might think I’m crazy.  And you might be right.   But we are choosing to rock out to a little Rihanna because we've found love in a hopeless place.  For if God can defeat death, I’m fairly certain He can make our crazy gloriously beautiful.

It is well (It is well)

So much has transpired in the past week I’m not even sure what to write.  Perhaps now is the time to explain why I write.  

I have been criticized as of late for not talking about what I’m feeling but blogging about it.  That it has annoyed some friends and loved ones to read about my life on the computer rather than to hear from me on the phone.  

In the immortal words of DJ Kool, let me clear my throat.  

A.  I detest talking on the phone.  For reals.

B.  The written word is how I figure out what I’m feeling.  It just is.  If you want me to talk to you, you will get a hodge podge of verbage that really doesn’t tell you anything other than I may be crazy.  You would think that my knowledge of my inability to say the correct thing would prohibit me from talking a lot.  

You would be wrong.  

So I say a lot of stupid stuff.  I’m a dreadful person with whom to argue.  I think fast and don’t fight fair.  You know how you think of zingers ten minutes after the fact?  I think of them on the spot and because I’m pretty observant as well, my zingers can sting.  I’m a real peach to be married to. 

Let’s say you sent an email saying “Hey, I don’t think we will be able to come over tomorrow for a playdate.”  I would probably reply, “OK. Cool. No worries.  Check you on the flip side.”  If you were to call me, there is a high probability that I’d say, “Well, fine.  I really didn’t want to have to deal with your bratty kid anyway and your face is ugly.”  (OK, that was me using hyperbole.  I probably wouldn’t call your kid bratty.)  

There has really only been one time in my life that someone has angered me so much as to render me speechless.  And that was a very.good.thing because I probably would’ve said things that would have irrevocably broken that relationship.  

C.  Ernest Hemingway said, “The writer must write what he has to say.  Not speak it.”  By writing out my grief, my frustration, my passion, it gives it a sense of weight.  And then I can just move on.  Really.  Once I’ve written about something, I’m sort of done with it and don’t even want to talk about it too much.  

I really don’t like to talk about my flair.

And as of late, my flair has been particularly heavy.  

Friday was hard.  I saw J’s face every time I shut my eyes.  As I was on the elliptical, I cranked up the resistance and ramp to as high as they would go.  It was almost as if I was trying to feel the difficulty J feels when moving his legs (J has mild cerebral palsy).  I spent close to 10 hours on the elliptical last week.  I lost 4 pounds because that is what happens when you live off protein shakes, cheese sticks, and do the elliptical for an hour and a half each day.  

I kept replaying the past six months in my mind, trying to figure out just where Sloan and I zigged when God zagged.  

Sloan kept telling me it was all part of the same journey.  That we hadn’t made a mistake.  And it was like I couldn’t hear him.  We argued.  We shifted blame.  We pointed fingers.  We cried.  We let the kids watch a lot of TV.

I was in a fog.  I went to the grocery store and forgot half of my list but did return home with a semi-automatic Super Soaker and a Slip and Slide.  We ate cold cuts or take out all week.  Because you can’t eat a Slip and Slide.  

It wasn’t so much the grief that overwhelmed me.  Having lost a placement before, I knew that the grief would be like the tides, rising and falling.  You know, as the hymn says, when sorrows like sea billows roll.  This side of heaven, I’ll never be okay with this.  There will always be a piece of my heart in China.  I will always long for J.  Just as I long for Emma.  

What was and is completely foreign to me was this doubt.  This mistrust of myself and of God.  Was I not praying the right prayers?  Did God try to tell me to go to the Congo but all I heard was Chinese baby?  Did I not listen to my husband?  Did I rush things too much?  How much was this going to cost my family?  Was everyone sitting around laughing at me because we obviously didn't know God's will from a hole in the ground?

But then my friend reminded me that I was misjudging God’s character.  Jesus is not a god who looks back.  So I’ve been repenting.  A lot.  For thinking that God judged me as a puppy who messed on the floor and his plans were to rub my nose in it.  He loves me so dearly that even my thinking that of him grieves Him.  As we prayed over this new direction, I kept thinking, “What if we are wrong again?  What if I think I’m following Jesus but really I am chasing my own tail?”  

I've never really been afraid before.  I do not like it.  I would prefer to not feel this emotion ever again.  If you can figure out a way to make that happen, let me know.  

But God is far more apt to redeem my mistakes than I am to make wise decisions.  So there is freedom to step out in faith and trust that even if I misstep, Jesus will not let me fall.  He will still hold me and guide me.  Even though it is common to say “I’ve found Jesus!  So and so led me to Jesus!”  Let me state this unequivocally:  Jesus is not the one lost.  He is not hiding out in the best hiding spot, giggling, as he imagines us all with our compasses and Camelbak water bottles, fumbling around, calling out his name only to hear echos in the canyon.  

False.  

Yes; we are fumbling around in the desert.  But He is stalking us.  There’s and old poem by Francis Thompson that describes God as the “hound of heaven” and I think that is about right.  

So I am granting myself some grace.  Moreover, I am repenting of my believing that loving J was a mistake.  I can guarantee that I would not have an ache in my heart for special needs kids like I do had it not been for a particular boy with a pointy nose and chapped cheeks.  Jesus used him to change me.   This hurt, this loss, has not been without my heart becoming more aligned with His.  So I will rejoice in this loss.  

I will sing that yes, it IS well with my soul.  We sang it in church on Sunday and my body shook in joyful tears, snuggling my Gracie as I sung, 

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.