Right now, at this very moment, due to the gracious help of my eldest daughter, my friend Gabrielle, the Lord, and Ronald McDonald's sugar-free iced coffee, you can walk all the way to my laundry room on carpet. Carpet, I say! Not on top of or wading through 6 inches of laundry. Just walking. That's a beautiful thing. And there are probably only 6 or 7 or 8 loads waiting to be done - with only 1 pee soaked comforter. One! Not only that, but all of the clean laundry is (drum-roll) sorted, folded, hung up, what-have-you, processed. That's right. Finally, all the laundry is out of my bathroom, has been collected from the first floor (including stinky diapers) and is sorted and ready to wash and (grand finale) the floor of the family closet is CLEAN. Is it Christmas already??
That's one big blessing.
Here's another. We celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary recently. At home group we jokingly talked about what you are "supposed" to get for the seventeenth, you know, wood, paper, china, silver . . . My husband looked it up and said that, traditionally, there wasn't a 17th gift, but that in modern etiquette, it's furniture. I gave a big cheer because of all the things I would ask for (cept maybe a frontload washing machine), that would be what I'd want. A week later, a family in our home group says they have some furniture that is too big for their house, do we want it. Huge blessing. Even looks good with what we have, sort of.
That's two.
Tuesday night, we are out of food, need to hit the grocery store, too tired. I got a text from a friend, asking if they can bring over pizzas! They treated us to dinner and wonderful conversation. What a blessing! And they shared some things that were really significant for my heart to hear. At the end of our delightful evening, we prayed together and God spoke to them on our behalf, and that was powerful too. I've had more grace since then to lean on the Lord and walk in obedience than I've had in years. And did I mention the pizza?
That's 3 or maybe 4.
We started school this week. My older children have hit the ground running, my middle folks are enthusiastic about their new math program, my littles are excited about their work, and my babies are, well, they're cute. The three year old even pooped in the pot today on his own (compensating for the last dozen or so poops in his pants).
That's 5, 6, 7, or so.
My husband is a Godly man who loves us, stands firm on his convictions, hears God and obeys, works hard and does everything he can to take care of and serve his family. I am so very blessed to be married to him.
Pretty sure I could go on and on, as each of my children are a huge blessing, and there are a lot of them. I've got a house big enough for them, food enough to feed them, and I'm driving my dream car. The Lord has been good to me.
To borrow from Veggie Tales:
I thank God for this day, for the sun in the sky
For my mom and my dad, for my piece of apple pie
For our home on the ground, for His love that's all around
That's why I say thanks every day
Because a thankful heart is a happy heart
I'm glad for what I have, that's an easy way to start
For the love that He shares, 'cause He listens to our prayers
That's why I say thanks every day.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Nesting
I have been pregnant 11 times, counting this one. I think I get humbler with each. For my first, I was on the go up until the very end. I could have been pregnant forever. It really didn't slow me down. Even at the end, I felt good and wasn't in a big hurry to be un-pregnant. And I was very public with my pregnancy. I recorded a CD and led worship at a Kent Henry conference and danced in front of everybody days after my due date.
With my next few, I remember getting closer to the end and wanting to settle in a little bit more. Near the end of my pregnancies I was more likely to cancel a worship practice or to turn down a chance to do something.
Over the years, I have become progressively more reclusive progressively earlier in my pregnancies. Sometimes I can't get out of obligations and just force myself to do what needs done. But my heart wants to be home sooner and sooner.
I remember with my 9th or 10th that I was done almost as soon as I started. Not that I wanted to have the baby that soon, and not even that I didn't enjoy being pregnant. But the nesting thing. I don't mean that fabled burst of energy you hear about where the previously lethargic 9 months pregnant mom-to-be is going around furiously cleaning her house, supposedly indicating labor will begin soon. I just mean that thing barn cats do.
Okay, to be honest, I'm not an actually animal person. Everything I know about animals is either from reading or hearsay. But I've read and heard lots of stories about favorite cats or other pets that go missing, are assumed lost, dead, or stolen, and weeks later come out of the barn with 4 or 5 little cute babies following behind.
That's what I feel like doing. I'm sure part of it is because over the years, the world has gradually become less and less enthusiastic about me being pregnant. It's one thing to go out in public with 4 or 7 or 10 ducklings, it's something entirely differently doing the same thing with a big round announcement on the front of you proclaiming to onlookers that you obviously haven't learned your lesson yet.
I'm sort of over that. I don't care too much anymore. Sometimes the negative feeling gets to me, especially after going out in public several times in a row (last week I took all 10 to the dentist office and then immediately went to the allergy doctor, 'cuz I'm the amazing supermom . . . at the end I wanted to crawl under a rock!), but generally that's not my issue, I don't think. I just want to hide.
Hiddenness is probably a better term than nesting. It means I don't want to lead, don't want to teach, don't want to be on the spot in any way in front of people. I just want to be with my family, with my husband and children and friends who love me and feel very, very safe. Even facebook (especially facebook) feels exposed and unsafe sometimes.
I am hiding. I've quit everything that I do. I am only wife and mom. When someone asks me to do something, my head shakes no automatically. It's an instinct that kicks in as soon as I know I'm pregnant now and this time I'm not resisting.
But I was nesting even before I got pregnant. Because I'm nesting doubly right now. I'm nesting for two. I am growing somebody in my uterus AND in my heart. My van pulls to the right when I drive by St. John's, because that's where my first 10 miracles were born. But I'm also dreaming about getting on a plane and becoming a mom in a different way than I ever have before. I have ultrasound pictures on my counter and I have imaginings in my heart.
It's not one or the other. It's not that I don't care about being pregnant because I am hoping to adopt. It's BOTH/AND. God conceived two babies in our lives. One doesn't replace or invalidate the other. I'm not neglecting my "born baby" (as the kids call it) by dreaming about my adopted baby. I don't desire my adopted baby any less because God also chose to give us a "born" baby partway through the adoption process, not any more than a mother of twins prefers one child over another.
I'm waiting patiently for a day in February that I know from experience will come, give or take a couple weeks. I am trying to eat what my body needs and praying that God will give me a healthy pregnancy. I'm taking vitamins and going to checkups and asking questions and switching my wardrobe to accommodate my expanding middle.
AND I'm checking adoption agency websites and reading adoption books and praying for birthmoms and trying to be patient even though I have no idea within even years when it will happen. I'm pumping and planning and praying and picking out names. But mostly I'm waiting and leaning and longing, longing for an e-mail, a phone call, anything that takes it out of the vague maybe someday realm and moves it into reality. I'm longing to meet and hold someone I'm growing and carrying inside me, and longing to meet and hold someone who could be anywhere, arriving anytime.
And all of this longing together makes me one distracted chick. So if you miss seeing me in the usual places, or miss having me play a more active role, or miss my playing a more lively part in conversations or engaging more in what's happening around me, don't worry, I'm okay, and I'll be back later.
I'm just nesting.
With my next few, I remember getting closer to the end and wanting to settle in a little bit more. Near the end of my pregnancies I was more likely to cancel a worship practice or to turn down a chance to do something.
Over the years, I have become progressively more reclusive progressively earlier in my pregnancies. Sometimes I can't get out of obligations and just force myself to do what needs done. But my heart wants to be home sooner and sooner.
I remember with my 9th or 10th that I was done almost as soon as I started. Not that I wanted to have the baby that soon, and not even that I didn't enjoy being pregnant. But the nesting thing. I don't mean that fabled burst of energy you hear about where the previously lethargic 9 months pregnant mom-to-be is going around furiously cleaning her house, supposedly indicating labor will begin soon. I just mean that thing barn cats do.
Okay, to be honest, I'm not an actually animal person. Everything I know about animals is either from reading or hearsay. But I've read and heard lots of stories about favorite cats or other pets that go missing, are assumed lost, dead, or stolen, and weeks later come out of the barn with 4 or 5 little cute babies following behind.
That's what I feel like doing. I'm sure part of it is because over the years, the world has gradually become less and less enthusiastic about me being pregnant. It's one thing to go out in public with 4 or 7 or 10 ducklings, it's something entirely differently doing the same thing with a big round announcement on the front of you proclaiming to onlookers that you obviously haven't learned your lesson yet.
I'm sort of over that. I don't care too much anymore. Sometimes the negative feeling gets to me, especially after going out in public several times in a row (last week I took all 10 to the dentist office and then immediately went to the allergy doctor, 'cuz I'm the amazing supermom . . . at the end I wanted to crawl under a rock!), but generally that's not my issue, I don't think. I just want to hide.
Hiddenness is probably a better term than nesting. It means I don't want to lead, don't want to teach, don't want to be on the spot in any way in front of people. I just want to be with my family, with my husband and children and friends who love me and feel very, very safe. Even facebook (especially facebook) feels exposed and unsafe sometimes.
I am hiding. I've quit everything that I do. I am only wife and mom. When someone asks me to do something, my head shakes no automatically. It's an instinct that kicks in as soon as I know I'm pregnant now and this time I'm not resisting.
But I was nesting even before I got pregnant. Because I'm nesting doubly right now. I'm nesting for two. I am growing somebody in my uterus AND in my heart. My van pulls to the right when I drive by St. John's, because that's where my first 10 miracles were born. But I'm also dreaming about getting on a plane and becoming a mom in a different way than I ever have before. I have ultrasound pictures on my counter and I have imaginings in my heart.
It's not one or the other. It's not that I don't care about being pregnant because I am hoping to adopt. It's BOTH/AND. God conceived two babies in our lives. One doesn't replace or invalidate the other. I'm not neglecting my "born baby" (as the kids call it) by dreaming about my adopted baby. I don't desire my adopted baby any less because God also chose to give us a "born" baby partway through the adoption process, not any more than a mother of twins prefers one child over another.
I'm waiting patiently for a day in February that I know from experience will come, give or take a couple weeks. I am trying to eat what my body needs and praying that God will give me a healthy pregnancy. I'm taking vitamins and going to checkups and asking questions and switching my wardrobe to accommodate my expanding middle.
AND I'm checking adoption agency websites and reading adoption books and praying for birthmoms and trying to be patient even though I have no idea within even years when it will happen. I'm pumping and planning and praying and picking out names. But mostly I'm waiting and leaning and longing, longing for an e-mail, a phone call, anything that takes it out of the vague maybe someday realm and moves it into reality. I'm longing to meet and hold someone I'm growing and carrying inside me, and longing to meet and hold someone who could be anywhere, arriving anytime.
And all of this longing together makes me one distracted chick. So if you miss seeing me in the usual places, or miss having me play a more active role, or miss my playing a more lively part in conversations or engaging more in what's happening around me, don't worry, I'm okay, and I'll be back later.
I'm just nesting.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Really?!
Really?! Is there really a birthmom out there somewhere who would pick a family with going on eleven children? Will this really actually happen someday? Is there a need? Is there a genuine need for families to love little babies whose mothers somehow brought them to delivery? It all seems very unlikely.
Save the babies Lord! Help the mamas know their person is worth the sacrifice, that it is a short moment in their lives compared to a lifetime of suffering and guilt. Give them grace to resist the pressure, grace to hang on, grace to endure, grace to let go, if that really is the best thing.
We're saying yes Lord. People already think we're crazy. Who has a dozen kids? That's what we want. The blessing and heritage of the Lord. Not taking away from other waiting families, but saying yes to babies You've made that maybe no one else wants. We do. We'll stand at the back of the line. We don't have to be at the front.
But the longing, Jesus, I'm longing. I desire this dream You've put in my heart. I'm lovesick with a love You gave me. I want the babies You have for me, the ones You've created for me, for our family.
Could it really be? Could it be soon? Could it be later or ever? Would You who are infinitely kind be so kind to fill my arms with the desire of my heart?
I believe You will. Lord I believe. Help my unbelief. Help me believe You really, really will. Help me be ready.
Save the babies Lord! Help the mamas know their person is worth the sacrifice, that it is a short moment in their lives compared to a lifetime of suffering and guilt. Give them grace to resist the pressure, grace to hang on, grace to endure, grace to let go, if that really is the best thing.
We're saying yes Lord. People already think we're crazy. Who has a dozen kids? That's what we want. The blessing and heritage of the Lord. Not taking away from other waiting families, but saying yes to babies You've made that maybe no one else wants. We do. We'll stand at the back of the line. We don't have to be at the front.
But the longing, Jesus, I'm longing. I desire this dream You've put in my heart. I'm lovesick with a love You gave me. I want the babies You have for me, the ones You've created for me, for our family.
Could it really be? Could it be soon? Could it be later or ever? Would You who are infinitely kind be so kind to fill my arms with the desire of my heart?
I believe You will. Lord I believe. Help my unbelief. Help me believe You really, really will. Help me be ready.
Faithful
Dear Lord Jesus,
Tomorrow we will attempt to begin another year of homeschooling. I will try to teach 8 children to read, write, think, add, subtract, multiply, divide, communicate, process, problem solve, and all the while to be diligent, to manage time, to be kind to each other, to know God, to clean up after themselves, to protect, to forgive, and to repent with humility.
At the same time, there are two little people who need to learn to solve problems without hitting or biting, to poop in the potty, to stay off the table (or at least not throw everything that's on the table onto the floor) (or at least to not throw food, liquid or glass), and to not take off a diaper or pair of pants that have already been pooped in without assistance.
Additionally, Lord, my house is a disaster area. It looks as though I've been out of town four consecutive weekends without ever catching up on the laundry cycle (which is, in fact, true). The kids' closet is about 4 inches deep in clothing that may or may not have been worn, much of it girls size 4T. There is a noticeable smell beginning about 15 feet from the laundry room door. Most of our bedding needs washed, and You know how I feel about washing sleeping bags and pillows and comforters - for a full 1.5 hrs washing and drying, I've only cleaned 1 or 2 items.
There is no clean room, no clean floor, and our new hand-me-down furniture arrives tomorrow. Please help me arrange it with the old in such a way that we can all sit in the same room at the same time without making the living room look like a Weekends Only furniture outlet.
We've become one of those families who have more vehicles worth less, just hoping they will take turns crapping out and not all cost money at the same time. And speaking of money, there is this almost imaginary but hopefully very real possibility of increasing our numbers by 1 and decreasing our net worth by tens of thousands that shadows every large and small decision we make with our stretchy dollars.
So starting school seems daunting. I don't know where two of my new books are, I don't think the kids hid them, but . . .
I need Thee every hour, most gracious Lord. No tender voice like Thine can peace afford. I need Thee, oh I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee. Oh bless me now my Savior, I come to Thee.
Help me be faithful to You in the morning when I wake up. Help me to iron with joy the shirt I'll be too tired to get to tonight. Help me get up in time to get a shower before the littles wake up and start demanding their pound of flesh. God please help me eat what my body needs and not confuse a happy mouth and full tummy with the grace that only comes from You.
Most of all, help me show my children Your beauty, Your mercy, Your faithfulness, Your character. Help me be faithful to do what is really important tomorrow, to use my energy and seconds (both of which are extremely limited) for Your eternal Kingdom. Make my house a place where Your glory dwells, where my children feel safe, where my husband finds peace when he comes home. Help me run to You when my raging hormones give me super-angry-power to knock down defenses with my sarcastic ray gun and break people's hearts. Help me be the amazing supermom and not a cross between Shrek and the incredible hulk.
I am not my own, I belong to You. Help me be faithful to my vow to give myself to You, to be set apart for You.
Amen.
Tomorrow we will attempt to begin another year of homeschooling. I will try to teach 8 children to read, write, think, add, subtract, multiply, divide, communicate, process, problem solve, and all the while to be diligent, to manage time, to be kind to each other, to know God, to clean up after themselves, to protect, to forgive, and to repent with humility.
At the same time, there are two little people who need to learn to solve problems without hitting or biting, to poop in the potty, to stay off the table (or at least not throw everything that's on the table onto the floor) (or at least to not throw food, liquid or glass), and to not take off a diaper or pair of pants that have already been pooped in without assistance.
Additionally, Lord, my house is a disaster area. It looks as though I've been out of town four consecutive weekends without ever catching up on the laundry cycle (which is, in fact, true). The kids' closet is about 4 inches deep in clothing that may or may not have been worn, much of it girls size 4T. There is a noticeable smell beginning about 15 feet from the laundry room door. Most of our bedding needs washed, and You know how I feel about washing sleeping bags and pillows and comforters - for a full 1.5 hrs washing and drying, I've only cleaned 1 or 2 items.
There is no clean room, no clean floor, and our new hand-me-down furniture arrives tomorrow. Please help me arrange it with the old in such a way that we can all sit in the same room at the same time without making the living room look like a Weekends Only furniture outlet.
We've become one of those families who have more vehicles worth less, just hoping they will take turns crapping out and not all cost money at the same time. And speaking of money, there is this almost imaginary but hopefully very real possibility of increasing our numbers by 1 and decreasing our net worth by tens of thousands that shadows every large and small decision we make with our stretchy dollars.
So starting school seems daunting. I don't know where two of my new books are, I don't think the kids hid them, but . . .
I need Thee every hour, most gracious Lord. No tender voice like Thine can peace afford. I need Thee, oh I need Thee. Every hour I need Thee. Oh bless me now my Savior, I come to Thee.
Help me be faithful to You in the morning when I wake up. Help me to iron with joy the shirt I'll be too tired to get to tonight. Help me get up in time to get a shower before the littles wake up and start demanding their pound of flesh. God please help me eat what my body needs and not confuse a happy mouth and full tummy with the grace that only comes from You.
Most of all, help me show my children Your beauty, Your mercy, Your faithfulness, Your character. Help me be faithful to do what is really important tomorrow, to use my energy and seconds (both of which are extremely limited) for Your eternal Kingdom. Make my house a place where Your glory dwells, where my children feel safe, where my husband finds peace when he comes home. Help me run to You when my raging hormones give me super-angry-power to knock down defenses with my sarcastic ray gun and break people's hearts. Help me be the amazing supermom and not a cross between Shrek and the incredible hulk.
I am not my own, I belong to You. Help me be faithful to my vow to give myself to You, to be set apart for You.
Amen.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Leaning
This is my eleventh pregnancy. Pregnancy for me at this point is primarily characterized by indescribably and insurmountable exhaustion, difficulty making decisions or focusing, and being the emotional equivalent of a Hawaiian island (or wherever), where the earth's crust is so thin that lava may pour out of the ground at any place at any time.
I'm not throwing up, no food aversions or cravings, just dang tired, pathetic and an emotional train wreck that keeps happening over and over like a bad dream.
Coffee helps, except that then I don't sleep as well when I do sleep. Naps just make me angry (maybe because they are constantly interrupted?). And being hot makes me angry. And mosquitoes make me angry. Grrr.
I had a prophetic word back in May, Mother's Day weekend, in the prophetic rooms in Kansas City. Be expectant. Oh, I'm expectant. I'm expecting all over the place. My brain is spinning with the possibilities.
But my husband has this strange peace. "We can't mess this up," he says. God is going to open and close doors. God is going to take care of everything. God is going to give us everything we need for both babies, for our other children, for finances, for college, for parenting. "We could say no, and if it was God, they'd call us back and ask us to reconsider."
One of the things the Lord told us early on is that we will learn to lean on Him. It reminds me of the movie "While You Were Sleeping" when Sandra Bullock is asked why Joe Junior is 'leaning', then later asked if Bill Pullman is 'leaning'. It implied intimacy (and as everyone knows, "while you were sleeping" is the video equivalent of strong's concordance as far as the implication of words goes).
It also reminds me of John the Beloved, leaning against Jesus during that tumultuous last supper with accusations flying. But mostly it makes me think of Song of Solomon, who is this coming up out of the wilderness leaning on her Beloved? The bride, with banners, triumphant in her battle, but wearing, maybe limping, needing the strength of another to make it home.
Derek Loux - "I've been wounded by love, that's why I'm leaning, it's why I'm trusting". Jacob, touched by the angel, never the same, given a new name, marked by God, walked with a limp for the rest of his life. Leaning.
So in my unknown state, which isn't doubled, it's multiplied, will I have my "born" baby early, will my blood pressure be okay, will my placenta stay attached till it's job is over, will my "adopted" baby come sooner, later, will I have milk for him/her even while pregnant, will I have two babies 6 months apart, or 5 or less, will our "born" baby come first, with more money to update the home study and profile, and time running out on some of the documents . . . . I'm leaning. He knows. I don't. I'm trusting. I'm leaning.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee. Leaning.
I'm not throwing up, no food aversions or cravings, just dang tired, pathetic and an emotional train wreck that keeps happening over and over like a bad dream.
Coffee helps, except that then I don't sleep as well when I do sleep. Naps just make me angry (maybe because they are constantly interrupted?). And being hot makes me angry. And mosquitoes make me angry. Grrr.
I had a prophetic word back in May, Mother's Day weekend, in the prophetic rooms in Kansas City. Be expectant. Oh, I'm expectant. I'm expecting all over the place. My brain is spinning with the possibilities.
But my husband has this strange peace. "We can't mess this up," he says. God is going to open and close doors. God is going to take care of everything. God is going to give us everything we need for both babies, for our other children, for finances, for college, for parenting. "We could say no, and if it was God, they'd call us back and ask us to reconsider."
One of the things the Lord told us early on is that we will learn to lean on Him. It reminds me of the movie "While You Were Sleeping" when Sandra Bullock is asked why Joe Junior is 'leaning', then later asked if Bill Pullman is 'leaning'. It implied intimacy (and as everyone knows, "while you were sleeping" is the video equivalent of strong's concordance as far as the implication of words goes).
It also reminds me of John the Beloved, leaning against Jesus during that tumultuous last supper with accusations flying. But mostly it makes me think of Song of Solomon, who is this coming up out of the wilderness leaning on her Beloved? The bride, with banners, triumphant in her battle, but wearing, maybe limping, needing the strength of another to make it home.
Derek Loux - "I've been wounded by love, that's why I'm leaning, it's why I'm trusting". Jacob, touched by the angel, never the same, given a new name, marked by God, walked with a limp for the rest of his life. Leaning.
So in my unknown state, which isn't doubled, it's multiplied, will I have my "born" baby early, will my blood pressure be okay, will my placenta stay attached till it's job is over, will my "adopted" baby come sooner, later, will I have milk for him/her even while pregnant, will I have two babies 6 months apart, or 5 or less, will our "born" baby come first, with more money to update the home study and profile, and time running out on some of the documents . . . . I'm leaning. He knows. I don't. I'm trusting. I'm leaning.
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee. Leaning.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Our Sabbath Experiment
We are trying something new. We have been exploring the never ending question: How to fit 12 lbs of crap into a 10 lb bag. And this is a solution that we think just. might. work.
See, here's the problem. We have a whole lot of kids, see? And we believe that their walk with God will be powerfully impacted as we disciple them. But one of us is an overwhelmed introvert who works a lot and comes home to an overwhelmed extroverted wife who wants him to talk to her, to a yard that needs mowed (and a son who needs to be taught to mow it), to bills that need paid, to e-mails that need answered, that followed him home for a job he has to do. We are sucking the life out of this man. There is no time or energy to disciple anyone, to read the Bible and worship as a family, to have those meaningful conversations with older sons that are so very critical.
But recently there has been a changeover in the childrens' ministry at our church, which released all of us from our committments to serve, leaving us free to sign up again, or not. At least for the moment, we are not. We have laid down our ministry responsibilities. We will go to church on Saturday night, and keep our family together, because we don't have to put them in a class while we lead worship or whatever. We will worship as a family, listen to a sermon as a family, take notes, talk about it together.
And on Sunday, we will have a family sabbath. A big breakfast, worship and Bible time with Dad, and plenty of time left over for relaxing, talking, praying, reading, napping, whatever. A day set aside for the Lord. A delight, a day not to go our own way, not doing as we please or speaking idle words. (Isaiah 58:13)
Our children are, of course, grieved. When will we see our friends? You're supposed to go to church on Sunday! Why can't we do that stuff on Saturday? Because we don't do it. It's an experiment. So we'll see what it is like. If we find out that Dad is paying bills all Sunday morning, and that we are watching movies all day, we'll probably switch back. But that's the game plan.
See, here's the problem. We have a whole lot of kids, see? And we believe that their walk with God will be powerfully impacted as we disciple them. But one of us is an overwhelmed introvert who works a lot and comes home to an overwhelmed extroverted wife who wants him to talk to her, to a yard that needs mowed (and a son who needs to be taught to mow it), to bills that need paid, to e-mails that need answered, that followed him home for a job he has to do. We are sucking the life out of this man. There is no time or energy to disciple anyone, to read the Bible and worship as a family, to have those meaningful conversations with older sons that are so very critical.
But recently there has been a changeover in the childrens' ministry at our church, which released all of us from our committments to serve, leaving us free to sign up again, or not. At least for the moment, we are not. We have laid down our ministry responsibilities. We will go to church on Saturday night, and keep our family together, because we don't have to put them in a class while we lead worship or whatever. We will worship as a family, listen to a sermon as a family, take notes, talk about it together.
And on Sunday, we will have a family sabbath. A big breakfast, worship and Bible time with Dad, and plenty of time left over for relaxing, talking, praying, reading, napping, whatever. A day set aside for the Lord. A delight, a day not to go our own way, not doing as we please or speaking idle words. (Isaiah 58:13)
Our children are, of course, grieved. When will we see our friends? You're supposed to go to church on Sunday! Why can't we do that stuff on Saturday? Because we don't do it. It's an experiment. So we'll see what it is like. If we find out that Dad is paying bills all Sunday morning, and that we are watching movies all day, we'll probably switch back. But that's the game plan.
The now and the not yet
It's an old Amy Grant song.
(bunny trail: I know a lot of people have been pretty hard on Amy Grant over the last several years, and I've made my share of snide remarks, but here is my stance, since I'm sure you are wondering: I think there is a lot we don't know that she could have told us in her defense that she chose not to say, and I think by saying less she has honored the Lord and Gary in a way many of us might not have.)
The song is, I think, the first one I ever played and sang at the same time. Here are the words:
No longer what we were before, but not all that we will be
Tomorrow when we lock the door on all our compromising.
When He appears He'll draw us near
And we'll be changed by His glory
Wrapped up in His glory.
We will be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.
But I'm caught in between the now and the not yet.
Sometimes it seems like forever and ever
That I've been reaching to be all that I am
But I'm only a few steps nearer
Yet I'm nearer
I am aware, more recently than ever, that I am not the woman of God I long to be, especially as I walk before my children. My older children are old enough to see the chasm of hypocrisy between my walk and my talk. My eldest has so much more integrity than I do. And I groan beneath the weight of desire to show them an example they can look up to.
But as I was driving the other day, and praying, I was aware of a legacy I can leave them. I can give them the legacy of longing. I am longing for more of Jesus here in my every day. I am longing for more healing and deliverance and salvation in my world. I am longing to be disciplined and healthy and full of the fruit of the Holy Spirit. But in the face of the chasm between the now and the not yet, I long most of all to see Him face to face. I long to hear His voice, to see His face, and to be completely new, having left all my old debts behind.
I know that the undulation (thank you C.S. Lewis) of this life is part of the journey, and that I will draw nearer only to find how much more desperately I need to draw near. But there is a day coming when I will no longer lack any thing because I will be truly and completely in Him. I long for that day.
And in that longing, my children, you may imitate me. Don't imitate my weaknesses, my shortcomings and failures. Don't imitate my gluttony, my temper, my laziness, my insecurity. But this desire, this longing, be like me in this - in the knowledge that that place is better than the best moment of the best day we've ever known. Enjoy what is good in this place, but in good and bad times, remember, this isn't home. And home is a very, very good place.
(bunny trail: I know a lot of people have been pretty hard on Amy Grant over the last several years, and I've made my share of snide remarks, but here is my stance, since I'm sure you are wondering: I think there is a lot we don't know that she could have told us in her defense that she chose not to say, and I think by saying less she has honored the Lord and Gary in a way many of us might not have.)
The song is, I think, the first one I ever played and sang at the same time. Here are the words:
No longer what we were before, but not all that we will be
Tomorrow when we lock the door on all our compromising.
When He appears He'll draw us near
And we'll be changed by His glory
Wrapped up in His glory.
We will be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.
But I'm caught in between the now and the not yet.
Sometimes it seems like forever and ever
That I've been reaching to be all that I am
But I'm only a few steps nearer
Yet I'm nearer
I am aware, more recently than ever, that I am not the woman of God I long to be, especially as I walk before my children. My older children are old enough to see the chasm of hypocrisy between my walk and my talk. My eldest has so much more integrity than I do. And I groan beneath the weight of desire to show them an example they can look up to.
But as I was driving the other day, and praying, I was aware of a legacy I can leave them. I can give them the legacy of longing. I am longing for more of Jesus here in my every day. I am longing for more healing and deliverance and salvation in my world. I am longing to be disciplined and healthy and full of the fruit of the Holy Spirit. But in the face of the chasm between the now and the not yet, I long most of all to see Him face to face. I long to hear His voice, to see His face, and to be completely new, having left all my old debts behind.
I know that the undulation (thank you C.S. Lewis) of this life is part of the journey, and that I will draw nearer only to find how much more desperately I need to draw near. But there is a day coming when I will no longer lack any thing because I will be truly and completely in Him. I long for that day.
And in that longing, my children, you may imitate me. Don't imitate my weaknesses, my shortcomings and failures. Don't imitate my gluttony, my temper, my laziness, my insecurity. But this desire, this longing, be like me in this - in the knowledge that that place is better than the best moment of the best day we've ever known. Enjoy what is good in this place, but in good and bad times, remember, this isn't home. And home is a very, very good place.
Things I forgot about camping
We went camping recently. All 12 of us, sleeping in a tent. Here is what I had forgotten about camping but have since remembered:
There is no 3 second rule with camping. You cannot quickly pick up a dropped s'more and eat it because it is covered with dirt and pine needles.
The migration patterns of small children sleeping on a flat surface (i.e. the ground in a tent) means that even if there is room for everyone when you go to sleep, someone will wake up with a foot or elbow in the gut, or mouth, or um, wherever, before the night is out.
Camping when pregnant works better when you are in a camper with a toilet. Taking a 10 minute round trip walk several times in the middle of the night does not make for a well rested mommy, even if the view of the stars through a pine tree canopy is great compensation.
The toilets at the john at the campground we go to flush automatically whenever you move enough to scratch a mosquito bite.
Cooking by committee for 27 or so campers while keeping food on three different locations and without running water except for what you have to walk to get is, well, a challenge.
Rain is like steroids for laundry - it radically speeds up the process so you can go through three days of laundry in a matter of hours.
The dirt. The baby looks so dirty, she might be mistaken for a chimney sweep (good luck will rub off . . . ).
Toddlers want to play in the street. Maybe it's the big kids zipping by on their bicycles, maybe it's the water spigot within visibility with the delightful puddle around it, maybe it's that pine needles don't feel as good to bare feet as pavement - they are drawn to the road like mosquitoes are drawn to my ankles and babies' foreheads (one child looked like his head was square from 20 bites, the other resembled a Clingon, with a row of bites right down the middle of her forehead).
The 3 year old doesn't actually need to pedal, he can go almost as fast as big kids with training wheels, per the Fred Flintstone method.
Things we forgot: all our lists, forks, and to put a pullup on the 3 year old before driving through the night.
Things we remembered: the joy children experience digging a hole in the ground, how good everything tastes when you're really hungry, how tired everyone gets playing at the beach, how sand gets EVERYWHERE, how much fun it is to play in the same waves on the same beach with your children that delighted you when you were their age.
There is no 3 second rule with camping. You cannot quickly pick up a dropped s'more and eat it because it is covered with dirt and pine needles.
The migration patterns of small children sleeping on a flat surface (i.e. the ground in a tent) means that even if there is room for everyone when you go to sleep, someone will wake up with a foot or elbow in the gut, or mouth, or um, wherever, before the night is out.
Camping when pregnant works better when you are in a camper with a toilet. Taking a 10 minute round trip walk several times in the middle of the night does not make for a well rested mommy, even if the view of the stars through a pine tree canopy is great compensation.
The toilets at the john at the campground we go to flush automatically whenever you move enough to scratch a mosquito bite.
Cooking by committee for 27 or so campers while keeping food on three different locations and without running water except for what you have to walk to get is, well, a challenge.
Rain is like steroids for laundry - it radically speeds up the process so you can go through three days of laundry in a matter of hours.
The dirt. The baby looks so dirty, she might be mistaken for a chimney sweep (good luck will rub off . . . ).
Toddlers want to play in the street. Maybe it's the big kids zipping by on their bicycles, maybe it's the water spigot within visibility with the delightful puddle around it, maybe it's that pine needles don't feel as good to bare feet as pavement - they are drawn to the road like mosquitoes are drawn to my ankles and babies' foreheads (one child looked like his head was square from 20 bites, the other resembled a Clingon, with a row of bites right down the middle of her forehead).
The 3 year old doesn't actually need to pedal, he can go almost as fast as big kids with training wheels, per the Fred Flintstone method.
Things we forgot: all our lists, forks, and to put a pullup on the 3 year old before driving through the night.
Things we remembered: the joy children experience digging a hole in the ground, how good everything tastes when you're really hungry, how tired everyone gets playing at the beach, how sand gets EVERYWHERE, how much fun it is to play in the same waves on the same beach with your children that delighted you when you were their age.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Submission
This is what submission looks like.
Right now there is a young woman somewhere who has a baby in her tummy she did not want. She drank, she smokes, she is planning on placing him for adoption. Birth dad doesn't care.
On the one hand, this is exactly what we signed up for. God made a baby where nobody wanted a baby. But we do. We want a baby. We want to say yes to what God made. We want to say yes to life.
This is a baby who has been abused before he was even born. And we have no idea what condition he will be in. The list of things that could be wrong with this little one is long and intimidating. Congenital heart defects, low birth weight, facial defects, ADHD, premature lungs, stillbirth. I don't know if my home school classroom can survive even the least tragic options on the list.
So here I am, my heart praying for birth mom, dad, and this little one. I'm in. But the questions are large: What if we get matched and she doesn't show? What if we say yes and he is still born or lands in the NICU in a state far from home? What if I am given the opportunity to parent a child that can't hold still long enough to hear 2 adjacent sentences?
But can we say no to a baby God made? So that's me.
But I can trust God to speak, to move, to give and take away, to do whatever is best for all involved. And one grand (or sometimes not so grand) way God takes care of me when I don't know what to do is to speak to/through my husband. His jury is still out.
We've had some conversations, he and I, some warm on the edge of heated, but they end like this: I say, "I trust you, I trust God to speak to you and through you, I will support whatever you decide".
I am praying for my husband, for birth mom, for birth dad, for baby. Lord, please help my husband know what to do. Help this birth mom know Your love, Your forgiveness, Your peace, and know what to do with this little one. Help the dad to know how much his heavenly Father loves him. And God, please heal and protect this little boy, and guide him into Your perfect plan. Amen.
Right now there is a young woman somewhere who has a baby in her tummy she did not want. She drank, she smokes, she is planning on placing him for adoption. Birth dad doesn't care.
On the one hand, this is exactly what we signed up for. God made a baby where nobody wanted a baby. But we do. We want a baby. We want to say yes to what God made. We want to say yes to life.
This is a baby who has been abused before he was even born. And we have no idea what condition he will be in. The list of things that could be wrong with this little one is long and intimidating. Congenital heart defects, low birth weight, facial defects, ADHD, premature lungs, stillbirth. I don't know if my home school classroom can survive even the least tragic options on the list.
So here I am, my heart praying for birth mom, dad, and this little one. I'm in. But the questions are large: What if we get matched and she doesn't show? What if we say yes and he is still born or lands in the NICU in a state far from home? What if I am given the opportunity to parent a child that can't hold still long enough to hear 2 adjacent sentences?
But can we say no to a baby God made? So that's me.
But I can trust God to speak, to move, to give and take away, to do whatever is best for all involved. And one grand (or sometimes not so grand) way God takes care of me when I don't know what to do is to speak to/through my husband. His jury is still out.
We've had some conversations, he and I, some warm on the edge of heated, but they end like this: I say, "I trust you, I trust God to speak to you and through you, I will support whatever you decide".
I am praying for my husband, for birth mom, for birth dad, for baby. Lord, please help my husband know what to do. Help this birth mom know Your love, Your forgiveness, Your peace, and know what to do with this little one. Help the dad to know how much his heavenly Father loves him. And God, please heal and protect this little boy, and guide him into Your perfect plan. Amen.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Adoption Preferences
I have filled out what feels like a hundred pages of paperwork about adoption: why I want to adopt, what I have done to get ready to adopt, first name, middle name, maiden name, social security number, annual income, favorite color, favorite food, band instrument I wish I played in 6th grade and name of my least favorite substitute teacher (yellow, fresh peaches, saxophone, Mrs. Westfield - the worst subs were the ones who wanted to be teachers).
But the sheet we keep filling out for every single agency we apply to is the one about "preferences". And there is this whole list, 3 pages sometimes, of horrible questions that you would never have to answer for a child you were giving birth to (okay, I take that back, people do sometimes know if their child has an issue and are given a 'chance' to decide whether or not to 'parent' that child - my sister had that 'opportunity' with my niece's cleft lip and palette; my friend had that 'choice' for her daughter with spina bifida), but many of the questions are not normally encountered for biological children. It feels like you're trying to mail-order God.
There are all different types of questions. Diabetes? HIV? One of the birth parents had leukemia? One of the extended family had leukemia? Bipolar? Mental retardation, mild alcohol consumption, moderate alcohol consumption, severe alcohol consumption? Alcoholic? All manor of drug use questions, all different drugs, how much, in what month. 3 pages.
And every time we fill out the applications, which all word things differently, we re-evaluate, re-assess, re-answer the questions. It is an agonizing and unnatural process.
Idealistically, we just want to say yes. Yes, God. Yes, whatever You want to give us is fine. If we were to give birth to, say, a child with hydrocephaly, we wouldn't decline our parental rights, so why would we say no to adopting a child with the same need? If we gave birth to a baby at 33 weeks gestation, we would do whatever that baby needed us to do, period. So why wouldn't we adopt a baby that has to be in the NICU for 4 weeks?
And yet, we are saying no to some situations. We are saying no to diseases our other children could get. We are saying no to situations we don't think we could parent adequately without severely shortchanging either our adopted child or our other children.
Recently we got a phone call, our first and only, to date, about a baby needing a family. It was a boy, due in 6 weeks or so, pretty significant drug exposure, and they were having trouble finding adoptive families to present to the mom. Were we open, they wanted to know.
We were open. We were open to a baby who might be drug affected. We were open to a baby with legal risk. We were open even though the baby would probably have to be in foster care for a few days before we could get him. Our 'preferences' included all of the things he was, except one.
He was white. And in the racial portion of the preferences questionnaire, we had not stated we are open to white babies. We did not enter the adoption process with any thought of adopting a white baby. It never even entered our minds.
Now, there are several reasons for this.
Demand. White newborns are in higher demand for a few reasons that are not as unkind as you might assume. Most people adopting in America want a white baby because most people adopting in America are white because most people in America (at the current time) are white. (Why are there more black babies? Could it be that young pregnant black women, in spite of being racially targeted by organizations like Planned Parenthood for the destruction of their race, choose to give life while young white women choose abortion more often? I don't know, but I'm so glad the ones who choose life do so, aren't you?!) People generally prefer to adopt a baby that looks like them. Why?
Conspicuousness. A transracial adoption is very noticeable. The family enters a room, a store, a reunion and the very first thing complete strangers know about them is that they are an adoptive family. This can be difficult for the child or the parent or both. The parents have to talk about adoption with their child according to other people's reactions, not on the child's own developmental time table and according to his needs and understanding.
Identification. To adopt a child of a different race is to identify with that race, whether you choose to pursue and embrace that culture, or pretend the difference doesn't exist, it is there. To adopt a child that looks different than you means acknowledging and dealing with all the prejudice and stereotypes that child will face, and to realize the privilege that comes with being white that you were heretofore unaware of. It means helping a child find ways of learning his/her culture [not learning about, actually learning it], so that he/she feels comfortable with people of similar background as him/herself.
Adoption is hard all by itself, and adopting transracially is an entirely different (and potentially much harder) thing. So in the world of adoption preferences, you get to write down if you are open to Caucasian, Asian, Latino, Indian, native American, African-American, and different mixes. Here are my preferences: I want a baby of African-American heritage.
I can come most close to identifying with an African American baby. I live in a neighborhood with black people. I have a niece and nephew from Africa. I have close friends who are black. I do not currently have any relationships with Asian or Latino or Indian people. This is not deliberate, and has not always been the case. But I currently have meaningful relationships with black people. We deliberately chose, long before the subject of adoption was on the table, to live in a neighborhood where we would interact with and connect with and identify with African-American people all the time.
Does having a black niece and nephew and living in a neighborhood with black people and having friends who are black qualify me to raise a black child? No. But it does mean I'm better equipped than I am to raise, say, a Korean child.
I don't mind being conspicuous. We're incredibly conspicuous. I think leaving the house with a child who is obviously adopted will make us look LESS conspicuous. People will look and go, "oh, they're an adoptive family" and then they'll try to figure out which other kids are adopted instead of trying to imagine how one woman could possibly give birth to 10 children in 13 years.
And as far as demand/availability, we're a long shot. Maybe no birth mother will pick us at all. We just want to say 'yes' to young women who are choosing life instead of abortion - and it happens that many of those are African American.
We said yes to that drug affected white baby, but didn't get him. And for the 3 or 4 days we were waiting to be presented, I thought about adoption and about transracial adoption. I thought it might be easier, less complicated, and that maybe God didn't think I had what it took to be the mom of a child with brown skin. And I walked around my world with my eyes wide open, wondering if my community would accept us with an adopted black baby.
At my grocery store (as often happens, I was the only white person there), there was a young woman with a teeny tiny baby with brown skin and dark eyes and black curly hair, and I was smitten and adoring and I wondered if she'd be as happy for me if I walked in holding a baby like that - or if she'd resent it. It is possible that some people in my community, especially those who don't really know us, will feel we've stolen from them, or that it is yet another form of white arrogance.
I'm aware of the many opportunities I have for screwing up - it would reflect poorly if I allow my adopted black child to run outside in just a diaper or underwear - in my neighborhood people don't do that. It might be easier in suburbia than in the city. I'm nervous, afraid. Can I raise a child to be culturally comfortable with other black people, but raise him/her first in the Kingdom of God, and therefore in the world but not of it, and therefore somewhat uncomfortable with anyone who doesn't know Jesus?
Part of me thinks this won't really happen. We went up on the mountain, we tied up "Issac" and got ready to light the fire, and that's all that will really come of it. It was just a test. We passed. $4,000 in the offering plate. I'm not afraid to offer that to God, I trust Him. And I'm not afraid of looking like a fool for Him - I do that all the time.
I'm probably more afraid that it will happen. I don't know what it will look like, or be like. I do not enjoy experiencing rejection, nor do I appreciate when my children encounter it. I am uncertain that I have what it takes. But I am completely certain God does have what it takes. I have seen that His timing is always perfect. His ways are always perfect. I know that whatever He does with us in this area in this season will be exactly right and He will give us whatever we need to be the parents of all the children He gives us - emotionally, financially, in every way.
And I guess that's where my preferences really come down. I don't want a child of African American descent for reasons of availability or conspicuousness or racial identification. I don't want to be the mom of a black boy or girl because I live in a neighborhood with wonderful black people and have wonderful black friends and have a marvelous black nephew and a gorgeous black niece. It isn't my preference because I think I could do better at raising a black child than I could if I was mom to a child of another culture or ethnicity.
I want a son or daughter with lovely brown skin and beautiful dark eyes and curly black hair because that is what God put in my heart when He planted the seeds for adoption. That's what I want because that's what I think God wants to give me. I will follow Him anywhere and do whatever He tells me to do, and if it doesn't look like I thought it would, I will still say 'yes' to Him. It wouldn't be the first time He took me to St. Louis by way of St. Petersberg or to Muncie, Indiana by way of Tulsa, Oklahoma.
But the sheet we keep filling out for every single agency we apply to is the one about "preferences". And there is this whole list, 3 pages sometimes, of horrible questions that you would never have to answer for a child you were giving birth to (okay, I take that back, people do sometimes know if their child has an issue and are given a 'chance' to decide whether or not to 'parent' that child - my sister had that 'opportunity' with my niece's cleft lip and palette; my friend had that 'choice' for her daughter with spina bifida), but many of the questions are not normally encountered for biological children. It feels like you're trying to mail-order God.
There are all different types of questions. Diabetes? HIV? One of the birth parents had leukemia? One of the extended family had leukemia? Bipolar? Mental retardation, mild alcohol consumption, moderate alcohol consumption, severe alcohol consumption? Alcoholic? All manor of drug use questions, all different drugs, how much, in what month. 3 pages.
And every time we fill out the applications, which all word things differently, we re-evaluate, re-assess, re-answer the questions. It is an agonizing and unnatural process.
Idealistically, we just want to say yes. Yes, God. Yes, whatever You want to give us is fine. If we were to give birth to, say, a child with hydrocephaly, we wouldn't decline our parental rights, so why would we say no to adopting a child with the same need? If we gave birth to a baby at 33 weeks gestation, we would do whatever that baby needed us to do, period. So why wouldn't we adopt a baby that has to be in the NICU for 4 weeks?
And yet, we are saying no to some situations. We are saying no to diseases our other children could get. We are saying no to situations we don't think we could parent adequately without severely shortchanging either our adopted child or our other children.
Recently we got a phone call, our first and only, to date, about a baby needing a family. It was a boy, due in 6 weeks or so, pretty significant drug exposure, and they were having trouble finding adoptive families to present to the mom. Were we open, they wanted to know.
We were open. We were open to a baby who might be drug affected. We were open to a baby with legal risk. We were open even though the baby would probably have to be in foster care for a few days before we could get him. Our 'preferences' included all of the things he was, except one.
He was white. And in the racial portion of the preferences questionnaire, we had not stated we are open to white babies. We did not enter the adoption process with any thought of adopting a white baby. It never even entered our minds.
Now, there are several reasons for this.
Demand. White newborns are in higher demand for a few reasons that are not as unkind as you might assume. Most people adopting in America want a white baby because most people adopting in America are white because most people in America (at the current time) are white. (Why are there more black babies? Could it be that young pregnant black women, in spite of being racially targeted by organizations like Planned Parenthood for the destruction of their race, choose to give life while young white women choose abortion more often? I don't know, but I'm so glad the ones who choose life do so, aren't you?!) People generally prefer to adopt a baby that looks like them. Why?
Conspicuousness. A transracial adoption is very noticeable. The family enters a room, a store, a reunion and the very first thing complete strangers know about them is that they are an adoptive family. This can be difficult for the child or the parent or both. The parents have to talk about adoption with their child according to other people's reactions, not on the child's own developmental time table and according to his needs and understanding.
Identification. To adopt a child of a different race is to identify with that race, whether you choose to pursue and embrace that culture, or pretend the difference doesn't exist, it is there. To adopt a child that looks different than you means acknowledging and dealing with all the prejudice and stereotypes that child will face, and to realize the privilege that comes with being white that you were heretofore unaware of. It means helping a child find ways of learning his/her culture [not learning about, actually learning it], so that he/she feels comfortable with people of similar background as him/herself.
Adoption is hard all by itself, and adopting transracially is an entirely different (and potentially much harder) thing. So in the world of adoption preferences, you get to write down if you are open to Caucasian, Asian, Latino, Indian, native American, African-American, and different mixes. Here are my preferences: I want a baby of African-American heritage.
I can come most close to identifying with an African American baby. I live in a neighborhood with black people. I have a niece and nephew from Africa. I have close friends who are black. I do not currently have any relationships with Asian or Latino or Indian people. This is not deliberate, and has not always been the case. But I currently have meaningful relationships with black people. We deliberately chose, long before the subject of adoption was on the table, to live in a neighborhood where we would interact with and connect with and identify with African-American people all the time.
Does having a black niece and nephew and living in a neighborhood with black people and having friends who are black qualify me to raise a black child? No. But it does mean I'm better equipped than I am to raise, say, a Korean child.
I don't mind being conspicuous. We're incredibly conspicuous. I think leaving the house with a child who is obviously adopted will make us look LESS conspicuous. People will look and go, "oh, they're an adoptive family" and then they'll try to figure out which other kids are adopted instead of trying to imagine how one woman could possibly give birth to 10 children in 13 years.
And as far as demand/availability, we're a long shot. Maybe no birth mother will pick us at all. We just want to say 'yes' to young women who are choosing life instead of abortion - and it happens that many of those are African American.
We said yes to that drug affected white baby, but didn't get him. And for the 3 or 4 days we were waiting to be presented, I thought about adoption and about transracial adoption. I thought it might be easier, less complicated, and that maybe God didn't think I had what it took to be the mom of a child with brown skin. And I walked around my world with my eyes wide open, wondering if my community would accept us with an adopted black baby.
At my grocery store (as often happens, I was the only white person there), there was a young woman with a teeny tiny baby with brown skin and dark eyes and black curly hair, and I was smitten and adoring and I wondered if she'd be as happy for me if I walked in holding a baby like that - or if she'd resent it. It is possible that some people in my community, especially those who don't really know us, will feel we've stolen from them, or that it is yet another form of white arrogance.
I'm aware of the many opportunities I have for screwing up - it would reflect poorly if I allow my adopted black child to run outside in just a diaper or underwear - in my neighborhood people don't do that. It might be easier in suburbia than in the city. I'm nervous, afraid. Can I raise a child to be culturally comfortable with other black people, but raise him/her first in the Kingdom of God, and therefore in the world but not of it, and therefore somewhat uncomfortable with anyone who doesn't know Jesus?
Part of me thinks this won't really happen. We went up on the mountain, we tied up "Issac" and got ready to light the fire, and that's all that will really come of it. It was just a test. We passed. $4,000 in the offering plate. I'm not afraid to offer that to God, I trust Him. And I'm not afraid of looking like a fool for Him - I do that all the time.
I'm probably more afraid that it will happen. I don't know what it will look like, or be like. I do not enjoy experiencing rejection, nor do I appreciate when my children encounter it. I am uncertain that I have what it takes. But I am completely certain God does have what it takes. I have seen that His timing is always perfect. His ways are always perfect. I know that whatever He does with us in this area in this season will be exactly right and He will give us whatever we need to be the parents of all the children He gives us - emotionally, financially, in every way.
And I guess that's where my preferences really come down. I don't want a child of African American descent for reasons of availability or conspicuousness or racial identification. I don't want to be the mom of a black boy or girl because I live in a neighborhood with wonderful black people and have wonderful black friends and have a marvelous black nephew and a gorgeous black niece. It isn't my preference because I think I could do better at raising a black child than I could if I was mom to a child of another culture or ethnicity.
I want a son or daughter with lovely brown skin and beautiful dark eyes and curly black hair because that is what God put in my heart when He planted the seeds for adoption. That's what I want because that's what I think God wants to give me. I will follow Him anywhere and do whatever He tells me to do, and if it doesn't look like I thought it would, I will still say 'yes' to Him. It wouldn't be the first time He took me to St. Louis by way of St. Petersberg or to Muncie, Indiana by way of Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Marguerite
Today a special lady went to a special place. This is my version of her story. I may have some of my facts a little wrong, or I may have made some of it up, but this is right to the best of my ability.
A long long time ago, when my grandma, Velma Ruth Powell, was 8 years old, her mother died just weeks after giving birth to her baby sister, before giving her a name. Velma named the baby Marguerite.
Many years later (61 years) my grandma died, and so did Marguerite's husband Bill. In what seemed to my young eyes a short (immediate) period of time, my grandpa married his late wife's sister and my Great-Aunt Marguerite became my Grandma.
I was about eleven at the time, making my siblings 8, 5 and 3. She was really the only Grandma my sisters ever knew. We lived 2 doors down, so we saw them all the time.
Somehow Marguerite became the matriarch of two families. She was a giving mother and grandmother to her four children and several grandchildren, but also became a devoted wife to my grandpa and picked up with all of us right where Grandma left off. She even made the same chicken and noodles and cherry delight.
For Christmas that first year she bought me my first make-up kit. It was a little wierd having all the people there together, but it was way better than not being there at all.
Once there was a dog that showed up, we later learned he was a Westie, a West Highland Terrier. We started feeding him. What we didn't realized was that next door my Auntie Evelyn and Uncle Charlie, and next to them, Marguerite and Grandpa, were also feeding the same stray dog. Finally we figured out with meals at three different houses, he was never going to leave. They advertised for him, but no one called. The family worked it out so he only got one dog's worth of food per day, and named him Benji. (Of all the things to name a stray dog!)
I remember she was afraid when she was 69 that she would die, because her brother and sister had both died at 69. But that was 20 ish years ago.
My grandpa not only lived longer because she was with him, he really really lived much longer. I remember when my husband and I were first married we all took a road trip to Colorado to see my brother play drums with the touring choir from Azusa Pacific University. Grandpa and Marguerite went right along with us - something like a 19 hour drive. Nothing stopped him, to a large degree because she was right there with him.
I remember visiting them for spring break one year and them driving around trying to find a beach for me to lay out on. In the end, we pulled over along side the road, where there was something like 20 feet of wet dirty sand by the water, and I "laid out". So funny.
Marguerite means pearl, and she was one. I named my youngest daughter after her.
So here is my goodbye to a wonderful lady who added so much to so many lives, a sweet, kind, patient, gentle woman, tenderhearted, longsuffering, a great cook, a great mom, a great wife, a great aunt/grandma.
A long long time ago, when my grandma, Velma Ruth Powell, was 8 years old, her mother died just weeks after giving birth to her baby sister, before giving her a name. Velma named the baby Marguerite.
Many years later (61 years) my grandma died, and so did Marguerite's husband Bill. In what seemed to my young eyes a short (immediate) period of time, my grandpa married his late wife's sister and my Great-Aunt Marguerite became my Grandma.
I was about eleven at the time, making my siblings 8, 5 and 3. She was really the only Grandma my sisters ever knew. We lived 2 doors down, so we saw them all the time.
Somehow Marguerite became the matriarch of two families. She was a giving mother and grandmother to her four children and several grandchildren, but also became a devoted wife to my grandpa and picked up with all of us right where Grandma left off. She even made the same chicken and noodles and cherry delight.
For Christmas that first year she bought me my first make-up kit. It was a little wierd having all the people there together, but it was way better than not being there at all.
Once there was a dog that showed up, we later learned he was a Westie, a West Highland Terrier. We started feeding him. What we didn't realized was that next door my Auntie Evelyn and Uncle Charlie, and next to them, Marguerite and Grandpa, were also feeding the same stray dog. Finally we figured out with meals at three different houses, he was never going to leave. They advertised for him, but no one called. The family worked it out so he only got one dog's worth of food per day, and named him Benji. (Of all the things to name a stray dog!)
I remember she was afraid when she was 69 that she would die, because her brother and sister had both died at 69. But that was 20 ish years ago.
My grandpa not only lived longer because she was with him, he really really lived much longer. I remember when my husband and I were first married we all took a road trip to Colorado to see my brother play drums with the touring choir from Azusa Pacific University. Grandpa and Marguerite went right along with us - something like a 19 hour drive. Nothing stopped him, to a large degree because she was right there with him.
I remember visiting them for spring break one year and them driving around trying to find a beach for me to lay out on. In the end, we pulled over along side the road, where there was something like 20 feet of wet dirty sand by the water, and I "laid out". So funny.
Marguerite means pearl, and she was one. I named my youngest daughter after her.
So here is my goodbye to a wonderful lady who added so much to so many lives, a sweet, kind, patient, gentle woman, tenderhearted, longsuffering, a great cook, a great mom, a great wife, a great aunt/grandma.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
today . . .
i started the day grinding wheat for waffles for 17 people. we have had the honor and pleasure of hosting a wonderful family for the last 3 weeks during a prayer strike at our house of prayer. it's been great. but they've been fasting, so today was our only meal together.
then i went to church and led worship all by myself, i think for the first time ever, just me and the piano. it was very sweet and delightful. i enjoyed it immensely. i think it surprises people in a church that normally has a full band to have just a voice and piano on sunday morning, but in a way, i think it somehow puts the impetus for worship on the entire body, and people pick that up and run with it.
then i taught sunday school, 4th and 5th grade.
after church we went to my second daughter's birthday party - ice skating. in honor of her special day we sent all her friends home with bruises and blisters, which is what you do for birthdays.
i'm home now, and beat. that's a full day for me. but what is really on my mind is tuesday. on tuesday 2 very important things happen.
i will go to see my ob for the first time for this pregnancy. now, this being my 11th first ob visit, you might think that is in the not-big-deal category. but the first visit is when they look (ultrasound) and see that you do in fact have a baby growing in your tummy, as opposed to just being 4 weeks late starting your period with nausea and a positive pregnancy test. but it's a big deal. seeing that everything is okay, a heart beat, a due date, the right size, having blood drawn, none of that becomes less significant the more kids you have. IT BECOMES MORE SIGNIFICANT. i know, better than most maybe, how very magnificent each of God's special creations are.
which brings me to the other incredibly important thing that happens on tuesday. we're going to be presented to a birth family to be considered to adopt.
both these events are important for the same identical reason: life. whether it is life in my womb or someone else's, life that was intended by man or woman or life that God hit the override button, whether it is life that that is exactly what you thought you wanted or life that is different from everything you had in mind, life that looks just like you or completely different, life that is perfectly healthy or life that has lifelong medical issues, life that becomes a rocket scientist or life that never leaves home, regardless, life created by God is a special creative active deliberate miracle. it is a delightful treasure and a blessing.
so as busy and active as my day was today, my heart burns for tuesday, and whatever miracles it reveals. what will God do in me, with me, for me? what majesty will He show us? i delight in His ways, in His Word, and in His works. i'm so thankful for the privilege of carrying His miracles these eleven times, and i'm in complete and total awe that He would consider allowing us to receive a life He created outside my womb into our family, into our arms.
so full of prayers for our birthmom, for the dad, for the baby, for each of them to have a hope and a future, for them to know the love and mercy of God, for them to make the best possible choice, to have wisdom and comfort and peace.
and so thankful. God is good.
then i went to church and led worship all by myself, i think for the first time ever, just me and the piano. it was very sweet and delightful. i enjoyed it immensely. i think it surprises people in a church that normally has a full band to have just a voice and piano on sunday morning, but in a way, i think it somehow puts the impetus for worship on the entire body, and people pick that up and run with it.
then i taught sunday school, 4th and 5th grade.
after church we went to my second daughter's birthday party - ice skating. in honor of her special day we sent all her friends home with bruises and blisters, which is what you do for birthdays.
i'm home now, and beat. that's a full day for me. but what is really on my mind is tuesday. on tuesday 2 very important things happen.
i will go to see my ob for the first time for this pregnancy. now, this being my 11th first ob visit, you might think that is in the not-big-deal category. but the first visit is when they look (ultrasound) and see that you do in fact have a baby growing in your tummy, as opposed to just being 4 weeks late starting your period with nausea and a positive pregnancy test. but it's a big deal. seeing that everything is okay, a heart beat, a due date, the right size, having blood drawn, none of that becomes less significant the more kids you have. IT BECOMES MORE SIGNIFICANT. i know, better than most maybe, how very magnificent each of God's special creations are.
which brings me to the other incredibly important thing that happens on tuesday. we're going to be presented to a birth family to be considered to adopt.
both these events are important for the same identical reason: life. whether it is life in my womb or someone else's, life that was intended by man or woman or life that God hit the override button, whether it is life that that is exactly what you thought you wanted or life that is different from everything you had in mind, life that looks just like you or completely different, life that is perfectly healthy or life that has lifelong medical issues, life that becomes a rocket scientist or life that never leaves home, regardless, life created by God is a special creative active deliberate miracle. it is a delightful treasure and a blessing.
so as busy and active as my day was today, my heart burns for tuesday, and whatever miracles it reveals. what will God do in me, with me, for me? what majesty will He show us? i delight in His ways, in His Word, and in His works. i'm so thankful for the privilege of carrying His miracles these eleven times, and i'm in complete and total awe that He would consider allowing us to receive a life He created outside my womb into our family, into our arms.
so full of prayers for our birthmom, for the dad, for the baby, for each of them to have a hope and a future, for them to know the love and mercy of God, for them to make the best possible choice, to have wisdom and comfort and peace.
and so thankful. God is good.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Exceedingly, abundantly
I'm pregnant. I'm adopting and I'm pregnant. We are home study approved, with a baby on the way. I am blessed, exceedingly and abundantly beyond all that I could ask or think. To think that God would give us favor, a positive home study experience, a favorable report, a positive pregnancy test, and a confirmation of a favorable home study report. I just never would have thought it could happen.
"Somehow my weak glance has overwhelmed You, somehow my weak love has stolen away Your heart. And though I'm dark You say, I am lovely. Though I'm poor You say I am beautiful." (Sarah Edwards I think)
Somehow. The sermon today talked about what a screw-up (my term) Abraham was with all his "say you're my sister so they won't hurt me," and the Hagar incident, and in Hebrews it says "Abraham never wavered in his belief that God would fulfill His promise". Somehow God doesn't see what we see. He loves the yes in our hearts. And His grace is enough for so much weakness.
I wouldn't have believed it, and yet, here we are, within reach of our heart's desire. A little baby boy or girl with chocolaty brown skin and dark eyelashes and curly black hair. The thing I desired the most and feared the most, that I would get pregnant and not be able to adopt, has happened and not happened, and my heart is so full of joy at the double blessing of the Lord.
"I know that my Redeemer lives
What joy this blessed sentence gives
He lives, He lives, Who once was dead
He lives, my ever-living Head"
My soul doth magnify the Lord!
"Somehow my weak glance has overwhelmed You, somehow my weak love has stolen away Your heart. And though I'm dark You say, I am lovely. Though I'm poor You say I am beautiful." (Sarah Edwards I think)
Somehow. The sermon today talked about what a screw-up (my term) Abraham was with all his "say you're my sister so they won't hurt me," and the Hagar incident, and in Hebrews it says "Abraham never wavered in his belief that God would fulfill His promise". Somehow God doesn't see what we see. He loves the yes in our hearts. And His grace is enough for so much weakness.
I wouldn't have believed it, and yet, here we are, within reach of our heart's desire. A little baby boy or girl with chocolaty brown skin and dark eyelashes and curly black hair. The thing I desired the most and feared the most, that I would get pregnant and not be able to adopt, has happened and not happened, and my heart is so full of joy at the double blessing of the Lord.
"I know that my Redeemer lives
What joy this blessed sentence gives
He lives, He lives, Who once was dead
He lives, my ever-living Head"
My soul doth magnify the Lord!
Monday, June 21, 2010
questions
well, today i'm not writing about adoption or weight loss or even having a lot of children. this is personal, and maybe more appropriate for an off-line journal, but it's what's on my mind, and, you know, you don't have to read it.
tonight at a meeting i went to, i felt the Lord ask me some questions. two big ones, actually.
the first was this: the speaker told a story i had heard before, about someone who went to heaven or had a vision or dream about heaven in which he was there and heard a song he knew and said so. the angel (or whoever he was talking to) said, yes, that is a song that you got from heaven. he went on to hear songs like nothing he'd ever heard, and asked, "what are those?" the reply was that those are songs no song writer has paid the price for. so my first question from the Lord was: what is it worth to you? what price would you be willing to pay to write the songs of heaven?
the second was: what is holding you back? and so many times, my answer is, my kids. my children hold me back from ministry, i say. we never stay till the end of meetings. we rarely engage during the altar ministry time. not for lack of desire. it's just that so much Kingdom stuff is not good for families. but some of the things the Lord asks of me cost my children nothing.
the idea of a fasted lifestyle is one i heard about for the first time years ago, i think about 8 years ago, when i was pregnant with my 3rd son. the Lord asked me to live a fasted lifestyle, i said how long, knowing full well He didn't mean for a time, and He, knowing full well i had no intention of giving myself fully to Him, said, how about until the end of your pregnancy? that lasted a couple weeks, i think (which is not anywhere near how much longer i was pregnant). and the Lord brings it up from time to time. He brought it up tonight.
a fasted lifestyle does not necessarily mean never having X again. i am not sure it is a full blown Nazarite vow. i think it is more a life of belonging, of sustained decision making with a lovesick motivator - simply put, choosing to lay aside earthly pleasures for the sake of laying up heavenly treasures.
i want to look like my Daddy. i want to look like i belong to my Father. but more than that, i want to belong to Him.
what's it worth to me?
what price am i willing to pay?
what is holding me back?
i have this innate desire to be a radical. some teaching i heard a long time ago - deny yourself, take up your cross, follow me. i love that radical stuff. the crazy-love stuff. sell all you have and give everything to the poor.
i can't do the radical things i'd like to do. but i can live a fasted lifestyle at no additional drain on my children's lives or relationship with me. they don't have to stay up past their bedtimes, go to the nursery, eat dinner in the car or be babysat (or babysit) for hours on end. every time i say no to my flesh and yes to God, i get stronger and the enemy gets weaker. when my flesh gets weaker, my spirit gets stronger. i develop a habit of obedience, of listening, of devoting. and no one has to know a thing.
except the entire world wide web, because i'm pouring my heart out here for anyone to read who wants to. so much for hiddenness.
tonight at a meeting i went to, i felt the Lord ask me some questions. two big ones, actually.
the first was this: the speaker told a story i had heard before, about someone who went to heaven or had a vision or dream about heaven in which he was there and heard a song he knew and said so. the angel (or whoever he was talking to) said, yes, that is a song that you got from heaven. he went on to hear songs like nothing he'd ever heard, and asked, "what are those?" the reply was that those are songs no song writer has paid the price for. so my first question from the Lord was: what is it worth to you? what price would you be willing to pay to write the songs of heaven?
the second was: what is holding you back? and so many times, my answer is, my kids. my children hold me back from ministry, i say. we never stay till the end of meetings. we rarely engage during the altar ministry time. not for lack of desire. it's just that so much Kingdom stuff is not good for families. but some of the things the Lord asks of me cost my children nothing.
the idea of a fasted lifestyle is one i heard about for the first time years ago, i think about 8 years ago, when i was pregnant with my 3rd son. the Lord asked me to live a fasted lifestyle, i said how long, knowing full well He didn't mean for a time, and He, knowing full well i had no intention of giving myself fully to Him, said, how about until the end of your pregnancy? that lasted a couple weeks, i think (which is not anywhere near how much longer i was pregnant). and the Lord brings it up from time to time. He brought it up tonight.
a fasted lifestyle does not necessarily mean never having X again. i am not sure it is a full blown Nazarite vow. i think it is more a life of belonging, of sustained decision making with a lovesick motivator - simply put, choosing to lay aside earthly pleasures for the sake of laying up heavenly treasures.
i want to look like my Daddy. i want to look like i belong to my Father. but more than that, i want to belong to Him.
what's it worth to me?
what price am i willing to pay?
what is holding me back?
i have this innate desire to be a radical. some teaching i heard a long time ago - deny yourself, take up your cross, follow me. i love that radical stuff. the crazy-love stuff. sell all you have and give everything to the poor.
i can't do the radical things i'd like to do. but i can live a fasted lifestyle at no additional drain on my children's lives or relationship with me. they don't have to stay up past their bedtimes, go to the nursery, eat dinner in the car or be babysat (or babysit) for hours on end. every time i say no to my flesh and yes to God, i get stronger and the enemy gets weaker. when my flesh gets weaker, my spirit gets stronger. i develop a habit of obedience, of listening, of devoting. and no one has to know a thing.
except the entire world wide web, because i'm pouring my heart out here for anyone to read who wants to. so much for hiddenness.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sometimes I get tired.
The repetitious futility of my existence sometimes wears on me. Loading and unloading, folding and sorting, rinsing, flossing, brushing, scolding, wiping, hugging, wiping, cleaning up, sweeping, spitting in the wind.
We have a home study coming up. We want our house to be clean. So we clean it every morning. And by the time Dad gets home, it looks exactly like it did before we cleaned, except worse, because while we were cleaning, the brute squad got out a game of trivial pursuit ca. 1985 (the brute squad doesn't read yet), played with markers, peed in their pants and left them where they dropped (the brute squad is often unclad), or just went to the family closet and changed their 'clads' multiple times, no doubt in search of that one perfectly mismatched combination that says, 'my mother doesn't dress me and we get our clothes in bags not stores'.
So we clean, the house gets messier, and Dad, aka The Hammer, says, "okay, guys, we really have to clean tomorrow". The older kids, the ones doing the cleaning, say in a very realistic not rebellious way, "why don't we wait to clean until after the littles go to bed Friday night, then it will be clean for the visit Saturday?"
We have harnessed the army. We have taught it to work. We have trained it to help itself function. We have not, however, taught it to be responsible. We have trained it to match socks, but it doesn't care if they are matched correctly. We have trained it to clean a room, but not to keep it clean. We have taught it to check things off the list, but not to bear the burden.
And sometimes the volume overwhelms me. May I have a string cheese? Yes. Whammo, the entire pack is gone. May I have an apple? Yes? In the attic? Sure. There are 15 apple cores in the attic. No, 14, the baby just ate one. Umm, 15, I guess, she spit it all over the floor. May we play in the hose? Yes. That'll be one load of laundry that has to be washed immediately or it'll turn into mildew in 12.6 seconds.
But it is the emotional things that really bring me down. My incredibly handsome talented charming fun delightful pre-adolescent son had a crisis today. He's just at that age. He's sleeping in (always a morning person before), he doesn't get jokes (normally has the best sense of humor), he takes everything personally and is convinced he's the ugly one (I said, you're kidding, right?!). He's just at that age. So I spent 45 minutes laying on the couch with him, putting him back together like a lego kit, while every body sipped frozen dyed sugar water out of plastic sleeves on the back porch (should serve as a homing beacon for every ant in a 7 mile radius)(I hate ants)(we have three{3} different kinds of ants)(grrr).
Am I moving forward? Am I just spinning my wheels? Is this thing on? Didn't I say all these things yesterday?
The distance between who I am and what I did today and who I want to be is vast. It's not that I want to be anywhere else doing anything else. I just want to do it better. I want to eat less, yell less, growl less, weigh less, smile more, sing more, and eat the vegetables I buy and grow before they grow mold.
I am better than I used to be. Barely. My husband is allowing us to host some visitors for a church thing for 3 weeks. That is huge. We have earned a pittance of respect. He thinks we can keep it together to the point of not being disgusting for a whole three weeks. We "usta-couldn't" keep it clean long enough to have someone over for dinner.
But sometimes I get tired. I don't feel strong. I don't feel loved. I feel like a slug. How long does it take to be not fat? Longer.
Jesus, I need You to pull me into Your current. My own will is either not strong or goes the wrong way. I need to see Your beauty in the moment by moment, because I can't hold on to it for a whole day or even an hour. Draw me after You and I will run. I will run.
We have a home study coming up. We want our house to be clean. So we clean it every morning. And by the time Dad gets home, it looks exactly like it did before we cleaned, except worse, because while we were cleaning, the brute squad got out a game of trivial pursuit ca. 1985 (the brute squad doesn't read yet), played with markers, peed in their pants and left them where they dropped (the brute squad is often unclad), or just went to the family closet and changed their 'clads' multiple times, no doubt in search of that one perfectly mismatched combination that says, 'my mother doesn't dress me and we get our clothes in bags not stores'.
So we clean, the house gets messier, and Dad, aka The Hammer, says, "okay, guys, we really have to clean tomorrow". The older kids, the ones doing the cleaning, say in a very realistic not rebellious way, "why don't we wait to clean until after the littles go to bed Friday night, then it will be clean for the visit Saturday?"
We have harnessed the army. We have taught it to work. We have trained it to help itself function. We have not, however, taught it to be responsible. We have trained it to match socks, but it doesn't care if they are matched correctly. We have trained it to clean a room, but not to keep it clean. We have taught it to check things off the list, but not to bear the burden.
And sometimes the volume overwhelms me. May I have a string cheese? Yes. Whammo, the entire pack is gone. May I have an apple? Yes? In the attic? Sure. There are 15 apple cores in the attic. No, 14, the baby just ate one. Umm, 15, I guess, she spit it all over the floor. May we play in the hose? Yes. That'll be one load of laundry that has to be washed immediately or it'll turn into mildew in 12.6 seconds.
But it is the emotional things that really bring me down. My incredibly handsome talented charming fun delightful pre-adolescent son had a crisis today. He's just at that age. He's sleeping in (always a morning person before), he doesn't get jokes (normally has the best sense of humor), he takes everything personally and is convinced he's the ugly one (I said, you're kidding, right?!). He's just at that age. So I spent 45 minutes laying on the couch with him, putting him back together like a lego kit, while every body sipped frozen dyed sugar water out of plastic sleeves on the back porch (should serve as a homing beacon for every ant in a 7 mile radius)(I hate ants)(we have three{3} different kinds of ants)(grrr).
Am I moving forward? Am I just spinning my wheels? Is this thing on? Didn't I say all these things yesterday?
The distance between who I am and what I did today and who I want to be is vast. It's not that I want to be anywhere else doing anything else. I just want to do it better. I want to eat less, yell less, growl less, weigh less, smile more, sing more, and eat the vegetables I buy and grow before they grow mold.
I am better than I used to be. Barely. My husband is allowing us to host some visitors for a church thing for 3 weeks. That is huge. We have earned a pittance of respect. He thinks we can keep it together to the point of not being disgusting for a whole three weeks. We "usta-couldn't" keep it clean long enough to have someone over for dinner.
But sometimes I get tired. I don't feel strong. I don't feel loved. I feel like a slug. How long does it take to be not fat? Longer.
Jesus, I need You to pull me into Your current. My own will is either not strong or goes the wrong way. I need to see Your beauty in the moment by moment, because I can't hold on to it for a whole day or even an hour. Draw me after You and I will run. I will run.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The Cruise
I went on a cruise. I've always wanted to, because, well, I grew up in the 70's and 80's - I watched The Love Boat, so I've always wanted to do it. My husband gets sea sick, so that kept us from doing it alone, but for my parents' 40th anniversary, they helped each of my siblings and their spouses to do it.
I'd have written about it along the way, but I watched The Net, so I'm still a little unsure about informing the entire world wide web when I'm going to be gone, and the cost of staying connected with any form of reality is prohibitive. So we really left and didn't talk to our children or their caretakers for a little over 4 days.
I'm pretty sure the cruise line lost money on us. We didn't gamble, didn't drink what wasn't free, didn't buy any art or jewelry, and we ate what would have been in real world dollars way more than the cost of our tickets. I had so much fun eating different kinds of things. For example, my last supper on the cruise I had: a wild mushroom pastry, asparagus soup, prime rib, lobster, curried chickpeas (which was, believe it or not, probably better than the prime rib or the lobster), and cherries jubilee. It was all amazing and delicious.
For me, just sitting down and having someone bring me food is a delight. But this wasn't just food. It was excellent food, with excellent service, in beautiful surroundings, with 9 of the people I like best in the world. And I didn't have to do the dishes!
I had a goal of working out as much as possible. So the first full day, I did 40 minutes on the elliptical, and then went up on the top deck where there was a track, and walked/ran a little over 5K. That was huge for me.
Each day I did either one or the other of those things. I also swam in the ocean, in the pool (which unfortunately tasted just like the ocean) and almost never took the elevator. (our room was on the 9th floor, we ate on either the 3rd or 11th, the pool and fitness center were in the 11th and 12th) I ice skated and roller bladed - neither of which burned many calories because I was clinging to the wall and trying hard not to get a concussion. And the last full day, I did a total of 5 miles on the elliptical and a 5K. The 5K was on deck, like the other days, but it was during peak tanning hours. All the lawn chairs were full, and there I was, fat chick, running (jog/walk/shuffling) around and around. People were counting laps (strange, usually people count children when they see me) as I went around. Some started cheering and high-fiving me. It got really fun.
I am like two reality shows in one: The Duggars meet The Biggest Loser.
The other really outstanding thing for me about the trip that I'll mention now is that I was amazed at how many colors the ocean is. I just couldn't believe it. In Bermuda, in the bright sunshine, it was the definition of "aquamarine". Later it was royal blue to my left, and silvery gray to my right, below the clouds. Then the sky was also blue and gray, and I just have to say, I enjoyed my Father's palette very much.
We also got to see a couple Portuguese Man-Of-War, and I ate Escargot. It was amazing. A couple nights later they were selling Royal Caribbean Cookbooks and it had their recipe for Escargot. It has a stick of butter in it. No wonder it tasted good.
I'd have written about it along the way, but I watched The Net, so I'm still a little unsure about informing the entire world wide web when I'm going to be gone, and the cost of staying connected with any form of reality is prohibitive. So we really left and didn't talk to our children or their caretakers for a little over 4 days.
I'm pretty sure the cruise line lost money on us. We didn't gamble, didn't drink what wasn't free, didn't buy any art or jewelry, and we ate what would have been in real world dollars way more than the cost of our tickets. I had so much fun eating different kinds of things. For example, my last supper on the cruise I had: a wild mushroom pastry, asparagus soup, prime rib, lobster, curried chickpeas (which was, believe it or not, probably better than the prime rib or the lobster), and cherries jubilee. It was all amazing and delicious.
For me, just sitting down and having someone bring me food is a delight. But this wasn't just food. It was excellent food, with excellent service, in beautiful surroundings, with 9 of the people I like best in the world. And I didn't have to do the dishes!
I had a goal of working out as much as possible. So the first full day, I did 40 minutes on the elliptical, and then went up on the top deck where there was a track, and walked/ran a little over 5K. That was huge for me.
Each day I did either one or the other of those things. I also swam in the ocean, in the pool (which unfortunately tasted just like the ocean) and almost never took the elevator. (our room was on the 9th floor, we ate on either the 3rd or 11th, the pool and fitness center were in the 11th and 12th) I ice skated and roller bladed - neither of which burned many calories because I was clinging to the wall and trying hard not to get a concussion. And the last full day, I did a total of 5 miles on the elliptical and a 5K. The 5K was on deck, like the other days, but it was during peak tanning hours. All the lawn chairs were full, and there I was, fat chick, running (jog/walk/shuffling) around and around. People were counting laps (strange, usually people count children when they see me) as I went around. Some started cheering and high-fiving me. It got really fun.
I am like two reality shows in one: The Duggars meet The Biggest Loser.
The other really outstanding thing for me about the trip that I'll mention now is that I was amazed at how many colors the ocean is. I just couldn't believe it. In Bermuda, in the bright sunshine, it was the definition of "aquamarine". Later it was royal blue to my left, and silvery gray to my right, below the clouds. Then the sky was also blue and gray, and I just have to say, I enjoyed my Father's palette very much.
We also got to see a couple Portuguese Man-Of-War, and I ate Escargot. It was amazing. A couple nights later they were selling Royal Caribbean Cookbooks and it had their recipe for Escargot. It has a stick of butter in it. No wonder it tasted good.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Greater than, less than
My children don't mind greater than, less than problems in math. Neither did I. I have taught them what I learned from Mrs. Needham back at Darrough Chapel School in the first grade. The little greater than >, less than < symbol is a crocodile's mouth, and he wants to eat the bigger number because he's sooooo hungry. Then you draw teeth and eyeballs. Fun. Thanks Mrs. Needham.
As an adult, greater than, less than has caused me some consternation lately. Now, before I go any further, I know some people who read this that love me are going to want to make me feel better as you read. That's okay, but understand that this is part of my journey and it will help me if I let it.
As a fat person, I have an understanding of what I look like, that isn't completely accurate. I am like the man the Bible talks about, who looks in the mirror but after he walks away forgets what he looks like. I do that. I don't think I look like what I really look like. Not only do I not think I'm this overweight, I also don't think I'm this old, but that's another story. Instead, I have an image of myself that is something of a comparison. I'm not fixated on it, it's just a relative definition that I'm acknowledging is in my mind. Fat is someone who is fatter than me. Am I fat like that? No, I'm not that fat. Okay, fat is that, and I am less fat than that.
And I'm not the only one who thinks like that. We all define fat by way of comparison. I remember a painful conversation years ago, that has been repeated a number of times in some way since then, where someone described another person to me as being a little overweight. I said, "like me?" The answer, "Oh no, not like you. Just a little chubby."
So we think like that. More fat and less fat. Greater than, less than. There are people in my world (people who I love and respect), who in my mind are fatter than me, therefore, they are fat and I'm not. It's the same with tall. I am probably a really short person to most people. But I don't see myself as short. I just think most of you are either tall, quite tall, or really tall. Only people (adults) who are shorter than me are what I consider short (I know of two).
Well recently, someone I (a fat person) thought of as fat, someone who has always been bigger than me, who made me feel better in the "at least I'm not that fat" sort of way, has lost a significant amount of weight. She looks wonderful. Not skinny, but wonderful. More wonderfuller, it turns out, than me. She gave me her fat clothes. Someone who has always been heavier than me gave me clothes that are too big for her. And the worst part is: they barely fit.
The season of biggest loser that just ended had one episode, the makeover episode, where the guy who eventually won it, Michael, still had to shop at the plus-size store for makeover week, even though he'd lost almost 200 lbs. (Guys don't call it plus-size, they call it Big and Tall. Why is that?? Because the store wants you to feel good enough about yourself to spend your money there. It's cool for a guy to be "big". No woman wants to be big.) It was really hard for him, to feel like he'd come so far but was still so fat.
So that's how I feel. I have lost almost 30 lbs since January. But I'm still fat. I don't look good in my clothes, let alone my swimming suit. I've been working hard and trying, albeit inconsistantly, but I'm still too fat for a bigger lady's too big hand me downs. I am near (but not past) some huge milestones. Perhaps more importantly, I'm exercising every day, because my blood pressure will be high if I don't. But I'm having a tough time staying the course because I want to see results. I want to succeed. I want to be > than I used to be.
Well maybe I am, a little. Tonight we went to the cubbie picnic (Awana club end of year party for the little guys) and I ate 1 hotdog, 1 burger, a little pasta salad, 1 brownie and a small pile of watermelon. Oh, and a little soda. Does that sound like a lot of food to you? It wasn't. There was a plateful of brownies on the table, and another plate of cookies. What I really wanted was a couple more hot dogs. But skinny people don't eat two hot dogs or two brownies. They eat one. So I ate one.
I don't know if the scale tomorrow morning will say something that represents the self control I showed today or the workout I did tonight. I don't know if those stupid size 20 jeans my dear friend passed on to me will be loose enough that I can wear them and breath and eat and sit down without pain and trauma to my intestines.
I'm just trying to be faithful. Diligence is a man's precious possession. My laundry is still caught up. I'm exercising every day. My dentist told me I did a good job taking care of my teeth. I AM MORE DISCIPLINED THAN I USED TO BE!
So the greater than less than problem, it turns out, is not
**The Amazing Supermom is > than her previously overweight friend**
but rather
**The Amazing Supermom > than she used to be**
As an adult, greater than, less than has caused me some consternation lately. Now, before I go any further, I know some people who read this that love me are going to want to make me feel better as you read. That's okay, but understand that this is part of my journey and it will help me if I let it.
As a fat person, I have an understanding of what I look like, that isn't completely accurate. I am like the man the Bible talks about, who looks in the mirror but after he walks away forgets what he looks like. I do that. I don't think I look like what I really look like. Not only do I not think I'm this overweight, I also don't think I'm this old, but that's another story. Instead, I have an image of myself that is something of a comparison. I'm not fixated on it, it's just a relative definition that I'm acknowledging is in my mind. Fat is someone who is fatter than me. Am I fat like that? No, I'm not that fat. Okay, fat is that, and I am less fat than that.
And I'm not the only one who thinks like that. We all define fat by way of comparison. I remember a painful conversation years ago, that has been repeated a number of times in some way since then, where someone described another person to me as being a little overweight. I said, "like me?" The answer, "Oh no, not like you. Just a little chubby."
So we think like that. More fat and less fat. Greater than, less than. There are people in my world (people who I love and respect), who in my mind are fatter than me, therefore, they are fat and I'm not. It's the same with tall. I am probably a really short person to most people. But I don't see myself as short. I just think most of you are either tall, quite tall, or really tall. Only people (adults) who are shorter than me are what I consider short (I know of two).
Well recently, someone I (a fat person) thought of as fat, someone who has always been bigger than me, who made me feel better in the "at least I'm not that fat" sort of way, has lost a significant amount of weight. She looks wonderful. Not skinny, but wonderful. More wonderfuller, it turns out, than me. She gave me her fat clothes. Someone who has always been heavier than me gave me clothes that are too big for her. And the worst part is: they barely fit.
The season of biggest loser that just ended had one episode, the makeover episode, where the guy who eventually won it, Michael, still had to shop at the plus-size store for makeover week, even though he'd lost almost 200 lbs. (Guys don't call it plus-size, they call it Big and Tall. Why is that?? Because the store wants you to feel good enough about yourself to spend your money there. It's cool for a guy to be "big". No woman wants to be big.) It was really hard for him, to feel like he'd come so far but was still so fat.
So that's how I feel. I have lost almost 30 lbs since January. But I'm still fat. I don't look good in my clothes, let alone my swimming suit. I've been working hard and trying, albeit inconsistantly, but I'm still too fat for a bigger lady's too big hand me downs. I am near (but not past) some huge milestones. Perhaps more importantly, I'm exercising every day, because my blood pressure will be high if I don't. But I'm having a tough time staying the course because I want to see results. I want to succeed. I want to be > than I used to be.
Well maybe I am, a little. Tonight we went to the cubbie picnic (Awana club end of year party for the little guys) and I ate 1 hotdog, 1 burger, a little pasta salad, 1 brownie and a small pile of watermelon. Oh, and a little soda. Does that sound like a lot of food to you? It wasn't. There was a plateful of brownies on the table, and another plate of cookies. What I really wanted was a couple more hot dogs. But skinny people don't eat two hot dogs or two brownies. They eat one. So I ate one.
I don't know if the scale tomorrow morning will say something that represents the self control I showed today or the workout I did tonight. I don't know if those stupid size 20 jeans my dear friend passed on to me will be loose enough that I can wear them and breath and eat and sit down without pain and trauma to my intestines.
I'm just trying to be faithful. Diligence is a man's precious possession. My laundry is still caught up. I'm exercising every day. My dentist told me I did a good job taking care of my teeth. I AM MORE DISCIPLINED THAN I USED TO BE!
So the greater than less than problem, it turns out, is not
**The Amazing Supermom is > than her previously overweight friend**
but rather
**The Amazing Supermom > than she used to be**
Friday, May 21, 2010
double major
I double majored in college. I mean, I only got one degree, but my advisor told me it was basically a double major. In order to get a degree to teach music, you have to get a degree to teach and a degree in music. It makes sense. I will mention here that my classes in teacher education were some of the stupidest hours of my life, including waiting rooms, having cavities filled, and mmmm, probably not kidney stones - those are in a class of their own.
In our process of becoming marginally less ignorant about being an adoptive parent of an African American child (that is our pursuit, it hasn't happened yet) it turns out that is a kind of double major as well.
There's adoption. Adoption is hard. A child has this family, that, no matter how wonderful they are, cannot erase the fact that his/her mother, father, family, are not in his life. Maybe they were sick, maybe they died, maybe they are wicked, maybe just weak. They are not there.
We are not great, as a society, at understanding that people grieve people they have never known. We don't get it with a miscarriage. We don't get it with adoption. Even if you never knew your mother or your baby it still really, really hurts. And the fact that you have a great family now, or whatever, doesn't make it not hurt.
So there's adoption, which is hard, and then there is the trans-cultural part. Because a trans-cultural adoptee hasn't just lost his/her birth mom/dad/family. He lost his culture. He lost the place he learns how to talk like a black man, walk like a black man, and dance like a black man. The very subtle innuendos that make culture, he now has to have a tutor for those. That's false. It's harsh and wrong.
On the other hand, (not saying the first two hands are in any way invalid) he has a permanent home. And that's a start. It is just important that we know that, in the natural, when we adopt him out of his culture, we place him at a disadvantage.
I have learned (www.answersingenesis.com) that there is no genetic difference between any ethnicity of people. There is one race: human. I've started to get irritated with the form that makes me pick one. It's not right. There is one race - the rest is culture.
And we are counter-cultural people. All of my children are being brought up to be different from the world (that whole "in the world, not of it" thing). We don't do what the culture says we should do. It's not how we make our decisions. American culture is not having 10 or more children, driving a 15 passenger van, wearing hand-me-downs or home schooling.
So my adopted child will also be double majoring: he/she will have a degree in feeling comfortable in the skin God gave him, and a second degree in belonging to a Kingdom not made with human hands, being a stranger and alien in a world that doesn't love us, but being confident in the One who made him.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: Adoption, becoming a multi-racial family, is a whole different set of problems than we have any experience with. But even though the problems are new and different, the Answer is the same. Different problems; same Jesus. I do not have delusions that we can make all the pain of trans-racial adoption go away, but I have every expectation that Jesus can.
In our process of becoming marginally less ignorant about being an adoptive parent of an African American child (that is our pursuit, it hasn't happened yet) it turns out that is a kind of double major as well.
There's adoption. Adoption is hard. A child has this family, that, no matter how wonderful they are, cannot erase the fact that his/her mother, father, family, are not in his life. Maybe they were sick, maybe they died, maybe they are wicked, maybe just weak. They are not there.
We are not great, as a society, at understanding that people grieve people they have never known. We don't get it with a miscarriage. We don't get it with adoption. Even if you never knew your mother or your baby it still really, really hurts. And the fact that you have a great family now, or whatever, doesn't make it not hurt.
So there's adoption, which is hard, and then there is the trans-cultural part. Because a trans-cultural adoptee hasn't just lost his/her birth mom/dad/family. He lost his culture. He lost the place he learns how to talk like a black man, walk like a black man, and dance like a black man. The very subtle innuendos that make culture, he now has to have a tutor for those. That's false. It's harsh and wrong.
On the other hand, (not saying the first two hands are in any way invalid) he has a permanent home. And that's a start. It is just important that we know that, in the natural, when we adopt him out of his culture, we place him at a disadvantage.
I have learned (www.answersingenesis.com) that there is no genetic difference between any ethnicity of people. There is one race: human. I've started to get irritated with the form that makes me pick one. It's not right. There is one race - the rest is culture.
And we are counter-cultural people. All of my children are being brought up to be different from the world (that whole "in the world, not of it" thing). We don't do what the culture says we should do. It's not how we make our decisions. American culture is not having 10 or more children, driving a 15 passenger van, wearing hand-me-downs or home schooling.
So my adopted child will also be double majoring: he/she will have a degree in feeling comfortable in the skin God gave him, and a second degree in belonging to a Kingdom not made with human hands, being a stranger and alien in a world that doesn't love us, but being confident in the One who made him.
I've said it before, I'll say it again: Adoption, becoming a multi-racial family, is a whole different set of problems than we have any experience with. But even though the problems are new and different, the Answer is the same. Different problems; same Jesus. I do not have delusions that we can make all the pain of trans-racial adoption go away, but I have every expectation that Jesus can.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
forty by forty?
Nah, I'm going for it. I'm going for broke. Why?
Well, first of all, I visited the doctor and my blood pressure was high. Not pregnancy induced hypertension high. Not last trimester get the baby out high. Nope, just normal, plain ole high blood pressure. And we all know what that means: lose weight and exercise or take a pill every day for the rest of my life. I have until June 11th. And I have no choice.
I am still sitting at about 210 lbs. Still? Yes! That's why it's called a wall! I have not broken the 206 barrier in 13 years. But I am going to break it. Soon. Not because I want to lose weight, but because I do not want to take blood pressure medicine for the rest of my life. Not if I can help it.
I know taking medicine is not the worst thing in the world. But I'm actually lousy at it. I have a hard time finishing antibiotics. I am horrible about prenatal vitamins. It's just not my best thing.
So here's my plan: I'm trying to stay around 12-1300 calories. I'm avoiding sugar and white flour. I'm on the treadmill 40 minutes daily. And I'm trying to do 40 flights of stairs a day (or at least as many as possible).
So I'm not trying to lose 40 lbs in the next year. I'm shooting for 70 or so. Hey, it could happen. Why not try? I've got plenty of time and the best motivation in the world: my life.
Well, first of all, I visited the doctor and my blood pressure was high. Not pregnancy induced hypertension high. Not last trimester get the baby out high. Nope, just normal, plain ole high blood pressure. And we all know what that means: lose weight and exercise or take a pill every day for the rest of my life. I have until June 11th. And I have no choice.
I am still sitting at about 210 lbs. Still? Yes! That's why it's called a wall! I have not broken the 206 barrier in 13 years. But I am going to break it. Soon. Not because I want to lose weight, but because I do not want to take blood pressure medicine for the rest of my life. Not if I can help it.
I know taking medicine is not the worst thing in the world. But I'm actually lousy at it. I have a hard time finishing antibiotics. I am horrible about prenatal vitamins. It's just not my best thing.
So here's my plan: I'm trying to stay around 12-1300 calories. I'm avoiding sugar and white flour. I'm on the treadmill 40 minutes daily. And I'm trying to do 40 flights of stairs a day (or at least as many as possible).
So I'm not trying to lose 40 lbs in the next year. I'm shooting for 70 or so. Hey, it could happen. Why not try? I've got plenty of time and the best motivation in the world: my life.
Wednesday, May 05, 2010
socks
I think I'm ready to talk about socks now. I just matched 103 pair of socks. Does that sound like a lot? How many pairs of socks do you have? 103 pairs is about 9 per person at my house. The crazy thing is that I still have an overflowing basket of unmatched socks looking at me, staring at me, daring me to match one more pair. But I'm not gonna. In this area, at least, I have some measure of self control. I can stop matching socks anytime I want to.
I am convinced that a psycho-analyst could learn a whole lot about someone by watching them match socks. It used to be pretty important to me to get sock matching just right. I remember getting very irritated at my mother-in-law once, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, for matching socks less precisely than I wanted them done, which is, of course, nothing like I do them now.
These days, if it is about the same color and about the same style and about the same size, it's a match! Once you put your shoes on, no one knows if the letters in the word Hanes are the same color. (By the way, my favorite socks to match, not to wear, but to match are the ones Hanes makes. I'm not getting paid to say that either. The whole colored lettering/stripe thing makes it so easy to match things correctly, or to get it close anyway.)
Why do we have so many socks? Other than the obvious reason that we have a lot of feet, and the other obvious reason that I have a tendency to get behind on laundry, it is also because we are pretty hard on socks. I have 4 to throw away from this batch alone. I remember a sweet older lady telling me in a marvelously patronizing voice about how she taught her daughters AND her sons to darn their socks. I wanted to say, but didn't, we don't just get holes in our socks, we annihilate them. You can read through a sock before we throw it out. There's nothing there to sew up!
So, when someone gives me a bag of socks (it is beyond me that anyone would have socks to give that are matched and don't have holes in them) I take them. We will wear them until we A) lose them, B) wear them paper thin, or C) leave them at a friend's house.
We don't buy socks that often, usually. We buy them at Christmas, when we are in Indiana and run out of socks before it's time to come home, and just before KOV (church day-camp) when finding socks to wear is the last thing this amazing super mama wants to think about, when I'm packing lunches for 10 or 12 or 14, washing everyone's shirt for the next day, and trying to get all those people in the van before 8:30, 5 mornings in a row.
No one really has their own socks in our house. My husband sort of does, but I bum from him when I run out. I almost do, but the big kids bum from me, also. The rest of the socks are downstairs in two drawers for anyone's taking. They do a pretty good job, mostly, of being able to tell if a pair of socks is too small for them. They are not as good at knowing if the socks will be too big. And a couple of them are downright lousy at putting a pair of socks back, folded together, if they don't fit. Alas.
And then, sometimes, just to keep me near the edge of the cliffs of insanity, some bright eyed adorable children get the idea that it would be great fun to put socks on our hands AND feet, maybe multiple pairs (if 1 is good, 4 is better, don't you think?) and pretend to be dogs or skate around the slippery floor. Socks are also wonderful (who knew?) for carrying small treasures, money, rocks, legos, marbles, polly pockets, small sleepy beanie babies, and those little decorative glass pebbles we call dragon tears.
Summer is (or should be) the answer to all these problems. I beg my children to wear crocs (fake ones), flip flops, sandals, aqua socks, anything that doesn't require socks. I offer them tax incentives, increases in allowances, extra minutes on the computer, easier math homework next year, if they will just show mom a little love and stay away from the socks.
My eldest has some hillbilly blood in her, and would be happy to go bare foot all the time. But society (a.k.a. the department of health) insists that she wear shoes when we go places. So she respectfully wears them to wherever we are going and promptly takes them off as soon as she gets in the van. Does she sometimes forget to bring them into the house???
My sons tend to wear their socks until a few seconds before they fall asleep. B3 recently got assigned the job of tidying up the boys room each day. What that means is that it is his responsibility to harvest all the dead socks from the sock graveyard every morning.
The shoe closet is also a prime location for going on a sock hunt. Stuffed in the shoes, on the floor, scattered from the closet door up the stairs, it seems the best place to leave dirty socks is anywhere but where they ought to be.
And why is it that the butt-ugliest socks in the house never, ever get lost?
So, like much of my life and yours, the battle wages on. It has no end. Well, Heaven. I am as sure as I am of anything that I will not have to match socks in Heaven. Oh that will be glory for me, glory for me, glory for me. When by His grace I will look on His face (and not have to match socks anymore) that will be glory, be glory for me.
I am convinced that a psycho-analyst could learn a whole lot about someone by watching them match socks. It used to be pretty important to me to get sock matching just right. I remember getting very irritated at my mother-in-law once, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, for matching socks less precisely than I wanted them done, which is, of course, nothing like I do them now.
These days, if it is about the same color and about the same style and about the same size, it's a match! Once you put your shoes on, no one knows if the letters in the word Hanes are the same color. (By the way, my favorite socks to match, not to wear, but to match are the ones Hanes makes. I'm not getting paid to say that either. The whole colored lettering/stripe thing makes it so easy to match things correctly, or to get it close anyway.)
Why do we have so many socks? Other than the obvious reason that we have a lot of feet, and the other obvious reason that I have a tendency to get behind on laundry, it is also because we are pretty hard on socks. I have 4 to throw away from this batch alone. I remember a sweet older lady telling me in a marvelously patronizing voice about how she taught her daughters AND her sons to darn their socks. I wanted to say, but didn't, we don't just get holes in our socks, we annihilate them. You can read through a sock before we throw it out. There's nothing there to sew up!
So, when someone gives me a bag of socks (it is beyond me that anyone would have socks to give that are matched and don't have holes in them) I take them. We will wear them until we A) lose them, B) wear them paper thin, or C) leave them at a friend's house.
We don't buy socks that often, usually. We buy them at Christmas, when we are in Indiana and run out of socks before it's time to come home, and just before KOV (church day-camp) when finding socks to wear is the last thing this amazing super mama wants to think about, when I'm packing lunches for 10 or 12 or 14, washing everyone's shirt for the next day, and trying to get all those people in the van before 8:30, 5 mornings in a row.
No one really has their own socks in our house. My husband sort of does, but I bum from him when I run out. I almost do, but the big kids bum from me, also. The rest of the socks are downstairs in two drawers for anyone's taking. They do a pretty good job, mostly, of being able to tell if a pair of socks is too small for them. They are not as good at knowing if the socks will be too big. And a couple of them are downright lousy at putting a pair of socks back, folded together, if they don't fit. Alas.
And then, sometimes, just to keep me near the edge of the cliffs of insanity, some bright eyed adorable children get the idea that it would be great fun to put socks on our hands AND feet, maybe multiple pairs (if 1 is good, 4 is better, don't you think?) and pretend to be dogs or skate around the slippery floor. Socks are also wonderful (who knew?) for carrying small treasures, money, rocks, legos, marbles, polly pockets, small sleepy beanie babies, and those little decorative glass pebbles we call dragon tears.
Summer is (or should be) the answer to all these problems. I beg my children to wear crocs (fake ones), flip flops, sandals, aqua socks, anything that doesn't require socks. I offer them tax incentives, increases in allowances, extra minutes on the computer, easier math homework next year, if they will just show mom a little love and stay away from the socks.
My eldest has some hillbilly blood in her, and would be happy to go bare foot all the time. But society (a.k.a. the department of health) insists that she wear shoes when we go places. So she respectfully wears them to wherever we are going and promptly takes them off as soon as she gets in the van. Does she sometimes forget to bring them into the house???
My sons tend to wear their socks until a few seconds before they fall asleep. B3 recently got assigned the job of tidying up the boys room each day. What that means is that it is his responsibility to harvest all the dead socks from the sock graveyard every morning.
The shoe closet is also a prime location for going on a sock hunt. Stuffed in the shoes, on the floor, scattered from the closet door up the stairs, it seems the best place to leave dirty socks is anywhere but where they ought to be.
And why is it that the butt-ugliest socks in the house never, ever get lost?
So, like much of my life and yours, the battle wages on. It has no end. Well, Heaven. I am as sure as I am of anything that I will not have to match socks in Heaven. Oh that will be glory for me, glory for me, glory for me. When by His grace I will look on His face (and not have to match socks anymore) that will be glory, be glory for me.
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