Dream Gig (Day 8 of 31)

 

Yesterday, I fessed up about my comparison compulsion with other writers. Today I wanted to follow up and tell you more about one of those blogs that I contribute to.   No Hands But Ours is designed to encourage and inform adoptive parents of special needs kids and advocate for waiting children in China. 

Earlier this year, they asked me to do a guest post attempting to get others to make brave decisions about adoption files, so I hit the keyboard and came up with "Saying Yes to Complex Conditions".

God has been lavish in His gifts to us this year, and that post resulted in monthly contributions.  I've been spilling my heart for a few months now, and its been the sweetest of creative stretches.  Upheld, Ten Things Adoptive Parents of Medical Needs Kids Want to Know and Fault Lines were overflows from my heart, prayers and experiences. 

For year after year as an adoptive mom, I have followed NHBO, and have been challenged and spurred on. For each of our three special needs adoptions, I scoured the special needs summaries and lingered long over family stories.   This site has been a powerful source of connection, inspiration and information.  

If I might “pay it forward” and offer encouragement to others, I’ll call myself abundantly blessed. I'm so grateful for this opportunity to serve, this creative stretching, and this way to connect with families who share a heartbeat for adoption and orphan advocacy.

Sometimes I see my words on No Hands But Ours, and tears come.  It's my dream writing gig.  The one that represents one of the biggest parts my truest self.  Ten years on this adoption road, we have seen, done and experienced much.  It has brought the most profound challenge and the sweetest gifts.  I've learned a thousand lessons, and have seen the Lord do abundantly more than we could have ever asked for or imagined . 

Lord Christ,
You have no body on earth but ours,
No hands but ours,
No feet but ours.

Ours are the eyes through which your compassion must look out on the world.
Ours are the feet by which you may still go about doing good.
Ours are the hands with which You bless people now.

Bless our minds and bodies,
That we may be a blessing to others.

~St. Theresa of Avila

Big thanks to Stefanie, Liberty and Sheryl for being part of the Lord's "abundantly more" in my life. 

 

You can read my posts here and "like" the No Hands But Ours FB page to never miss a post.

This is post 8 of 31 in my 31 day series: Tending to the Writer in Me

 

 

Comparison Compulsion (Day 7 of 31)

 

Comparison.  She's Me Monster's roommate.  When I look at her in the mirror, she's equally as aggressive and ugly.

Earlier this year, I was granted the chance to contribute to two other blogs.  For each month, every contributor has a due date to submit our posts.  I couldn't be more grateful for the opportunity to be used to speak encouragement into the lives of others, have my writing read beyond the circle of my parents and best buds, and be stretched creatively to write in the style of an article. 

We tattered humans have a way of squeezing a couple ounces of ugliness out of the good gifts in our life though, don't we?    We get mucked up in messes of our own making.  I'm going to come out of my insecure, judgmental closet and tell you that when reading the posts of fellow contributors, I sometimes find myself comparing my words and feedback.

As I am battling with a blank screen,  I click onto their posts and allow myself to become blinded by their light, quickly doubting that my words have any light of their own.  I open the drain and let some joy drain out.    

I also find myself comparing feedback from my own articles with past articles, wondering why one got three "likes" and the other got four.  Why some are shared and others are not.  Constructive reflection makes me a better writer, but if I linger there, the joy drain opens wider. 

My thoughts on comparison are muddled, but as I type and word follows word, the Lord gently reminds me that whether my eyes are on others, or on myself, they are off Him.  So, I am distracted from the task of the moment, missing the chance to joyfully be used by my creative Maker. 

How do I battle this?  Prayer.  When that blank screen glows white, I'm struggling, but learning to pray myself out of the way.  Asking that I might release my doubts and comparison compulsion enough to bravely empty myself of one more written offering.

 “A flower does not think of competing to the flower next to it. It just blooms.”  ~Zen Shin

 

This is day 7 of a 31 day series: Tending to the Writer in Me

1600 bloggers are writing for 31 Days!

 

Strung out on Perfectionism (6 of 31: Tending to the Writer in Me)

 

 

What if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; or you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.  ~Anne Lamott

Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I am a recovering perfectionist.  I've even been known to brag about it. I thought it meant I was a hard worker, someone who knew details matter. 

For a long time, my obsession with perfection bled the life out of my writing.  If my photos weren't perfectly edited or if my words weren't up to snuff in my mind, they were a no go.  I'd often publish a post and then hit delete.  My words were guarded, over analyzed and people pleasing. Other times my thoughts were messy, so I wouldn't even sharpen my pencil.  All the time, I knew I had a fair share of grammar and spelling mistakes.  Polishing away the faults siphoned away my fire and creativity.

My perfectionism raged the loudest when I was a classroom teacher.  I was young, confident, and spending a zillion hours a week on my work. I arrived early, worked late, and drug carts of work home.  I obsessed over every unit and redesigned every handout that landed in front of my students.  My students' parents needed to know I was professional and capable, so I labored over my weekly newsletter making sure the font, the clipart and the text were PERFECT.   As I stood by the copy machine each week, watching 25 copies hit the complete tray, I thought myself fabulous.  Exhausted and frazzled, but meeting my self-imposed expectations.  Truth be told, I judged those around me who didn't spend equal time on their "teaching". 

Then a new teacher moved across the hall from me.  A couple years older, more fun, more relaxed and probably the better teacher, my antennas went up.  As most teachers do, she worked hard.  She loved her students and loved the art of teaching.  At some point, I caught a glimpse of one of her newsletters, and discovered that she was using a template that she wrote into by hand each week.  I'm guessing it took her about 15-20 minutes, including copying time.  It was personal, informative and totally adequate.  She was an incredible teacher, but had none of my hang-ups with precision.  I'm guessing she also actually lived a life beyond teaching too.

For the first time, I saw myself, and my wasted time, with some clarity.  Those zillion hours spent making sure every single project, worksheet, and rubric I gave my students was PERFECT actually had nothing to do with my teaching.   Gulp. 

It took many more moments of clarity to realize that my perfectionism had come at a high price.  I'd wasted time, missed out, lost my focus and stepped too far away from my truest self. 

I am writing again, and learning to accept my faults.  Writing even if time limits my ability to give my A game.  Releasing my desire to go back and change a few words again and again after I hit publish.  No longer wanting to delete old posts that were written by the former writer I was.  I acknowledge that though I'll never master the art of the written word,  I love the art anyway.  Today, more than yesterday, I'm embracing my sloppy, creative, and radically imperfect self.   

 “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”  ~Ernest Hemingway

This is day 6 of a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me". 

The Me Monster (Day 5 of 31 Tending to the Writer in Me)

 

 

So let me just shadow you, let me trace your lines

Matter of fact, just take my pen, here, you create my rhymes

'Cause if I do this by myself, I'm scared that I'll succeed

And no longer trust in you, 'cause I only trust in me

~Lacrae, "Background"
 

Oh, how I wish I could sort my life into neat little piles like folded laundry.  Unfortunately, writing lands itself in lots of my piles, and knocks over a few others.  I've come to terms with calling myself a writer.  I had to.  Storytelling is part of being my most alive and truest self.  But I'm spending these next 31 days sorting through what it means to write because it simultaneously wakes me up and unnerves me.   This series is for me.  I'm penning each post to process it out, hoping to type away some doubts, lifting them up as  prayers to the One who made me a lover of words.

And what scares me even more than writing naked?   The "Me Monster".  At the barn, author Emily Freeman used the term to illustrate how we can feel when we take our words and put them out into the world.  How we feel when we gather courage, bare our souls, and then try to discern the difference between sharing for attention seeking versus making a creative connection. It is messy, and I just haven't reconciled how to deal with it.  

Any writer loves to have their words read.  When a reader comments that they were encouraged or challenged, it's sweet continuation of a conversation.  Putting your writing online is like your public art gallery, and you long for someone to stop in front of your work and say, "Tell me more."  Or, "Man, this is what I needed today.  God spoke to me through you."

But at the same time, when I post my words to the machine that is Facebook, it feels like I'm jumping up and down before those I love saying, "Look at ME!  Look what I did!  Me, Me, Me!"  That Me Monster dances wildly. Any words of encouragement I get feels like fuel to keep typing, but also makes me squirm.   If only I could share and have it land in front of an anonymous audience, I wouldn't have as many motives to sort through. 

God created me with a passion for stringing words together. With courage and humility, I believe that we are called to live out our passions, use our gifts, to bring glory always and only to Him.   This call fires me up for others, but for me, I can't sort it out in piles like I'd like to. If I fully live out my love for writing, I'm afraid that I won't be able to tame my Me Monster, because she tends to like attention and often gets in the way. 

I know God has a story to tell though, and I long to be used by Him to tell it.  I want Him to transform me into the pencil Mother Teresa spoke of.

“I'm a little pencil in the hand of a writing God, who is sending a love letter to the world.”  
~Mother Teresa

So, I keep writing and praying through how to do it publically in a way that shares His love,  never stepping beyond Him and toward me.  He's brought opportunities my way, and I gratefully accept them as His gift at a time when a creative release is needed. 

God never seems to leave me alone.  Just when I start getting my laundry folded, He messes with my piles.  Just when I feel like He's stretched me out as far as I'll bend, He pulls me further from my safe places.   The truth is, I've tested the waters outside of my comfort zone, and I like how they feel.   I've just got to keep prayerfully paddling away from the Me Monster who seems to always be coming for me in a speed boat.   So, I'll write today, and fight the urge to keep my life in tidy piles. 
 



 

 

This is day 5 in a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me". 

Writing Naked (Day 4 of 31, Tending to the Writer in Me)

"Life without other people is boring as hell.  It hit me that maybe the battles of life are best fought without armor and without weapons.  That maybe life gets real, good, and interesting when we remove all of the layers of protection we've built around hearts and walk out onto the battlefield of life naked. "  ~Glennon Doyle Melton in Carry On, Warrior

I've got stuff going on in my life.  Like lots of stuff.  I'm guessing you do too.  Our family has been battling this past year, and that's left us with a shell shocked rawness.  Naked really.  

Here's the thing though.  I stink at small talk.  If you meet me at a party, we might not fully connect  because I just can't think of a thing to say.  I might be carrying the weight of rawness that I'd love to share with you.  Or, I might be thinking, "Wow, I'd really to love to know her."  Or, "I wonder if she ever doubts her faith."  Yet, I might just smile and talk about the weather.  I officially fess up to the disconnect between my desire for deep connections and my ability to move beyond small talk. 

Writing for me is my side of the conversation, the sort I'm in pursuit of.  It's vulnerable, and kinda naked.  I write the way I'd love to talk if you were sitting next to me.  Whether we are sipping tea on the back porch, passing out juice boxes at the park, or pouring margaritas from a pitcher, deeper is my desire.  I want to tell you I got teary at the last episode of Parenthood, and laugh about my son stuffing matchbox cars into the toilet, but then I want to tell you more.  I want to ask you for more. 

I connect with authors who write naked, giving you glimpses into their real deal.  As I read about their struggles, I feel less alone.  But then still, I'm looking for even more if I am going to read again.   Sharing struggles has its value, but this world is erupting with the hard and the sad, and it all makes me weary. 

 

I need to hear the voice of those who face struggle fully leaned in, messed up, but mining for hope, listening carefully for the voice of God.  I don't need neat, tidy and together, but I could use some inspiration and challenge.   I don't need for writers, or friends, to have answers, but I'd love to know what they are hoping for, attempting and  learning.  Or, that they've gone into battle and come out on the other side more humble, faith filled and focused.   I'm wanting you to unpack some of your stuff. 

I'm going to keep working on letting my guard down as a writer, because that is what I'm looking to read.  And if you see me at a party, now you know.  Fist pump to the naked folks. 

This post is day four of a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me".

Thanks to Tish Goff for her photograph. 

Alive: Hemingway Style (Tending to the Writer in Me, Day 3 of 31)

This business of being a writer is ultimately about asking yourself,
"How ALIVE am I willing to be?" ~Anne Lamott

For three weeks, I've been walking through my days as a 40 year old.  In my mind, my mom was always forty, even when she wasn't.  It was the official age of adulthood.  So here I am, more officially an adult,  with four of my unknown allotment of decades already lived.  It's a milestone kind of year, bringing  reflection on steps taken and expectation for the messy beautiful steps to come.  

I'm grateful in advance for those steps yet taken, stories yet written. Grateful that I've got a chance to see each 24 hours as a hope filled portion given me.  Each sunrise a new chance to move toward those things that bring LIFE to my family and me. 

Writing has always been one of my life grantors.  A journal and sharpened pencil invite creativity, hope, clarification, the giving of an offering, connection, gratitude, opportunity.  It's offering up a generous portion of myself, and mining for connections with readers.  It's being stretched, solidifying opinions, exploring questions and sharing faith.   Pen to paper, I feel spilled out and used up, all the best fully awake sensations. 

Written words allow me to pounce in rain puddles with my preschooler in his rubber boots, and then live it again, tapping keys on my keyboard, really noticing the beauty in the memory.  It's taking a deeper look at life, and seeing the days as stories. 

I really like that ALIVE feeling, and am finally learning to go for more of it.  The completely and fully all the way kind of going for it.  At my truest self, I am a storyteller, and  I've got a thousand little stories to tell.  It's about time to start tending to the writer in me, the fully awake, forty year old one.   

Ernest Hemingway offered a "how to" for this alive kind of living: 

"Try to learn to breathe deeply, really to taste food when you eat, and when you sleep really to sleep. Try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might, and when you laugh, laugh like hell. And when you get angry, get good and angry. Try to be alive. You will be dead soon enough.”

Yes, Ernest, yes. 


*This is post number 3 in my 31 day series: Tending to the Writer in Me". 

*You can also follow along with other 31 Day bloggers.   

There's Something About a Barn:Tending to Writer Within (Day 2 of 31)

"Listen and attend with the ear of your heart."  Saint Benedict

Old barns summon up childhood memories.   My grandmother and her sons, my uncles, lived the farm life for years, growing tobacco, raising crops and tending to animals.   After their white farmhouse burned, they put a trailer on the land, and kept right on rising each morning to work with their hands.  Their land and their barns had a history of both labor and joy.

I'm grateful for memories of summer weeks spent there.  Of rising early with my sister to climb up into barn rafters, holding the front seams of our shirts to make pockets for collected eggs.  Of cows, bulls with horns that frightened me, and stinky pigs.  Of climbing up to the top of a corn silo to look out over the farm and play in the pool of kernels. My little girl self relished in the wild freedom of it, and got lost in experiences so real you could hold them in your hand.   

Lifetimes later, I sat in a barn in Midland, North Carolina.  I'd turned forty and decided to do something brave, something that represented next steps.   

So, I'd accepted an invitation from another set of sisters to gather on an autumn night with a circle of writers.    Emily Freeman (from Chatting at the Sky) and her sister, Myquillyn Smith (from The Nesting Place), along with singer/ song-writer, Christa Wells, opened up the doors to a refurbished barn,  and created a generous space for exploring the creative within. 

And there is just something about a barn.   

Intuition tells us old, rustic barns have histories of stories rich with family, humility, sunrises, sunsets,  weathering hard times, clucking roosters, laboring with your hands and play among the rafters.

This night, as a grown up version of the little farm loving  girl, I sat in an old barn turned beautiful with vintage furniture, eclectic decorating, soft glowing strung lights, roosters ambling outside, glowing candles, crisp air through open windows, cats wandering through, and heart-stirring songs sung.

I'd said yes to a barn. Yes to time spent with writers who had inspired me.   Yes to turning old memories into written word.  Yes to looking for beauty in the ordinary.  Yes to tending to the writer in me.

They read poems, quoted authors and shared their experiences, speaking of story, art, mistakes and bravery.   And as Saint Benedict suggested, I listened and attended with the ear of my heart. 

Instead of collecting eggs, I collected an awakening.  I filled my journal with books to read, quotes, thoughts and challenges, all of it renewing some of that wild, hope filled freedom of childhood barn memories.  Doubts were silenced and vision stoked.

Back home, I'm certain to be reflecting again and again with gratitude on a most magical autumn night gathered in a barn.  And now I've sharpened some pencils and am saying more yeses.   Yes to the writer hiding under doubt and excuses.  Yes to allowing the Lord to use my words in new ways.  Yes to vulnerability.  Yes to the value of creativity.  Yes.

There's just something about a barn.

 

This is day two in a 31 day series: Tending to the Writer in Me.  Check out the write 31 challenge.

 

Bending Low to Build Up (October Article for Ungrind)

She bent low toward the sobs of her sister, a beautiful posture of grace. 

“Do you need love?” A question to the two year old whose face was pressed angrily into the floor.

With patience fragile, I only wanted the fussing to end. But gentle big sister’s words drew me around the corner toward grace poured out. Little legs stopped flailing and a piggy-tailed head lifted toward a reaching-down sister. Then big sis held little sis and spoke life.

“We love you. You aren’t a fussy girl. You are my sweet girl.”

This undeserved, soul-tending kindness was a gift to my drained mothering self. It was a glimpse into the eternal impact of changes I’m striving for. Long term pay-off played out. The feisty, tender, but passionate big sis, who has melted down and erupted out so many times before, was now dishing out the very response that I’m finally learning to give to her. Grace upon grace.

In different seasons over the years, red faced and temper flaring, that six-year-old big sister has screamed with all she could muster. Her eyes showing anxiety and exhaustion, and her words peppered with “no” and “you never.” There have been stormy, yelling moments, and more times than I care to recount, words have flown from my mouth that I instantly wanted to retrieve. Yes, she was only two, three, four, and five, but we share matching mother/daughter tempers. She’d melt down, and I’d hold it together a couple times, for a couple days. But then she’d fuss right over the top of my patience limit.

I’ve got a thing about well-behaved kids. For years as a teacher, before children entered our world, I found it easy to gain control of behavior. By September, classes walked down hallways in lines, shared baskets of pencils with ease, and whispered during quiet concentration times.

But now there are four little, multi-temperament people in my house. And oh, how I tried the teacher-turned-mommy-discipline techniques: time out, counting to ten, early bedtime, spanking, ignoring, yelling. Some have value, but mostly I’ve found they only stir up or temporarily diffuse.

At some point, after heaving around an oversized load of guilt, I realized I’d been tearing down rather than building up. Managing moments rather than heart tending. Then, God gently nudged me toward grace, for myself and little people with their dander up. Especially them.

You can read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

31 Days of Tending to the Writer in Me

Today I begin to tend to the writer in me.  With shaky knees and a thousand reasons not to, I am saying yes to writing for 31 days.  Yes to exploring the doubts, joys, growth, contributions,  influences, inspirations, obstacles and art of writing.  No clue where the time will be found.  No idea if my thoughts will make a connection with anyone who reads my strung together words.  But, yes. 

 

First, I grant myself permission to say that I am a writer. 

 

 Everything in me wants to NOT say THAT, to not go that far with my little hobby.  But, I am going to fight the urge to tap away at my delete key, and am making plans to explore and tend to the writer in me for the next 31 days. 

 

Tomorrow, I'll share about how my experience at The Barn: A Day for Writers (with Chatting at the Sky's Emily Freeman, The Nesting Place's Nester Smith and singer/song-writer, Christa Wells) peeked right into my soul. 

 

31 Days of Tending to the Writer in Me:

Post 2 There is Something About a Barn

Post 3 Alive: Hemingway Style

Post 4 Writing Naked

Post 5  The Me Monster

Post 6  Strung Out on Perfectionism

Post 7 Comparison Compulsion

Post 8 Dream Gig

 

Post 9 Churning Out Encouragement

 

Post 10  Sizzle and Pop

Post 11 Sifting

Post 12 Generous Thoughts: Gratitude to the Commenters

Post 13 Filling Up

Post 14 Acceptance

Post 15 Inspiration for the Ears (Podcasts)

Post 16 Tables in the Wilderness
 

Thanks to Tish Goff for again sharing her beautiful photography. 

Find others who are taking the 31 Day writing challenge. 

Today I Noticed: Schooled in Stillness

It was my third lap around the water before I noticed her.  Her wheelie cart grabbed at my attention first.  I smiled considered the convenience of it.  Her water bottle, a lunch-size cooler, and other bench sitting supplies right at her finger tips, easily rolled from her car. 

Lapping past her once more, I noticed her stillness.  Silver white hair, light sweater for the seventy-six degree weather, comfortable support shoes, and glasses held on by a chain, she'd learned how to sit on a bench.  Probably earned it too. 

Her fingers didn't tap at a phone screen or adjust ear buds, her arms didn't wrangle a toddler, and her legs didn't pace quickly by, calories burned or steps counted. 

She'd mastered the art of stillness, a practice that escapes me. 

Slowing just briefly, I considered what she'd likely noticed from her bench that my busy, scattered mind almost missed.

          the bikes, the strollers, the scooters.
          the well dressed and the worn out.
          the meanderers and the fast movers.      
          the words heard and the words unheard.
          the couple walking with pinched faces and gesturing hands, a life to sort through.
          the overtired little person and the mom with teetering patience.
          the ducks, the dogs, the trails and the trees. 
          the mom whipping out sanitizer and carefully monitoring steps. 
          the daddy lugging a cast off tricycle.
          the couple kissing for engagement photos.
          the weeping willow bending low to dip leaves into the water. 
          
On my final loop around, I smiled at her, waved, and wished I was brave enough to ask to sit next to her.  Wished I was the kind of person who found space for bench sitting.  I'm guessing she has some stories to tell, some wisdom from a life that taught stillness.   I didn't stop, but without words, she schooled me in the practice of noticing.

Ready to jump in the car and head toward my to do list, I walked on by, stopping once past her to snap a photo.  To my absolute thrill, I watched as she reached into her wheelie cart and pulled out a high speed camera.  With careful aim, her long lens pointed toward the water before her, timed perfectly to capture the flapping wings of landing ducks. 

My bench sitting mentor was all that I imagined her to be, intentional about stillness, AND one who seeks beauty amongst the ordinary.

Here's to noticing beauty and lingering on benches. 

God's Calling (No Hands But Ours)

We adoptive parents are a feisty, powerful bunch. We are in pursuit…on mission…active…hoping…
dossier building…finger-printing…connecting….fundraising…hurdle jumping…praying…planning…
counting-down…conferencing…reading…packing…travelling…bonding…adjusting…teaching…nursing… care giving…loving.

But are we listening for God’s voice?

Many claim that adoption starts with a "calling". God speaks and we respond. And for a glorious moment, our ears are perfectly tuned to His voice. Sometimes though, somewhere along the journey to our child, and then with our child, we become absorbed in our side of the conversation. The voice of the One who called gets muffled.

Our waiting child beckons. The dossier checklist blares. The adoptive momma FB group clamors. The mission-focused, striving heart cries out. The momma and poppa bear within us roars. It’s a divine, but noisy ride.

Once home, the volume of life turns to high. We are adjusting, bonding, cocooning, seeking specialists, administering medicines, triaging family needs, testing, and treating. Fragile kids must be taught to sleep, talk, be loved, eat solid foods, drink from a cup, deal with our sensory loaded world, and bond.

We hold on for dear life, our hearts becoming fertile ground for the birth of new faith. We are well beyond the borders of our comfort and ability, so we pray and we pray. After all, we’ve got a laundry list of petitions.

But is there listening space in our prayers?

Do we, adoptive parents, push ever forward in great love? Yes. 

Allow God to replace our weakness with His strength? Have to.

Pray without ceasing? You bet. 

But actually listen to our speaking Father? Not so much. Too much adopting to have time for that.




Standing on the other side of three adoptions, I see that the One who I thought was silent, was indeed speaking.

He was speaking, but I was working on my dossier. 

He was speaking, but I was planning.

He was speaking, but I was shattering knowing that my child was experiencing orphanage life, hospital stays and surgeries without parents. 

He was speaking, but I was raging against delays, glitches and international red tape.

He was speaking, but my prayers were lopsided with begging.

He was speaking, but I was wholly devoted to Gotcha Day.

He was speaking, but I was busy healing hurting souls.

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

Beautiful photographs by the mega talented, Tish Goff. 

Little Driller

I'm still not sure how this little Chinese boy landed in our family. 

All I know is that he is a gift of the best boy kind. 

 

He's tender hearted, helpful, hi-lar-i-ous, and destructive. 

Part Curious George, part Handy Mandy, he's teaching us how to be boy parents.   

And there's a certain special, memory making Papaw who is a wee bit happy to have a little man in the family as well.  After decades in a girl heavy family, he's intentionally examining his new grandfather of a boy role.  I'm thinking he's doing a fine job of figuring it out. 

 

This little man is drilling holes into all our hearts, 

and is patiently sharing all his cool boy fun with his trio of sisters.   

Schooling Again

 These little students have been schooling for almost two months.  It's been a blur of agendas, backpacks, lunch boxes, carpool, and chapters read, but already we see great gains emotionally and academically.  Our little people keep right on keeping on, and we are fighting the good fight to stay intentional.

 We are so grateful for the investment these teachers are making in the lives of our loves. 

A Time to Laugh (Ungrind Webzine Post)

With her wrinkled hand cupped over her mouth, her floral dress would shake as she giggled. My childhood memories of summer weeks spent at my grandmother’s meager Tennessee house are filled with the sound of her laughter and chicken fried crispy in an electric skillet.

She never took me to a theme park, and we didn’t frequent toy aisles. We never had kitchen dance parties, and she spent most of her time cooking and cleaning, but she had a silly streak. She was a storyteller, and her stories comedies. The memories now treasures.

Together on her rusted, metal porch glider, she named the ants that marched near us. Stories of Belinda and Oscar’s ant life made us howl with joy. And the bird on the telephone wire? She whistled and it whistled right back. In her own way, she played with me. She shared her delight and it became mine. She laughed, so I did too.

Now, grown up with a houseful of my own, I’m the family barometer, just as Grandma was.

My heart longs for childhoods filled with laughter, both theirs and mine. Giggles and silliness was always a part of who we are, until somewhere along the way, the seasons changed and I took a detour. Graciously, five-year-old authenticity shook me out of myself just in time.
She beamed about my scrambled eggs. I listened as my sweet Claire spoke precious words about me in a church Mother’s Day video, smiling at her familiar wiggle, and teary at her sincere love for this flawed momma. Then, when asked what makes me laugh, the sting of truth pierced my heart, jolted me to attention, and left guilt spilling wildly out.

“Mommy doesn’t laugh.”

Alongside embarrassment, anger swelled. Despite my sacrificing, I’d been called out. It had been a challenging year for our family, busied with the adoption of two children, and weighted with concern for a medically complex child. Sure, I was distracted at every level and bone weary, but my four kids left the house dressed in almost matching clothes, ate remotely healthy meals, and arrived nearly on time for appointments. Every ounce of myself was spent managing it all, but my little people were still having play time and play dates. Play wasn’t on my concern radar.

“Mommy doesn’t laugh.” It was a flashing yellow caution sign, demanding attention. After tallying excuses for my lack of laughter, still I was guilty as charged.

Sharing the rest at Ungrind.

22 Big Family Facts

 1.   Parents are not obligated to use correct names. 
Children must accept this and make assumptions about who is needed.    

2. Somebody's always streaking naked,
which is fine 'cause ain't nobody got time for modesty.

3. Grocery runs are mini marathons.  Costco trips? 
Olympic events with pizza slices as medals for those who finish.

4.  Somebody needs a band-aid.

5. Nobody bathes alone, except momma. (Hear that lock turning?)

6.  Sharing.  (Ah, sharing.) 
The littles are becoming masters, but not without some battle scars.    

7. There is a toilet that needs to be flushed.
(If I see you making your way to our bathroom during a visit,
pardon me if I knock ya down trying to get in there first.)

8. Somebody's crying, possibly lying prostrate on the ground, and with certainty if the phone rings. 
Fortunately, somebody else is wiggling their booty and giggling.    

9.  Somebody's shoes are on the wrong feet, and on occasion,
somebody arrives at an event shoeless.

10.  The right to potty privacy is not happening. 

11.  Somebody's messing up, but somebody else is stepping up. 

12.  Littles copy bigs.  Bigs care for littles (see #4). 

13.  Littles have more chill parents than the bigs had. 
Grace streams more freely as the years pass.

14.  Littles are way more independent than the bigs were at their age. 
Need to learn to swim?  Watch a big. 

15.  Everyone must fetch. 
Mommy and daddy need things.  If you're the closest small person, tag you're it.    

16.  If the small people posse is grumbling,
momma's either gonna run some bath water or open the back door.

17.  In the night, some small person will pad down the hallway to snooze with another. 

18.  Everybody serves.  Dinner?  Laundry?  Team effort. 

19.  Somebody is sacrificing.  Each of us daily shaves off some "me focus". 

20.  It's pile-ups and time-outs, belly laughs and tantrums, squeezed out toothpaste, hand-me-downs, crumbs under the table and sticky syrup on chairs.

21.  It's ordinary and extraordinary, exhausting and refining, hilarious and messy, giving and receiving, flawed and just right. 

22. Momma smiles more, letting a thousand little things go, but also working harder to step away from the role of chaos controller and toward tender of little souls.

Let's All Be Brave (A Book Review)

Sometimes I'd rather not.  I'd rather hang out with my status quo and keep things nice and cozy, comfortable.  But other times, I long deeply for bravery.   The soul within me that takes the long view beyond the here and now knows God is calling us to live big and boldly for Him alone.  To set aside the temporary and the trivial, laying down the good for the best.  All of which requires a gut full of courage. 

For me that has meant everyday bravery like making a phone call, getting out of bed when I felt like snuggling in, saying no when I longed for the yes, or making a choice that made my friends scratch their heads.  Other times, being brave has meant leaving my kids and husband to serve in Zimbabwe, or saying brave yeses along our adoption journey, often times when I was certain my feet would fail. 

In Let's All Be Brave, author and blogger, Annie Downs, gets vulnerable, sharing her stories of courage, from the mini steps to the giant leaps.  She makes me giggle, but also spurs something on within me to take a second look at where I'm holding back.  I'm turning pages, and it feels like we most certainly already know each other.  As she shares about her mission trips, moves and mishaps, my own memory list marches through my mind of times when the Lord lead, and I followed, trembling in my knees.    

I've lived enough to know now that God never seems to be finished with the stretching process.   There's always something new around the corner that I need to say a brave yes, or a brave no, to, and I need nudge's like Annie's to  keep my feet moving forward.

**I received a free copy of this book in exchange for my honest review. **

Moses Leads the People (Book Review)

My home is intentionally filled with baskets of books in every room.   With a young reader, an early reader, and two future readers, I want a well written book to be near their reaching arms at all times.  Much to my book loving self's disappointment, so many early reader books are just not good, underestimating little people and their ability to appreciate a great story. 

I also desire to be intentional in reading the Bible with my kids.  So, when given the opportunity to review "Moses Leads the People", a latest book in the I Can Read Biblical series by Zonderkidz, I jumped at the chance to marry two of my reading intentions with my kids. 

This book series is great to let kids read in tandem to actual reading of the Bible.  Its kid-friendly, chapter book feel compels kids to start reading stories from scripture on their own without being intimidated.   Additional Bible reading for the win! 

This particular story of Moses leading the people Israel, is a difficult, but essential one  told in the most delicate of ways.  It doesn't shy away from being accurate in including the Passover or plagues, but it is done so in a non-frightening way. 

I have high praise for this book, and the series.  We'll be purchasing more from the series for ourselves and as gifts. 

Disclaimer: I received a complimentary copy of this book for my honest review.

Fault Lines (August No Hands But Ours Post)

It takes an earthquake to remind us that we walk on the crust 
of an unfinished earth. ~ Charles Kuralt
At some point in my heart, you became just our little girl. You moved from orphan with a file, to a longed for daughter, to newly adopted, to just a loved girl with an incredible, unfinished redemption story.

But there was a time….
when your world looked monumentally different
when your infant eyes peered into the face of another mother
when your world cracked open, a giant fault line forming between what should have been and what was to be
when you were in the gut-wrenching epicenter of loss, the in-between: no mother, no home, no orphanage, no records, no plan
when you became an orphan in a building filled with orphans
when all you understood of love was a nanny’s care
when meals were tasks on a busy nanny’s list

Then, mercifully, you were somewhere in-between again. On the other side of the world, our family saw your face and recognized you as our own. The label orphan was no longer yours to carry. You didn’t feel it, but your world was trembling again.
Then, there was a time…
when you went on living unaware in Chengdu, China, no idea that a room was being painted pink, papers with your name being pushed, and your photo framed
when you couldn’t fathom the magnitude of love reaching for you from across oceans

Next, in one swift moment, your world cracked open again as your nanny carried you in her arms one last time, making her way to a conference room. A door opened, and your world collided with ours. All of us trembled, knowing life as we knew it was behind us. The earth didn’t shatter, just pieces of our hearts. You sobbed until you could only sleep, somehow knowing that another fault line had formed, a traumatic end and a scary, but hopeful, beginning.     


Then, newly adopted, there was time….
when a hotel room became common ground for tentative smiles and guarded trust
when you boarded a plane bound for the world’s other side, clinging to two almost strangers, toward all things new
when teary eyed strangers at an airport cheered because you’d finally arrived
when your little feet padded through your new home, investigating, but overwhelmed by the stimulation, something missing in institutional life
when you first sat at a family table, binge eating in case the food ran out, an orphan at heart still
when you weren’t sure about sleeping alone without the familiar rumblings of a roomful of other children, the only lullaby you’d ever known
when cleft clinic doctors evaluated your palate and prescribed dental surgery and years of speech therapy
when your pediatrician caught you up on shots and treated orphanage parasites
when you’d plop indiscriminately into the lap of anyone who’d give attention, hungry to fill up your far too empty love tank
when we wondered if you’d ever find your voice, or attach to us as mommy and daddy
 

Continue reading over at No Hands But Ours.