On Not Buying the Biggest Lie

Early last month, we shared the news that our family is #nowpendingseven, as we are pursing the international adoption of our girls' older sister.

Shortly thereafter we began the arduous process of compiling all of our paperwork and getting all of our clearances ... again. 

Starting the process all over again after just having finished our first adoption last year at this time, feels overwhelming in so many ways; the process is long and complex and heart-wrenching because 

the waiting. 

the uncertainty.

the emotions. 

It's just a lot. A lot that is all worthwhile, don't get me wrong, but a lot, nonetheless.

A few afternoons ago, as I was pondering in particular finances, I was feeling like 😳 and {crying face} and {freaking out face}.

But I knew I was needing to stop thinking like that and embrace 😇 and 😎 and 😊.

So I began having an honest conversation with God about how that feels more than a little challenging because lots of lies have started popping up ... like, specifically in that area of finances,

how could we really ask for help again?

And where’s this all going to come from?

And we are so unprepared.

Lies, God said.

But lies I was being tempted to linger in, believe and allow to dictate my actions and thoughts and behaviors.

Lies ...

Because we can always ask for help.

Because can always humble our hearts and admit when we need the body to be the body and come together to make something happen.

Because God designed us to do life together.

Because God could drop a million dollars in our laps however he wanted but He invites us in to be part of the beautiful things He's doing.

And then a message from a friend popped up as I pondered buying the lies or digging my heels into the truth:

“I have something I want to talk to you about. Can you call me?”

I called my friend quickly, and she proposed a fundraiser where she could offer a class because God has been bringing this back to her heart repeatedly.

And that’s when tears sprang to my eyes.

But it wasn’t about the class. Or even the funds. Or even just her genuine and sweet offer.

It was about this:

"Worry is belief gone wrong." {Ann Voskamp}

Worry was washing over me because I felt alone, like I had to do this all by myself. 

But God. God always, always, always sees us, and He is always, always, always with us.

Do we see Him?

When I take a step back from my worry, He so often finds a way to show me that He's there. Many times it’s through His word or a song or other people saying “God laid it on my heart to …" reach out/call/come over/pray/give/help.

And so the biggest lie I was buying wasn’t that people are sick of helping or that we couldn’t ask for help or that we are so annoying or that we weren’t going to have the funds …

the biggest lie I was buying was that God didn’t see me, that He wasn’t and isn’t near, that He won’t or can’t be or isn't in the midst of this part of challenges that come along with all the different parts of our lives.

We don't have to see over the mountain we're still climbing or around the curve in the bend on the road we're heading  because we have a very good Guide by our side. 

"I will never fail you; I will never abandon you." {God, Hebrews 13:5}

Yes, the mountains are steep. And the curves are dark and deep, but we don't walk them alone.

And that's what makes the difference: when we know God, who is good, is with us no matter the steepness of the mountain or the curves of the road ahead, we can replace worry with worship and we can face the journey ahead with hope and with joy and with courage instead of despair, fear and anxiety.

And, more than the height of the mountain or the starkness of the curves in the road, that's really what makes all the difference in the journey. 

Bigger Picture Moments: On Your Birthday, A Gift

Dear Selah,

This morning when the wise woman talked about finding each moment of grace, each moment of gift through the easy moments and even the hard, I thought of you.

I thought of how your short life here on Earth, buried in my ever-expanding womb, was marked with moments of grace and blessing.

And how even your soul passing from body to body anew into the glory of forever, still while inside my very own, was surrounded by very good gifts, from a very good God.

I think of you today because this day, last year, was the first and last time I ever held your small body, all 10 perfect fingers and toes, in my shaking hands.

And I wept over you, a miracle, and gave thanks, my hands cradling you with palms stretched up toward the giver of good gifts, giving you back to Him.

You helped me understand how it is possible to both hold and give, to both receive and let go. You were my pregnant pause, Selah, and your life continues to give me just that. Your life was a series of moments of grace and your death, even, was a gift of pause to understand what it really means to live.

God works all things together for the good of those who are called according to His purposes, and I have heard Him call my heart, inviting me out into deeper waters still.

After you went soul from body to body renewed, I prayed a desperate prayer for God to make clear what He wanted for our family, and I really just wanted you to come back. In the midst of being heartbroken at losing you soon fast and quickly, God answered my plea in a way I didn't understand when He began to break my heart for the children who don't have parents.

I thought of the heartache of losing you, entrenched in my mother's heart, and I fell face first into grieving the reverse loss, a baby losing her mother and father.

We prayed hard, and when your due date rolled around, we knew God was inviting us to host a girl who found herself in those shoes of loss reversed. And she came, and we learned, and we loved, and we cried together because when you know loss as deep as what she knows and what my mother's heart knows, you know what empty looks like.

But I'm not empty any more. I miss you, yes, and I long for you, yes, but another mercy moment, another gift of grace from your life and from your death was understanding that empty is a space that is yet to be filled only by Fullness Himself.

It's a gift you gave me to know that, and one that I'd like to whisper to other hearts that are empty and aching with voids they just can't seem to fill.

And the girl we hosted because our hearts were broken for the children without parents after we knew the broken of being parents without the child we loved, she'll come, God willing, into the fullness of a family that was born of empty and the fullness of a Family that was born of broken. And she'll have the parents, the brothers that were first yours, but that you all now share, and I pray that she'll have the Father we all share.

We know, because of your life, that one child never replaces another, and so we also know that one mother and father never replace another mother and father that were before. She'll know your name, and we'll know the names of the ones who came before us.

So this morning.

When the wise woman spoke about recognizing moments of grace and moments of gift through the good times and the hard times

and when she told us to make dots to mark those sightings and then string them together

and when she asked what I saw in the stringing together of those moments from this past year, I breathed in awe and exhaled reverence at what was before me.

I saw the Giver of Good giving me more gifts to unfold and savor, abundant gifts gleaned from your life.

A most perfect birthday present to celebrate your life, my beautiful baby girl, on the day you were born.

My love and my heart,
Mommy

Everyday Life: Birthing Pains

In the morning, it's there when I awake, there like a preschooler's legs and arms spread out under the cover of thick blankets somehow finding the skin of his mother anywhere she moves about in a king-sized bed.

There's an invitation. An invitation chasing me around in my dreams turned wake to take my ordinary and from it allow the extraordinary to be born.

But like most births, nothing is born without labor pain, without surrender, without an aching to bring forth fullness and life.

I play "what if" in my mind. I pray "let me lose my life to find life" in my heart. I spill cries of my heart for courage to walk in faith rather than fear.

He finds me in the morning, pursues me relentlessly, much the way my four year old persistently runs around the house until he finds me with not only his eyes but his hands, too.

There's an invitation to take His hand, walk with Him into the unknown, to go deeper than my feet could ever wander, where my faith will be made stronger in the presence of our Savior.

And I am scared.

I fight fear with faith, and I take heart because greater is He who is in me than he who is in the world.

I take heart because He told me this year to abide and to walk in the courage of faith.

I take heart because there is grace, and many days that grace comes in His pursing of my heart through the blessings He's sent to pursue my attention all day long.

They come bounding into the room where I'm lost in a mess of dinner and prayer, and the little one says, "Mom, play the song!"

I know exactly what the small one is talking about, and I oblige him.

"Mom, sing it."

I sing.

"Mom, louder! Sing it!"

I sing louder: "I know who goes before me."

The small one, he persists: "Louder!"

"I know who stands behind."

"Mom, I can't hear you. Sing it louder!"

"The God of angel armies is always by my side."

"Keep singing, mom!"

"The one who reigns forever, He is a friend of mine. The God of angel armies is always by my side."

"Yay! Mom, that's good! Keep signing!"

"Whom shall I fear?"

and He persists.

"Whom shall I fear?"

The song ends, but the answer lingers thick in the air, following me, pursing me, like little legs chasing me around my bed at the dawn of morning

like little legs chasing me throughout the day

like little voices insisting I sing.

Loud.

Louder.

Loudest.

In the evening, it's there when I lift my voice, when I turn my eyes onto the Extender of the invitation rather than the invitation itself, and I snuggle in knowing

that when we are pregnant with hope,

when we are extended with faith,

when we are full and round and filled with the understanding of the very nature, the very sovereingty of the Invitation Extender

the invitation doesn't seem quite as daunting

and

courage is born out of birthing pains.

God-Sized Dream: What They Don't Tell You About Hosting

They told us this would be exhausting.

They said that blending a family with a child from half a world away who doesn't speak the same language and doesn't have a family to call keeps forever would be challenging and rewarding

and that our hearts would be full.

They cautioned us to set boundaries, guidelines and stick to the many, many rules put in place to protect the children and the families.

The shared statistics, helped us understand what happens to these children, many of whom have found themselves in situations that bad dreams are made of and helped us see what the love of a family does to turn around a life -- what being chosen and Chosen does for a hurting heart.

They said to keep it simple, show love and limit sweets.

They promised our sentences would become broken fragments of two different languages and that laughter would become our universal language.

They warned time would swoosh by too fast, that our hearts would be forever changed, that we'd suffer the kind of whiplash that only occurs when you've been swept off your feet by God's amazing goodness on display.

And all of that has been true.

They even told us we couldn't possibly fit everything we wanted to send back with her into a suitcase and adhere to the 50-pound weight limit … and they were right about that, too; there was no way our family would fit in it even if we tried.

I helped her pack yesterday, the afternoon before she was set to return home to Eastern Europe. I've never wanted to crawl inside a suitcase the way I did then, 50-pound weight limit be darned.

As she placed item after item into her suitcase, I thought about how much stuff accumulates in one month … and I thought about how it doesn't even compare to the amount of love; I found myself grateful that love doesn't pack into a suitcase, or we'd surely have blown through that limit like you wouldn't believe and like I could never explain.

No one told us that.

But how could they? How could anyone have put that kind of love to words? How could anyone have said we'd feel like a piece of our heart had stepped out from our chests and boarded a plane to Europe, still tethered to us?

People kept telling us how we were blessing her with this gift of a month in our home … and I know there's truth in that as I recall some of the last words, hugs we shared this morning before she stepped through security.

But that's not the whole of it, and I'd be sorely amiss to end there.

That beautiful girl came bundled with many gifts -- she added to the love, laughter, fun and spirit of our Christmas and New Year Celebrations and our home. She lavished attention on the boys and brought us all lots of smiles and giggles. She was a patient language teacher for me, and she reminded us to slow down and savor life.

Those are all really big, wonderful gifts.

But the real gift? The real gift was simply knowing and loving her, a beautiful blessing from our extraordinarily good God.

There's a lot no one told us about hosting. And there's a lot I never would have understood.

No one told us that we'd be left feeling like the gift we'd given

would feel like it was given 10-fold back to us.

Whatever is good and perfect comes down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow. James 1:17

Bigger Picture Moments: Broken

I answered the phone early this morning, way earlier than what I normally ever do because I never seem to remember to flip the switch from silent to ringer, and I couldn't exactly hear through the broken signal what was happening, but I knew something wasn't right.

My husband said accident and at first my mind went to mentally collecting a new pair of pants for my oldest son, but then I realized when he asked me to come quickly that it had nothing to do with a bathroom miss and everything to do with the collision of cars crunching beneath the early morning November sun.

Amid broken conversation and wind whipping into the phone, crackling in my ear, I gathered my courage and our youngest son, stepped out the door, stepped out in faith and drove four blocks to where metal met metal and lives met with out of control.

There are moments that seemingly stand still, and as I stopped my own car I took in the views of the ones before me: the driver's side of our car completely smashed into the frame of our car and her car, hood crunched and down an entire front bumper.

I wondered at how husband even managed to get out of the driver's seat, his car door was so smashed. I watched as my oldest son climbed through the backseat to the other side to exit, his door too mangled to even open.

I gasped as I looked at the brokenness -- the metal and plastic -- spread out before me

and I almost cried in the face of it

until

I looked at the faces of my husband and son, stunned and upset,

and the woman driving the other car and the two kids in her backseat, also shaken,

but very clearly not broken.

Everyone walked away from the scene of the crash without major injury.

I thought for a fleeting moment what broken really could have looked like for three different families

before I realized fully and intimately

that the only broken before us was

that of metal and plastic.

I thanked God in that moment that the metal and plastic absorbed so much of the force, protected the people inside them, but I didn't want to think anymore about the brokenness because it almost seemed too heavy to let it linger too long in my mind.

Not long after that, we were sitting in the hospital, my boys getting checked out, when I posted a call for prayer on Facebook.

A friend tagged me in an update soon after I posted saying that the post immediately following my request was from Psalm 30:5:

" … His favor lasts a lifetime …"

She encouraged me to ask in His name that His favor would surround me like a shield. And as we prayed those words, I thought that perhaps His favor surrounding us like a shield today looked a lot like the brokenness of plastic and metal … just like the favor that surrounds me like a shield for a lifetime and eternity looks a lot like the brokenness of Jesus on the cross.

But brokenness isn't the end of the story; no, there's life beyond the scattered plastic and metal, just like there's life beyond the cross.

And that makes me able to look brokenness in the eye

and

walk in the courage of faith over the scattered pieces.

Thanks for praying with us today. We are thanking God that the only real brokenness that occurred today was plastic and metal. John is sore tonight and has a slight headache and G is a little sore, too, but they are on the mend. We praise God for his shield of protection today. 

Everyday Life: What I Found in the Hours Between

At seven, I learned to pop my hip to the side, making a perfect seat on which my only baby sister would contently sit as I carried her around wherever I could.

She was joy wrapped in skin, cheeks chubby with wide smiles, ringlets of hair framing her face.

I lost years with her as we grew and I became too cool for a younger sister who tagged along and would never stop singing.

I remember telling her if she could just be quiet, she could stay, but inevitably, almost every time, she would catch herself in song.

You can't silence a song bird, you know, and who in her right mind would ever want to, I ask myself now.

When I lost my cool, she found hers. A college student herself and me freshly married, we didn't quite see eye to eye until life came hailing down on top of our heads and we lost the man we called dad.

She drove us to the hospital one day before he died.

And she sang almost the whole way there.

I'll never forget the way I felt when I heard song slip from her lips on a drive into the darkest day ... like heaven spilled a little bit of peace out of its gates and I got to bask in it for a few minutes.

God is the God of second chances even when it seems like death is winning. The day our father died, I cried in my sister's arms.

The older melting into the younger, like she used to melt into my arms as a baby, while realizing the gift of grace God meant a sister to be.

As if that gift weren't enough, she moved into the spare bedroom of our house just a few months later, and I silently thanked God for making more time to live beneath the same roof after the time I had naively squandered.

We laughed a lot. We threw dance parties with the boys on cold, rainy days. We shared coffee in the early mornings.

It wasn't long until someone else discovered the gift I had found in her, and swept her off her feet and into marriage and then motherhood.

Photo by Julie Valkanet Photography

But blessings were like a fountain, the newly weds and then family of three living just down the street from my own little family.

In laws like brothers, cousins like siblings, aunts and uncles like another set of parents ... and sisters like, well, sisters. But in the way God meant it instead of the way I once saw it.

I waved goodbye this morning, after they packed the final boxes at their home right down the street, kissed the soft cheeks of my niece, more joy wrapped in skin, just like her mother.

Instead of a few measly miles in between our houses, there will now be hours upon blasted hours.

As I hugged her, I cried and she wrapped me up in her arms. 

I remember the years I wish I could reclaim, the ones I took my sister for granted; I think of the ones that have been redeemed.

I think of the miles that are going to be the space between us

the hours that will separate us

and I know, like I couldn't have once known but understand now years and life later,

all of that space can't hold

the song she keeps singing

and those hours 

can't steal the gift of a grace that is sisterhood

and that what I've found

in the hours

in the space

in between

her own heart

and mine

are strings tied together

that go to the whole distance

mile by long mile

and hour by long hour. 

Bigger Picture Moments: To Rejoice

I've cautiously celebrated the new blessing I'm carrying in my body.

But fear has restrained my excitement; it's been hard to live this year's word -- it's been hard to rejoice.

I speak carefully about the future because I know nothing is guaranteed.

Nothing except one thing: God's goodness. God's goodness doesn't waver.

"For the LORD is good and his love endures forever; his faithfulness continues through all generations." Psalm 100:5 

The past few weeks I've been muddling through what I say I believe and what I actually believe -- beliefs versus ideals, you could say. I say I believe in God's goodness no matter my circumstances.

And if that's true, I've asked myself, shouldn't I trust Him no matter my circumstance?

Shouldn't I rejoice right now without abandon because I trust in His goodness?

To rejoice is to trust in God's goodness no matter what happens -- simply just because God is good.

In these thoughts, I've been drawn to the fact that not only is He good and His goodness central to His character but that he's also a merciful Father who wants to love us well and give us good gifts.

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!" Matthew 7:9-11

I just have to trust Him.

And when I trust, my heart easily rejoices in His love.

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Just Write: Tagless

This body has grown and birthed two full-term babies, and so I'm not surprised during week seven when it boasts proudly that it knows exactly what He made it to do.

Hips and breasts and abdomen expand even while baby is the size of a blueberry, driving me to secure my jeans with a rubber band, find refuge in my yoga pants.

But there aren't enough yoga pants for every day of the week, so yesterday I took to the aisles of Target and bought a pair of black maternity workout pants.

And I was fine, despite some of the anxiety that still boils up unexpectedly just beneath the surface all the while praying away the fears that I'll be back in my size eight jeans sooner than we're bargaining for.

This morning, laundry called my name and despite still feeling the weight of a hefty lingering cold in combination with the normal first trimester fatigue, I oblige its call

and I'm face to face with those maternity yoga pants

needing to be washed

tags still attached.

So I try them on to make sure they fit; they do.

But I knew they would.

I silently debate ripping off the tags and washing them clean, ready for wear ... or leaving them on for an easy return just in case ...

Before I can finish the thought, I throw up my hands to God, grab the pants off the sink, rip off the tags and say

"I trust You."

Heartracing, in the bathroom,

I find the pants aren't the only thing that are

tagless.

Everyday Life: Made New

Last year at this time, I was reeling.

Physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally -- all reeling.

The loss of two little babies from my womb to Heaven, the loss of my physical health, the loss of my mental health as anxiety flooded my thoughts -- it all left me feeling cracked and dried out, like I'd been left out in the cold all winter long.

Luckily spring and summer and fall were long months of warmth, healing and renewal.

And though we began 2013 in the midst of cold Chicago winter, it sort of felt like a rebirth to me.

The newness of the year was refreshing in a way that spring is after a long, cold winter.

The past year had been long, but in it God has brought healing to my body and my mind and my heart.

And not only has He brought healing, but he's also brought renewal.

I am not the same person I was a year ago this past December; I am not the same person I was a year ago today.

But I didn't totally notice that until we heard our pastor speak words from Luke 5:38.

"And no one puts new wine into old wineskins. For the new wine would burst the wineskins, spilling the wine and ruining the skins. New wine must be stored in new wineskins."

I am a new wineskin this year. I am no longer dried out and cracked like I was; rather I have been made new.

As I sat in this truth, I realized, too, that I couldn't rightfully compare this new pregnancy to the others -- not any of the others -- because this freshly gifted baby is like new wine in a new wineskin ready to merely be stretched instead of cracked and broken.

And so my heart's cry is to trust in the Hand that's made me new, to embrace the swelling and stretching and to trust that He will not allow me to be broken.

Thinking, That's All: Battle

They are snuggled up together on the couch watching tv when I leave the room to make breakfast.

By the time I crack egg number two and hear it sizzle in the pan, they are limbs tangled together in a mess of argument and movement.

It drives me crazy. But in all honesty, I'm not so different.

My boys tumble in and out of brotherhood all day long like I wrestle between faith and flesh from the moment I rise until I fall asleep.

I rejoice one moment in who God is and give thanks that He never changes.

And in the next breathe I succumb to fearful thoughts that drive me back to my knees, reminding myself again that the God in whom I have peace and faith and trust is more than worthy of each.

He is faithful and good and just. No matter what.

He will be good and faithful and just in 2013 just as He was good and faithful and just in 2012.

All day, lately especially, I wrestle back and forth reminding myself not to just read my life verse but live it.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near.
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you." Philippians 4:4-9 

I live in the tangles of flesh and faith and watch it unfold visibly in front of me and even through the craziness so I'm filled with love for these boys.

And I'm reminded that the Father, who is worthy of my rejoicing always, can handle me in my messiness.

I'm reminded that He loves me more than I love the boys who turbulently bounce back and forth between brotherly love and strife all day long.

And that my life is blessed simply because He loves me.

Rejoice: A Seedling Sown

I woke up to sunlight streaming in through our front windows on New Year's Day, bright and beautiful and warm.

And if I didn't know by the chill of cold feet and frost on the windows or date on the newly flipped calendar, I would have thought it summer by only looks.

But the ground is clearly frozen beneath a hard layer of snow and bright blue January skies and the tiniest of buds won't pop through the soil until March. And most of the harvest won't be reaped until late summer.

I can't see the harvest yet; I don't know what it will look like. But I know God is good, and I know harvest comes, and I know seasons change. He gives fruit in season.

On the first of January, the sun was a burning, blazing reminder that the day will come when warmth returns -- that the harvest season will come.

I woke up to sunlight streaming through our front windows on New Year's Day, bright and beautiful and warm

and two clearly pink lines coloring the white background of a pregnancy test, confirmation that a seed has been sown deep inside my body late this fall.

And on the first day of January, those pink lines coupled with the sun, shining and bright, sparkled in hope that the day will come when warmth returns -- that the harvest season will come.

A reminder that seed sown routinely results in fruit gathered from the soil

and

the womb.

So we rejoice!

We celebrate the Gardener; we celebrate the seed.

And we believe in the goodness of a Gardener

who gifts us fruit in season.