Sunday, May 10, 2015

Special Dedication

Mother: to care for or protect; to act maternally toward.
Motherhood: the qualities or spirit of a mother.

I am a mother.
I've birthed a child or two.
I've miscarried a tiny precious baby.
I've had more C-sections than wisdom would advise.
I've adopted a child. 

I am the full embodiment of the noun mother.

The world is filled with noun-mothers. Their kids play at my house. Their kids are in my choir. Their kids teach my kids. Their kids are in class with my kids. In some cases their kids are lonely or uneducated or fending for themselves because life is hard.

This fallen world allows noun-mothers to exist and be honored to some extent without always being verb-mothers.
And God's creative providence allows for women to be verb-mothers without actually being noun-mothers.

Monday, May 04, 2015

Adoption Journey: Part 3

[Click here to read "Adoption Journey: Part 1"]
[Click here to read "Adoption Journey: Part 2"]

We finally scheduled [read: hounded CPS relentlessly until they caved] a personal visit to meet Asa. We only had a two-day break between two consecutive weeks of ministry travel, and we needed to get our hands on that little guy! The girls were at "Grammy Camp" at my mom's, and Landen was away working at summer camp, so Luke went with us.

On a bright and steamy morning in July, we drove to the social services office in Smith County. And we waited.

Eventually we were led to an out-dated little room ... stale with musty smells and muffled noise. The room was equipped with a small play table, a crate of old toys, a sunken sofa, a creaky glider, and a camera mounted in the corner. With holes in the upholstery and a sticky film on the floor, to me it felt like a neglected thrift shop.

Soon the case worker walked in with a child who had been woken from a nap, taken from his car seat, and dropped-of by his foster mom. We wanted to pounce, but needed to be patient.

He began to cry. I looked at him and gulped back tiny hot tears.

Philip took him and held him close, but the stranger-baby who seemed supernaturally familiar continued to cry.

I watched helplessly (while shutting down emotionally ... ever-so-slightly ... it's what I do).

We tried all the tricks in our six-kid book. Nothing would soothe his frantic cries.

Ultimately he gave up and fell asleep ... his face sweaty and swollen from emotional exertion.

At one point, he opened his eyes and looked up at me. It was disturbing to me that he was neither soothed nor scared by my holding him. He just lay there still, slowly blinking those gorgeous big brown eyes at me ... ... still interjecting mini-gasps for every other breath.

We gently took turns holding that warm, wonderfully squashy baby boy. We rocked and took pictures and whispered words of hope.

Our two hour visit seemed both brief and eternal - over an hour of emotional strain mingled with many faint rays of hope and glimpses of bright possibilities. 

I remember a few details...
His shirt smelled like fresh laundry. His big brown eyes had a sad glaze that didn't quite match the cheerful photos that had filled my mind to that point. He seemed healthy and strong. I remember Luke being quietly helpful. And Philip was amazing - confident and nurturing and strong.

The social worker came in and announced that our time was up. We packed up the baby and his gear, and soon the foster mom walked in. We introduced ourselves, thanked her for her kind efforts and care, awkwardly kissed Asa goodbye, and handed him back over.

I will always remember the shirt Luke wore that day. I read it a hundred times while I bounced and paced and shushed that sweet baby boy - feeling so completely inadequate.

"Protect this house, I will."

I know I can be SUPER cheesy ... but God made me this way, and He knows how to speak straight to my dairy-laden soul. And so I believe - that in that moment of weakness - He gently reminded me of His promise ...

"Protect this house, I will."

The car ride home was pensive and silent ... except for the Casting Crowns cd in the background.

Lift your hands, lift your eyes.
In the storm is where you'll find Me.
And where you are, I'll hold your heart.
I'll hold your heart!
Come to Me, find your rest
In the arms of the God who won't let go ...

The next day Philip and I drove back along the same stretch of highway to take a flight out of Dallas. As we passed the Tyler exit, I thought about how close we were to Asa - and still so far away.
My emotional dam found fault, and gave way.
Tears steadily streamed down my face onto my shirt for more than an hour.

The gravity of this beautiful mess.
It was almost too much.

God had mercifully ordained that we spend the next few days at the Celebrate Recovery National Summit. A marvelous place where brokenness is encouraged, recovery is celebrated and messes miraculously morph into messages.

Surrounded by soul-level companions, [and exactly zero children, ahem] we were able to process all that God was doing. We worshiped and learned. We looked at Asa's photos often, and phoned our kids at night. We dreamed big dreams, believed the best, thanked God for being in charge, and prayed for grace to trust Him more.

* to be continued

[Click here to read previous posts on Adoption]

Thursday, April 30, 2015

Adoption Journey: Part 2

[Click here to read "Adoption Journey: Part 1"]

In July 2013, we got a call from CPS that Philip's sister had relinquished her rights, and a judge had placed 5-month-old Asa with us. 

I wept.

For how heart-breaking and selfless a decision that must have been for her. 
For that precious little boy with all his hurts and healing.
For me. Heart-broken and yet thrilled. Scared and yet determined. 
Silencing selfish thoughts one by one as they attempted to have a voice. 

Shortly after hearing the news, Philip and I headed to Florida with the youth choir.  Riding in the front seats of a church van, we processed together ... asking sideways questions then staring down the road ... wondering when we'd arrive at the answers.

I realized I was battling my own attachment issues ... Whole-hearted, life-long commitment to a child I had yet to hold. 

(Besides the solitary newborn photo with Philip, I didn't even know what he looked like.)

God knew precisely what I needed ... hour upon hour of riding down a highway ... staring straight ahead with road noise and backseat chatter muffling into a strange, loud clarifying silence. 

Monday, April 27, 2015

Adoption Journey: Part 1

Philip & Asa, Feb '13
Wow. A little over two years ago, Philip was out of town watching the boys play baseball, and stopped by to see his younger sister and her newborn baby.

From Aunt & Uncle, to foster parents, to forever Mom and Dad. What an adventure this has been!

At the first of March, 2013, we learned that, at 5 weeks old, Asa was in foster care. I asked my Friday morning small group to pray with me for this child. I remember sensing a strange attachment to the situation ... not knowing what God might ask of me, but begging for His strength to give me courage, and His love to overshadow my selfish fears.

By April, I was growing more certain of our calling to get actively involved. I checked out a STACK of library books on fostering, adoption, high-needs children, prenatal methamphetamine exposure, and abandonment/attachment issues. I knew nothing ... and I could only live with myself in that condition a few moments more.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Common Ground

I am a griper and complainer. I’m sorry. I try hard not to be, but critical commentary seems to just leap off my tongue if I’m not careful. 

But there are a couple topics you will seldom hear me complain about in public. 

At the top of the list is my husband. And here’s why. Out of all the men in the world, I chose him. No one forced me to marry him. I did that all by my big-girl self.  

He’s not perfect, but he’s mine. So when an issue arises, my response matters. Very little is accomplished by verbally dogging him. It might make me feel better in that tiny warped moment, but it certainly doesn’t lead to a solution. 

I must embrace the idea that the solution to our problem likely involves me.
(I mean he totally needs to change his ways, but …)

Monday, April 13, 2015

Thrilling Agony

I don’t know a lot about victory. I’m neither an athlete nor a conqueror. I know about hard work and careful preparation. I have won some awards and there are a few music-related trophies with my name on them. 

But to fight and struggle in order to win … this gives me a rash.

My short list of "successes", includes mostly the things that come naturally and easily to me.

My husband leads a small group of men who LOVE to win! But, he grieves over all the obstacles and snares our culture presents. He is well aware of the temptations John mentions in the Bible: “Lust of the eyes, lust of the flesh, and the boastful pride of life.”

With his best inspirational coaching voice, he has admonished them, “Guys, this is going to be a battle … every, single day of your life … so learn to be victorious today!” 

I know he means to inspire and equip them, but my passive, squeamish ears perceive discouragement when I think about this daily struggle we call ‘life'.

Monday, April 06, 2015


Finally, friends,

whatever is true,
I am falling short, but God made me and loves me and hasn't given up on me.

whatever is honorable,
God chose to send His Spirit to live in MY body.

whatever is just,
When I misuse food and neglect my body, there are natural consequences.

whatever is pure,
God designed my body to work hard and be nourished by food.

whatever is lovely,
My identity is in Christ. My soul will always be more important than this body that is wasting away.

Saturday, April 04, 2015


Abba, Father,” he said, 

“everything is possible for you. 

Take this cup from me. 

Yet not what I will, but what you will.” 
Mark 14:36

What a great model for prayer! Jesus, on the eve of his crucifixion, prays to God the Father.

He affectionately relies on relationship.
“Abba, Father,” he said,

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

What Not to Say

When Landen was 5, we were shopping and he saw a woman whose torso indicated she may or may not have been expecting a baby.

With no social filters in place, he pointed and exclaimed, "Wow! Look how big her belly is!"

Heavens to sunshine, I was mortified. One minute later and two aisles over - in hushed tones - I tried to explain that we never, ever point our fingers at people. And we only say words that encourage.

Cut to the following week's grocery run. Cue extra-large person numero two.

Landen smiles up at me with a self-imposed sense of skill-mastery and finesse. He extends his closed fist toward our fellow shopper of girth, and cheers: "His belly is AWESOME!!"

Just Please.
I know.


Anyway ...

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Christmas Can

My father-in-law had a fun tradition of giving the grand kids coins. He would come around the room with a plastic coffee container filled with loose change. He allowed each child (and ultimately each parent - yipee) to dip their hand in, and grab as much money as they could.

I remember one Christmas several years ago, when he brought the can to our house.

In those brief moments of house-wide grabbiness, I thought, "We are a greedy bunch, aren't we?"

Then I looked a little closer. Everyone was giggling and chanting.

My dear, "Freddie", by far, was the most enthusiastic of the lot.
"Git in there, kiddo! Git ya all you can!" he would cheer.