Three years ago, we went to the store and let the kids pick out gifts for Aida’s first birthday. We took them home and taped them up with red and white wrapping paper and hopes and dreams and longing. We stored them in my closet for later. For when we would bring her home. A promise for one day.
I have a confession to make. Three years later and they are still sitting, red and white (and a little torn), at the bottom of my closet. Most of her things we packed away in a box. We gave away her crib. We donated the stroller. We put away all the little baby things in our garage. But, for some reason, I can’t seem to move these two packages. Can’t figure out what to do with them. These two gifts unopened. A promise broken. Life just doesn’t turn out the way we expect…the way we hope, dream, and long for. It happens to all of us…in some small or great ways. We have a future in our mind and then that future becomes our present and we collide (sometimes gracefully, sometimes clumsily) with the reality of our unmet expectations. And we mourn for what should have been, could have been. The baby we never held, the job we never achieved, the relationship that never healed, the school we never attended, the child who never grew up, the place we never lived, the moments never celebrated, the marriage we never had. All these little red gifts sitting at the bottom of our closet never opened. 2015 felt a little like the year of reality of unmet expectations. Our youngest started kindergarten, and I had no babies at home to take care of. I could go back to work because there were no longer children at home. We visited Africa for the first time (it was a wonderful trip), but not to meet her like we always thought. We moved forward in a completely different direction in the adoption process; trying not to reel at the closed doors and to be grateful for the open ones. It’s here in the hard realities, the crushed dreams, the stings that we are reminded—He is the best actuality, He is the greatest hope, He is the most soothing balm. He sits with us on the bottom of the closet with the unopened presents, and He says, “I am the ultimate gift”. And I've realized that it's in the unmet expectations of life that we understand it more fully; this world is not our home. It’s not the place where we will be complete; where we will have everything we need and want. It is now that we tredge and stumble through the mud with Him, so that one day we can dance free and graceful before Him. It’s in our broken dreams that we’re reminded: eternity with Him is the sweetest thing to long for. This morning, I got up early and set in the stillness of a house asleep. I thought about her four years of life so far and how she lost parents as an infant, how she left the only place (her transition home) and caregivers she had ever known when she was a toddler, and how (we believe) she now lives in a overcrowded and understaffed orphanage. I thought about her growing up and, with a catch in my throat, I wondered if she would ever even have dreams, plans, hopes, expectations. The thought took my breath away. Because having no hopes at all seems harder than having hopes unrealized. I pulled out my journal and wrote my birthday prayer for her. That she would have someone at the orphanage who had a gentle touch, a soft answer, an encouraging word. I believe it earnestly and pray it desperately: just one kind person in a world of harshness would make all the difference in her present and in her future. Just one person to be dependable, to feel like family, to stick up for her, to share a secret with, to bring a smile to her face in a world where smiles are few. Please Lord, don’t let it be too much to ask for just one. But mostly just one person to whisper His name to her. One person to tell her He was the balm she needed. One person to tell her what she already understands so well—that the world is harsh and undependable and crushing. He is peace and steadiness and healing. He wants to give her future and a hope (Jeremiah 29:11). One person to tell her, He is the best birthday gift. So today, this week, in honor of her birthday, I am praying He will show me to whom I should be that one person. I can give someone the only hug they received today, the only encouraging word, the only friendly smile, the only listening ear. I can be the one person who speaks truth and life and love to someone. Father, use me to make a difference in someone’s present so they have hope for You in their future. I can’t give her the little red presents wrapped up in my closet. I can’t be her one person. But I can pray that someone else will be. And I can pray that I can be that one person for someone else. And those are my dreams, my little hopes born fresh this morning. Can you be the one person for someone today?
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a row of tulips and a holy week (for when you feel like you are failing at Easter with your kids)4/2/2015 A row of tulips bloomed this week, fresh and bright right outside our back window. In the fall three and a half years ago my father-in-law bent low into our Texas dirt and pushed bulbs into the ground and said “wait and see.” This seemingly simple thing of plants springing up out of the ground has given us endless amounts of joy. Our youngest checks on “her flowers” regularly, and our oldest gives us daily reports of how they are doing. And for three years winter has given way to spring, and we have waited in anticipation and wondered if they would come back this year. They have not disappointed us yet. Each spring they have made their triumphant return out of the dirt, and each spring they’ve been met with shouts of excitement. Last Sunday, I picked our five-year-old up from Sunday school, all smiles and hugs and waving a palm branch. On the way to the sanctuary, we stop to show the branch to every one we pass and for her to tell them, “the people shouted ‘Hosanna!’ as Jesus rode into the city.” I think about our Easter season as we walk: we’ve done our Lenten Lights this year but most of our other plans have been lost in the busyness of this season. I feel like I keep failing at Easter. And I am back sitting in the church pew three years ago. It’s Palm Sunday, and a wave of regret hits me as I realize our kids probably have no idea what Easter is about or that it was even coming. Easter had totally slipped up on me. We had spent December journeying through Advent season as a family. We had begun the process of making sure our words about the meaning of this season lined up with what our actions were communicating to our kids. Using our time intentionally, our family Bible times were sweet, the way we began to approach gift-giving was meaningful, and the holidays had become refreshing instead of exhausting. We truly found ourselves celebrating and anticipating the coming of Christ. But the seasons had turned from frosty cold to the gentle, warm winds of spring, and I found myself sitting in church a week before Easter having not given it a second thought. The death and resurrection of our Messiah (which meant LIFE for me), whose birth we had so eagerly celebrated and decorated for months before, had been forgotten. I wanted to weep. Instead, I went home and began to research. I found Noel Piper’s book Treasuring God in our Traditions and promptly ordered it so I could do better next year. (It has since become a staple reference book for our family, and I’ve recommended it a thousand times over). I did the best I could to work with my then-four-year-old (and let our 18-month-old over hear) to prepare him for what this Holy week truly meant. We live in a Christmas-obsessed culture, and I love Christmas myself. Christmas has become something we think about for months ahead of time—as we see rows upon rows of decorations in store, as we spend hours attending parties, as we deliver goodies and wrap gifts, and as every song on the radio proclaims what season it is and every yard in our neighborhood reflects it. It is impossible to forget. But our celebration of our Messiah’s birth would all be meaningless if we did not have our Messiah's triumph over death to celebrate. This season of Easter … it is a holy season, a season of great mourning that leads to one of great of dancing. And while it is a much more difficult task to explain to our children the depth of heaviness and hope and life that the season of Easter brings, it is an important and worthy task. So this is for you and for me (who needs the reminder even this year) that we should not leave the Easter lessons for our children to hear only in church. And because if you are like I was three years ago, when I sat in church realizing I needed to do Easter differently but not knowing where to start, here are some ideas and resources for you: -Create a playlist of “Easter” music on your phone, iPad, or computer so you can fill your home and car with songs that make you reflect on the season. -Use Resurrection Eggs with your kids. (You can buy them already made or make them on your own). -Print Easter coloring pages from your computer and talk about the pages as you color them with your kids or when they bring them to you to show off their work. -Stock up on Easter books at the library, order them online, or purchase them at a bookstore for the time you spend reading with your kids. -Find age-appropriate movies about the death and resurrection of Jesus to watch as a family. -Create an Easter Mountain (found in Treasuring God in our Traditions). -At Christmas, we (like many) use candles in an advent wreath to mark the passing time toward Jesus’ birth. With each passing week, we light a new candle, and as we get closer to Christ’s birth, the lights get brighter in growing anticipation. At Easter, we use this same concept with Lenten lights; only this time as we approach Easter, we blow out one candle every week so that our lights grow dimmer as we approach Jesus’ death. On Easter morning, they are all lit in joyful celebration of our Savior’s resurrection. If you need to do a shorter version, you can use this same concept during Holy Week … each day blowing out one candle until Good Friday when all goes dark. Desiring God ministries has a “Lenten Lights” devotional guide that we go by but adapt to the appropriate levels for our children. There is just something about lighting candles with kids during family worship time that leads to greater participation and (sometimes) better listening ears. -Make resurrection rolls with your kids. -Wake up earlier than your kids Easter morning and make this morning a true celebration with joyful music and lit candles and special food. This celebration can continue as you drive to church and anticipate together the celebration that you will experience with the body of Christ. -Very often churches have a special emphasis/activities in the months or weeks leading up to Easter. Don’t leave your kids out of this but figure out a way for them to participate. Our church is currently encouraging its members to stop and pray for three non-believers every day leading up to Easter at 3:33. Since I am usually with my kids at this time everyday the three of us will sit together on the couch or pray in the car. I have loved sensing their excitement and eagerness to pray for others (even as I include them in my prayers for salvation), and I am so thankful that I decided to include them in this. If your church does a special offering emphasis, let them be a part of the giving too. -Simply talk to them repeatedly about what Easter is and try as best you can to use words they can understand. Let them ask questions. Our five-year-old announced to me on Tuesday that she couldn't wait to see Jesus at church on Sunday. She was pretty excited because she was certain that she was going to be able to see and touch Him. I had to think carefully about what she’d heard that led her to believe this and then be careful with my words as I explained that He would not be there in person but there was still much to celebrate. -Check out these resources: Treasuring God in Our Traditions by Noel Piper, “Lenten Lights” by Desiring God Ministries, The Wonder of Easter by Ed Drew, Mission Accomplished: A Two-Week Family Easter Devotional by Scott James, Why Easter? by Barbara Reaoch, and A Sense of the Resurrection: An Easter Experience for Families by Amanda White, who also wrote The Truth in the Tinsel. -Grant yourself some grace. Pointing our children to the Gospel does not need to be exhausting and guilt ridden but should be refreshing and life affirming, for them and for us. Just the simple daily act of speaking truth into our childrens' hearts is the profound act of offering life to them. The tulips keep coming back year after year despite our lack of care for them, this fresh grace springing up out of dirt again. And I am thankful for the gentle reminder that they are in this season. Easter tells me that I don’t deserve anything that matters but have been given everything that does. What a wonderful gift to tell my children about:
Christ the Lord is risen today! Hallelujah! It arrived in a huge brown box on our front porch. At the time, I had no idea how many memories and hopes could come in a cardboard box. It was a crib. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and my dad assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn. They pushed it proudly against the green wall in his room, and my mom and I added a mattress and sheets. And while I waited for him to come, I would sit in the rocker beside the crib and pray for this little person we didn't know. When he came, we named him Tucker. When he was 18 months, we took off the front piece and added a new one, and it became a toddler bed, and my heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor next to his little bed and stroke his hair and pray for the little boy he was becoming. And just a few months later, we moved him out of it and turned it back into a crib for his sister who was on the way. And while I waited for her to come, I would sit in the rocker beside the crib and pray for this little person we didn't know. When she came, we named her Libby. We were preparing to move when we she was almost 18 months and he was almost 4. We were six months into the adoption process and we decided to let them share a room in the new house. A friend texted me one day with an offer of an extra twin bed. We went to pick it up, and there it was disassembled on their living room floor. Simple and white and wooden. When we moved, we put the new bed together and put the crib back together once again. And our kids began the adventure of sharing a space. We kept her in the crib as long as possible. And then we took off the front piece and added a new one, and it became a toddler bed, and my heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor next to her little bed and stroke her hair and pray for the little girl she was becoming. Seasons changed and a year passed from the time we moved, and we got the referral for a baby. A little girl. And while I waited for her come, I would sit in the rocker between the two beds and pray for this little person we didn't know. And long before we thought she would come, we named her Aida. We began to get ready for her and the transitions to come. We began to make the playroom into a little boy's room, and I bought stuff and put it away for when the girls would share a room. But the months kept on passing. And eventually our trip was postponed. We stopped working on their rooms. We left things the way they were. My heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor between their beds and I would long to stroke her hair but instead I would pray for the little girl she was becoming. In the evenings the four of us would bend low together by the twin bed and pray for her, our Aida. After Ben and I went downstairs, we could hear them laughing and talking and jumping on beds. I would stand outside their door and hear whispered plans and hopes of a sister and silly stories and stuffed animals thrown from the simple and white and wooden beds. Seasons changed and a whole year passed from the time we had first heard about her. Then another 6 months and suddenly the door closed on our Aida. Our 4 year old was still sleeping cramped in that toddler bed, and we breathed in the reality that we no longer needed the little bed we had been saving for a child who wouldn't come. We took it apart. All of its simple and white and wooden pieces and piled them together- a bunch of memories and hopes on the floor. The time was right as another family needed it, and a sweetness was found in the bitter because we could share our past for our dear friends' future . And so the bed that was supposed to hold our third baby walked out the door to hold another one. It arrived in a huge brown box on our front step. It was growth and loss and hope and a new season that had came in a cardboard box. It was another twin bed. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and I assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn again. We pushed it proudly against the off-white wall in their room, and moved the old twin bed to his sister's side. And the laughter and whispered plans and bedtime prayers and hopes continued. Because healing comes slow and unpredictable... but His healing still always come. *WIll you continue to pray for our slow and unresolved adoption process? Will you continue to pray for a home for Aida? It’s early evening, and the sun is going down outside in a burst of fiery orange that lights up the sky. And I am staring at this masterpiece framed by my kitchen window as I scrub dishes with soapsuds up to my elbows. But the clanging dishes and swishing water don’t hide the screams coming from upstairs.
It was nothing major, a welt — red and true — received from a six-year-old boy’s impatience exhibited in trying to grab a biscuit fresh from the oven. But even the smallest of burns hurt and teach hard lessons. He’s taking a shower and feeling the fresh rush of pain that hot water does to raw skin, and if I strain I can hear his daddy talking soothing words to him from the other side of the shower curtain. I know Ben can handle this, so I keep my feet planted and wait for the sound of the shower to turn off. I keep washing. The water upstairs stops, and I hear muffled crying from a little head finding a comforting shoulder, and a medicine drawer opened, and then feet hitting each stair. I know he is coming. And I do what mothers do. I don’t search for a towel but wipe suds on jeans and land on the floor with a thud when a still-wet boy runs into me. I stroke damp hair and rock a boy who is too big, too fast. And I don’t bother to speak. Because I know words can’t take the sting away. It’s been said to us a thousand times the last month and half in various forms: “I don’t know what to say.” or “I’ve got no words.” It’s okay; we don’t know what to say either. This past week, with aching heart, I joined hundreds of people begging God for a miracle on behalf of a friend. On behalf of her husband. On behalf of her six-year-old daughter. I thought about them constantly and whispered their names to Him repeatedly. I checked my phone regularly for an update and bent on my knees for them each evening with my family with my own six-year-old’s prayers for them seeming so bittersweet that it took my breath away. And I’ve known it fully to be true when thinking of them. There are no words. Nothing to say that can make the situation better for him and their little girl, those whose lives have been turned upside down and whose future dreams have been left scrambled in a heap at their feet. The weight of decisions no one should ever have to consider resting heavily on the shoulders of a weary husband and dad — a family whose anguish most of us could never fathom, and none of us could ever fully understand because their story is not ours. But a lot of the time people don’t need a sentence spoken at them anyway. Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “Where God tears great gaps we should not try to fill them with words.” On the hard floor in our kitchen, I sat silently with my crying boy. His hurt was not very big, but it was very real. And he just needed his mama. He needed my presence. He needed my simple acknowledgement of his hurt. And as we sat and rocked and I dried his tears, the sky stopped burning outside. And overhead, the water was running again and a little girl was splashing in a bath. And in those silent spaces of sitting beside the one who was hurting, and with my own hurts from the hard year weighing me heavy to the floor, I heard it: a little voice singing loudly above us. And I almost laughed as an off-key child reminded me of a promise in His Word. “He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17) It’s there, in those moments when we, in our fragile human inadequacy, can’t find a comforting voice that we can simply offer our presence, our love, our hurt for them … and Our Comforter will sing into the silence a sacred melody that soothes only the way He can. Sharon Holcomb Ellis was a beautiful source of encouragement, wisdom, and laughter for me (and countless others) during college. I’m thankful for the hours she invested in me as she advised, listened, took me out to dinner, and even joined me for hours to paint a mural in Shorter’s Martha’s Cellar (and dragging Brad along too). I’m so glad I was able to celebrate their beautiful wedding day with them, and I’m so grateful they made it to our wedding, where they snapped this “selfie” with a friend and a disposable camera. I'm thankful that I knew her; I'm a better person because I did. We are far away, but we are beseeching the Heavens on behalf of her family and trusting that there are many grappling for a comforting word and offering their presence when there are no words to be found. She says it with only the honesty a child could muster.
Its evening, and I’m tucking the warmth all around her. The sun’s already vanished the way it does in October in Texas, and I’m looking at her from the tiny light glowing from the hall. With her hair already a mess and a 3-year-old pout, she says fiercely to me: “God’s not bringing Aida home.” And the unspoken is spoken aloud, words hanging there in the dark, taking my breath away. Suddenly, I’m back sitting in early summer’s hot sun. Discovering 2 Samuel 22 as if it is balm to my aching soul. I read it while cooking dinner, food splattering on the page; while sitting at our table with crayons and coloring papers surrounding me; I whisper it through tears on the couch; search for it in the wee hours of the night. It’s what I went back to all summer long and even now into the fall. David’s song of Deliverance “… my God lightens my darkness.” (v. 29) Her statement is really a question. The one we’ve all been asking silently for months: “Why isn’t He?” The tears sting hot on my face, and I utter some words strung together “pray … keep asking … one day” and kiss her good night. But it haunts me for days, the words I’ve never been brave enough to say. HE could bring her home. But He’s not. I talk to my mom on the phone. “I can’t see the good. I can’t see the good in this situation.” “This God — His way is perfect” (v. 31) I’ve been here walking blindly through the haze before. So I keep going. I keep writing down all the little blessings every day, turning back to the page bent with verses highlighted, keep filling our moments with music that remind me of the wonder of His name, scribbling promises in my journal and across chalkboard’s black. And I keep crying. And we keep praying. And keep reciting all that we know deep in our bones that is true of Him and His character. And it’s here in the repetition that I realize: When I can’t see the good in my world, I can still recall all the good that is in HIM. The more time I spend dwelling on the character of my Lord, the less time I have to spend dwelling on the bad in my life. Will I choose this? To call out His Names instead of calling Him names? “For who is God, but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God? This God is my strong refuge …” (vv. 32-33) And the sun goes down early in October, and I look around me and see so many hurting people missing its light. Dear ones who know the gut-wrenching bellyache of loss and turmoil and anger and defeat and physical pain and guilt and uncertainty and blame and confusion. And I ache for them and I am weary. “For you equipped me with strength for the battle …” (vs. 40) I know it before I ever dared to ponder the question: that I can’t explain why He chooses not to do what we know He can do. And I also know that we may never see clearly through the fog of this dark world, but He will equip us to walk through the darkness, He will sanctify us as we walk closer to His sufferings. His Word is the beautiful story of Light coming from the darkness and of a perfect Son who walked through the very black of it and of Glory claimed by a God above it all. There are no easy answers, no perfect clichés, no precise words that clean up the mess or make the hurt disappear for those trudging through the bad and wrestling with the questions. But in the early summer I find God-given hope and promise printed on thin pages. -He makes the dark more bearable. (v. 29) -His way is better than ours. (v. 31) -He is Lord and nothing will happen that is not for His Own Renown and His Ultimate Glory and therefore the good of His kingdom. (v. 32) -He promises us strength for the battles raging within us and around us. (v. 40) I’ve got a mess of a beautiful life that is testimony that His mercies are new every morning. The sun will come up again tomorrow. She tells me today, “I’m going to have a sister. Aida’s my sister. My baby sister.” And I see light. |
AuthorWe are a family of five (Ben, Beth, Tucker, Libby, and Zane). We started this blog during our 7 year journey to bring home a child through adoption. This is our story of how God is faithful in the good, the bad, and all the in between. Archives
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