I am simply not...

I love Wednesday nights…

Dinner at church with the people from the congregation my husband pastors, the Body of Christ to which I belong, my community, sharing the best meals you’ve ever had while we laugh and catch up is the highlight of my week.

After dinner I lead a women’s Bible study. Time with these sisters fills my heart.  They hone me week after week; they are my iron that sharpens this iron. Hearing their stories, celebrating their successes and grieving over their trials with them is my privilege. Sharing the Word with them, discussing it, pulling it apart and devouring it together is a delight to my soul.

Afterwards I get to play the piano for our worship team and sing with them. The practices are mini-worship services that prepare me to worship in community on Sunday.

And yet…I hate Wednesday nights... 

Lovely Jen Ferguson invited me to post at her place as part of her Break the Tape series. Would you come over and finish reading this over here? You just may find a new community to join...

Infertility, You Lost Again

There was a time when I used to think about infertility a lot. Every month, in fact. Each time the stick was negative, each time I was injected with horrible hormones that made me crazy, each time my friends would announce yet another pregnancy, I would remember. Time after time. Year after year.

One day we decided infertility would no longer define us and we turned our hearts to adoption. Quickly came Isabel and soon after, Noah. In the busy-ness of parenting, infertility became an old nightmare that no longer occupied my thoughts or my heart.

And yet this last year I have been reminded that no matter how long I’ve been a parent, no matter how many children I have, no matter how much I look, sound, and act like any other mom, when it comes to growing my family I am still just that: infertile. If I want another child I have two choices: expensive medical procedures that have no guarantee to work or a very complicated, intrusive, prolonged adoption process. And the frustrations of each choice again remind me:

You. Are. Infertile.

So, we chose to adopt again. We sent the paperwork and we opened ourselves to being scrutinized in ways no biological parent ever is. We have to prove we are good parents. We have to show we have the finances necessary. We have to convince that our marriage is strong in every way. We even have to submit to psychological evaluations to make sure we are of sound mind. Despite the fact that we already have two well-adjusted children at home. Despite the fact that the same agency that twice trusted us is now handling this adoption. And the complexity of this process insists:

You. Are. Infertile

We joyfully announced our decision to the world. And our motives were questioned. We were met with doubt. We were asked about our choice to adopt internationally rather than “take care of the children right here in our land.” We were asked about our discontent with having a family of four. We want three children, not twenty and we have saved, we have prayed, we have made this decision carefully. 


We were questioned even as we celebrated the baby-shower of a 16-year old who is keeping her baby and whose family, after the initial shock and disappointment, joyfully awaits the new life that will come to brighten their clan. And the lack of support for us, seasoned and equipped parents, whispers loudly:

You. Are. Infertile

But, infertility, you will not define me yet. You have forced me to take a different path than the one I anticipated. You have brought me down a journey I did not ask to take. But you have met a bigger foe. You have met the One who still works for the good of those who are called according to his purpose. You have met the One who took my inability to conceive and turned it into full arms and joy and laughter. You are battling against the One who called us to search and reach for a child we have not yet met,  but whose name is already written in our story. You will never win against the One whose plans for us are meant for hope and a future.  You have given ashes to the One who knows how to exchange them for beauty. 

You lost the battle, infertility, because I am the mother of three. 


**Linking up with Jen for SDG this week, and with Ann for Pages in Our Heritage of Faith** 

Let Freedom Ring.

Can I be honest with you?

I am a people-pleaser. And a peace-maker. They sound like a good combination, right? I don’t like to disappoint or hurt the people in my life and when I do, I have no pride in apologizing to make it right and restore the relationship. But I also often speak without thinking, which means I apologize a lot. And I over-analyze conversations and blame myself for saying things that did not really cause strife, so I often apologize without a real reason to do so. Which leaves me feeling like all I do is apologize.

And I’m a pastor’s wife so I feel the burden, real or imagined, of the implications of the role, impossible as they may be to meet and yet impossible to ignore.  And because I want to be helpful and make people happy, I tend to volunteer to do things I really don’t want/have time/feel called/desire to do.

And I worry. I worry that I am not a good wife. I worry that I’m not a good mother. I worry that I am not a good friend/daughter/Christian/person/name-the-role, I worry. And I worry not only for my sake but for the sake of anyone who may possibly be looking at me for advice, example, or leadership.

Do you ever feel this way? Please say I’m not the only one…

Lately God has bombarded me with a theme…a thought that keeps creeping into my readings of Scripture, blogs, and devotionals…a driving force that threatens to shape my year and direct my path for the next twelve months. And as I wrestle with Sharon Jaynes’ challenge to stop asking God “What do you want from me?” and begin asking Him “What do you want for me?” the fuzziness begins to lift and the word begins to take shape. He has given me a WORD.

Would you be surprised that my word for this year is FREEDOM?

FREE…dom.

Freedom from impossible expectations.

Freedom to accept that I am doing the best I can every day. I am prayerfully, carefully, thoughtfully, analytically the best mother/wife/friend/daughter/person/Christian that I know how to be. Freedom to seek to grow, and to learn, and to change but only as He guides, believing that who I am is enough for today and letting go of the worry and the guilt.

Freedom from trying to please everyone.

I have a big heart, a big mouth, and a lot of flaws. I am deeply loyal and deeply selfish all at once. But I was fearfully and wonderfully created as were you. You may like me or love me or not be able to stand me but Christ is giving me the freedom to live to please the only One whose approval matters, believing wholeheartedly that as I do, I will love you, treat you, and commune with you in the ways that He intended.

Freedom from over-extending myself.

Freedom to prayerfully consider opportunities to take on ministries, volunteer for causes, and accept invitations. Freedom to say no without feeling like I’m letting you down, or damaging our relationship.

Freedom from my need to control my world.

Freedom from my own self, from my need to plan, to organize, to make sure everything is in place, to control my environment. Freedom to let go of the fears that affect my relationships and rob me of joy. Freedom to find the beauty in flexibility and the trust that it implies not to always know what will happen next but to know the One who holds my tomorrows.  

Freedom to explore my relationship with Christ on his terms.

It is not a checklist, it is not a set of dos and don’ts. It is a relationship. An intimate, loving, peace-full relationship. Freedom to find out what He has in store for me this year without worrying about doing it “right” or getting it “right.” Freedom to let Him define what "right" means for us.

Freedom to fully explore the question that started it all:

Lord, what do you want FOR me this year?

Has God given you a word this year? If you want to read more about 2012 WORDS read what these four amazing women have to say.

Heather at Every Day Evans has chosen to serve.

Natalie at Mommy on Fire is seeking self-control.

Sarah at The Best Days of My Life is also praying for freedom.

Michelle at Graceful is learning about surrender.

A Snow Memory

I have not linked with Mama Kat's Weekly Writing Workshop in a while, but I could not resist this week's prompt: A poem about a snow memory. The first time I saw snow is engraved vividly in my mind, so please bear with my rhyming and poor stanzas. I have never written a poem in English before... 

It does not snow in my homeland

At least never in my city;

It does in the snow-capped mountains

That fill the Andes with their beauty.

So for a girl of sixteen

Who had never seen a snow fall,

The anticipation and excitement

Could barely be contained at all.    

           

It was very cold that first winter

We spent in this, our new territory,

But snow was taking its time,

Hiding its white, fluffy glory.

Finally on a week day morning,

While solving equations in math class,

Someone shouted, “Hey there, Gaby!

Look outside that window’s glass!”

They were soft, gentle and quiet,

They were dancing, swirling, and twirling,

The little snow flurry crystals

Were teasing and were enticing.

Pleadingly I looked at my teacher,

For I was sitting clear across the room

And the snow beckoned me to touch it,

To feel it, to taste it, and soon.

I must have looked very desperate

And I didn’t want to miss a flurry,

For the teacher smiled and motioned

And I was at the window in a hurry.

I stuck my hand out the opening

And marveled at the sensations on my fingers;

I stuck my head, my tongue, both arms,

And laughed at how snow in dark hair lingers.

It is a happy memory during a bitter-sweet time

Of leaving, struggling, changing,

Of growing up away from familiar,

Of expanding, of growing, and learning.

That first year in our new country

Was both exciting and painful.

For the new life I’m delighted

For the snow-memory, I’m thankful. 

What makes a mother?

Today I have the privilege of being a guest at Christy's place. She is One Fun Mom and she is doing a series called Baby Days with stories, advice, and encouragement for new moms. She asked me to write about my experience as a mom and I chose to highlight how we are all the same even as we are different...

I had a very short pregnancy with my first child. In fact, it was a three day pregnancy.

We received a phone call from the adoption agency on Tuesday and we brought Isabel home on Friday. A few weeks before that, when the last signature was placed, and the last document submitted, we were told the wait would be at least several months.

“We have time,” we thought.

But my wise sister-in-law gave us a car seat and said: “you just never know.”

So a car seat is all we had that Tuesday night the social worker called and said, “there is a baby…”

Please click here to read the rest and visit Christy's place. 

Be still...

“Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10a

Be still…

Don’t panic.

Don’t fear.

Don’t fret.

Don’t worry.

Don’t try to find your own solution.

Don’t manipulate the situation.

Don’t take matters into your own hands.

Don’t believe that God helps those who help themselves.

Don’t give in to the temptation of making the problem go away yourself.

And know…

And trust.

And have faith.

And never forget.

And realize.

And be certain.

And be assured.

And grasp.

And understand.

That I am God…

I am your creator.

I am the owner of the cattle of a thousand hills.

I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.

I am the King of kings and the Lord of lords.

I am the maker of the universe.

I am the keeper of your heart.

I am your redeemer.

I AM.

Be still and know that I am God.

And pray.

And trust.

And wait.

And listen.

And obey.

And follow.

And seek.

And beseech.

Be still.

Linking with Lisa-Jo for Five-Minute Fridays. You have five minutes to write. No more, no less. This week's prompt: Still...

Lessons from a piano

When I was sixteen I walked into my room one afternoon after school and found the most perfect present I had ever been given: a beautiful, oak-color, upright Yamaha piano. And just as quickly as it came to me I had to sell it when we moved to the USA shortly after.

I started playing the piano when I was three. I was given a toy piano and a love affair began. I was not able to start formal lessons until I was about eleven and, until that day on my sixteenth year, I always had to practice in borrowed piano classrooms.

Playing the piano was my escape during the difficult teen years and when we moved and I had to leave my world behind, one of the most painful things I left was my wooden friend.  I vowed I would own another one as soon as I could afford it.

It wasn’t until I had been married three years and we bought our first house that we had the space to put a piano, although not the funds. So I started saving my birthday presents, doing odd jobs to make some extra money and after about a year I had a modest thousand dollars. A thousand dollars for an upright Yamaha is merely pocket change. But Yamaha had the piano that had my heart so Yamaha is what I wished for.

So armed with my pocket change I started searching. Nothing. What I had saved was not enough and I was despairing.  At one music store a great salesman almost sold me one for three times what I had, swearing the payment plan would not be bad. Still, Matt and I were tight and a piano payment was like another car payment. Heartbroken I walked away.

Disappointed and eager to get back to playing I had decided to lower my expectations and buy any brand of a piano in semi-good shape that I could afford because I did not want to wait another year or two.  One afternoon I spotted an ad in the paper for an upright Yamaha for two-thousand dollars. The owner was moving soon and was motivated to sell. Still, it was double what I had. But I asked Matt to call the man see what he had to offer. We left a message and waited.

It was a beautiful day, so I went outside and laid on my hammock for a while. I started to pray something like this:

Lord, I realize I’m being way too specific with my request, but Yamahas are what I’ve always known and it has been my dream to own another one since I had to sell mine. I also know, Lord, that money is tight and that it would be irresponsible to buy one on payments. I have a thousand dollars, Lord, and I am going to be a good steward of what you have allowed me to save. If a Yamaha is not what I need, then Lord, please send me to the right place and I will buy what I can find for what I have.

And then I must have fallen asleep because Matt woke me up with a look of triumph on his face. You probably know what came next:

“-I just talked with the piano guy. I only told him we were interested in his piano and he blurted out that he was ready to move to Las Vegas and that, while he had listed it for $2000, he will give it to us for $1000 if we can go get it today!”

You bet we did. And I was not worried one bit about the condition of the piano. I knew what I would find when we arrived, and a piano tuner confirmed it about a week later when he told us my beloved new purchase would sell for around three grand at a retail store.

This is a good God, a loving God that cares even about these small dreams and hopes. But it was more than that.

Not only has this piano brought me hours of enjoyment and relaxation, but it became very useful a few years later when I became the piano player in both of the churches we have pastored and I needed to practice at home.

Not only has this piano brought me joy but now I am teaching my little girl how to play and care for this beautiful  oak-colored upright Yamaha so much like the one that sat in my room for too short a time.

Last week I wrote about God going before me a decade so I could stay home with my kids one day. This week as Isabel took her piano lesson I was reminded that I have journal after journal of stories of how the Lord has taken care of my needs, present and future, silly and meaningful, big and small.

On Waking Up

It is Five-Minute Friday again. I'm liking up with The Gypsy Mama. You have five minutes. Period. Now write!

Then…

I used to wake up to an alarm. I used to snooze two or three times dreading getting out of bed. I used to have a hard time opening my eyes, get going, get motivated and energized for the day.

I used to wake up to blaring noise in the radio and in my head.

 I used to wake up already stressed, jump in the shower, put on my clothes, put on make-up, be out the door by 6:15 to be at work by 6:30. I used to be tired all day from too little sleep. I used to fight waking up.

I used to wake up only to want to sleep again.

Now…

I wake up to the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen. I wake up to a day to spend with my children. I wake up to teach Isabel to read and Noah to behave.

I wake up and look forward to the day.

I wake up to a child jumping into my bed and snuggling with me. I wake up to tickling and kissing and calls for help with breakfast.

 I wake up to love and laughter.

I wake up to the Holy Spirit’s gentle nudging to get up before anyone and spend some time in prayer and the word. It will be a long day. You will need it.

I wake up to be in his presence.

Now I wake up to the sounds and smells of the life God dreamt for me more than a decade ago.

More on this next week…

Full

Sometimes I lose perspective. Am I the only one?

Sometimes I look around at my life and all I see is what’s missing. I spend so much time pining for my hopes and wishes that I lose touch with my reality and its beauty. Sometimes all that I have, all that I am, all that I have been blessed with seems to matter not in the perceived emptiness left by the things I don’t have, the things that I am not, and the blessings that have not been bestowed upon me. It is a personal moment of discontent, of ingratitude, of amnesia.

One such moment happened last week…

A month or so ago, by medical advice, we started the process of doing a fertility procedure we had done unsuccessfully a couple of times before adoption. This time it was not just unsuccessful. It went horribly wrong. After a round of hormones injected to my body, a failure of a cycle, an MRI of my brain, being called a “medical mystery” and several hundred dollars later, we ended up not doing the procedure…by medical advice. And we clearly heard from God: no more. It was frustrating and expensive and disappointing. And confusing…

 It has been more than five years since we last dealt with our infertility. We had made peace with God’s plans for building our family, closed the door to that chapter of our life, and we are happily parenting two amazing children given to us through adoption. So I was not prepared for the feelings I thought buried deep inside that this situation brought back to the surface.

I don’t want/desire/need/hope for a biological child any longer. It is not DNA that makes a family. My children made me a mom and adoption is a familiar, well-known and beloved friend in our household. We know this was God’s plan for all four of us.

But we were created to procreate and there is an instinctual desire to co-create life with God that is hard for me to shake. It is not the end result I seek. It is the common bond of a shared experience with millions of women from the beginning of time. Pregnancy is something unattainable and mysterious to me and it is something my body prepares for month after month, and month after month it un-does the preparations, never allowing me to forget.

So I despaired. And I got angry. And I cried out to God. And I did all the things I did so many years ago when the treatments did not work, forgetting completely all over again that I don’t see the whole picture, that even as I was crying out all those years ago, He was already working, that I live daily with two reminders that He is faithful and He is the same God who spoke to Jeremiah in the 29^th chapter and the 11^th verse.

And last week during a prayer time I said to God in all seriousness and pain.

“Lord, my womb is empty!”

And God, in his mercy and compassion, gently replied,

“But your arms are full…”

And his words convicted me of my amnesia. My life is full! And my eyes seemed to open to all that I had been forgetting while my spirit clamored for the one thing I don’t have. The one thing.

My arms are full of little arms, feet, smiles, growing bodies always in motion.

My bed is full of a godly man who loves me passionately.

My home is full of laughter and life.

My heart is full of Christ.

My calendar is full of friends.

My brain is full of thoughts and ideas.

My past is full of experiences, my present is full of happiness, my future is full of possibilities.

My body is full of health and energy.

My wallet is full of just enough of the world’s resources to be comfortable.

My car is full of gas.

My refrigerator is full of daily bread.

My bookshelves are full of help.

Shall I go on? My life is full even while my womb is empty.

There may be other children someday. But that is not my concern right now. My tomorrow is God's concern. He is calling me to be here, in the moment, to be all that He is asking me to be to those whom I can enclose in my arms today. To live my full life and be thankful. 

I don’t want to spend my life with my eyes so fixed on what is missing that I fail to enjoy what is there. The flesh-and-blood, tangible, love-giving, care-needing, real blessings that fill my cup today. 

Dear Pier One...

Dear Pier One,

I saw a commercial you aired a few days ago. Your new slogan for Christmas ornaments is “Décor that speaks to you.” The commercial encouraged us to buy new Christmas decorations if the ones we have no longer speak to us.

Tonight, after my husband and kids finished trimming and decorating and generally having a blast, I assessed our artificial tree and smiled at the horrified look I would get from your “experts” on what Christmas should look like.

This is our second tree. Our first one was a small, beautiful, pre-lit, used one that we set it up on the reception hall of our wedding chapel. Since we got married the week before Christmas we asked our friends to bring to the wedding one ornament to help us decorate our first tree. And they did. By the end of the night the little scrawny tree was glittering like any of the proudly displayed on your storefront. It was a joy to behold, mainly for all the love and good wishes it held in each branch in the shape of an ornament.

We still have those ornaments and have added many more over the ten years of our marriage. I don’t know about the ornaments you sell in your store. To be honest, I have never even been inside one because I can’t afford most of what you sell, but I do know that I don’t need to buy your decorations. My ornaments not only speak to me, they also touch me and tell me stories.

There is the silver disco ball we gave away as wedding favors and the snowman figures we gave our wedding party. They speak about the promise we made that day before so many witnesses to be together in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, in the good times and in the bad times and about the people who honored us by standing next to us as we made our vows to the Lord and to each other.

There is the one we bought on our honeymoon in New Orleans the night we saw Harry Connick Sr. (the famous Junior’s dad) playing in a hole in the wall where I sipped on a virgin strawberry daiquiri that turned out not to be virgin after all. This one reminds me of the adventure that were our first years married when we could go anywhere and do anything because we were young and carefree.

There is the one for The Parents-to-Be that Matt’s parents gave us months before we knew Isabel was a reality. I remember how this one brought tears to my eyes for it spoke of hope and promise. I look at my children today and this ornament now speaks to me about a family built on initial disappointment, lots of prayer, lots of waiting, and a God who keeps his promises.

I see the many Baby’s First Christmas ornaments that were given to us. Most of them pink, because Noah’s first Christmas was a whirlwind of moving, new church, and new life. They take me back to another baby’s first Christmas more than two thousand years ago and my mother’s heart understands how Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

There is the one Isabel’s foster mom made for her when she heard Isabel had found her forever family. It is hand stitched with her name, and the year. It reminds me of how she spent two months of her life waiting for her mom and dad to find her, but how she was loved and cared for by many people even before we met her.

I spot a globe in the shape of a baseball that was given to Matt by his beloved granddaddy, his name-sake and his hero, who is no longer with us. It speaks of three generations of men who loved Jesus and chose to make their life’s work and vocation to make His name known.

There are some that mark a time when we were just two. Then there are the ones that belong to this new era of our lives like the Noah’s Ark with all the animals and Mickey Mouse ears from last year’s trip to Disney. They talk to me about the passage of time, how it flies, and how we move from one stage of our lives into another almost without notice.

And there we have the ones that speak of what Christmas truly is for us. The ones that portray the Holy Family. We have several of those for those are the ones that speak the loudest to our hearts. We have one that shows Santa Clause bowing to the Child Christ and one that shows a Christmas tree on one side and a cross on the other. We have Nativities all around the house as well. We have wooden ones, metal ones, ceramic, and plastic. We have toy ones for the kids to enjoy, fancy ones that should not be touched, gorgeous ones that stay out all year, and the one we collect a piece at the time year after year. These are the most valued decorations in our house as we try to teach our children in no uncertain terms what Christmas is all about.

Ten years of Christmas represented on one tree. It is not the same scrawny one we had when we first started. As has our family, the tree has changed and grown and last year we had to buy a new one, a fatter one to fit our larger living room, our many decorations, and our extra helpers.

Dear Pier One, if I were to change my hodge-podge of decorations for your beautiful, expensive ones, my tree will no longer speak to me. It would be a silent, large, green, glittering blob in my living room with no history, no meaning, and no purpose. I am sure it would be beautifully chic, but I think I will keep my tree as it is, and continue to let it serve its purpose as our family’s historian, reminding us year after year about the wonder that has been our family’s journey.

**As a side note, I have nothing against Pier One. Their new slogan just compelled me to defend my poor tree!**