The Little Boy That Saved The Day

Happy birthday, my baby!

Noah is six years old today and, as we celebrate his arrival into the world, I can’t help but reminisce about how his arrival into our home, at one-month old, marked a turning-point in our story that changed the course of our family and saved our marriage.

Six years ago I didn’t know if we would make it. It is strange to say this now when our life is just right, but six years ago the story seemed to be at an end. We had been married six years, and the last one of those had been a nightmare. We should have seen it coming but we didn’t: the stress of two demanding jobs, being parents and forgetting to be a marriage, lack of communication, and selfishness had crept into our marriage quietly and relentlessly until we looked at each other one day and wondered How are we ever going to find our way back to what we used to be?

As Matt was preparing to take a new church in a town a few hours away there was discussion of me staying behind. On my part I was doing all I could to make it happen, finding excuses not to go with him: the house needed selling, the move would mean I would start a new teaching job in the middle of a semester which I did not want to do, if I quit we would lose our health insurance and go down to one income for at least a year. We were broken, lost, and desperate people. The distance between us was widening and neither one could figure out how to reach over and bridge the gap.

But God, oh, this God who goes before me, who is more faithful to me than I could ever be to him, stubbornly refused to let go of us. He had put us together and his mercy would not stop pulling us, prodding us, opening doors to opportunities to regenerate, to find our way back to each other, to obey his law: that which God has joined together, let no one separate (Matthew 19:6b. Emphasis mine).

One night in early August we received a phone call from our adoption agency. A baby was born that needed a family. We were in no position to adopt an infant at the moment. We both understood that another child was not the answer to our broken marriage because new babies can add more stress than almost any other life-changing circumstance. Of course the timing was all wrong. But this baby was Isabel’s biological brother.

How could we say no?

So we sat and we talked. And we renewed commitments. And we worked on things for the first time in a long while. And we realized we had to heal our relationship for these children’s sake if nothing else. They were ours and we had chosen to be their parents and we had to make things right between us. So we did the only thing we knew could help and something we had not done together in a while: we prayed.

And we prayed. And we prayed. And we prayed.

We asked the Lord for a renewal of the love we once had. We asked for wisdom to find the path to restoration. We asked him and each other for forgiveness. We asked for strength to obey him, for courage to follow through, for faith that He could help us, and for a heart turned upwards and not inwards. And we cried out together for his presence in our marriage.

And when we got up from our knees it was decided: we would bring Noah home, we would leave the house to sell itself, we would deal with the job and loss of insurance and loss of income, and I would move with Matt to start afresh again. We would trust God to help us do what seemed impossible to save our family.

And He delivered. As He always does.

One by one God closed the doors to my excuses and provided an answer to each of my But, Lord… Because of Noah, I was given both health insurance and paid maternity leave from my last job while I waited to start on the new one. Because I was on maternity leave I was hired to start a new teaching job mid-year, in January, in our new town. The house sold, not quickly, but quickly enough. And even though we were the poorest we had been in a while we lacked nothing.

As a testimony to God’s incredible power and grace, we were experiencing most of the worst stressors that a marriage can withstand at the same time: a new town, a new job, a new baby and a toddler, going from a house to a two bedroom apartment, the financial burden of the adoption, and the loss of one income.

Yet we had never been so happy.

This time we were dealing with life’s difficulties from our knees together. God’s timing in bringing Noah to our lives changed the end of our story. And while I don’t advocate adding a child to your family to save your marriage, his arrival shook us awake from our selfishness and self-centeredness. God had a bigger plan for us and we had a responsibility not only to survive but to thrive as a couple not only for the sake of Isabel and Noah’s future, but for ours as well.

As I thank God today for this little baby who came in the nick of time to a hurting family and saved the day, I am reminded in a small way of another little One who came more than two thousand years ago to a hurting world to save all who would believe in him.

Thank you, Jesus, for Noah’s life and for the one You gave so I could be telling this story today.

Life in A Glass House in 2011: A Year in Review

Dear friends,

This is a year in review, a virtual Christmas letter if you will, to look back at the best of 2011 in our family's life, as recorded in this blog. I'm linking with Mama Kat this week, who provided the prompt for her Writer's Workshop.

Isabel was born in January. Her birthday always stirs in me a mixture of joy, pain, and gratitude. Perhaps because of the monumental decision her birthmother made, I felt compelled to write on a topic I would rather leave to better writers, or deeper thinkers. I prefer encouragement to discord but January saw me a little braver and able to take a stand. So in honor of my children, I wrote this.  

At Christmas I was given one of my favorite gifts of all time: my first sewing machine (or musheen, as Isabel calls them). I loved it so much I named her. Sally Maria Brother. 

Had I known the grief and frustration she would cause me as I tried to learn to sew, I would have named her Child of Satan. I wrote this in February after completing my most challenging project yet: a quick-sew-but-nothing-quick-about-it, make-in-two-hours-but-it-will-really-take-you-weeks fleece jacket for Noah. 

March brought me a crisis of discontent. We had gone through yet another infertility treatment, against our will, by doctor's orders, and, as usual, it failed. So I lost all perspective and, like a whinny child, began to complain about the things I lack. Patient as always, the Lord reminded me gently of his love and provision. This is what came out of my heart that day.  

On my birthday, in April, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of being loved, thanks to the magic of Facebook which allowed so many happy wishes from so many people in such a short time. It inspired me to think about the impact I can have in someone’s day by just taking one minute out of mine and I wrote this.  

Isabel started her first season of YMCA soccer in May. She was unsure and scared but she was blessed with the most wonderful coach we’ve ever known. This gentle man deserved his own ode here.    

In June my husband and brother in-law talked me into going camping for the first time in my life. On the beach. In a tent. But the experience began on the way there with a stubborn fly inside our van. Read about it here.  

I learned a hard lesson in July. One that I needed to learn and one that was embarrassing to admit, but one that is foundational to loving my neighbor as I’ve been commanded.  

In August we joyfully announced our new paperwork pregnancy like this. I have not updated much yet for the process is boring to tell, but when we have exciting news I will shout it to the four winds (and the blog world!).

I got my feelings hurt like a silly child in September, and, after crying and pouting, I turned to the Lord for help. Here is what I learned about his compassion.  

After eight months without a working stove, in October we finally bought a new one; only to have a frustrating and scary encounter with the Sears’ collection department. But we learned about God’s mercy for us in spite of our mistakes and because of our obedience, when He intervened here.  

Half-way through the first year of officially homeschooling my children, the constant questioning about homeschooled children’s social skills finally got under my skin enough to prompt me to write this in November. You be the judge!  

After a wonderful and full year, December brought our eleventh wedding anniversary. While this has been an amazing decade as Matt’s wife, as I looked back on it, I realized our life has not become what we thought it would be. Yet, it is so much more than we ever imagined: we embody a Proverb! This one.  

Have a happy new year and may your 2012 be filled with the love of family and friends, and many blessings. Above all, may you grow deeper in your relationship with Christ and, if you don't yet know him, may you come to know him and love him as He loves you. 

The Johnson clan.

Lessons on thanksgiving from a pile of laundry

At the end of the day I was exhausted. I spent the morning teaching my two kids. I spent the afternoon grading papers and answering e-mails and phone calls for my online job. In the evening I made dinner for company, did the dishes afterwards and started some laundry. It had been a full day and later that night, as I was lugging a load of laundry to the den to start folding, my internal dialogue began to unravel.

The kids are loud and messy. The house cannot stay clean. The laundry is never-ending. The dog sheds all year long. The husband can be inconsiderate. I have to work part time to stay home full-time. And after I teach the kids all morning, work at my job all afternoon, make and clean up dinner, I still have laundry to fold. The day is long and full of fires to squelch and by the time I get to bed each night I am exhausted.

Grumbling and complaining under my breath I began to fold the freshly washed clothing,  taking each piece out roughly. As I folded a little skirt my mind went back to the pain of infertility and the emptiness in my heart when I first learned we would not be able to conceive naturally. The little flowery dress reminded me of the wonder of a Friday five years ago when a tiny girl was placed in my arms by the social worker. A small pirate shirt brings me back to the night, a year and a half later, when the phone rang and we were told we had a son.

And as I folded these tiny items I began to smile.

I got to the big button down, collared shirts that I never iron and the polo shirts of every available color he owns and I remembered the coldest day of that December when I vowed to love him forever before many of our friends. I pondered how there is no such thing as a prince charming and that I don’t believe in soul mates, but how often I think if there ever was one absolutely perfect for me it would be him.

And I folded more gently.

I went back over the day I had just had. I remembered Isabel’s excitement at the new book she was able to read and Noah’s smile when I handed him his very first school book. I thought about the paycheck I get for such a stress-free job that keeps us from having to worry month to month. And I remembered the delicious dinner, the good conversation with a dear friend, and the gentle man who spent the evening bathing and putting the kids to bed so I could have a few moments of quiet in the kitchen, even if washing dishes.

What in the world do I have to complain about?

I stopped for a moment and considered this question. All the things I think I have a right to complain about are the very things the Lord has given me to be thankful for. I had forgotten what it would mean not to have those small, seemingly annoying daily frustrations: being alone, single, childless, jobless, friendless. Because relationships are messy and to have the rewards you also have to deal with the irritations and extra work they can bring.

But mostly what I forgot is that they are reciprocal. 

I can be difficult, unlovable, prone to temper. Beyond being thankful for the people God has placed in my life, I want to remember to be thankful that they want me in theirs, for I know many a day I have given them plenty of reasons to grumble.


Happy Thanksgiving, dear blog-friends!

Burnout and guest posting

Today, I am honored to be a guest at Amy's place. She asked me to talk about the burnout that can happen in ministry to pastoral families, from the perspective of the pastor's wife. Here is a little preview:

The last year in the first church Matt pastored brought to a head all the rookie mistakes we had made as a new pastoral family, and we almost did not walk away whole. The church was small and the needs were many so we stretched ourselves thin serving, working, and giving without taking the time to replenish ourselves spiritually or emotionally as individuals and as a couple. By the time we realized it, we were in trouble, with a new baby and a shaky marriage.

Won't you click here to read the rest? And leave me a comment if you have a minute so I know you stopped by!

Does God go camping?

So I did it. I gave in and went camping with Matt and the kids. In a tent. At the beach. In the summer. In what I, a city girl, consider the wilderness while Matt sees a very civilized campground with bathhouses and electricity. And you know what? I didn’t hate it! I am not sold on Matt’s idea of making this a yearly event but I might do it again for a few reasons.

There were lots of first for me this last weekend. First time to see live raccoons and feed wild deer (I told you it was the wilderness). First time to take a private port-a-potty on a trip (although, mercifully, I did not have to use it). First time to sleep in a tent with my family and the dog. First time to sleep outdoors near the ocean.

Really, this not my very first camping trip but it was my first camping trip of substance. A little over ten years ago I gladly agreed to spend one night on the floor of a tent on a crisp spring for the chance to glide alone in a canoe for four hours with the boy my heart desired. But that was then and love was young and so was I. So the prospect of two nights at a state park campground with two kids and a dog, cooking food on a campfire, sharing showers and toilets with strangers, being constantly sandy, hot, and sweaty did not appeal to this girl raised in a concrete jungle. But when the boy-my-heart-desired turned into the-man-who-holds-my-heart asked me to go, love could not say no.

And while I was always hot, often sweaty, and forever covered in sand those two days, I took a few mental snapshots that shifted my perspective a little.

I saw Isabel and Noah have a blast the way only children can. Covered in sand and sticky with sea water they soaked up the sun and the fun and their joy was contagious.

I saw my husband and his brother, who came along with his two teenagers, reconnect and talk about their shared hobby of photography and their connection and love was heartwarming.

I saw families, moms and dads, grandparents and pets, getting back to playing board games, riding bicycles, talking together and the future of the family looked hope-full.

And I saw me, away from rugs to vacuum, laundry to fold, papers to grade, e-mail to check, worries to think about and I relaxed.

And as I relaxed I looked around. And as I looked around I was what I was there to see: what God created for us to enjoy.

The ocean, the sunsets and sunrises, the deer, and the raccoons. And in the middle of this gift He made for us I felt closer to Jesus than I had in a while. It was quiet enough to hear the birds, dark enough to see the stars, still enough to let the Holy Spirit’s gentle whisper speaks to my heart.

And I came home renewed.

Who knew? In the middle of a busy campground, on a hot June weekend, in less-than-comfortable accommodations.

Matt grew up camping and has wonderful memories o f those vacations and, while I would still take a nice hotel with soft beds and a pool over camping any day, I may be a little less reluctant to go back next year. I guess we’ll just have to see…

On forgetting...

Linking up today with The Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday (although a little late!)

Is love stronger than oblivion? Does love transcend disease and pain?

My grandfather died four years ago this summer. For the last several years before he died he suffered from Alzheimer’s. He was a career military man, proud and strong. I had not seen him in four years when I traveled to Ecuador two years before he died. I am glad I was able to see him one last time, but I don’t know if he truly knew who I was. He was frail and he was confused and he was a shadow of the man I remembered who taught me history, math, and geography as we walked down the street day after day. But the one person he never forgot, the one whose name he never mixed up, and the one he recognized until the very end was my grandmother. They were married over 50 years and until the day he died she was his sweetheart and that…he never forgot.

Of toilets and newlyweds.

It was Christmas morning and I was a new bride merely in the first few days of our honeymoon. We had arrived to Georgia a couple of days before to celebrate the holidays with Matt’s extended family. We were all sitting at the restaurant that Matt’s grandparents owned, enjoying a sumptuous breakfast of sausage, eggs, grits, and biscuits when I felt it.

At first, it was just mere whispers but soon it had turned to loud thundering and carrying on. My stomach was working overtime after a week of eating meals on the road and the last two days of being served good ol’ southern food by the buckets.

You see, when I travel my stomach does not fare well but usually I struggle with the inability to make use of the restroom (I know, this is way more than you wanted to know about me, but I have a point, so bear with me, please) and we had been traveling for several days now.

Matt and I got married the week before Christmas and, poor as we were, we decided not to take a fancy honeymoon but instead travel leisurely from Missouri to Georgia, to spend Christmas with Matt’s family. It was a wonderful week. We stopped in Saint Louis and watched a snow storm from our hotel suite. We paid our respects to King Elvis in Graceland. We visited New Orleans and ate many dinners to the sound of live jazz. We froze while touching the beaches of Panama City, Florida. All before we made it Georgia to Mamaw and Grant’s house where the rest of the family was waiting for us.

So by Christmas morning I was overdue for a time spent on "the throne."

I made my way quietly to the main house, just a few feet away from the restaurant, to find some place where I could be alone with my rumbling tummy. I got to the only bathroom in the house, settled comfortably, had a good talk with my porcelain friend and then, when I tried to flush, well, that’s when all hell broke loose.

You must remember there were about twenty people who had been using that bathroom for the last couple of days. So that day I drew the lucky number. To spare you the details I will only say I had the need for a simple, basic tool with a wooden handle and a rubber head. None was found in that bathroom.

I began to hyperventilate at the thought of asking Matt for help.

Why such drama?, you might ask. Well, to understand the depth of my despair you need to know that I am phobic about using public restrooms to do..ahem…number two. When I went to college the greatest problem I faced as a Freshman was timing when all the girls in the 26 double rooms that shared two bathrooms each with four stalls would be asleep or away so I could use the facilities undisturbed. I spent a whole year setting my alarm at 3 am so I could go in peace. I do not to this day, do public bathrooms when I can avoid it.

And while Matt and I had a courtship of a year and a half, it was the first time we ever spent in such close and intimate proximity, if you catch my drift.

Mortified but in desperate need of a plunger I snuck into the restaurant and hid behind the counter trying to get Matt’s attention without the whole family noticing. He was sitting all the way across the room when he spotted me and, of course, did not come quietly and discreetly as I had hoped. Everyone now was wondering if everything was all right.

He did not know where to find a plunger either, so Mamaw now became involved in helping me. I went back to the house to search for the plunger and successfully located it. But was otherwise unsuccessful in my task of freeing the toilet for further use. So…back to the restaurant I went.

I managed to beckon to Matt before I went running back to the house, into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. He came and knocked on the door to ask what I needed.

“-Can you tell me how to use a plunger, please?”

“-Let me come in and help you, baby.”

“-No! No, please, just tell me how to use a plunger.”

“-Ok, put it into the toilet and push on it. Then let go.”

I tried, and tried and tried. Nothing was happening and I was panicking. Was I going to have to let my new husband in? He had not even seen me use the bathroom yet at that point and now I was going to have to ask him to come and unstop a toilet that was several days overdue?

By now I was sobbing ridiculously and uncontrollably.

“-It’s not woooorking. Oh, Matt, I don’t want you to come iiiiiiiinnnnnn.”

“-Baby, please let me come in and help you.”

Tears streaming down my blushing bride eyes I opened the door and let my sweet husband in. I thought I would never be able to look into his face again when the first thing he did was open the window of the bathroom. It took him a good while to unstop the toilet while I hid behind the closet door in agony.

When we returned to the restaurant the story had spread quickly and the whole family was waiting to express their sympathy and let the jabs begin that I still have to hear every Thanksgiving when we return to Mamaw’s house. The new owners, Matt’s cousin and his wife, have since remodeled the house, although the infamous toilet remains so most years, there is at least one moment when they see me head to the house after a meal and the story is retold.  

Why am I telling this embarrassing story with way too much personal information about my digestive habits? Well, I have spent the last few months unstopping my toilet since my five-year-old began to take care of her needs all alone. She does not know what TWO squares are and, since she prefers my toilet over the other three we have (four if you count the broken one in the basement…) I am left to battle with the toilet on a weekly basis. I have become master of the plunger, a five-star general in the unstopping toilets battle. I just wanted to remember my humble beginnings when I let a plunger turn me into a weeping, trembling mess.

That’s all.

When He goes before you.

Last week I wrote about waking up to the new life God had dreamt for me more than a decade ago. Here is the other side of the story...

Quit your job, he said.

Lord, I hear you but…the budget does not add up.

Quit your job, he repeated.

You know best, Lord but…we would have to have private health insurance and that is expensive and no dental insurance and that is scary.

The time has come to stay home with your babies, he prodded.

I want to, Lord…but in this economy?

It took another year of praying, discussing, adding, subtracting, saving, finding faith, and getting courage for us to realize that yes, the budget would not add up; yes, we would have to get personal health insurance and lose our dental one; yes, this is scary but yes, the Lord spoke and we must obey.

So I quit.

After six years of teaching high school, the only grown-up job I’ve ever known, I walked away. I was near the top of my pay scale, I had a position of leadership, I had great benefits.

But I quit.

At a time when other people were desperately looking for work, I purposefully resigned. It was not easy and it was terrifying and many friends were puzzled and many others were frustrated with our seemingly illogical timing.

Still, I quit.

It seems to me that after walking with God for so many years, having experience after experience with his faithfulness and his provision I had finally learned to trust that He has a plan, that his ways are truly higher than my ways and that, when He requires we have faith and obey, He has begun working on what the future will hold.

I just quit.

But this God, this God will not be explained, this God will not be controlled, this God will not be fully known. While I sat comfortable in my knowledge of him, He had yet another lesson to teach me about his Holy character, his incredibly organized mind, his deep understanding of our journeys, and his perfect, oh so perfect, timing.

I entered my freshman year in college with the idea of becoming a journalist. After taking my first journalism class I dropped the major. It simply was not for me.

With not many ideas and little direction, having a love of theatre, public speaking, and teaching, I decided to major in Communication Education. It was a prayerful decision and I felt comfortable declaring the major.

I knew I wanted to teach but I had the opportunity to further my education before entering the workforce. With a student visa about to expire, with the threat of having to return to Ecuador before I was ready, and with an offer to earn my master’s degree for free by teaching undergraduate communication courses, I enrolled in a master’s in Communication Studies program at a large state university.  My elective courses were spent taking Spanish-related classes to enhance my teaching license.

Two and a half years later, with two diplomas in hand, and a state license to teach both communication courses and Spanish courses, I left for South Carolina with my newly acquired husband.

I never found a teaching job that required my communication knowledge. I was quickly hired as a Spanish teacher and, while my master’s did help me to climb the pay scale, my two diplomas were put away in a box in the attic, never to be brought out again. When people would ask what one does with a master’s in communication studies I would shrug and say: “beats me.” For years I taught Spanish, loving every minute of it.

Quit your job, God said six years and two kids later. 

I closed my classroom door for the last time in May of 2009. In faith, we began the journey of living with one income, of making ends meet, of re-arranging our priorities.

In June we took a trip to Ecuador and we spent time praying about how our lives would be different when we returned to the States.

In July I received an e-mail from an accredited, well-known online university. They required someone with a master’s in Communication Studies, with two years of experience teaching at the college level, who spoke Spanish, to teach from home. This job was made for me. Perfect. The pay is equal to what I was making before, the work is less demanding.

In September I was hired. God spoke again.

I’m glad you quit your job; I had better plans for you.

As He always had.

He knew what I would need right when I needed it. All the things He guided me to do all those years ago that I could not understand were part of a plan I could not see coming.

When I quit my job I knew He would be faithful, I knew He would provide, I knew He would come through.

I didn’t know He had already been faithful, He had already provided, He had already come through for this very moment, years ago.

This is the dependable God, the Creator of the Universe who still has enough time to worry about where I have been, where I am, and where I will be all at once; He understands my every need and orchestrates it all just as it needs to unfold. All I have to do is trust and obey.

I have been home for almost two years now and this is right where I need to be. As I think about how God’s handprint shows up even a decade ago to make my today what it is, I start to understand what Moses was trying to teach Joshua in the 31^st chapter and the 8^th verse of Deuteronomy:

"The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you" (emphasis mine).


**Linking up with Jen and the Soli Deo Gloria sisters this week. Visit to see what other wonders God is doing in their lives**

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. 

Five Minute Friday: Five Years Ago.

This is linked to The Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday prompts. You write for five minutes. Period. Here is what I've got.

Five years ago this month we were pregnant with waiting. We had been for only two weeks and we had no idea how long our gestational paper period would last. We were hoping against hope for less than a year. We knew not the gender of our child. We didn’t know the color of the skin. We didn’t even know how old he or she would be when we were called to bring this baby home. We had no magic sonogram to tell us those things about the child that would be ours. We just knew the Lord knew. We just knew we were praying for this unknown child that was growing in our hearts.

Five years ago we didn’t know that within two weeks we would be called to hop in the car and drive three hours early one morning to pick up a daughter. We didn’t know, five years ago, that she was already here. She had been born last month. She was already waiting for us.

I think about who we were five years ago. We were a family of two. We ached to be a family of three. We were at a strange, unknown, limbo-like place with no end in sight. But the God who goes before us was already there, He had seen her birth, He knew the color of her eyes, He was working it all according to His will. He had plans for all three of us. Plans of hope and plans of future. And He was waiting for us when we arrived at March 10^th and a daughter was delivered to us.

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!**

This is FAMILY.

What is family, mami? Are WE a family?

Well, Isabel, family is different for every person, for every circumstance, even for every stage of life. To me this is FAMILY…

The house is quiet. It is around seven am on a cold Saturday morning. Little hurried footsteps down the hall result in little arms and legs wrapping tightly around me, seeking my warmth and love under the covers. I feel myself being flipped onto my back and a tiny version of a person hoists herself on top of me and claims her rightful spot, belly to belly, head on my chest. Eyes still closed, breathing the scent of her hair. All is well.

Smaller yet faster footsteps running down the hallway result in a cannon ball to the middle of the bed.  An even tinier version of a person wrestles his way into the mix of covers and body parts. I feel him snuggle between Matt and I, his back to Daddy, his front, hands, belly, and face directed at me. I reach out to touch his soft cheek. Eyes still closed, feeling the softness of his skin. All is well.

Sleepy murmurs of I love you, You are MY Daddy, You are MY Mami, You are MY baby are whispered over clasped hands and fluffy pillows.

And I’m the lucky one. I have my hair stroked, my cheeks patted, my nose kissed. I have to referee, in my sleep, between two children who both want to hold my hands, be encircled by my arms, share my space. And as we compromise and find our perfect fit, the four of us we become like puzzle pieces that create a beautiful picture of a perfect moment: a family at rest. All is well.

This is FAMILY.

Later in the day, while everyone is in the kitchen, I steal away to spend some time conversing with my old friend of the black and white keys. Together we make Christmas music until a little voice joins me singing love songs to Jesus on his birthday. All is joy.  

Soon ten tiny fingers join mine on the other side of the keyboard, pounding the keys in dis-harmony, while the little voice continues to sing and the three of us play and sing and celebrate His birth. All is joy.

And then a man who loves jazz and who would love to be a jazz pianist begins to pick at a key here and there while I stroke the keys, and ten little fingers pound, and a little voice sings made-up words, and the four of us make noise that sounds like a masterpiece to my ears. All is joy.

This is FAMILY.

As the day winds down I find my way to the kitchen once again and I begin the process of creating a meal out of ingredients while the other three join me one by one. First comes the little chef who insists on helping me. And I have to create a job, a side-dish, a child-like recipe she can follow. And we laugh and cook together. All is sharing.

Then comes the tiny mimicker who drags his toy kitchen in to make his own creations and serves us while we stir and chop and season. All is sharing.

At last comes my companion, who sits and talks to me while I invite him to participate, to eat at the tiny kitchen of the little mimicker, to taste the creations of the tiny chef. All is sharing.

This is FAMILY.  

And as we separate at the end of the night, the kids to their bedroom and us to ours, after baths and prayers and last minute hugs, we will not be physically together again until morning, but we will rest in the tender knowledge that we belong to each other and we will sleep the sleep of the content, the protected, and the cherished.

This is FAMILY.

And we are blessed beyond measure…

Grandma and the Satellite Company

My mother-in-law is a weather junkie. She watches the weather as faithfully as some follow a favorite soap-opera. She will tell you that the frustrated dream of her youth was to become a weather girl, and I have never met anyone not in that profession who can understand the terminology, analyze the maps, and predict the forecast the way she can. My husband and I don’t even trust our weather radio anymore, because we know if a storm is brewing anywhere near our area, we are sure to receive a phone call from Mom.

When my father-in-law bought a satellite dish Mom discovered the Weather Channel. Weather all day, every day, from all over the country! Her joy was short-lived, however. Shortly after they bought their dish they realized their “local” channels were those coming from a city an hour away, in a neighboring state. This meant the “local” weather did not reflect the area in which they live. I asked my husband once why this was a problem when the Weather Channel had a section on local forecast. He explained that the Weather Channel did not go into the depth of local coverage his mother prefers, and does not break-in regular programming when there is a weather emergency. She had a point.

Hence begun my father-in-law’s epic battle against the satellite company. First, he called using his polite voice. He was transferred to every department the company had, until someone informed him he would need a new receiver, which would be mailed to him, followed shortly by a technician who would install it. The receiver came; the man did not. Back to the phone Dad went. This time he used what we call his “ma’am” voice. A young lady on the phone walked him through installing the receiver himself and promised to send someone to check his work and fix his problem. The company sent a technician who piddled with some wires and told Dad nothing could be done about his local channels. Then sent him a bill.

By this time my father-in-law’s voice was nearing the tone of that of a bear when he picked up the phone again. Again, he talked to everyone in the company, this time going as far as the CEO’s assistant. He talked to the FCC and the Office of the Secretary of the State. He was told over and over that there simply wasn’t anything that could be done about getting him local channels. Finally he gave up. He went out and bought a giant antenna that he planned to install on his roof. One morning, after Dad had left for work, my sweet mother-in-law finally had enough, for what was probably the first time in her life. She picked up the phone.

To say that Mom is a non-confrontational person does not begin to describe this reserved, rule-following, peace-making, people-pleasing lady. A true Southern Belle, she does not raise her voice, does not disagree passionately, and does not argue vehemently. It is just not her style. But she picked up the phone that morning and called the satellite company.

She told me later that she is sure the man with whom she spoke could tell how nervous she was by the trembling of her voice. She had never before fought a battle, made a phone call, or demanded anything. She got a hold of a customer service representative and sweetly explained to him that she was very concerned because her husband was planning on climbing their roof to install this monster and she was worried about him falling and getting hurt. She went on to tell the man that she feared that, were a bad storm to come, they would die in their house because there would be no warning from their local stations, and if she could only have one station she would feel much safer. The man asked her which ones she wanted. When Dad came home that evening, channel 10, a local channel, was blaring from the TV in the living room. They now had all the local channels, Mom informed him.

I don’t know if the man from the satellite was afraid of a lawsuit or if he felt sorry for a poor, defenseless grandmother, but the fact is my gentle mother-in-law was able to do what the polite voice, the “ma’am” voice, the bear voice and all the phone calls Dad made could not accomplish. Like they say in the South: she’s a true steel magnolia kind of girl.