Letting go...

Helmets on they climb their scooters and take off. Wind beating their cheeks, giggles of excitement erupting from their throats, they race.

"Don't get too far ahead of me!" I shout as I walk behind them. All I can see is their backs but I know they are smiling as one foot makes contact with the pavement, propelling them forward faster than I can catch them and faster than my mother's heart can bear. And I feel the separation almost physically. 

I want to reach out and grab her by the arm pulling her back to me, to the protection of my embrace, away from the road, away from any danger. But she is already too far ahead. He can't even hear me any more when I shout his name. 

And I love watching them. Their growing muscles extending, finding the balance to master the small scooter, the thrill of speed all over their screams and laughter. 

They are headed for the street and my heart skips a beat. But I have given them instructions as to how fast they need to go and exactly where they need to stop and I have to trust that they will. I have to trust that the work I've put before this moment, the practice rounds, the conversations about danger will do their job. 

I have to trust them.

They are old enough to do this. I know that in my head but my heart cries out "not yet! it's too soon!" Time flies and does not stop for me. I'm not ready. But they are. 

And this will be the dance of our lives. The constant struggle towards independence as I let them go a little at the time, asking the Lord for wisdom to know how far, how fast, and when. Feeling the pain of separation breaking my heart but keeping a smile of my face as I cheer them on. Because this is what they were meant to do: to grow and leave, to spread their wings and fly. 

And I am left to trust.

To trust that the years we had with them were rich enough in wisdom and knowledge to make their own decisions when I'm no longer there to shout their names or remind them of my instructions. I have to let go and have faith that the God who brought them to my life in the first place will continue to walk with them as they are forging theirs. 

And to pray.

To pray that they will never cease to seek, as they make their own choices, the wisdom of the same God whose help I sought in raising them. Because they know, now in their own adult hearts, that He is the only one who can be trusted to tell them exactly how fast to go and exactly where to stop. 

You Said What???

We were sitting with our small group at church discussing the way the world tells us to respond to different situations. You know, like if someone says something nasty to you, you should say something nasty back. Or how you are the most important person in your world, etc. 

“Society tells us that marriage is disposable, that if your spouse does something seemingly unforgivable like cheat, or simply no longer makes you happy and fulfilled, you should just leave him.” 

Is what I wanted to say. 

What came out, however, was this: “you should just dump his sorry butt.” 

Except I did not say *butt*. I used the real word that completes the quote. All three letters of it. 

Immediately my face was some shade of ripe tomato, my hand flew to my mouth and the whole class burst out laughing. It was a few weeks before they let me live that one down. 

It may not be a big deal to most people. You may use far worse expletives in your daily life without problems, and know lots worse words to pepper your speech. Personally, I think a word is only made into a “bad” word by the way we use it. I can call you a fluffy bunny with such venom in my voice that would make calling you something far uglier a much less demeaning name. 

But there are two reasons why this was such an embarrassing moment for me. 

First, I am the pastor’s wife. My husband, the pastor, was sitting next to me in that class and you just don’t expect the pastor’s wife to use an expletive…in small group…in front of the pastor. But that’s actually not that big of a deal to me. Our people are very forgiving and gracious and have a healthy sense of humor. They know “pastor’s wife” is just a fancy name for that girl who sits in the front row. 

The big reason is that I simply don’t cuss. I never really have. I tried it in high school because it was the cool thing to do but it just did not fit who I was or who I was trying to become. By the time I got to college I decided I don’t use that kind of language. Period. It’s a personal conviction of mine and people who know me know this about me. It is my own interpretation of “Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” (Ephesians 4:29). 

I know it offends some people. And while some of my beliefs offend people and I have no intention of changing them, I find no reason why I should use such language if it will make someone else uncomfortable. You know Paul’s idea: I have a right to do anything, but not everything is beneficial and all that jazz. So why do it? 

But that’s just my take. And the one I’ll pass on to my kiddies. With them, since they don’t yet know any cuss words that we know of, we talk in terms of being kind. We tell them God made their mouth to say things that are good and uplifting and encouraging and beautiful, and not things to tear down, hurt, or destroy others. We teach them what James taught: “Does a spring of water bubble out with both fresh water and bitter water? Does a fig tree produce olives, or a grapevine produce figs? No, and you can’t draw fresh water from a salty spring. And so blessing and cursing come pouring out of the same mouth. Surely, my brothers and sisters, this is not right! ” (3:11-13). 

Bitter water from a mouth is much more than a cuss word, I know. Bitter water can be complaints, criticism, name-calling, spiteful and angry words and so much more. And I also know that what comes out of the mouth is what the heart is full of so the teaching begins much deeper than “watch what you say.” And we are. We are instructing them beyond just controlling their tongue to guarding their hearts. 

In the meantime, I have to watch how I respond to frustration. Not because I’m the pastor’s wife. Not because of what others may think (gasp!). Not even because using a cuss word is “bad.” But simply because I am called to be different in ways the world may not understand. To show there is a better way, another way to handle life than what we may see around us every day. To reflect in my actions and speech the gentle, humble ways of my Lord. 

That’s why the slip-up embarrassed me so. It was out of character. It was unexpected. And it was a reminder that the work in me is not yet completed. 

But my friends’ reaction to it was encouraging. 

When an ugly word out of my mouth shocks them, then I know I’m allowing the Holy Spirit to do its job in my every day relationships. When hurtful and offensive speech coming out of this girl’s lips ceases to surprise those around me, then I’ll know I’ve strayed too far from what I know to be true. 

Or maybe I can just say the devil made me do it, y’all!

Thank you!

Dear friends,

I wanted to say THANK YOU. I am overwhelmed by your responses and the kindness you showed in taking a few minutes to help me see this space from your side of the screen. I really appreciate your encouraging words. What I gleamed from this all, and my husband will tell you he said it all along, is to simply keep doing what I’m doing.

I have to be honest with you. I wanted to know if I should change directions. Find a specific area to focus on. Should I write exclusively about adoption? Should I focus on parenting? Should this be a spiritually-centered blog? I was not sure what direction God wanted me to take and why, or if any change was needed at all.

So I reached out to you and you responded. And here is what I think I hear you saying: 

Keep writing stories of all that you are: a pastor’s wife, a mother, an adoptive mother, a Christian, a foreigner living in a borrowed country.

Keep writing with honesty about your struggles and the lessons you are learning because we may identify.

Keep writing from your heart and in your own style.

And I’m so glad because I don’t think I know how to do anything else. And because my husband said if I tried to do something I don’t know how to do I would wither and die (not literally, but maybe?).

I am so thankful for you. I don’t often ask questions of you or write with the “you” much, but I want you to know that your comments, your e-mails, and your responses mean the world to me. I don’t write to be heard, I write to know I am not alone. 

And you help me to know that no matter what crazy thing is happening in my world, it has happened in yours. Or you know it will happen in yours. Or you may totally see how it could happen in yours. Or you simply just get it. And the burdens are a little easier when shared in community, right?

So, thank you, gracias, merci, and danke. With renewed understanding and deeper commitment, Life in a Glass House will remain what it is. 

Help Wanted!

Last Saturday I had the privilege of meeting face to face with seven other Christian women bloggers. One of them, the owner of the home, I had been following for a while, and the other six I had never met but are now the newest addition to my favorite blogs.

And. We. Had. A. Blast.  

There was Amy, who is passionate about making a difference in small and big ways.

There was Katrina, who will teach you to eat real food cheaply, while helping you draw closer to the God who created it all.

There was Mariah, who will captivate you with her humor and smarts.

There was Kendal, who is honest and real about her struggles. You may just identity.

There was Karrie, who writes about being a mom, a teacher, a child of God and wife to a farmer in poetic style.

There was Rachel, who writes about food, especially desserts, but who is model-thin and model-beautiful.

There was Corina, who does not yet have a blog but I know will blow you away when she does. Stay tuned.

It was fun. And it was inspiring. And it left me with some pondering to do. And here is where you come in:

One of the things we talked about were the strengths and weaknesses of our blogs and the reasons we blog. The discussion that ensued around the table gave me a lot of food for thought. I was challenged to take a look at my motivations, my passions, and my sphere of influence. I’ve been blogging for almost two years now and I think it’s time to re-evaluate some things.

So I decided to enlist your help, sweet friends.

If you don’t mind, if you could help me, take a minute and tell me:

What keeps you coming back to this space?

I would really love to hear from you, whether you usually comment or you mostly lurk, through Facebook or via e-mail, please help me to see Life in A Glass House from your side of the computer.

Thank you, thank you, thank you! 

Isabel, the tooth, and the widow's mite.

A few days ago Isabel lost a tooth. After her daddy pulled it out and after the tears were dried her first words were: “The Toothfairy is coming tonight!” Then carefully, so so carefully, Isabel put the miniscule tooth into a red, Chinese box with a mirror that probably used to contain a fancy lipstick once upon a while. She snapped it sealed and placed it under her pillow. She fell asleep with her whole torso over that pillow, protecting her treasure fiercely.

And the Toothfairy came. This sneaky fairy tip-toed into Isabel’s room a few hours past the kids’ bedtime to do the job only the Toothfairy can do (or the little white mouse, if you live south of the Texas-Mexico border): to buy the long-wiggled, expectantly-yanked-every-few-days tooth. The exchange rate these days at our house is one crisp dollar bill for one white and tiny pearl. The Toothfairy had to pull and prod and, being careful not to wake her up, take out the little red box, and make the exchange. 

The next morning she ran, hopped, and skipped to our bedroom at a ridiculously early hour, a memory of Christmas morning all over again, with her little red box and more money inside it than a six year old knows what to do with. “Mami! It’s gone! My tooth is gone! And I got a dollar! I got a dollar!” Precious booty to a little girl who does not yet get an allowance and whose parents don’t tend to buy toys beyond Christmas and birthdays. 

Last year I bought her a three-piece piggy bank. It’s shaped like the letters A, B, and C connected, and each letter is a compartment. The A is for giving. This is the money she takes to church each week for Jesus. The B is for saving for bigger items she may want to buy. The C is for spending and this one is usually empty as the concept of “now” trumps the concept of “later” almost every time. 

As we sat at breakfast in the kitchen the morning after she became richer by a dollar I asked her to put her dollar into one of the three compartments so she would not lose it. Without hesitation she said she wanted to put it into the “Jesus” one. Eyes wide I asked: “The WHOLE dollar?” She nodded earnestly and happily. Because I am logical, thrifty, and practical, I offered to exchange her dollar for four quarters. “That way you can put a little into each box,” I suggested. Because she is generous, trusting, and much more obedient than I, she declined. “I want to give the whole dollar to Jesus!” she said. And pride and tenderness spilled out of my eyes. And just a few days before we had discussed our character trait for the month of April and its accompanying verse: generosity as found in 2 Corinthians 9:7

“God loves a cheerful giver”

And she embodies it. Like the little widow who put all she had into the coffers of the temple, so this child gave not from what was left after she bought her new toy, but the whole of her prize, everything she owned. She gave believing she would not lack and out of gratitude for the blessing itself rather than for what the blessing would bring her.  

And I don’t give like that. Ever. I tell myself I give sacrificially as I rationalize how little to give, as I add and subtract, re-arrange the numbers one more time, and frown over pennies and nickels. And when Jesus calls me to give just a little more of my money, my time, my energy, my resources, I grumble and complain and ask “Don’t I give enough already?” 

My children bring me great happiness every day. But every day they also teach me. And they partner with God to point out to me where my faith is lacking, where it’s little. I am the one who chooses the trait of the month for Isabel and Noah to learn to live out. I am the one who chooses the scripture that accompanies it. I am the one who explains it to them. 

Yet they are the ones who model it for me.

On teenagers...

In ten years we will be living with a sixteen year old and a fourteen year old. I have heard this should strike fear in the heart of the most courageous parent. Often I hear people say things like “Oooo, just wait until she becomes a teenager!” and “Oh, the teen years are horrible; just wait and see…” or “Your kids may be good now but they won’t be for long. When they hit adolescence…” and “Oh, nothing you do now will change the fact that teens are horrible!”

Sigh.

I don’t have a crystal ball. I cannot predict what the future will bring and neither do any of these naysayers. I have no idea what our life like with two teens will be. And more importantly, I will not be one of those parents who are blind and confidently say: “My child will never…”   

But I do know a couple of things.

While they are small and in these formative years I have two choices as we prepare for adolescence. I can either parent reactively, dealing with the stages of life as they come, inching ill-equipped towards adolescence and hoping for the best while bracing myself for the worst.

Or…

I can parent proactively. I can read all I can, learn all I can, listen to experts all I can, ask for advice all I can and, above all, pray all I can. 

I can work hard at parenting them these early years knowing that what I do now may not be the cure-all for adolescence problems later on but it is what the Lord has commanded me to do: to love them, to do my best at raising them in his ways, and to leave the rest to him.

I think of my children as vegetables. I can ensure a poor crop if I plant them and leave their successful growth to chance. Or I can plant them and water them with life instruction, and fertilize them with the Word of God, and tenderly care for them with boundaries and structure. I may still not get the produce I want, but I know the second approach gives me the better odds.

I also know that I will quit expecting the worst and begin praying for the best for my children. I don’t want to spend the next ten years in fear of their teens. I would rather spend this time laying a good foundation, enjoying their changes, and preparing the soil.

I plan to reap a good harvest. I know many teens that are a delight to their parents and I plan for my children to be that kind of teen. I am not being unrealistic, I’m being hopeful. I am not being delusional, I’m trusting that God will honor the hard labor Matt and I are doing today.

Yes, my children have choices. Yes, they may make poor decisions. Yes, they may be awful teenagers because they are, like all of us, sinful people with free will. They may, against all we have taught them, walk away from their faith. They may become defiant and disobedient. They may do all kinds of things we pray they won’t do. They may.

But…

I refuse to contribute to this by creating self-fulfilling prophecies for them. I will not let them hear me say that adolescents are horrible, even today. I will speak positive and encouraging words to them as they reach that confusing, hormonal, difficult time of their lives. I want them to know I delight in them no matter what they’re going through because I delight in the gift of who they are, whatever their behavior. I want them to know that even while they feel out of control with their emotions and their bodies their parents will be a rock for them.

I know this seems impossible and in reality, it is. But, just like we do in any other difficult time of our life, Matt and I lean on the broader, stronger shoulders of Christ. We can be a rock for our children only because we are standing on the Rock of Ages. We can extend impossible grace to them only because of the impossible grace we’ve been given.

Maybe if their parents embrace adolescence Isabel and Noah will face it with a more positive outlook. They don’t know any different right now. What if all they ever hear from me is how much I look forward to their teen years? How would that change their perspective? How will it change mine?

And can I ask something of you?

I don’t want any more warnings about the teen years. I’m not afraid. I choose to wait for them expectantly and joyfully come what may. It is a time of wonder when kids are becoming adults and finding their own way. Instead, please pray for our family, if you will. 

Rebellious teenagers are miserable teenagers. 

So rather than expect Isabel and Noah’s misery, please pray that they will break the mold and be happy-ish teens. If I’m wrong, I hope you lift us up in prayer while the storm passes by and help us with your advice and wisdom. If I’m right, I hope you rejoice with us. But the fact remains that only time will tell and I choose hope. 

Parents of delightful teenagers, speak up! What is one thing you did when they were small that you feel made a difference during their adolescence? And if your children became difficult teenagers, tell what you would do differently for those of us who are just beginning! 

Not like Hannah but blessed still...

My sweet friend is pregnant after four years of trying unsuccessfully and a failed start down the path of adoption. It is a miracle to be sure. And to God be the sole glory for it. We rejoice when a barren woman finds life within and we call her “blessed.” And we remember that the Bible teaches that children are both gift and reward and we say “the Lord has bestowed favor on you, sister.”

And I look from the outside in wondering how God chooses those whom He blesses. And this (mis) understanding that the gift of life that we call miracle can only come from your own womb breaks my heart for I have not been favored.  Have I not been found faithful? Have I not asked with enough fervor? And forgetting that God’s blessing finds many paths I fail to remember there are miracles in adoption as well.  

I have watched friends eagerly answer the call to adopt after mourning the loss of their biological children never to be. I have watched them fill the paperwork, take all the right steps, answer all the right questions, and, finding themselves “paper-pregnant,” have gestational periods that last years. And years.  And years. Empty arms, once eager to be filled, now disillusioned again by yet another path to parenthood that does not seem to bring them the desire of their hearts. And still they wait, even today.

I have known of friends matched with a child, hope soaring high, nursery ready, only to be denied the dream at the last minute or, worse yet, after a few weeks of experiencing it. I have seen loss, and wait, and disappointment, and shattered dreams.

Yet I have experienced none. Our first adoption took two months. We had not yet settled into waiting. We had no nursery, no baby-gear, not even much of an expectation when the call came. Two days later we were parents. Papers signed. Full arms.

Our second adoption was a surprise. We did not pursue it. It fell on our laps and three weeks later there was a boy. Papers signed. Arms even fuller.

So I think about this as I ponder why I don’t belong to the favored group of barren women who have seen their tears wiped away by God in the secret whisper of life in their wombs. It’s true: I have not been blessed like Hannah, or Sarah, or Leah, or Rachel. 

But I have seen my children come to me in miraculous, unexpected, God-ordained ways that I could not have predicted. There may not be a great number of scriptural examples of my type of favor but you can definitely call me “blessed.”

We are daily aware of the ways God moves in the life of infertile women who beg to conceive and are granted their deepest desire. Our hearts are moved and turned to the Lord because of their stories of faithfulness and we praise Him for His love and mercy in their lives.

But adoptive mother, rejoice! 

Miracles happen in adoption too, and you have seen plenty of them. You have lived them; you are experiencing them now. And your story counts! You, also, are a testimony of His promises and His goodness. He has seen your tears and He has not forgotten them. He has answered your prayer and given you what you most wanted. 

Sister, God has blessed you, and favored you, and honored you as well. You have been gifted and you have been rewarded. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise!