Sometimes when you are five...

Sometimes when you are five your hands are just not big enough to spread across the ebony and ivory keys of a piano but your sister’s were when she was five, and so she was playing songs very quickly and you can barely put all five fingers on the keys at the same time. So you feel small and young and a little behind.

Sometimes when you are five you have a friend named Brownie who gets to do all the bad things you really want to do and your parents won’t let you, and he calls your sister names you don’t dare say like “crybaby” and he hides her toys, and you blame it on him but you get a consequence anyway even though it was the bear’s fault. So you feel adventurous and rebellious and proud to be friends with such a bad bear. 

Sometimes when you are five and you are very shy people ask you your name and you just don’t want to say it but your mom makes you so it comes out very thin, and you are asked to please say it louder but you still don’t want to and then you get scolded by your mom for being rude. So you feel frustrated because really, you are just shy.

Sometimes when you are five you like to put your Legos back in their box according to colors but that takes a while and your family is running late so you get told to hurry up and just put away those Legos already, and you have to throw them in the box willy-nilly. So you feel anxious because nobody understands just how important it is for you to put your Legos away by color.

Sometimes when you are five you want to play all by yourself for a few minutes but your sister is sociable so she wants to play with you all the time but she wants you to play her way because she is bossy, and you tell her to go away and then you get in trouble for not sharing. So you feel annoyed because all you want is some time alone and she is always there.

Sometimes when you are five and you have a bad dream your mom and dad come running to your bedroom in the middle of the night to hug you and sing to you and pray with you and maybe even take you to their bed to sleep. So you feel loved and cherished and safe.

Sometimes when you are five you get to go out with your daddy all by yourself and you go to the barbershop and then you go get ice cream together. So you feel manly and especial and you know you want to be just like him.

Sometimes when you are five you race everyone in your family down the grassy path and, one by one, they stop running because no one has as much energy as a five year old boy, not even your bossy six year old sister. So you feel fast and confident and like you just won all the medals in the world.

Sometimes when you are five and it’s your birthday your mom makes you a cake and you get to invite your best friends and you play with cars all afternoon and then you get to open presents. So you feel important and bigger.

And you decide that even though you are smaller, weaker, less accomplished, and less powerful than everyone else in the world, sometimes being five is not bad. Not bad at all.

Happy birthday, buddy!

**Friends, I have not fallen off the planet but lately it seems I have had more pressings things to take care of like celebrating summer birthdays as you can see.  I’ll be back. In the meantime, may God bless you and keep you**

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** 

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.