Mommy, I Want You To Be Happy

"Love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark...

to have been loved so deeply...

will give us some protection forever."

J.K. Rowling

As a little girl, Mother's Day for me meant another excuse to wear the pretty new dress that had been previously showcased on Easter Sunday, but this time accessorized with a pink carnation neatly pinned on the left side, just over my heart. Going to the florist to pick up two pink flowers for me and my mom, and a white one for my grandmother was a highlight of the weekend. That, and hearing my mom say how much she loved whatever macaroni and fresh glue-glob craft I presented her with after Sunday School. It made me smile. It was a happy day.

Then I grew up.

That's not to say that Mother's Day is not still a happy day, because it is. Let's just say it's an emotionally complex day:

• The loss of my maternal grandmother gave me my first taste of the bitter-sweetness of the day. Suddenly it occurred to me what she must have felt all the years that she wore what I thought of as a pretty white flower, never really stopping to think about what it signified in her life.

• I've had a ring-side seat over the years as both my own parents and my husband's parents lost their mothers, observing grief and the myriad of ways they have individually sought a new normal without the women who brought them into the world.

• When I became a mother through adoption, I quickly learned that it is possible to feel elation and devastation simultaneously. The gift of a beautiful baby boy for me meant profound loss for his birth mom. I carry this amazing young woman in my heart every day along with the juxtaposition of emotion that will never go away.

• A little more than a week ago, the woman who has been my best friend more of my life than not gave her mother permission to step into eternity and be fully healed. Her loss is my loss because we are connected that way, and because when you grow up in a small town as we did, everyone else's parents are yours too.

• Then there is the amazing beach week I just spent with my mother. Watching her picking up shells and wading knee deep into frigid water whose pounding waves made it look like she'd been in waist deep, all for the little boy who calls her Mimi. Wishing I possessed a fraction of her patience for Play-Doh and stickers. Memorizing her face, her voice, her hands, her laugh.

The fact is, if we live long enough, Mother's Day, and every other holiday, birthday or special occasion, eventually becomes melancholy. The sin and brokenness of this world touches us via the outstretched fingers of death and relational wounds, marring days that should be filled with life and laughter. 

So, experience and wisdom have brought me to this junction, a crossroads where idealism and humanity collide. It is my purpose from here forward, on Mother's Day and every other day, to embrace both the heights of joy and the depths of grief - not just my own, but that of those around me. To feel it all. To enter into it willingly. Because One before me did the same. Not because He had no choice, but so that He could fully identify in every way with those He loved. 

"In your relationships with one another, 

have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: 

Who...made himself nothing 

by taking the very nature of a servant...

And...humbled himself by becoming obedient to death --

even death on a cross!"

Philippians 2:5-8

A few weeks ago the phone rang, a Face Time call from Peru. But instead of a typical conversation with my South American family, this chat delivered a blow - one of my "fur babies" at El Jardin had passed away. Being the dog lover that I am, my heart was broken and I cried. In the moment it did not occur to me that Toby had never seen me cry like that before or that his two-year-old brain was scrambling to make sense of what was happening. I regained most of my composure and we went about our normal bedtime routine.

After several sloppy goodnight kisses he headed off to his room so his daddy could tuck him in. Seconds later, when he should have been in bed, I heard the sound of Little Man's feet on the floor. He rounded the corner in a dead run, headed straight for me, huge crocodile tears flying from his eyes. Bounding up into my lap, he threw his arms around my neck and said, "I not want you to be sad, Mommy; I want you to be happy!"

Isn't that really all any of us wants for our mommies?

(In Loving Memory of Glendel Marie Ashley.  See you soon, Tootsie! We will pick up where we left off when I get there...)

Jesus Lives At The Beach

"The earth is the Lord's and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it;

for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters."

Psalm 24:1-2

In the weeks leading up to Easter, Collins and I explained to Toby that Jesus was no longer the baby who was born at Christmas, but instead he was a grown man who chose to willingly sacrifice himself for our sins.  We discussed Jesus' death on the cross as well as his resurrection. And we talked a lot about how shortly after his resurrection Jesus ascended into heaven to take his place beside God the Father, and those who receive him as their personal Lord and Savior will see him in heaven someday. 

Ok, Little Man, the lesson has been taught, now time for a quiz:

Mommy: After Baby Jesus was born at Christmas?
Toby: He grow up and be a man.

Mommy: What happened on Good Friday?
Toby: Jesus died.

Mommy: What happened on Easter morning?
Toby: Him came back alive!

Mommy: Where does Jesus live now?
Toby: Jesus live at the beach!

Well. . . not exactly the answer I was going for. . . 

One of the marvels of adoption for us is the way God has truly prepared this child to be ours. There's the whole nature vs. nurture thing - we have observed characteristics that are clearly genetic, while also seeing evidence of our influence on him. But there are also aspects of his personality that are so much like Collins or me that the presence of divine fingerprints is the only explanation. This little one's absolute and undeniable love for the beach and the ocean is so much a part of who he is that it goes beyond nature or nurture; it seems to be one of the ways God speaks to his heart - just like his mommy.

"He alone stretches out the heavens and treads on the waves of the sea."

Job 9:8

For as long as I can remember I have been a beach lover. As a young child on family vacations I wanted to be covered in sand or rolling in the waves for as many hours as the sun (or my parents) permitted. As a teenager I would hop across the hot sand and land on my lounge chair, reading book after book to while away the hours, taking dips in the salty surf as needed to cool off. As an adult I have nestled into the fullness and abundance of my relationship with Jesus while digging my toes into the sand, listening to the sound of the swells pounding the shore and watching the sunlight dancing on the water like liquid diamonds. 

From the moment we first dipped his toes into the ocean on the beach in Gulf Shores, Alabama at seven weeks old, Toby has been in love with the coast too. We celebrated his first birthday at Edisto Beach, SC where he ate Gold Fish cheese crackers covered in sand and laughed when the waves knocked him down. We hit the beach at Ocean Isle, NC as often as we can where he wakes up ready for the two block ride to the shore in his wagon. He wallows in the sand like a pig in mud, then runs for the water like a prodigal returning home. 

There's something about the water. And the sand. And the salt. And the thick, sticky air.

I know it. Toby knows it.

We take deeper breaths here. We relax here. We enjoy family and friends more here. We appreciate more and take less for granted here. We know what it means to be still here. We feel closer to God here.   

And just like my Little Man, it makes me want to lie down where the sea meets the shore and throw my hands up in the air in pure praise and adoration while the peace that transcends understanding washes over me again and again and again. 

So, yes, Toby - Jesus does live at the beach!

"How many are your works, Lord!

In wisdom you made them all; the earth is full of your creatures.

There is the sea, vast and spacious, teeming with creatures beyond number --

living things both large and small."

Psalm 104:24-25

(Post written while vacationing with my parents at Ocean Isle Beach, NC. Thank you, Lord, for this time with my family and for this bond you've orchestrated between my son and me.)

Bags for Birth Mothers

Today's post is a bit different from my regular posts in that it offers you a chance to come alongside me in a ministry that God laid on my heart almost three years ago; today the dream becomes a reality.  

Perhaps the best way to give you a glimpse into my heart is to share a piece entitled Birth Mother that I wrote and posted on my previous blog, on Little Man's adoption day in 2013.  Reading that post will help you to understand why this new ministry, "Bags for Birth Mothers," is such an important cause.

Below is your opportunity to join me.  I hope you will...

Bags for Birth Mothers

Dear Friends,

My husband and I are adoptive parents.  Our beautiful baby boy, born June 15, 2013, is now a rambunctious, curious and ridiculously handsome two year old toddler.  We know the pain of infertility and the emotional roller coaster that is the adoption process.  But through it all, God moved me beyond myself and has given me a deep empathy for and sensitivity to birth mothers. Our birth mother is a special young woman who made a brave decision; she chose life and an adoption plan for her unborn baby. Her choice directly affected our lives, giving us an incredible gift for which I am eternally grateful.

For women whose paths to motherhood are similar to mine, the moment we become adoptive mothers is one of the happiest moments of our lives, yet also profoundly sad.  We leave the hospital carrying a newborn who is the answer to countless prayers.  Birth mothers depart empty-handed, facing days of doubting and wrestling with their decision, and perhaps being judged and criticized for allowing other families to parent their children.  God has laid it on my heart to minister to birth mothers, putting something in their hands that lets them know they are not forgotten, and that both their courage as well as their pain and grief do not go unnoticed.

I would like to offer you an opportunity to join me in this ministry.  Click this link, Bags for Birth Mothers, to shop my "Bags for Birth Mothers Thirty-One Party."  Place an order for one or more Zipper Pouches (cost is only $18 including shipping, tax, and Thirty-One Gives Round-Up for Item #3045 - any pattern) and I will donate my commission as a Thirty-One Independent Consultant to fill the bags with items that will minister to the physical and emotional needs of a birth mother.  (You may contact me directly to place your order, or if you wish to order additional items). My goal is 50 Zipper Pouches.  I am currently working with the adoption counselors to determine how to appropriately fill the bags.  When the bags arrive and have been filled, I will follow up with those who have participated, providing you with photos of the bags and their contents.  I will be donating the bags to the Law Office of James F. Thompson, Adoption Attorney, whose adoption counselors will present them to the birth mothers they have counseled and befriended as they are discharged from the hospital and the adoption placement is complete.

Birth mothers deserve to know that they are loved as unconditionally as they love their babies and as Christ loves them.  Help me demonstrate this love.

A child born to another woman calls me mommy. The magnitude of that tragedy and the depth of that privilege is not lost on me.
Jody Landers  

Clean Britches

My two year old has always liked the way I loudly and somewhat melodiously (not really), in my best attempt at being a baritone, sing the phrase "clean britches" to him while hauling him to the changing table to handle yet another "stinky-shooey."  He laughs and tries to imitate me.  Moments later, sporting an unsoiled diaper and the fresh scent of baby wipes, he bounds through the house with a little spring in his step.  Getting clean will do that for you.

At some other point in time I texted a friend.  I apologized for the time (some ridiculous hour before the sun came up), saying I had to send the message before I got sucked back into the world of diapers and dump trucks and totally forgot.  In her reply she chuckled and said that would be a great name for a blog.

And suddenly there it was, on a screen; confirmation of the nudging I'd been feeling in my spirit for months.  Writing has been part of who I am for as long as I can remember.  I knew as far back as fifth grade when I won the Lt. Governor's Award for writing that regardless of whether or not anyone ever read another word I wrote, there would never be a time in my life when I would not feel compelled to put pen to paper.  

After a few failed attempts at getting my writing noticed I spent many years writing only for myself or my students.  I became a blogger while I was a missionary serving in Iquitos, Peru because it was the easiest way to maintain communication with my supporters while also giving me time to hone my craft and begin to find my voice.  On my return trip to the U.S. I managed to contract a raging case of writer's block.  A mere six posts over the past three years, that's it.  Other than journaling that's all the writing I've done.

But God has been speaking to my heart now for longer than I would like to admit.  He's been calling me to write.  Not for me, but for Him.  I haven't been listening.  Well, I have, but I've been ignoring Him.  Fear has paralyzed me.  Fear of the rejection and stinging criticism of something so personal.  Yet each time I say I'm scared He replies, "It's not about you."  As only God operates, He initiated a string of events, a series of coincidences (i.e. random encounters with just the right people, particular Facebook posts or specific Tweets, a book, a free opportunity to hear 20 different leaders, writers, and speakers, etc.) to be the bonk on the forehead necessary to spur me to action.  I took notice.  I mean, there are only so many bonks you can endure before you get a headache!

Last night I listened to Glennon Doyle Melton, a highly sought after author and speaker among Christian women, talk about her fears, and the messiness and history of addiction that is her life, and her desire to be authentic.  Then midnight rolled around and Friday became Saturday - October 10 - a very important day in our family - my little boy's Adoption Day.  I sat on my couch in the 2 a.m. silence and prayed, my heart pounding so hard and loud I was scared it would wake everyone up, and said yes to God's call.  If He has gone to the trouble to orchestrate a thousand circumstances to get my attention, and caused them to simultaneously converge on the day we celebrate a major miracle in our lives, then the time has come for me to walk in obedience. 

To do this right means putting on some clean britches.  Renaming the old blog will not do.  It's time for the fresh scent of a new start.  And my friend was right, Diapers and Dump Trucks is a catchy title.  I like it.  But it's also symbolic.  You see, my life moves in a constant cycle: from a bright white unspoiled canvas, to a dirty mess, to cleaning up the mess (diapers), to hauling off the mess (dump trucks), to breaking out another blank slate and starting over again.  So here I am on a brand new blog, ready to see where God takes me.