666 Mom

This evening, one of my boys was chattering away as he fiddled with our home phone. I was only half listening, as I find myself doing far too often these days. Suddenly, I tuned in when I heard him say, "Look, 666 is for you, Mom! That is your code. Mom-666!" 

I have to admit that the past few weeks haven't exactly been sweetness and light, but I was fairly certain that I hadn't sold my soul or morphed into the Antichrist. Quickly, I realized what he was talking about. The letters M O M are all located on the number 6 of the dialpad. Coincidence? Perhaps. After a laugh, I had to admit that things have been pretty dark around here lately. 

Anyone who's known me for any stretch of time is well aware that I am not a fan of winter. Winter is, as my boys are fond of saying, my nemesis. I try to join in the merriment and deck the halls with the rest of the world, but internally, that's me sitting over there in the corner rocking and drooling. I just don't do winter. 

This year, however, has been the worst by far. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, it's rare for my husband to be home before 8:30. Sometimes later. So, it is just the boys and I. Although I don't like it, and I wish that my husband had a schedule that was more accommodating to family life, we manage. I try not to gripe too much and make the most of the time we do have together. 

But this winter (Yes, I do realize that winter officially started mere days ago. I am in denial.) has created the perfect storm of Yuletide misery. I'll spare you the details, and really, the details don't matter. We all have something. An ache, physical or emotional. A soft spot where we are vulnerable to the darts of the enemy. An area where we are unsettled and fragile and will start embracing lies instead of running to the truth. 

But this year, I have started to harbor envy in my heart. I envied friends who have scores of involved extended family member who dote on and watch their kids, allowing them to enjoy an occasional break. I envied women who seem to be able to balance homeschooling, keeping a pristine home, and throw on something other than yoga pants (Confession: practically the only kind of pants that I wear are yoga pants. I've never done yoga in my life.) when they leave their home. I envied women who seemed to have obedient children who don't struggle as mine does. The list is endless and ridiculous.

So many positive things are happening in our lives and in our family right now. We have the privilege of partnering with the most amazing ministry in Africa. We are in the process of bringing our beautiful daughter home. In exactly one month I will be in UGANDA!!!!  My children are healthy. So why all of this discontent? I think my boy summed it up tonight. Mom- 666. Mom = sinful. Mom's heart is deceitful and desperately wicked (Jeremiah. 17:9). Despite the fact that God has blessed me with so much, my heart wants more. It wants something different. What she has instead of what God Almighty has decided that I need. 

So, I know this has been a Debbie Downer post. Wah, wah, waaah. I've pounded out quite a few similar depressing accounts as I have worked through this nasty emotional wreckage these last few weeks. In the end I always scrap them. I joked with a friend that I was going to post about how I'd really been feeling, and she was as serious as a heart attack when she told me that I should. "Those are the posts that matter," she said. And I knew that she was right. 

Tonight I was reading in our advent book (Yeah, that's right. Advent book. And it is Dec 29. Maybe we will finish it by next Christmas) and this verse popped out at me. 

Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens. -Psalms 68:19

Daily. Day in and day out. When I want to sob and don't even know why. When I feel alone and pathetic and am sure that I am the most incredible failure in the history of moms/wives/homeschoolers/housekeepers/insert-your-area-of-failure-here. I am not in this alone. 

Of course, intellectually I know this. Every Christian knows it. But tonight the truth of it just washed over me in a fresh way. I want to grow and learn and be who Christ made me to be, and I know that isn't a selfish, spoiled brat who requires Prozac at the sight of a snowflake.

I know that I can't snap some spiritual fingers and hop out of this funk. But I am trying to reject the lies that my sinful heart wants to perseverate on and cling to what I know to be true. I reached out to a woman who's faith and walk with Jesus I admire. I asked her to consider mentoring me and she accepted. Poor thing doesn't know what she's in for. I feel like that kind of prayerful guidance is something we all need from time to time and is a step in the right direction. 

I guess I am posting this because in our world of status updates and tweets, everyone else's life looks so much better. Happier. Easier. And it is a farce. Life is tough sometimes and emotions are fickle, but God is good. If you are in a season like I am, just hang on. God is the Quicker Picker Upper. Even for us most blessed messes. <3

Ephesians 4:32

Recently we've adopted Ephesians 4:32 as our family verse. This verse encompasses everything I want for our family. Kindness, tenderheartedness, forgiveness for one another as God, through Christ, has forgiven us. Those qualities are my end game for my kids. And myself.

Of course, none of us are there yet. Not even in the neighborhood. I was reminded of this the other day while sitting on the couch reading this verse with my boys. As I was expounding on the virtue of forgiveness, Daniel, AKA Jiminy Cricket, reminded me of an instance where I wasn't exactly a vessel overflowing with the kindness and mercy of God. 

It was this past summer. I love lazy days when we can wake up whenever our bodies, not some buzzing alarm clock, tell us that we're finished sleeping (except for poor John, who rarely has that luxury).  Most mornings, I am awakened by Daniel asking to watch an episode of some show or Stephen begging me to play Clue. But this particular morning, I woke up to silence. Which was extremely odd. Eerie even. 

I looked at the clock. It was almost eight! It was unusual for the boys to sleep in that late anymore. Leisurely, I grabbed my precious first cup of coffee. I cradled it in my hands and sipped it as I strolled back to the boy's room. I fully expected to see them snuggled in their beds, taking on the appearance of little angels as they slumbered. I was shocked to discover that their beds were empty. 

The events get a little fuzzy in my brain after this point because I went into full-fledged panic mode. I do recall that I started screaming their names. No response. Then (in my pajamas) I raced around the outside of the house three or four times, wailing like a banshee and screaming their names. Nothing. I was heading inside to call the police, my hand on the doorknob, when I heard something. I stopped my frenetic screeching and listened. There it was again. Very faint, but unmistakably my Daniel's voice. "Moooooommmm!  Help!"

"Daniel?" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Keep talking! Where are you?"

"Mom, we are lost," came his faint reply. "In the woods." 

I stood at the edge of the woods behind our house. Yes, that was definitely where the sound was coming from. Daniel kept calling me, and I frantically followed his voice. With branches whacking at my face and thorns snagging my pajamas, I continued hollering their names and following their voices further into the the woods. I'm sure I made a spectacle of myself for all of the woodland creatures. 

Finally, they were in sight. Upon seeing me, Daniel began to sob. His shoulders heaved and he was unable to answer the questions that I pelted at him. At first, I didn't understand what Stephen was doing. He looked as if he'd been in the midst of dancing the robot when someone put him on pause. One arm was held in front of him, bent at the elbow and pointing up. His other arm was stretched out behind him. His legs were tangled up in each other. He wasn't moving a muscle. Anyone who knows Stephen knows that the still part of that scenario isn't normal behavior. 

I realized that he was caught up in bush of thorns. The poor thing couldn't move an inch without some part of his body being pricked. Lord only knows how long he'd been stuck there. It took quite a while, but I was finally able to extract him from the bush.  I wish I could tell you that as I did this, I was overwhelming them with the love and mercy of Jesus. But that would be a big old lie. Boy, did I ever let them have it. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins and I was as mad as a hornet. 

What were you thinking? You know better than to go outside without telling me first! And you are NEVER to go into the woods alone! You know better! On and on I snapped. I told them if I hadn't heard them when I did, I would have called the police. 

Stephen didn't sob like his brother. He just dropped his head and said, "Why don't you go ahead and kill us, Mom. You know you want to." 

My little drama king. Even in my adrenaline-fueled rage, I had to chuckle at that. "Stephen, I think you know that I don't want to kill you," I explained. I took a few deep breaths and softened my tone. Then I started to cry. "I am mad because I love you and I didn't know where you were. I thought something awful had happened to you."

"When will the police arrest us?" he asked, shoulders hunched and his tone defeated. 

I couldn't help but to laugh. He thought that I was calling the police ON them, not to help me find them. In his mind, the cops were going to come, cuff him, throw him in the back of their squad car and haul him off to the penitentiary. 

Their version of the story finally came out later. They woke up very early that morning and decided to check on the chickens. While outside, they heard what they were certain was a dog crying in the woods. This poor little puppy was in desperate need of immediate help. This early morning jaunt into the wilderness was a humanitarian mission in their minds. But they knew that they shouldn't have been outside in the first place. They knew they were in big trouble. 

The rest of the morning they quietly awaited their punishment. I was trying to figure out what would make the most impact. What sentence could I impose that would ensure that something like this would never happen again. Three months without video games? No candy for a year? I struggled to find a punishment that would fit the crime. 

Exasperated, I talked it over with a friend. She suggested that this might be a perfect opportunity to extend them some grace. I am ashamed to say that the thought hadn't occurred to me. I mean, they had violated so many rules. So many things could have happened to them! I had to make an impression, didn't I? 

The more I thought about it, the more I knew my friend was right. I sat them down and started by apologizing for my behavior. I was terrified and angry, but that wasn't an excuse for yelling at them and being so harsh. Next, I told them that there would be no punishment. Getting off scot-free was a way for them to experience and comprehend grace. They just sat there for a few minutes blinking. 

"We aren't going to be punished?" Daniel finally asked. 

"Nope." 

"Don't you have to punish us?"

This led into the best discussion about sin, grace and forgiveness. Yes, sin does need to be punished. That's why Jesus came. Because Jesus took the punishment we deserved on the cross, we can have our sins forgiven and be pardoned. 

We all wander away from God. We get so wrapped up in our sins that we are like Stephen trapped in a nasty old thorn bush. On our own, we have no hope of escaping the mess. But God can rescue us. And He wants to. He literally died to. 

As we strive to be a kinder, more tenderhearted and forgiving family, we need to keep these simple truths in the forefront of our minds. We can't do it. Really, we can't. Cannot. Without Christ transforming our hearts and changing us from the inside out, it's not going to happen. 

My hope and prayer for all of us this Christmas is that instead of trying to fake it, we continually return to the well of Christ. That we stay connected to the vine and let Him transform us. That way, when we find ourselves in a position where we could dole out a just punishment, we might instead opt to grant forgiveness  and demonstrate the awesome grace of God to someone who needs it. Because, let's face it folks, we all need it. Desperately. Especially this blessed mess. :)  

Merry Christmas! 

I like the end of Stephen's. Mom wus scared to death. lol 

Something is Awesome in the State of Denmark

As is increasingly the case with modern day friendships, my first interactions with Vickie were through Facebook. I had no idea who this person posting fabulous pictures of the kids at BDI was, but I sure wanted to know. We messaged back and forth, and inevitably “friended” each other.

I had a handful of facts about her. She was from Denmark, she was deaf, she had mad camera skills, and she loved the kids at BDI. That was all I needed to know in order to click “confirm” on her friend request. I had no idea what she would come to mean to me. Despite the fact that our ideological and geographical positions are polar opposites, she would become a significant part of my everyday life. 

I had a chance to meet Vickie IRL (I just figured out what that meant the other day. That and YOLO. I am hip. HIP, I TELL YOU!) during my first visit to Uganda. I remember being intimidated by her. She seemed so comfortable and at home there. I love Uganda, but I was still trying to find my footing and dealing with the culture shock. We would ride together in the van on the way to and from school. The roads in Uganda are INSANE, so most of the ride was spent holding on for dear life. This made communicating with a deaf person rather difficult.

I first started seeing glimpses of who Vickie was during a debate the older kids were having at school one Wednesday. The topic of the debate was beatings, or caning, in schools is good. I was stunned to see that they had written “Beatings in school is very good” on the blackboard. And even more dumbfounded to discover that the lion’s share of the kids were adamant that “beatings” in school (more like what we in the west would consider corporal punishment) was a positive thing. Not Vickie. Her fingers flew as she passionately made her case against caning, drawing sign language applause from the few kids on the anti-beating side. Right then I knew that I liked and respected this cool Danish chick.

After I returned home Vickie and I began to correspond on a very regular basis. I was shocked to find out that she considered herself an atheist. Sure, I've met my share of agnostics and wishy-washy spiritual types who weren't sure what they believed, but not many true atheists. Especially ones who volunteered long term at decidedly Christian organizations in third world countries.

Oh, the conversations we had, though! The questions she would ask! Vickie is an extremely intelligent person, and although she has always been respectful, she doesn't pull any punches and asks the hard questions. I began to realize that as a Christian, I wasn't on my game. I didn't have the answers. She’s made me dig deep and explain things without Christianeze, which has been a really good thing. In Denmark, there are practically no Christians. I mean, I’m sure that they are there somewhere, but they are few and far between. Vickie certainly didn't know any. The pat Sunday school answers that we throw around to life’s difficult questions were not going to fly with her. And I loved that. Over time, we began to trust and open up to each, and she told me her story.

When Vickie was 20 years old, she began to experience some hearing issues. An MRI was ordered to try to pin down the source of the trouble. Expecting some annoying but curable malady, instead Vickie was stunned when the doctors diagnosed her with Neurofibromatosis Type II. NF II is a rare genetic disease that causes tumors of the central nervous system, particularly the acoustic nerve, causing deafness as well as a whole host of other symptoms.

Vickie learned that she had tumors on the both hearing nerves and impinging on her brain stem. The doctors likened the tumors to ticking time bombs. She would need surgery right away. This surgery would sever her auditory nerves, resulting in deafness and possible facial paralysis.

Up until this point, music had been a huge part of Vickie’s life. Her world was full of music and it was in the forefront of background of practically every moment of her life. In fact, she had just purchased a piano. “Music is in my blood,” she told me. “I always had music in my ears.”

Vickie’s description of the night before her surgery struck me in such a powerful way. Lying alone in her hospital bed, eyes squeezed shut, begging her soon-to-be-severed auditory nerves to soak in her favorite music. I try to imagine what that would feel like. I wonder if it was anything like being surrounded by cool, clean water the day before you were to head out to the desert. And you couldn't take a drop of it with you. So you’d drink deeply and savor every swallow, knowing that you’ll be parched for the rest of your life.

Young, suddenly deaf, and diagnosed with an extremely serious disease, most of us would try to take it easy, live cautiously and feel like we were gypped. Not Vickie. Only two months after her last major surgery on 12/12/12, she headed to Uganda to work with deaf children. Her life was forever changed. Vickie says:

“If it wasn't for my disease, I wouldn't have had surgery. And without the surgery, I wouldn't have paused my studies. And without the pause, I wouldn't have traveled to Uganda. And without Uganda, I wouldn't have met all of this love and beauty, and all of these wonderful kids and BDI people. And I wouldn't have met you. That’s what I love about life. How something awful turns out to be the best thing that has ever happened to you.”

I don’t know about you, but she just blows me away. What unparalleled strength and optimism! (Yes Vickie, I said optimism. I know you claim to be a cynic, but you’re not. Lol) I know that without Christ, I would never have been able to overcome as she has.

Over time, I began to notice a change in the tone of Vickie’s messages. Occasionally, when I was discouraged, she would tell me that she would pray for me. Odd, coming from someone who described herself as an atheist. We continued to have the most amazing conversations about spiritual issues. One day, she was shocked to admit that she was starting to believe in God, and was learning to trust him bit by bit. She wants to do a Bible study together via Facebook. I am in the process of highlighting and littering a Bible I picked up for her with post-its and notes. Her heart is so open and ready for God to be in her life. It is one of the most beautiful things that I have been a part of. And yes, I am cognizant of the fact I sound sappy. Or as Vickie would say, I am a cornball. But when you walk through an intercontinental friendship with an atheist who decides that she wants to study the Bible with you, I think that some level of sentiment is acceptable.

Many of the children at BDI come from strict Muslim families. And yet, they go to a school where Christ is preached.  They learn grace and mercy and the forgiveness that only God can grant. Are their Muslim families happy about it?  Ummmm… No. But, there are no Muslim schools for deaf kids in the area, and they desperately want their child to have an education. So these kids are praying to and worshiping Christ with all of their hearts. A privilege they would never have been granted had they been born hearing.

I don’t claim to have all the answers and don’t even understand most of the questions when it comes to the tough theological stuff. But I have seen the reality of Isaiah 61:3.  He trades beauty for ashes, gladness for mourning and praise for despair.

I don’t know what God’s plan is for my friend Vickie, but what a joy to know her and be able to cheer her on. I am incredibly thankful that God caused our paths to cross. We have much to learn from each other. One thing I do know. There is most definitely someone awesome in the state of Denmark.

Vickie after her surgery on 12/12/12.

One of the only pictures I have with Vickie and I in it. She is defending her position that beatings in schools is not very good. J

My favorite picture of Vickie. This one is worth a thousand words.

Our Own Kind

I have been trying to psych myself up to do a blog post for over a year. After many lame attempts that have wound up in my virtual recycle bin, I am resolute that this will be the one. Not because I have something exceedingly important to say, but because I am fired up.

A few days ago, yet another person felt the need to give us a piece of their mind about our pending adoption and/or partnership with Boanerges Deaf Initiative in Uganda.

“Aren't there any Americans that need homes? If you want to help someone, why don’t you help one of our own?”  

You would think that after being presented with these questions on such a regular basis over the last year, I would have some type of snappy comeback and that it would be like water off a duck’s back. For some reason, the opposite is true. Each time someone says something of the like, it irks me more.

It’s not that I don’t get what people are trying to say. Absolutely I do. I try to imagine my response if someone would have told me a few years ago that we would be heavily involved in a ministry in Africa. That John had not only visited Uganda, but was chomping at the bit to return. I would have told you that you were out of your tree. This is the same man that flatly refused to go to Bermuda because he didn't want to ever leave American soil. BERMUDA! This man is NOT a world traveler. And had no desire to be so. And I was pretty much cut out of the same cloth. And AFRICA of all places? Fugetaboutit. It's humid there, right?

As is often the case, we plan (or fail to) and God laughs. He has a unique map for each of his followers to love their neighbors. Of course, we know that the lovely widow down the street who needs help shoveling the snow from her driveway is our neighbor. Or, the working woman who needs someone to let her dog out every day. Or the schoolteacher across the street who flashes her porch lights for the boys to say good night. We believe that when Jesus commanded us to love our neighbor, for us he was also talking about people living seven thousand, two hundred, and eighty-four and a half miles away in Kawempe, Uganda.

The thing that frustrates me is that sometimes people seem to think that it has to be one or the other. You can be involved in helping folks in Uganda or locally. Pick one. Now, please don’t get me wrong, I am constantly failing to adequately serve the folks in my path. Striking a balance with family, homeschooling, friends and lending a hand where needed in my own community is something that I struggle with. And sometimes, I get plain lazy. But just because we are very involved with a ministry in Africa does not mean that we are not also interested in helping out locally where we can.

I want serve Christ buffet style, not cross my arms and order off God’s menu a la carte. There are so many awesome ways that we can make a difference! This weekend I attended an outreach event organized by a dear friend of mine for families of children affected by autism. What a blessing to be a part of that ministry! I have other friends who work to help women in crisis pregnancies choose life for their babies. I want to lend a hand with the work they are doing as well!

None of us can do everything. Sometimes, despite the fact that I really desire to help in a tangible and practical way, the most I can do is pray. And that is enough. Christ never called us to run ourselves ragged trying to manufacture ministry. But he does consistently place opportunities to show his love and mercy to people in my life. And, he has opened a crazy amount of doors (I am a throw-out-another-fleece-type of girl) for us to serve in, and adopt from Uganda. And we are so grateful that he did.  God has planted fierce love in our hearts for a little Ugandan girl named Nakafuuma Leticia, and we are desperately hoping and praying that she will soon join our family.

So, when puzzled people inquire as to why we don’t want to “adopt an American” or “help our own kind,” I haven’t quite nailed down a hard and fast response. I mean, my internal dialogue goes crazy with snarky responses, but I try to keep them in check. I guess that the short answer is that our God is so big, that when he talks about loving our neighbors, sure, he means the folks that live across the street. But, he can also be referring to deaf Ugandan children nestled in a little plot of land over seven thousand miles away. Both are “our kind.”