It began long before you would think...

Inevitably when I introduce my 4 kids, it is announced, by them or me, that they are all adopted. 

Hold on before you start critiquing my adoptive parenting approach. 

Understand - it's not something I planned on doing when I first started this journey. I was bright eyed and bushy tailed and thought that I would let the kids disclose their adoption story as they felt comfortable or led to do so. It was a warm and fuzzy dream...that just didn't live in our reality for very long. 

I'll explain why in another post, so for now, just accept that it's not part of our reality. Reality for us is disclosing openly, freely and seemingly immediately to anyone and everyone that my kids are indeed adopted. There's no hiding it. We aren't ashamed of it. It doesn't make us uncomfortable. We just let it fly!

And the response I get from just about every single person (check-out person to new teacher to friend) is the same no matter what...

Their head tilts to the right side a bit.

They get a sympathetic/empathetic half smile on their face and say,

"Really. That's just awesome. Awww...they look just like you."

INSERT AWKWARD PAUSE AND BEGIN NODDING

"Could you just not have kids of your own?"

They say this to me, sometimes quietly, but more often than not, quite loudly AND more often than not, right in front of MY OWN kids. (Don't worry...I've got a whole post lined up of phrases you should never say to an adoptive parent, especially in front of their kids. Guess what question made the list????

I answer quickly that isn't the reason at all. I wanted to adopt. I felt called to adopt and so I adopted.

As the question was put to me over and over after bringing Matthew home, I began to really think about exactly when God started writing this story of adoption in me. 

The truth is, it began long before you would think...

When I was around the age of 3, I watched a lot of Annie and a lot of Shirley Temple. The orphan and adoption theme that was woven into their stories resonated with me. It resonated with me so much so that I began to weave it into my own story. (Seriously, I don't know how my parents' survived me!) 

I was a fair skinned petite little girl with shock blonde hair and blue/hazel eyes. My mom had naturally DARK brown hair, an olive complexion and green/hazel eyes. The little hair my dad had was black and he tanned well. My brother had brown hair and tanned like a Native American. Needless to say, I stuck out quite a bit...which got my little 3 year old brain to thinking. 

I didn't look like my parents. Annie didn't look like Daddy Warbucks. Shirley Temple didn't look like any of her "parents". Arnold and Willis sure didn't look like Mr. Drummond (Different Strokes was also a fave.) 

So in the same conversation where I "killed" Santa with my parents (Santa Died When I was 3), I decided to clear the air about my "adoption."

"I know Santa's not real. Oh and if I'm adopted, it's okay to tell me. I don't mind."

My parents laughed, not in a mean or harsh way, but in a "what will she think of next" kind of way. Much to my shock and disappointment, I was not adopted. I was/am indeed their genetic offspring. It was a seed though...a seed of understanding that different is okay. Adoption is okay.

That next Christmas, I got my first Cabbage Patch doll. Now this was when Cabbage Patch dolls first came out and riots were taking place in stores as people were fighting for specific Cabbage Patch dolls. Not my mom. My mom grabbed one of the few dolls that was left after the chaos. She brought it home, wrapped it up, and gave it to me. Y'all, that Christmas morning, I opened the prize of all prizes - my very first Cabbage Patch doll! I remember my mom apologizing when I opened it because it was one of the few they had left and she knew how badly I wanted one but probably not this one. I could not have been more excited to fill out that birth certificate and hug it and squeeze it and call it my own. She apologized again and I looked at her and said, "Momma, don't worry. They're all adopted." And with that, I took the sweetest little adopted Cabbage Patch to my room to show him home. It didn't matter to me that he didn't look like me. He was the sweetest little baby I had ever held, he just happened to be black. To this day, he's still my favorite. And God planted another seed that day...a seed of understanding that different is okay. Adoption is okay.

My childhood would be littered with other seeds - family members that were adopted, friends that were adopted, friends that chose to adopt. Looking back, I realize that these seeds grew my desire to adopt because they were seeds of understanding. Different is okay. Adoption is okay.

Just before my freshman year at A&M, I met Danny. We started dating and just never stopped. During my sophomore year, he asked me to marry him, and I said yes. It was then that we began to talk about our life together in ways that we had never talked before - dreams, goals, callings, roles, family. It seemed like we had talked about it all. The church we attended at the time was filled with college students, many of whom were getting engaged and married. The pastor couldn't do pre-marital counseling for every single couple SO he, very wisely, chose mature couples in the church to walk through an intensive 8 week program with engaged couples before being "certified" to get married. There was an entire curriculum with weekly assignments to complete before and after our meeting with the married couple. It was pretty intense. 

About halfway through the curriculum, we came to the topic of family:

Did we want children? 

If so, how many? 

How soon? 

Who would take what roles in raising the children? 

How would we handle and prepare for various aspects of parenting? 

What would our family look like?

While we had talked about our desire for children, we had never really talked about the "how". So, we did our homework separately and came to the meeting. Our mentor couple began to go through the questions and pretty soon, we were asked the question of how many. 

I hesitated, honestly, to even write the answer down on the homework. Verbalizing it was an almost impossible challenge because it felt like I was about to drop a relational atomic bomb on my fiance. Finally I spoke up and said I wasn't sure how many kids I wanted but that I always figured adoption would play a role in the building of my family somehow. I held my breath certain that Danny's jaw would drop in disbelief.

It did. 

Then he turned his homework page towards me and I saw the words scribbled, erased, and scribbled again. 

ADOPTION

It was a word we had never spoken of in regards to God's plan for our life together and yet God had woven it into both of our hearts. Seeds had been planted in our hearts and minds. Seeds that this is part of what God was going to call us to do, together. Seeds of understanding that different is okay. Adoption is okay.

So, when people ask me if I adopted because I couldn't have children of my own,

 my answer is a resounding NO.

This was part of my story, our story, before we even had a story. 

God had been growing this desire, this calling in us before there was an us. 

It would be almost 10 years from that night when the word was first spoken between us until it would be our reality by holding our first adopted son but I think the truth is that it was our reality all along. 

It was the process of becoming not me and it began long before you would think...

3 years ago, God wrecked my life

Three years ago today, God wrecked my life. It was Friday, July 13th, 2012. (Yes, FRIDAY THE 13th).

I knew it was coming. I was given three days to prepare for my life, my comfortable, predictable family life, to be turned completely upside down. It wasn't the first time. I am almost certain it will not be the last.

 You may be wondering what on Earth He did?

Three years ago today, God brought three very broken children to my doorstep, children I knew only by a photo, children that I would one day soon call my own.

I couldn't sleep the night before. I couldn't sit still the morning of their arrival. I knew they would come with their belongings piled carelessly into trash bags. I knew they would come with their very hearts torn to shreds, having just been ripped from everything they had ever known to be inserted awkwardly into the home and lives of complete strangers that they would now have to trust completely.

Nothing could have truly prepared any of us for what took place three years ago today.

As this "anniversary" day approached again this year, I realized something. I have never blogged the fullness of our adoption story. Many of my closest friends know but mere snippets of the adoption journey we have walked.

Maybe I didn't know where to start.
Maybe I didn't know how to tell our adoption story without telling the parts that are only for my children to tell.
Maybe I didn't know how to process the rawness of it all.

Truth be told, it doesn't matter why I haven't told it up until this point.

I'm ready to tell it now. I need to tell it now. I'm compelled and convicted that I must begin to tell it now.

It might take some time...so please be patient...but it's coming.

It wasn't the first time God wrecked my life.
It won't be the last time God wrecks my life.

But He wrecks things so that He might rebuild them into what He wants them to be.

My adoption journey is one such wreck in the process of becoming not me.

I am his helpmate...He is my Shepherd

My husband and I have been together for 19 years and married now for almost 17 years. I have been "with" Danny for more years now than I was without him. We just fit, even though in many ways we are complete opposites and, as such, probably confuse many as to how we ended up together. We do the same thing for other people. We often look at other couples and shake our heads and shrug our shoulders with lots of "I don't know how they do it because I sure couldn't deal with _______." The _______ varies from couple to couple and to be fair, we look at each other pretty much every day and agree that there's really no one else who could challenge, or let's be honest, tolerate either of us the way we challenge and tolerate one another. We work and breathe and live and laugh and love in tandem.

I am his helpmate...

I know for some that may seem demeaning, as if I've settled for some cosmic seconds but that's not how I see it. I see it as one of the greatest honors and challenges ever bestowed upon me. When Danny asked me to marry him, I began to pray that God would make us like-minded, like-hearted, and like-called. The reality, my truth, my blessing, is that God heard the cry of my heart and answered it from the start of our marriage. It wasn't giving up my hopes and dreams and callings as much as it was fully embracing His. I didn't truly realize my hopes and dreams and callings until I fully embraced Danny's hopes and dreams and calling. Then and only then, did the picture begin to become clear. Then and only then, did He begin to reveal His next step for me, for us. And He has continued to do so. And we have continued to move in tandem. When Danny first felt called to work with youth, God simultaneously gave me a heart to do the same. We were in it together, 100%. He taught and I taught alongside him. He discipled teenage boys and I discipled teenage girls. He set forth the "big picture" and vision for events and mission trips and I laid out the details. We worked in tandem according to our complementary gifts. But then God began to stir in Danny a heart for missions and, not surprisingly, He did the same in me. Mission trips and missional living took on a new life in our hearts and our home. We began to work side by side, challenging one another in every aspect of our lives from compassion to leisure activities to finances to relational living to our very livelihood. He answered the call to become the executive director of Hope for the Hungry, a non-profit ministry that works both locally and globally, including extensive work in Haiti. I dove in head first, finding ways that I could come alongside him and ease some of his burden by using my strengths and gifts. At first it was lots of prayers and relational communication but now it is so much more than that. I am teaching and reaching and challenging and supporting and going and doing and being right alongside him and it is beautiful. God also began to stir in Danny a heart for the fatherless, something God had stirred in my heart many years prior. Now we have 4 adopted children that we parent together side by side, children we are leading to places of significant hope and healing. The work is hard but it is good and it is worth it and it is doable because, like everything else, we are in it together. God made Eve for Adam because it was not good for him to be alone...because he needed a helpmate. One of the most beautiful things about my marriage is that Danny allows me the freedom to be that helpmate. He empowers and challenges me to be and do all that God has called me to be and do. But there is something even more beautiful about our relationship... 

He is my shepherd.

It sounds strange to say but truer words could not be spoken of him. If you know me, you know that I am a worker. My mind, heart, and life are filled with tasks, projects, goals, and to do lists. For "fun", I might decide to paint my bedroom, refinish furniture, build a table, work on landscaping, make something for a friend, or write a blog. Danny's joke is that I usually decide to do these things at 11pm. (It is currently 1:37 am...point proven). I cannot ever seem to have enough to do. even though my life is already quite full and busy raising 4 kids (homeschooling 1), taking care of all our ministry correspondence, writing our monthly newsletter, coordinating and leading an annual teacher training in Haiti, designing and building the ministry banquet decorations, cooking everything from scratch (hello AIP Paleo), launching an orphan/foster/adoption ministry at our church, hosting a simulcast, being on ministry leadership teams, helping teach our SS class, volunteering for Awanas, and just generally taking care of our home. I am a goal oriented, high achieving, driven helpmate. It's the way I was created and the role I crave in our relationship BUT Danny's beautiful role in our relationship is as my shepherd and that reality is most clear to me when he is out of the country and I am left to my own devices. 

     He makes me lie down in green pastures...

When Danny is gone, it is not uncommon for me to go to bed at 1 or 2 or 3 AM, even though I have to be up early and coherent enough to parent my 4 kids all day the next day by myself. Most people assume it's because I have difficulty falling asleep when he isn't home but that just isn't true. Sleep isn't a problem at all, being led into a place of rest is. Without him here, I attempt to do a million crazy things off of my to do list after the kids are in bed before squeezing in a few hours of sleep. BUT he is my shepherd and when he is here, he leads me to a place of rest because he knows it's what I need, it's what is healthy for me. He reminds me to slow down and just be present and breathe deeply and rest. He beckons me to rest and when he is here, I rest well by his side.

     He leads me beside still waters...

I have a tendency to jump out into the rapid waters of life and just go for anything and everything when he is gone. No doesn't come easily for me. I want to do everything for everyone and I want to do it perfectly...and in doing so, I drown. BUT Danny is my shepherd and he draws me into a place of calm and helps me see clearly which things are a yes and which things are a no. Even when the yeses are not easy, as they rarely are, they are not going to drown me because the waters are still when the nos are discarded.

      He restores my soul...

This one is harder to explain. Ultimately, it is God who restores my soul but I have found that He often uses Danny as the physical presence to shepherd me to that place. Probably because of the two reasons listed above, I quickly become dry and weary when he is gone. It's not in a clingy, I can't survive without him home kind of thing. In fact, most people would never even know he was gone if I didn't tell them. It's not desperation but renewal. I have found his touch, his embrace, his word, his challenges, and his prayers breathe new life deeply into my soul. My time with him often turns into a beautiful time of communion between believers where we were together, but truth be told, God used us to salve one another's very souls.

     Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

If you know my health journey, you know that we are no strangers to the valley of the shadow of death. We've walked it. We will walk it again. Danny has been my shepherd, walking me, even carrying me, on some of the hardest roads with the most dismal diagnoses. His presence, his constant reminder of God's presence, enable me to walk those roads fearlessly. We have also traveled and ministered in some pretty shady areas, areas that were not safe to be in, areas where all logic said we should flee. Here's the truth, I have never once feared, especially when Danny was with me. He takes his God designated duty as my protector quite seriously, but more than that, he reminds me constantly that God is sovereign and that God cares more for me than even he does. He reminds me that our control over safety is an illusion and to live is Christ and to die is gain. There is no greater comfort than that.

     He prepares a table before me...

When Danny is gone, I frequently forget to eat. As much as I love food, I know that sounds crazy but I just forget. I make sure the kids are fed and tell myself I will eat later but then the lists and tasks and yeses pile up...and I forget to eat. I never forget to eat when Danny is here because he is my shepherd and he quite literally prepares a table before me quite often. I may cook the meal but he usually assists in plating the food and setting the table. Other times, he cooks the food. Regardless of who cooks, he always sits down at the table and he always calls me over to do the same. 

     He anoints my head with oil; my cup overflows...

I run myself ragged when Danny is gone. I do not feel precious or valued or treasured. I feel utilitarian and used up. Luckily, Danny doesn't literally anoint my head with oil, BUT he is my shepherd and he symbolically anoints my head with oil by his words and actions that make me feel honored, precious, valued and treasured. Even though the work doesn't really change when he is here, the honor for that work seems to change a great deal. A kiss on the forehead and a warm embrace are a beautiful anointing and when this happens, I am no longer dry or parched. My cup overflows as he fills it with love and joy and peace and honor.

In the process of becoming not me, I have learned that I must embrace the me I am becoming as an individual but also as a wife...AND I must also embrace the me Danny is becoming as an individual but also as a husband. This is how we have been designed. This is how we fit. This is how we work and breathe and live and laugh and love. 

It is my delight that

I am his helpmate and he is my shepherd.

Santa Died When I was 3 (A continued Christmas Evolution)

DISCLAIMER - If you are an Elf on the Shelf loving, Reindeer feeding, Santa Claus fanatic, this post is probably not for you. Just skip it and move along. No hard feelings. No angry banter. I'm not writing this to argue the merits of killing Santa. That's why I'm writing this in January. Christmas has come and gone. Your elf has returned to the North Pole, the reindeer have cleaned up the yard, Santa has made his deliveries and eaten his cookies, and, more than likely, you are either growing weary of the decorations or have already put them up. Christmas is now a memory and the next one is nearly a year away so we are able to reflect thoughtfully without emotions being quite so raw. If you're content with what you're doing and why you're doing it, then okay. 

BUT

 if you're honestly wrestling with the merits and ramifications of what you've been doing and trying to find words to explain your discomfort, read on, wrestle on, and be challenged.

OR

 if you feel like the only crazy parent in this world that doesn't "DO" Christmas like every other human being around you, read on and be encouraged. You are not alone...

Santa died when I was 3. It's one of my first truly cognizant memories. Angie, an older, wiser girl from down the street killed him. Don't worry, his demise was painless. She looked at me and very matter of fact said, "You know Santa's not real, right? It's just your parents."

And then I did. 

There was no great drama. My heart was not broken. My soul was not crushed. My imagination was not instantly erased. I didn't scream an agonizing wail that it just couldn't be so. I just nodded and kept playing...and when we were done playing, I went home.

The difficulty was going to be breaking it to my parents.

So I did what any other 3 year old would do, I broke it to them gently in an official "sit down". For weeks, they had been feeding me some line about Santa having lost the pattern to a specific doll I wanted and how I might have to settle for a "similarly" patterned doll. After dinner, one of them mentioned it again, reminding me that I might have to accept a "lesser" doll. They opened the door so I broke it to them as gently as I could. 

"It's ok. I know he's not real so you might not be able to get it. 

Oh and if I'm adopted, you can tell me that too." 

(I had recently watched a lot of Annie and Pollyanna and I was convinced that I was adopted...I am not.)

I honestly don't remember their reaction except they told me that I couldn't be like Angie and tell other kids. It was between them and their parents...and they left it at that...and so did I.

I don't remember how we pressed on that Christmas without "Santa". I actually don't have any real childhood memories of Santa, except for the year he died, and yet all of my Christmas memories are still deep and beautiful and magical and precious. Santa was never really a part of my Christmas, which prepared me for the realization that he doesn't really have to be a part of any of our Christmases. 

I know, now I'm speaking American Christmas heresy...but hear me out.

Years clearly went by and I clearly survived every single Christmas. In fact, I would probably be so bold to say that my understanding that Santa wasn't real made Christmas easier for my parents and "richer" for all of us. (I will try and verify this with my parents and brother, but for now, just take my word for it.) 

My dad didn't have to stay up all night long frantically piecing together a bicycle or doll house or basketball goal so that it was finished when we woke up. Instead, we had fun sometimes working with him to put it together. Memory making.

My mom would hide presents all over the house throughout the year and then lock herself into her bedroom for an all out wrapping party (complete with extra tape because I was known for my ability to open and re-wrap presents). It was so much fun when she emerged with all the gifts and we would immediately look for the name tags and guess at what each of us received. Memory making.

My brother and I, as far as I recall, made reasonable requests. Knowing that our presents weren't made from elf sweat and candy cane dust but instead from our parents hard, hard work, made us more aware of the real cost of what we were asking for. We knew our family's budget and I think we asked accordingly. And if we didn't, our parents were able to look at us and honestly tell us that they would love to give us that item but it just wasn't in the budget. In doing so, they taught us a life lesson, and we embraced it. Memory making.

My parents had us take turns and open presents one at a time. Christmas was not a selfish free for all. We took the time to look at what we got as well as what everyone else got. It made us slow down and savor each and every gift for ourselves and for everyone else. We got to see our parents take delight in giving the gifts. We got to see the recipient take delight in receiving our gifts. We learned to give and receive well. Memory making.

My parents often made opening presents more like a scavenger hunt. They might wrap a tiny box inside a refrigerator box with a note leading you from one clue to the next. We took so much delight in running throughout the house and up in the attic and under the beds, only to find that sometimes our gift was in plain sight. Memory making.

My parents didn't have to come up with elaborate explanations or schemes when we moved away from family. Santa didn't have to make an early drop off or a detour. We opened our presents when we could so that we could still make it to be with family because being with family was way more important than anything in those boxes. Memory making.

So years like this passed...and I got married. I just happened to marry a guy who also didn't have Santa as an integral part of his Christmas fabric either but how we as a family would inevitably handle Santa wasn't part of our early marital conversations. 

Then we had close friends who had kids...and did Santa. 

Then we had family who had kids...and did Santa.

And, in general, we didn't like what we saw. Long, long before even the thought of children, we began to make decisions on Santa. We wouldn't do it. We couldn't do it. We would have none of it.

Because my husband is in the ministry, most people make the assumption that we "don't do Santa" because of deep, theological reasons. While those certainly have developed and deepened over time with prayerful consideration and careful study, the initial reason we decided against doing "Santa" was much simpler than that.

What we saw in kids that we knew, kids from good homes, was greed and ingratitude beyond compare. They savagely and selfishly approached Christmas. After all, they had no one to really "thank" for their gift and, in their minds, the gifts hadn't cost anyone anything, except some elf sweat and candy cane dust. So why not ask for the moon? And why appreciate it once you get it? 

This was definitely NOT something we wanted to encourage in our children.

What we saw in parents that we knew, hard-working christian parents, was panic to make their kids elaborate requests a reality, even when it was WAY outside the family's budget.  Parents were either forced to come up with elaborate stories (like Santa ran out of the pattern or he doesn't deliver that to kids your age, etc), blow their budget, or shoot straight with their kid and just tell them no. More than once I saw adults who were typically excellent stewards of their money compromise so as to not disappoint their kids...in Santa.

This was definitely NOT a position we wanted to find ourselves in.

So we decided that Santa, the mythical man in red who will bring you your every whim and desire IF you are good (we will get to that in a moment), would NOT be a part of our Christmas life, EVER. People told us that when we had kids we would change our minds, that our hearts would "soften" to the idea and wonder of Santa, but I would say quite the opposite has happened. 

With each passing year, with each child added, our reasons for not making Santa a part of our Christmas life have become deeper, clearer, sharper, and more defined. We now have WAY more of a foundation for not including him then we ever did in the beginning. What may have started out as a desire for our kids to be grateful and not greedy has become so much more than that.

So here you go...the list of all the reasons we don't "do" Santa...

• Greed - covered
• Gratitude - covered
• Realistic requests - covered
• Honesty - Although everyone assumes this should be our first reason, it never occurred to me that this should even be a reason for not including Santa until a really close friend of mine asked me if I had heard of "Elf on the Shelf", a brand new trend at the time. I said I hadn't and her husband's response was, "They probably aren't going to lie to their kids about Santa." I had never thought about it but he was right. I tell my kids all the time to tell the truth no matter what. I tell my kids all the time that they can trust me to tell them the truth. If you know our family's story, you know that all 4 of my kids are adopted and all 4 need to know that they can trust me. (Sidenote: I believe this to be true for all kids.) How could I intentionally deceive them, especially for something so meaningless? I couldn't. I wouldn't. 
• Santa god Theology - Here's where it gets deep people. Whether we like it or not, we've made Santa into a god like figure. Think about it. He sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when your awake. He knows if you've been bad or good so be good for goodness sake. The myth of Santa has some omnipotent powers ascribed to him, seemingly limited to just Christmas antics but certainly capable of far more than any man. He is omnipresent, seeing every little boy and girl all over the world at once. He is omniscient, seemingly limited to just your behavior but certainly capable of far more than any man....and he is eternal. Do you hear the falsities once you play them out? Here's the problem with that, GOD and ONLY GOD is omnipotent. GOD and ONLY GOD is omnipresent. GOD and ONLY GOD is omniscient. GOD and ONLY GOD is eternal. I don't want my kids to ever, ever, ever think otherwise. Why would I compromise teaching them truth in this one place? I couldn't. I wouldn't. 
• Works Based Theology - BUT the problem gets even bigger. This whole concept reinforces a works based theology, and frankly, quite inconsistently so. Here he is, this god like being who will determine what you get for Christmas solely based on the balance of your good to bad deeds. If you run a good ratio, you'll get good presents. If you don't, you'll get coal. So we teach our kids to buckle down and be better so they can even out the scale in their favor. They work to make Santa happy so they can get stuff from him. Friends, this is every other religion outside of Christ. We don't have to teach our kids about legalism. They get it. They get the idea that the world (and unfortunately sometimes even us) love and value them for what they do. What they DON'T get is that there is a God, an omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient God, who loves them for who they are and for what CHRIST did. Why would I reinforce a concept that the entire new testament, ushered in with Christ's birth at Christmas, preaches so fiercely against? I wouldn't. I couldn't.
• Compassion for the impoverished - So here's the deal - these mythical theologies intersect with our very real lives and real decisions have to be made regarding them. Let's assume you are parents of a 4 year old and full out Santa promoters. Let's assume you are also followers of Jesus who wholeheartedly believe in intervening in the lives of others by providing for those less fortunate. So here comes Christmas and all it's trappings but also all of it's opportunities for generosity. First up is Operation Christmas Child. You want to teach your child to be generous so you pick up two boxes and take them to the store to fill them up. You explain to your precious little sweet one that these are the only presents these children will get, toss it all in, rubber band it, and send the box on its way. Soon, there are more opportunities to give. So you pick a kid up off of the Angel Tree or the Salvation Army Tree, you sponsor a few local foster kids or kids from a local outreach ministry. You take your sweet little 4 year old shopping for these kiddos to raise awareness and compassion and tell them, once again, that these are the only Christmas presents these kids will probably get. You buy them, bag them, and send the presents on their way, never giving another thought to it. BUT if you "do" Santa, your 4 year old might be rummaging some thoughts in their little heads and hearts. You see, your mythical Santa visits everyone. Your mythical Santa gives good toys to every good boy and girl...so the only conclusion to be drawn is that these are clearly not good boys and girls because they weren't good enough to get presents from Santa.  (Sidenote - I find it so interesting that the real "Santa" chose to give to the poor. Never is there any mention of him giving to those who already have plenty. Somehow we have terribly twisted one man's compassionate work into an excuse to bless the blessed. I digress...) Honestly, for us and the way we approach our life as a family, the myth of Santa just doesn't match up with the life we live, investing in orphans, vulnerable children, and the financially impoverished. Why would I ever want my kids to believe that the orphans, vulnerable children and financially impoverished kids we give to lacked material blessings because they were "bad"? I wouldn't. I couldn't. 

I already know exactly what you're thinking. My parents did Santa. I don't think it made me greedy, ungrateful, unrealistic, unable to trust my parents, theologically mis-aligned or lacking compassion. I have fond memories of Santa and I want my kids to have fond memories of Santa too...

I get it, I really do. 

You survived. I survived. Millions of people survived. 

You just want your kids to have the same amazing Santa memories that you had.

I understand.

BUT...

This world has changed a lot in the last ___________ years. 

(For me that's 36)

Kids are different.

Expectations are different.

Approaches are different.

Exposure is different.

Everything is way more elaborate and muddled and confusing

 than it was when we were kids.

And we just have to inevitably ask ourselves, 

What do we want more for our kids?

Do we want more Santa memories...

or do we want more Jesus memories?

(more on that soon...)

ThanksGIVING

Thanksgiving is literally within reach. Elaborate menus and decorations have been made within a "theme". (Thanks a lot Pinterest!!!) Turkeys are defrosting. Cornbread, dressing, rolls, and desserts are being made in advance. Stores are running low on "necessary" Thanksgiving items and mad dashes will be made to grocery stores everywhere for that one last forgotten ingredient.

As a child, it was one of my favorite holidays. Seriously, what is not to love? Food abounds. Football  is on pretty much non-stop. Friends and family get together with no agenda other than nearness and community. If you let it, life seems to slow for just a few days and love seems to fill hearts and homes.

But the tragedy of it all is that for the vast majority of us, Thanksgiving is little more than a pit stop between Halloween and Christmas. Although in many ways we seem to go WAY overboard on decorations and elaborate menus in an attempt to host a flawless holiday extravaganza (pinterest), the reality is we approach the heart of the holiday as if we don't have time in the busyness of our lives for it. Oh sure, we might make a thankful tree like we saw someone else post on instagram. What a great idea, we thought. It will help us be mindful of the the season, to ponder and count our blessings.

But let me speak "hypothetically" for just a moment (or maybe be completely transparent). We've all had those sweet little thankful tree sticks sitting in the vase completely bare for awhile now. The boys have taken out the sticks to use as swords and you have yelled at them for it. Sweet little colored leaf shapes sit BLANKLY beside them just waiting to be filled with all the many things you and your family are thankful for. Your daughter has picked them up and tossed them into the air above her and you have yelled at her for it. Then the day comes that you realize that Thanksgiving is 2 days away and you plop your kids down with some markers and the leaves and you barkingly demand they list all they are thankful for quickly so you can get the leaves on the tree and everyone can appreciate the sentiment of the holiday they are about to partake in. You're just trying to do your part to help everyone embrace all that Thanksgiving is and should be, right? Of course, this is all "hypothetical."

Except it's not. The thankful posts and lists and trees and garlands are all so alluring. I want to do them, I really do, but it never seems to happen. It's not a lack of thankfulness, honestly it isn't. Sometimes it is that I am SO thankful, that I don't even know where to start. Sometimes it is because everything I write down seems boringly predictable and cliche. Sometimes its because my kids come up with the MOST ridiculous things (like anything their eyes can currently see. Broom has been thrown out there before...just saying.)

But mostly, I just think the lists seem to stop way short of the depth of the holiday. The lists are just the "thanks" part. Don't get me wrong, I believe in the thankful part wholeheartedly but I don't want it to end there. THANKS should always lead to GIVING. Our gratitude for the blessings we recognize in our own lives should spur us on to bestow those same blessings on others. Our thankful hearts should lead us to action.

So this year, we're doing our thankful lists a little differently. It won't be pinterest, fb or ig worthy...but it will be worthwhile.  We are going to sit with our kids and each of us will thoughtfully list out at least 5 things that we are truly thankful for. (No, broom is not accepted:) And then we will figure out together how we can in turn "give" that same blessing to someone else.

(An example I am already anticipating is family. If we are thankful for our family, how can we "give" family to someone else? Maybe include the neighbor widows in some intentional family activities??)

The point I hope my kids (and I) get from this is that we do indeed have much to be THANKful for and much to GIVE as a result. God is the giver of all good things and it is His love that compels us to do the same for others.

Will you join my family? 

 I know what you're thinking because I'm right there with you.  We are literally ONLY 2 days out from Thanksgiving!!! But the truth I'm embracing and the truth I want my kids to embrace is that it's never too late to let your THANKS lead to GIVING!

So join in...and have a Happy THANKS GIVING!

When I just can't sing

I love to sing. I sing all the time. I sing loudly and passionately and expressively. In the moment, I am unashamed and unapologetic. (Afterwords when people mention it is a whole different story.) I sing from the depths because worship lays my soul bare before Jesus in ways that nothing else seems to do. For me, singing in worship is both comforting and convicting. It is where my greatest delight and deepest longing intersect. I love to sing...

except when I can't.

 

Have you been there? The words just won't come. You can't find a way to form them with your mouth. Your heart rises up into your throat and prevents you from vocalizing words it knows you don't mean, words that don't ring true with your life, words that refuse to settle with your soul, words that just don't seem like worship to you at all.

 

Here's where I get honest. I refuse to sing just because it's in the program or on the screen. I refuse to sing just because it's a well accepted hymn or praise song. I refuse to sing just because everyone around me is singing. I just won't do it. I just can't do it. It has nothing to do with style or instrumentation. It has nothing to do with the worship leader or the light setting. That's irrelevant.

 

What's not irrelevant, however, is the condition of my heart and the focus of the song. I cannot mutter words that I do not mean and I cannot fain worship with words that focus on something other than the object of my worship, Jesus.

 

I was there recently.

 

We were sitting in church during the announcements and my husband received an urgent e-mail alert. He read it and then visibly looked concerned and handed me the phone. As everyone around me greeted one another and talked about the weather, I sat and read the e-mail in disbelief. It was from a missionary friend living in the Middle East. Of course living as an unashamed believer in the Middle East, he and his family are constantly in potential danger but this was different. It was about ISIS activity in a town near his. The jist of the e-mail was that ISIS was active near he and his family and they were on their way. Confrontation was probably imminent at some point in the future. Unless you have ignored the news altogether, you know that confrontation with ISIS ends in 1 of 2 ways, conversion or death. He was imploring us to intercede with fervency and urgency, on behalf of his family and all the other believers in the area. I sat there and did just that. In anguish, I mumbled through a gut-wrenching prayer, words that probably didn't even make sense. I sat there in stunned disbelief.

 

Just like that, the greeting was over and the music began. My 6 year old son grabbed my arm and pulled me up to standing. As the congregation began singing, my son slid in front of me and wrapped my arms around his head and neck and held my hands tightly to his chest. And then I heard the words...

 



I'd rather have Jesus than silver or gold

I'd rather have His than riches untold

I'd rather have Jesus than houses or land

I'd rather be led by his nail pierced hands 

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 



I could not sing. The words would not come. My heart was throbbing in my throat. My son sensed something was wrong. After all, I love to sing. He looked up at me, squeezed my hands and turned his head to kiss my arm. I caught a glimpse of the sweet little freckle on his neck.

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 

How could I sing this song? 

In what seems like a world away, brothers and sisters in Christ were choosing Jesus.

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 

How could I sing this song?  

In what seems like a world away, brothers and sisters in Christ were choosing Jesus over their very lives.

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 

How could I sing this song?

In what seems like a world away, brothers and sisters in Christ were choosing Jesus over the lives of their precious children.

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 

How could I sing this song?

 

I squeezed my son. He responded by pulling my arms tighter around his neck. There I stood in my comfortable climate controlled, sound equalized, cushy sanctuary, free from religious persecution. I looked down my row, filled with my husband and children. And my mind wandered. I feel fairly confident that in the face of such persecution, I could choose Jesus for myself, but could I choose it for them. I didn't know...I don't know.

 

AND I STOOD SILENT

 

In what seems like a world away, brothers and sisters in Christ had watched their children beheaded for Jesus in front of them, boldly declaring with their very lives and their most precious gift that they would rather have Jesus than anything this world affords them.

 

How could I possibly sing this song?

 

SO I STOOD SILENT

 

Soon enough the song was over and I sat down. My six year olds, one on each side, cozied up next to me and started drawing in their notebooks, unaware of what children just like them are facing in what seems like a world away. I didn't hear a word the pastor preached because I prayed through that entire service...and I ached for Jesus.

 

CONFESSION - Now to be perfectly transparent, it isn't the first time I have stood silently as that paticular song was sung in church. Last time I stood silently, I had just returned from Haiti. While there is always some reacclimation, worship seems to be one of the hardest things to process. In general, our modern, western, christian culture is pretty posh. We live in relative luxury and comfort and ease, and so for the most part, this song is pretty irrelevant to our lives. Most of the things listed in this song that we'd "rather have Jesus than" aren't realistic choices in our lives. We don't deal in silver, gold, treasures, houses and land anymore. No one's going to offer me a kingdom and fame is fairly unlikely. So its painless and risk-free to say we'd "rather have Jesus" than things that aren't a part of our lives right now anyways. BUT God doesn't ask us to live risk-free, painless lives. On the contrary, He asks us to live lives of absolute abandonment to His will and His name and His glory. You see I can't stand in a place and sing "I'd rather have Jesus" beside a body of believers unless we are ready to put our actions where our words are and honestly let go of all of the things this world affords us...and it affords us A LOT.  Just like the rich young ruler, we have a lot individually and collectively to let go of!  

 

I believe that Jesus is greater than anything...and I believe that Jesus is worthy of everything. I believe that with every fiber of my being BUT I can't stand in my comfortable, safe, climate controlled sanctuary and declare things to be true that I know are not lived out by me individually or us collectively...so  sometimes I stand in silence and that's okay. When my mouth can't form the words and my heart rises up in my throat and prevents me from vocalizing a song, just know that I am worshipping in a way that is not me at all, a deeper, more intimate way than I ever could with my voice.

 

****Let me be really, really clear before some of you unfriend me and send me hateful, condemning messages...I don't have anything against this song and I am sure to some of you it is a beloved hymn that you cherish deeply...please continue to genuinely cherish it but understand that I just can't. ****

 





When God steals your vanity

I know...it's been months since I last blogged. To be honest, once I finished my health journey, I struggled a little bit with where to go from there. I had so many ideas floating around in my head and heart that I didn't know what topic to launch into...but like always, God showed me exactly what He wanted to address in me and like always, I just stubbornly resisted.

 

 I didn't want to. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

 

But here I am. Writing about something I don't want to address in myself. Why? Because God is relentless in His pursuit of us. He is determined to have His children become more and more like He created them to be. And so the story goes...

 

As a young child, I had gorgeous, thick, beautiful blonde hair, which reached almost to my waist in the back. It was my "crown of glory" and like most little girls, I LOVED my hair...I mean EVERYONE loved my hair.

The summer before 3rd grade, my family moved from the Texas Panhandle, where summers were filled with windy dry heat, smack into the middle of Central Texas, where I was quickly introduced to the misery of humidity. IT WAS UNBEARABLE and so I begged my mom to get my hair cut. We had literally only been in town a few days and didn't know anyone so we made the dreadful choice of going to the mall. (Yep, you can see the writing on the wall, can't you?) I had this cute little shoulder length "bob" haircut in mind. I described it to my mom. She understood. We both described it to the beautician. It didn't translate.

 

The beautician had my back to the mirror for the entire haircut so I couldn't see what she was doing...but I could see my mom's face and I could see the amount of hair piling up on the ground around me and I could feel the air on my neck. By the time either of us realized what was taking place, it was too late to stop her. The damage had been done. She spun me around after drying and styling it so I could "look" and big hot alligator tears just streamed straight down my face. Somehow, shoulder length "bob" translated into "page boy". (If you can't picture what that would look like, think Dorothy Hammill or Mary Lou Retton.) My hair was short and ugly and the girl in the mirror didn't resemble me at all and I didn't know what to do.

I cried off and on for days, maybe even weeks.

Every time I passed a mirror, tears.
Every time I reached up to play with my hair, tears.
Every time I thought about not looking the way I wanted to look, tears.

 

It was the only time I ever remember my mom trying
to buy me something to stop me from crying. 

It was the first time I ever remember crying and
not being able to be comforted by my mom.

It was the first time I ever remember God calling out
to me that there was more and not listening.

It was the first time I remember when God stole my vanity...but it wouldn't be the last.

 

Not that I think it's unusual, but the battle with physical vanity raged in my teenage years. I remember making my mom late to work because I selfishly refused to get out of the car in middle school until my jeans "tight rolled" just right. I remember carrying around a butane curling iron (not sure how that was legal) and fixing my "big bangs" in the car because I couldn't walk in somewhere without my big bangs. I remember practically starving myself so I looked like some of my friends who were just natural born stick figures. I remember throwing shameful tantrums and spending ridiculous amounts of money on Guess jeans and Esprit clothes so I could present a certain facade. All of these things seem ridiculous to me now and they certainly aren't the memories I long to embrace but they also aren't memories I can escape either.

 

The amazing thing is that during all of this,
God desperately called out to me that there was more...
 

 And when I wouldn't listen, He would mercifully steal my vanity from me all over again.

 

There are in this world people that I classify as the "pretty people". You know who I'm talking about...and if you don't, you are probably one of them. They seem to effortlessly look good, in anything and at all times. I wasn't one of them, but there were times where I, for some reason or another, had an inflated view of myself. Going into my sophmore year was one of those times. As the year began, God called that there was more. I wouldn't listen. Almost right away, I got an eye infection that required me to wear my glasses in public for the first time in my life. It was no big deal but I was mortified since most people didn't even know that I wore contacts. It lasted a few weeks and it was back to life as usual, disproportionately inflated. Then I tore my ACL and meniscus. I was in a leg brace and on crutches for almost 3 months. My choice of outfits were windsuit or athletic shorts, not exactly ego boosting for a high school girl.

 

But don't worry, my ego made a comeback.

 

By the time my senior year rolled around, I had worked myself into the good graces of a boyfriend's mother by losing enough weight to cinch my XS belt on the smallest hole and surprising her with my ability to be "made up" when I tried.  My vanity had finally made it so God called once again that there was more...and once again, I refused to listen. These vanity milestones were immediately followed by concussion/whiplash from a car accident, an obviously broken nose and a torn ligament in my back, both sports injuries. These were ego setbacks for sure.

 

Through all of this, I put up a good front of not caring just in general but all of that was part of the illusion and deception. No one knew what was really going on in my heart and mind.  After all, I wasn't one of the "pretty" people and probably not someone that most people would consider vain in regards to my appearance. I was just "cute" average, not breathtakingly TV pretty like a disproportionate number of girls that walked the halls of my high school.

 

(Sidenote : they are ALL still breathtakingly TV pretty nearly 20 years later). 

 

Unlike them, make-up and hair certainly didn't consume my life, mostly because I knew very little about either of them. I wore "fashionable" clothes, but I certainly wasn't the obsessive trendsetter. So I would convince myself that I clearly wasn't struggling with vanity because I didn't primp and obsess and consume my life with the way I looked. I was so beyond that, because

van·i·ty

was excessive pride in or admiration of one's own appearance

 

The truth was that type of vanity eluded me the same way I believe it still eludes so many of us today. Since we are steeped in self criticism and self doubt, most of us would not embrace the thought that we have excessive pride or admiration in our own appearance. After all, we criticize ourselves far more harshly than anyone else. (Even the "pretty" people do this.)

 

No, our vanity is something else altogether, something far more damaging. We don't suffer from vanity in the sense that we feel as if we have "arrived".

 

No, we chase vanity...and we chase it hard.

 

You see there's a second definition of vanity, one that I believe affects far more of us than the first, one that I believe competes far greater for our attention than the first and it is this: 



 the quality of being worthless or futile





We chase it in the form of fashion and diets and spanx and wrinkle creams and tanning and "magic" make-ups and prescriptions that make your eye lashes thicker and possessions and appearances.

 

All the while, God is calling out to us that there is more...and we don't listen.

 

Why?



 

Others are cheering us on in the chase of vanity.

Others are racing alongside us in the chase of vanity.

Others seem to have "arrived" and we just want to "arrive" so badly

but we never seem to make it..and we never will.

 

The chase is worthless and futile and never ends.

 

As an adult, I have been on and off of the chase of vanity many times. It seems to come in waves in my life. It's pull is really, really strong at certain times and in certain places and around certain people. 

 

It is during those times that God loudly calls out to me that there is more...

that I should chase Him because He is worthy and purposeful.

 

Sometimes I don't listen, and He has no other choice but to steal my vanity because it is stealing my focus and chase from that which I need most, that which is best for me, Him.

 

As I sit here typing this, I see the most visibly lasting reminder of a time when God stole my vanity. It's a vitiligo spot on my right hand between the knuckles of my ring and pinkie fingers. It was the first vitiligo spot that appeared. Before I knew what it was, I tried hard to scrub it off. That didn't work. I waited for it to gain its color back. That didn't work. After realizing what it was and that it wasn't going to go away, I tried to cover it up with make-up and then self-tanners. Nothing worked. I was embarrassed by it and pulled that hand away from people, even my husband, for fear that they might see it and ask what it was and critique me. And then one day I looked down and saw another spot on my foot, larger and more noticeable than the one on my hand...and another spot...and another spot...I sat and cried. I mourned the loss of my vanity...

 

and in that moment, I heard God call out to me that there was more,

 that He was worthy and purposeful

that I could not chase both Him and vanity...

 

and I chose to chase Him.

 

I would like to say that my chase of Him since that day has been perfect, but it hasn't. There are still certain times and certain places and certain people that call me back to the chase of vanity. Those times seem to be fewer now, maybe because I've experienced the fullness that comes in the other times, the times when I have been able to disregard vanity altogether, when I have "Ecuador" hair or clothes covered in "Haiti" dirt or the tired make-up-less face of a mom whose cared for a sick child all night.  Not surprisingly, those are the times I have felt closest to and most used by Him. Those are the times that I feel free and fulfilled and lovely and valued.

 

Chasing vanity is like walking down the runway of a fashion show. It is miserable and useless and pointless, literally leading to nowhere.

 

Chasing God is like running through a flower-filled meadow with the sun warm on your face towards the happiest place you have ever known. It is beautiful and freeing and lovely and lifegiving...and though it becomes your one pursuit, it is worth it.

 

When I got that terrible haircut as a fragile little 3rd grade girl, I was devastated because I was walking down that miserable runway chasing vanity and the me in the mirror didn't resemble the me I wanted to see.

 

 

In the process of becoming not me,

I am learning to chase God into places that don't have mirrors

so that I can see the me I was always created to be...

 

which is not me altogether.