Remember that time....?

I have at least 5 half-written posts drafted, waiting to be completed, edited and published. Unfortunately, I doubt I'll get around to them anytime soon. Life has been (blessedly) crazy over the last week.

On Wednesday, Luke came home from work at 11am. I can now count on 3 fingers the number of times in our 9.5 years of marriage that Luke has come home from work sick. I figured it was a virus so I stayed far, far away and silently praised Jesus that our children were already at the once-a-month Parent's Day Out at church.

I went and had lunch with some girlfriends, then came back to bring Luke anti-nausea meds, ginger ale and sprite before heading to the airport to meet some friends who were arriving.

When I checked on my man I knew it was something more than a virus. He was nearly grey and looked horrible. He complained of lower right abdominal pain. I quickly told him to get dressed then promptly drove him to the Emergency Room. Two hours later he was in surgery getting an appendectomy.

Praise God for good, reliable medicine!

While I was taking Luke to the hospital, the babysitter called and told me our van wouldn't start. On Saturday I jumped the van and took it to get a new battery. All seemed well until earlier today when it stalled out in my parents' driveway and refused to crank again. Currently, it's being towed to a local mechanic.

Our dog has fleas, despite regular flea medicine, and she's now brought them into our house. Before our van decided to die I ran to the Vet's office and got some spray. Sometime in the next 24 hours I need to spray everything in our house that is carpeted or covered in fabric.

Oh, and our kids can't be in that room for 2 hours following.

Remember that time our van was broken and we couldn't really go anywhere?

And last, but certainly not least, is the fact that we're going on a 11 day trip to see family and friends. And we leave this weekend. And I need to pack. But I can't lay clothes out on the floor and organize until I spray for fleas. Then I need to pack and load up the van.

Remember that time our van was in the shop?

Luke cannot lift more than 10lbs for the next 6 weeks due to his incision.

Remember that time we were going on a trip for 11 days and I had lots of bags packed that were over 10lbs?

Finally, we had a HUGE Fundraiser Yard Sale on Friday and Saturday. Our generous and faithful friends donated TONS AND TONS of good yard sale items for us to sale and use the money toward our outgoing expenses with Africa Inland Mission.

Remember that time Luke has surgery 2 days before a major fundraiser and couldn't lift more than 10lbs?

It's been an interesting 10 days to say the least. But friends and family have literally JUMPED into action and helped us in every way imaginable.

Remember that time we raised over $2,400 from a YARD SALE? Who does that?

God does!

Remember that time God was always faithful?

Oh yeah, that's yesterday, today and tomorrow. Praise God for His faithfulness. Even in surgeries, flea infestations, packing and vacations. Life is crazy but God is good.

And I'm eating milk chocolate chips straight from the bag. Sometimes, y'all, it's about survival.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.

“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,

“therefore I will hope in him.”

(Lamentations 3:22-24 ESV)

Waiting for the good

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.  

Romans 8:28 (ESV)

The long stints in between posts in not necessarily a sign of busier times in our house (though that's true) nor a sign that I don't enjoy blogging anymore (which is not at all true) or even that I don't have anything to say (certainly not true, if you know me at all).

The truth is, I've always considered this a place where I can be real. Even in real life, I'm generally open, honest and fairly easy to read. Whatever crosses my mind generally comes out of my large, gaping mouth - which can often not be a good thing.

I've never been a person with many secrets (though I have some buried somewhere deep inside and locked away - trust me) and I've never really understood people who keep so much of their lives private and tucked away from the people they care about. In fact, I've often thought that the way believers can give God the most glory is to be real, to be honest and allow your imperfections to radiate the glory of God, show His immeasurable mercy and then rejoice in your imperfections being made perfect in Him.

And I still believe all of that. I'm not too worried about people coming to our house and seeing the sticky, mysterious blotches that are spattered across our kitchen floor. I'm not anxious about folks coming over for playdates and seeing the piles of laundry on the table in our living room. In fact, I don't even really care if everyone in the world knows that we eat off paper plates 90% of the time. (We're not green. At all.)

I understand that people judge us and think we're crazy because we have nearly 7 kids all ages 7 years and younger. I know that we are talked about when we leave the room and often people ask bystanders which are our "real kids" and which are adopted.

So I think my hesitation with coming here regularly and sharing my heart is because lately, I'm hiding more things in there. Pondering them, turning them over in my mind, wondering why none of the jagged edges become smooth with the constant turning and tumbling and wear.

Things that are more than just "am I parenting this child the right way" or "what if they figure out I'm not nearly the person they think I am" or "what happens if they see me looking less than up to par." Because the fact is, if you know me at all you know those previous questions don't get to me all that much.

The thing that keeps me from coming here and sharing the trivial, mundane and even the profound is the fear of being found out on a much deeper level.

What if I don't have this whole God thing as figured out as I thought I did?

Because the nitty gritty truth is that once you begin telling people that you've been called to be a missionary, they expect you to be some sort of super-Christian. Someone who has a direct line to God and who obviously knows more than the average Christian about obedience, Scripture and must have this super-human prayer life.

And I'm NOT good at dealing with that kind of pressure.

Last night one of our youth came into the kitchen where I was carrying on a casual "I'm a pregnant woman and here are my struggles" conversation with another pregnant, youth-worker Mom and he said, so casually, "I didn't know y'all were going to Africa?! Why did y'all decide to do that?"

Why did we decide to do that? Is he serious? I think he was sincere in his question and it wasn't like he was trying to make it sound flippant but clearly we didn't just decide one day to pick up our family of 9 and move to East Africa.

It's a delicate balance between trying to always seem confident and composed in your calling and wanting to shake people and scream, I don't have it all figured out either!

And it's not like we feel okay with sharing our struggles with just anyone. Because, good gracious, who do we share them with?

Supporters? Um. No. Because the fleshly side of me wants to continue seeming like we have it all figured out so that they don't lose their confidence in us. I mean, good golly, $8,000 per month is A LOT of money to raise and we don't want to jeopardize the faith that those who've already partnered with us have put in us. We need every supporter we currently have, plus about 200 more.

Friends? Yes, we can but typically even our closest friends can't really understand the hidden struggles we are facing. Because moving to a different continent is a tad different than moving across town or taking a new job or deciding to adopt. Not that we believe that any of those callings are any less spiritual or God sized but we are moving to a 3rd world country for crying out loud. It's like me trying to understand the pain my dearest friend has over her empty womb. I can try my best to understand, empathize and cry out to God for her. But I don't really get it. No matter how much I want to.

Family? Not exactly. Most of the family that has acknowledged that we're leaving isn't exactly supportive of our calling. Fueling their concerns and giving them more reasons to be opposed to us isn't exactly top on my to-do list.

Other missionaries? Sure. They are usually good people to reach out to and sometimes they can get it. But for some missionaries, they took no kids on the field with them. Or they didn't have to raise support. Or maybe they're sitting right where we are, struggling with the things God is calling them to do but their flesh is yelling out in defiance.

So Luke and I sit in our room most nights, tossing back and forth our worries, our anxiety and our fears. It's a lot like trying to throw back and forth a handful of spaghetti. The first few tosses go okay but eventually it falls apart and ends up scattered all around us in a huge mess. We're covered with failed attempts to grasp totally what the other is pitching out to us.

The one person I should be falling on my face before, the God of all creation, the Lord who called us in the first place, seems so distant right now. I should be falling before His throne, nose pressed to the floor, wearing a blisters on my face from tears mixed with our cheap carpet.

And that's where it ends. That's the struggle. Because I know that if I did just that, answers would come, anxieties would subside and fears would be brought into light. But I also know that nasty places in my own flesh would be revealed. Cancerous wounds would be exposed and I'd have to own up to the rotten flesh I've allowed to live and eat and grow on me over the last few months.

Cleaning wounds is painful. I have enough pain in my life right now. I don't want anymore.

In addition to all of the anxiety, fear and struggle I may have with our calling comes your everyday pain, conflict and struggles with our children, family, friends and just life.

It's a balance to keep it all in perspective and trust that in due time God will make all things work together for my good. But missionaries, pastors, best-selling christian authors and the like can't admit to the struggles with the things of great significance right? Especially as it pertains to their specific calling. Because aren't they suppose to know God? Like, really know God? Shouldn't people who really know God not have such struggles? After all, can't they just pick up their "direct line phone" dial up the Big Man and get all their questions answered, their problems solved and have peace with life all in a quick, easy prayer?

I've said this before, maybe not here but to others:  I really think that in many ways living in Africa won't be nearly as hard as the getting there.

Please Lord, get me through the getting there. And heal me of my rotten flesh somewhere along the way. In the meantime, I'll be waiting to see how all of this will work together for my good.

Mr & Mrs: An anniversary repost

I originally posted this last year on our anniversary but I thought it was good enough to post again this year. Plus, I still feel the exact same way.

And since we are officially having our Anniversary Date Night tonight, I figured this was as good time as any.

-------

It is a big church. The most grandiose in stature in the entirety of our small town. The dramatic roof lines and towering steeple sit perfectly atop rock and brick walls adorned with stained glass windows, all situated on the precisely manicured lawn.

It's a beautiful church. And every time I drive by I think about what happened inside.

I stand behind two huge wooden doors, stained to a perfect deep brown, waiting to walk down a burgundy-carpeted aisle. So much awaits me on the other side of those doors. Love. Commitment. Beauty.

The wedding coordinator adjusts my veil and the train of my dress.

Deep breath.

The organ begins to play the non-traditional melody of an Scottish tune, reminiscent of our college Alma Mater. The doors swing open, everyone stands up.

I blink.

It's 8 years later. And here I sit, mother to 6, wife to a man who loves me in spite of who I am. A husband who loves wholly, sacrificially and beyond my understanding.

In our counseling session at Candidate Week we reviewed the many statistics associated with our personality inventories, marriage surveys and some other psychological profiles that we sent in ahead of us.

"You have an over-idealized view of your marriage," the gray haired counselor told me, over the rim of her glasses.

I sat back in my chair, turning her words over in my mind, trying not to be defensive.

Really? Because I'm pretty much a realist in every other area of my life.

At the end of the session, she agreed, my marriage is not over-idealized in my very matter-of-fact head. Rather, I understand that I am blessed. Beyond what I deserve.

Blessed with a man who guards the purity of our marriage so fervently that he refuses to be alone with other women, even in the context of work, where such a conscience is often considered ridiculous.

Blessed with a leader who fears the Lord and seeks, with his whole being, to serve him, even if it makes our family uncomfortable and unconventional.

Blessed with a confidant, someone I can pour my soul out to, the nasty, dirty, raw and often ugly parts and he draws me close and prays over me.

Blessed with a protector, a guardian of our home and our children and someone who takes that role so seriously, he is willing to risk it all for the glory of the Lord.

I smell the familiar smell of the church and take in the pews, full of people. I look to the opening in front of me and see him, standing at the end of a flower strewn aisle. He smiles at me. My heart flutters in my chest. I reach the altar unsure of how I'm standing there since it seems as though my feet hardly moved.

We exchange vows and rings and we both cry. I wipe his tears. More sniffles echo through the rafters of the magnificent sanctuary.

We turn and face our family and friends. We are Mr. & Mrs.

We celebrate. It's glorious. Even 8 years later. It's glorious.

It's no fairy tale and my days are certainly mixed with their fair share of meltdowns and tears. And some days the kids cry too. :)

But we've come through so much. We've endured hardships and know that more are coming. We laugh together often. We love much. He still dates me. He still stops, through the bustle of our home, to wrap his arms around me and let me bury my face in his chest.

We argue, annoy the crap out of each other and forget things that are important to the each other. But we chose love above all else. We chose to bind our hearts together with God as the glue.

We walk out the front doors of the church, and the cold air hits us like needles. We climb inside the magnificent limousine and the driver shuts the door. I look at my husband.

It's over. Man, that went fast, I think to myself.

I adjust my dress. He grabs my hand. We kiss.

The driver starts the engine.

And then, the journey begins.

Memorial Box Monday: $25

I desperately want to write more often. I really do. But lately, it seems that God has answered my prayers to make me more focused, more intentional about my time with and without my children. We've been so busy around here organizing, moving furniture around, getting rid of things we don't use and having more structured homeschooling days, that blogging has fallen to the wayside.

And that's okay. It's okay that a silly little blog takes up less of my time than does my home and my children and my husband.

But honestly? I miss writing. Even though I may not be the best writer in the world, it's releasing for me. It's therapy, honestly. And when I don't have time (or make time) it all swims around in my head, often clogging up my thoughts.

I still read plenty of blogs (even though that has had to be trimmed down too) and one of my favorites to read is A Place Called Simplicity.

This family is super crazy about the Lord and about children. But if I'm being very honest, I will say that often I read what Linny writes, then walk away dumbfounded as to why I haven't heard from the Lord like that lately.

The Lord gently continues to remind me that I will more clearly hear from Him when I choose to invest time in my relationship with Him through prayer, Bible study and meditating on His word. And while I'm being honest, all 3 of those areas of my life have not been stellar lately. Relationships take work. One with the Lord is no different.

Over the course of the last few weeks, one of the things I have prayed is that the Lord would remind me exactly how I have seen him work in our lives previously. Remembering those things often triggers me to spend more time with Him, seeking His heart and direction.

He is always faithful, I'm the one who forgets.

So when Linny posted that she was doing a Memorial Box Monday post, I knew I had to join in, even if it is just this once. If you'd like to know what a Memorial Box Monday post is, you can read Linny's post  with a good explination by clicking here.

Basically, a Memorial Box is like in the Old Testament when the Israelites would set up a stone memorial for when God has faithfully provided for them. Then, as they passed that pillar again and again, they would remember God's faithfulness and tell their children and their children's children.

Today, I want to remember God's faithfulness, even in the details.

-------

Over 2 years ago, in August of 2009, Luke and I put our house on the market. It was the house of my dreams really. I was about 9 weeks pregnant at the time and we had felt God stirring our hearts toward missions for quite some time. We knew we needed to be out from under the debt of that house and ready for whatever God called us to do next.

I was scared. Here we were, contemplating missions, having our 6th child and listing our house for sale. It was a LOT. But, because we'd seen God be faithful in the past, we knew He'd be faithful again, even in this.

About 2 months after listing our house, we had an offer. It was contingent, but an offer none-the-less. Over the course of Christmas and into the New Year of 2010 our house remained under contract with a contingent offer. As my waistline continued to expand, my patience weakened.

Finally, about a month before my due date our realtor called and said that the people buying our house had sold their house. We settled on a closing date of March 3, a mere 5 days before my due date with Ella.

Here's where the Memorial Box comes in (as if selling a house in the 1st plummet of the housing market wasn't enough).

Since Ella was due March 8th, Luke and I decided it would be wise to find a rental and move by March 1st. I was SO SURE that Ella would come early since, you know, I'D CARRIED TWINS. Heh. That's funny now. (She wasn't born until March 23rd, nearly 2.5 weeks after her due date and I was STILL induced.)

Ahem. Anyway, the 1st way that God provided was that we found a rental only TWO STREETS over from our old house, the rent was the cheapest of any we could find. We had amazing friends who jumped in and helped us move. It was beyond what I'd call a blessing.

It had FOUR BEDROOMS and we could move in at our leisure and just let the landlords know when we spent our 1st night and our rent would begin that day.

The drawbacks to this place were that it had neither a stove or a refrigerator. We sold the ones we had with our previous house and so we were not only stove-less but refrigerator-less.

We were moving in before the closing on our old house which meant we had very little cash to go purchase either of those things since we don't do credit cards. Once the house sold, we'd be fine, until then, we really didn't want to drop $500 on them.

After all, what if we never even closed on our old house and had to move all our stuff back?

In passing, a friend casually mentioned that where her Dad works they sell used refrigerators for $25.

TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS.

Uh. Sign me up.

I called her Dad and asked about a fridge. He had one. On a whim I also asked, "Do you by chance have a stove too?"

He did. FOR TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS.

Incredible and only the Lord.

Right now I'm struggling to remember the faithfulness of God. I'm struggling to see how we're going to have a baby, raise support and still get to Africa sometime before the turn of the century. But God is always faithful. And I just need to keep remembering that He's never left us high and dry. He's never left us without perfectly providing exactly what we've needed.

He's never not shown up. Ever.

And I trust that He'll do it again and again and again.

The color of their love

She walks down the sidewalk toward me slowly. Her flowing skirt dancing around her calves, her bare feet shuffling on the concrete. She looks older. Much older than I ever remember. I thought she was old when I was 10.

That was 21 years ago.

Now it’s not my limited perception making her seem aged, but time. Years of working on a factory assembly line, then coming home to cooking, cleaning, gardening and canning the works of their harvest.

In my memory, she still wears a calf-length skirts and walks everywhere barefoot, while humming hymns. As I see her shuffling toward me, a thousand memories flood my mind. I can nearly hear her cackling laughter in my ears as a broad smile spreads across her face.

“Hey Jess!” the same voice of the grandmother of my youth echos out, sounding only slightly more weathered. I’m holding her namesake, who squeals in response to my Granny’s attention.


I used to sneak her extra pair of false teeth out of the bathroom and wear them, as best I could, over my own teeth. One time I used her denture glue to help hold them in. It took me forever to get that off my teeth. She laughed and laughed at me.

I wrap my arm around her, realizing she’s a little shorter than she used to be, but she smells just the same. “Look at how those kids have grown! And, there’s Ella.”

I’d played this moment out in my mind at least a dozen times, but living it was much better than I could have ever imagined. I shift my hip over so my Granny can finally meet the great-granddaughter who bears her name.

"Ella, meet Ella," I say. They both grin.


She laughs a hearty laugh, one that’s familiar and I can’t help but smile along with. “She’s beautiful, Jess, just like her Granny.” She cackles again, as she turns to walk to the house.


“Y’all come on in and get you somethin’ cold to drink,” she more commands than offers. Their house exists outside of time, I do believe. It’s hardly changed since I was a kid, only now it seems much smaller.

I walk into the kitchen and can almost see her standing there at the stove, with her back to me, her elbow moving wildly as she stirs a big pot of soup. Her voice breaks my thoughts, “Jess, there’s bologna in the refrigerator and some sodies too if you want one. Make those kids the rest of them hot dogs.” Pots rattle in the cabinet as she searches for her favored choice to boil some hot dogs.

“I’ll just grill them here, Gran.” She looks at me and clangs the pot on the stovetop, “Alright, but you’d better clean it up when you’re done.”

I smile. Not much has changed. I’m still a little girl in her mind and she’s still my headstrong, bossy, love-filled Granny.

We eat lunch and then head outside. She uses a cane now and tears sting my eyes as I notice how much more slowly she walks. It’s been nearly 18 months since we were here the last time. Too long considering how much she’s changed.

“Don’t you feed those kids? They’re so skinny.”

“Yes, Granny, they eat. A lot. Trust me.”

She laughs again.

We talk about nothing and everything. She asks about Africa. She says the obvious, “Four years? Well, you know we probably won’t be around by the time you get back.”

Tears wet my lashes again.

“I’d thought that too Gran,” I almost whisper. I’m pretty sure I got my matter-of-factness from her. Actually, I know I did. She loves boldly and speaks her mind the same.

In my mind I can almost hear her voice singing hymns as my eyes follow the rows of levies through the rice fields that surround their house. I blink hard to make the tears disappear.

“Come on and let me show you my flowers.”


For the next half an hour we walk hand-in-hand as she quizzes me on the names of the plants and I fail her test miserably. She laughs as I make up random names for the varieties of foliage, none of which are correct. She, on the other hand, knows almost every plant and who gave it to her and on which occasion. Her mind is still sharp even though her body is weakening.


I used to catch critters in glass canning jars. Usually lightening bugs, sometimes bees. My cousins and I would play for hours in the creek beside their house throwing rocks, catching inedible fish and hunting for crawdads. I took our kids down to that same creek and was surprised by how small it really is.

My Paw arrives back from a monthly lunch gathering with his brothers. My Granny and paw have been married for over 60 years and I don’t recall ever seeing them argue, though I’m sure they did. Again, my mind turns to memories and I see my Paw hunched over a small desk, with a desk lamp, reading a well worn Bible.

My hands would be purple or hot pink or maybe blue depending on the type of dust put on the seeds that we grandkids planted in their garden. They’d hand us a bag and show us a row and we’d get busy planting seeds. You could wash and wash and wash your hands but that color would take days to come off your skin.

“We planted us a garden again this year,” she says, breaking my thoughts once more. “Used to we could plant the whole garden, all over the back yard, in just one day. This year it took us all day just to plant 4 plants.” I look at the meager garden that they have sowed this year. It’s puny in comparison to the gardens of my childhood. I remember being yelled at for playing in the rows and rows of corn. I’d get called in from the back yard for stepping on the rows and rows of okra. It spanned their entire backyard, which is good sized enough to store up food for the winter. Now, their garden is the size of a few baby cribs.

My life is not what it once was because of the faithfulness of their lives. I am stained with their love. My greatest prayer is that our children, and even our children’s children, understand the labor of my grandparents and know The Love that they testified to my entire life.


Long after their garden is never again planted in soil, they will continue to reap a generational harvest. The legacy they have planted in the hearts of their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren has stained our family’s hands for eternity. I could never wash off the color that these two people have embedded in my life. Nor would I ever want to. Long before I knew the King, they knew Him. They remained steadfast through deaths and burials of their children and grandchildren. They continued to slow, plant and tend. They continued to persevere. They sowed great seeds in me, without my even knowing.

Years from now as I remember my Granny’s abundant cackling laughter and my Paw’s tender, deep voice, I pray that I will also remember the love my Savior poured into me through them. I pray that my life remains stained with the color of their love.

Coincidence Providence

There are some people who believe that life happens at random, that occurrences are left up to the universe and that karma deals you back what you've dealt out.

Some people believe in coincidences. Do you know that dictionary.com defines a coincidence as "a striking occurrence of two or more events at one time apparently by mere chance"?

Mere chance?

The idea that events just occur by mere chance with no forethought or planning by anyone or anything and that they just-so-happen by mere chance is possible I'd guess. But that's not the lens I choose to view life through. Nor do I believe it is truth.

Because if that were the case and it were just a coincidence, or mere chance, that my husband got home earlier than usual today...

When I accidentally turned on the wrong stovetop burner....

And instead of turning on the burner with the large pot for which I'd prepared to steam carrots for Ella's babyfood...

I, instead, turned on the burner with an empty glass dish I'd set on top...

Which proceeded to heat up then burst all over the kitchen...

Sending shards of glass the size of knives...

And others the size of splinters onto the furthest reaches of my small kitchen.

Melting anything within it's reach and causing me to have to trash my favorite pair of flip flops and our cheap rug that was by the kitchen sink.

And yet, my sweet Ashlee who was standing almost directly in front of the glass dish when it suddenly exploded remained unharmed, with not even a small scratch upon her sweet, pale skin. And I, barefoot in the kitchen, standing just inches further away than Ashlee, only received two small scratches on the top of my foot and a burn from hot glass on the bottom of each arch as I stepped forward to retrieve my screaming, fearful little girl.

No, for me, it's not coincidence that, not only, did Ashlee remain completely unharmed but that Luke was home early so that 4 of the other children who are normally by my side (and under my feet) begging to help or to taste, were playing safely outside with their Dad.

For me, that's providential, not coincidental. Because if I'm leaving the safety and protection of my children up to mere chance, I'd be willing to bet that more times than not, mere chance would fail me.

He never will.

Because if it were up to coincidence, I'd most likely be writing to you tonight from our local hospital, telling you about the shards of glass being removed from the skin of my kids and the burns being treated from where the glass had melted their skin, much like it did my linoleum floor.

However, I write this to you from the comfort of my couch, with the bodies of my unscathed children resting soundly in their beds. Sleeping the sleep that unharmed children sleep and without the tick of monitors or the pain of bandages and burns.

So rather than chalk this one up to coincidence, I'm going to mark this one down as something other than mere chance, and give glory to the One who knows of the protection we need, often before imminent danger ever even befalls us. Glory be to the one who is our faithful shield and buckler.

He will cover you with his pinions,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
~ Psalm 91:4

Fatherly Faithfulness

In case you didn't notice, I didn't write a Father's Day post like I did last year. It's not because I think Luke has slacked in this past year and doesn't deserve a whole post devoted to the phenomenal job he does as a father. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I could write post after post, actually daily, on the ways that I see my husband discipling, loving and nurturing our children. He is amazing in this role on so many levels.

But, this year I was overcome with emotion for the ways that I see our children adore their earthly father. And, if I'm honest, I was a little jealous. You see, I have the blessing of having grown up with two Dads. My real Dad and I were incredibly close when I was a child. To say I was a Daddy's girl was putting it mildly. It was not uncommon for me to frequent the deer woods, the hunting club (that would be a deer hunting club for you city slickers), the local fishing pond and early morning fishing trips with my Dad. He was the man I adored and the person I wanted to spend all my time with. I loathed dresses and bows and fru-fru girl stuff (aside from the Barbie and the Rockers bus I got for Christmas one year. THAT girly-fied thing was so cool.). Anyway, you get the idea. Where my Dad went so did I. Even to his hot, sweaty job as a brick layer. I would pile up scrap bricks and steal freshly mixed concrete and lay my own brick walls while my Dad labored in the sun, working hard to provide for our needs. He is a good man and in my childhood he was an amazing Dad. As I grew into adolescence our relationship became strained and now it is virtually non-exsistent.

Then, when I turned eleven I was blessed to gain another Dad. My step-dad married my mom and immediately he and I went toe to toe. We battled for my Mom's attention and I can say that I honestly didn't take it easy on him. But, he took it all in stride and was committed to loving me despite my pre-teen hormones. And, he still does love me, just like I am his natural born daughter. He loves my children beyond a level that I knew he was able. They squeal and scream and run top-speed to the awaiting arms of their PawPaw each and every time he enters their presence. And my "Dad" (because that's what I call him) fills that grandpa role with perfection. In fact, God not-so-subtly revealed to me that my step-Dad is, in fact, the person who showed me exactly what it looks like to love a child that is not your flesh and blood. He showed me that love knows no blood line. He created the ability within me to love Aaron and Baby Girl just like I do. If for only that, I will be eternally grateful.

However, I cannot claim that I have had a sustained relationship with any "Dad" that compares to what my children get with Luke. I have never been discipled by a man in the ways of the Lord. I have never walked in on my Dad reading his Bible or praying over me. I have never had a Dad sit down and explain to me why the choices I made were unbiblical and against God's desires for my life. Oh, how my life might look differently if only I had.

So it is with that thinking that I am jealous that my kids have Luke. You see, I'm still figuring this whole mother/wife/submissive partner role out. I don't have all the answers and neither Luke nor I grew up in a home modeling Godly faithfulness. Yes, we were raised by believers, but neither of us had a mother and father who worked together to exemplify the way to make Godly decisions. My kids see that each and every day in the face of their dad. They see a man who works tirelessly to earn for us. They see a man who loves their mother without condition, even when she's undeserving of that love. They see a man who's heart is so desperate to seek God's desires for his family that he remains humbly submitted to the throne of God. I praise God for this man who fathers our children and I pray that as our children learn from his faithfulness, so will I.

Random Rantings

I don't really have a specific thing on my mind, as I usually do when I post. However, I feel the need to write so I apologize in advance it this is all over the place.

First of all, today HAS NOT been a great day so far (yes, it's just 1:36pm and I'm saying that). Apparently, all 3 of the big kids woke up on the wrong side of the bed. On the way to gymnastics (it's at 11am) I had to pull the car over to discipline Lucas. He was screaming at the top of his lungs at Ashlee because she had her fingers in her mouth. Yes, I know, I don't get it either.

Then, I clearly set myself up for disappointment. Earlier in the week I emailed with our social worker because I feel that Baby D's parents are not being held accountable enough. He has been in care almost 3 months and they have not been "tested" regarding the main reason he was removed from care. As you know, I cannot go into detail, but I hope you catch my drift. The social worker told me, via email, that she planned on going to their house today during the visit (the visits are supervised by another social worker, so I don't believe that the regular social worker has seen them with the baby yet). Of course, I got my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, she was visiting them so that they could sign some paperwork. When the transportation social worker dropped Baby D off this morning, she told me that they all (her and birth parents as well as Baby D) had went to W@l-mart to get Baby D's pictures taken.

I almost threw up. So, these people have no income, no work ethic regarding the work it takes to get their baby back, but they can go to the photographer and "play family." UUUUUUUGGGGGHHHH!!!! I can feel my blood pressure rising as I type this. I get so angry at them.

I must keep reminding myself Who is in control. It's not me, it's not Baby D's birth parents. It's not even the social workers. It is Him, my God who created clarity, justice, reason and love.

I love BibleGateway.com because I can think of the scripture I've heard before (but have no clue as the reference) go to the search tool and find exactly what I'm looking for. In this case, here's what I found:

Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne;
love and faithfulness go before you.
~Psalm 89:14

I suggest reading all of Psalm 89 if you'd like to know more about God's nature.

I know that what is just and true and promised will come out of this situation, but I'm so impatient and, quite honestly, bitter. I pray that God will provide me with a heart of peace, grace and mercy and one that understands that it is the journey that grows my heart, not the end result. I think I need a good run.

Then I realized that my heart was bitter, and I was all torn up inside.
I was so foolish and ignorant—
I must have seemed like a senseless animal to you.
Yet I still belong to you; you hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel, leading me to a glorious destiny.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
I desire you more than anything on earth.
My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.
~Psalm 73:21-26 (emphasis mine)