Life Begins At…

Earlier this week, I used a bag of pumpkin that I’d baked, pureed, and then frozen in our deep freeze to make a loaf of orange-pumpkin bread. It’s not a yeast bread, which makes it a “quick bread.” I needed to use up the pumpkin, because I’d mistakenly thawed it instead of the creamed corn that I had assumed it was. And once it was thawed, I couldn’t re-freeze it.

I baked this bread in a stoneware pan I had ordered back in the fall of 2000, when I was 26. A friend from my church at that time hosted a Pampered Chef party and invited me, along with lots of other women from our church. I rarely bought non-necessities for myself, and I love to bake (then and now), so I purchased the loaf pan that night.

Near the end of the evening, when the presentation had finished and I had begun writing a check for my order, I listened to the conversation flowing around me. One of the women mentioned working out at the on-campus gym at the university in our town–where I mentored college students in my role with Cru. I also worked out at this state-of-the-art gym and loved the classes there. So I was paying attention to the chatter even as I wrote out my check.

But then the woman describing her experience at the gym made a comment about the thin young college women who typically populated that workout facility. This woman, a mother of several children, then remarked loudly, “Those girls have never used their uteruses.” {I think the plural of that is actually ‘uteri,’ but anyway…} 

Our corner of the room grew very quiet and still. I looked up from my checkbook to see some rather awkward expressions. I was fairly confident I was the only woman in the room who was neither married nor had had children. I suppose that made me one of those girls who’d never used her uterus. And most, if not all, the others in that room knew that about me. It made for an odd moment for all of us, even though I knew the comment had nothing to do with me personally.

me at rangitoto sign
In New Zealand, pre-children.

At the time of the Pampered Chef party, I was a single woman in my mid-twenties living in a small town. I often felt hard pressed to find “my place” at church, in community. There was no “singles group” or Sunday school class for young adults who were neither college students nor part of a couple. And if there had been, I’d probably have been the only person attending. So I sidled out of the college student class I attended and began teaching Sunday school to 4- and 5-year-olds at our church. This turned out to be a fantastic experience.

But it would be another 6 years before I would use my uterus, if that means having a baby. During that same season of life, when I lived and worked with college students in that small Mississippi town, a freshman who’d recently experienced a bad break-up with her boyfriend came over to my apartment for dinner. Before she left that night, she asked me, “Are you OK with being alone?” I thought she was referring to my not having a roommate. So I answered that I had wanted to have my own apartment for a while and appreciated living by myself. She explained that she actually meant “alone,” as in “not married and not attached.” I was genuinely surprised she had asked.

sweet smelling flower at hog island

Growing up, I believed, at some point, I would get married and have children. And I wanted that–although my life has certainly not turned out as I had expected or hoped or asked God to bring about in some ways. And I got both:  marriage and children. But that doesn’t happen for everybody, and that does not mean that you’re “less than” if you haven’t used your uterus. 

I was living a full life before I had a husband or sons, and some of my richest, most life-shaping adventures took place before I even met Mike. Life didn’t begin when I became part of a couple or when I became a mother. Nor did it end when I left the single life behind (or the childless life behind, although Mike I never find ourselves at Barnes and Noble at closing time on the weekends anymore).

My worth isn’t wrapped up in whether I’d be chosen as a wife or whether I could birth and nurture a new little life. My value is not determined by what I can do or accomplish, but by Whose I am. One of the verses from Scripture that speaks to me so strongly currently is Ephesians 2:10:  “For you are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus, to do good works, which God prepared in advance for you to do.” I’m God’s workmanship–a poem He is writing–not because I can muster up some good works but simply because I’m His. Because He has awakened me to faith in His Son and made me His child. Now, I have the privilege of doing good works because I get to partner with my Father in His redemptive plans for this world.

And that truth has never been dependent on whether I’ve used my uterus.

 

 

 

Another Easter Birthday

In the early hours of Easter Sunday 2006 (April 16th that year), I gave birth to my older son–the one I call Woodrow on my blog. He actually arrived 6 days past his due date, which happened to be my grandmother’s birthday. But I felt more than a little overwhelmed at becoming a mother and didn’t mind waiting a few more days for his debut. Plus, Mike and I felt elated to welcome a new little life on the day we as Christians celebrate the Resurrection of Jesus.

A few days after our holiday baby was born, a lady in a Bible study I attended sent me an email message listing all the upcoming years in which Woodrow would again celebrate his birthday on Easter–since the date itself changes from year to year. Every 11 years, his April 16th birthday would coincide with Resurrection Sunday. At the time, his 11th birthday felt eons away.

cupcakes from Wilsons birthday
Cupcakes for Woodrow’s 8th birthday.

Well, those eons passed quickly, because Woodrow turned 11 on Easter Sunday this year, just a few weeks ago. We threw Woodrow a party on Saturday, April 15th…a full-to-the-brim day that began before dawn, when we arose early and then ran a 5K together (the boys and I). Then I gave all 3 of my menfolk haircuts, and then we hosted the party, complete with water balloons and water games. So on the 16th, our day was a bit more low key:  church service and then brunch with our church family, but there was more on my mind as well.

Last fall, for Garfield’s birthday, I baked him a red velvet cake from scratch. Only he wanted it to be blue instead of red–so I set out to give him that. I didn’t, however, have enough blue food coloring and ended up with a color more akin to olive green (the cocoa powder overwhelmed what little blue dye I did have). Since my boys love camouflage, I tried to convince Garfield the cake color was actually sort of kind of almost camo. But I topped it with a homemade ermine icing–also called boiled milk icing–and we all enjoyed the cake. Garfield was satisfied, despite the fact that I didn’t buy candles–and thought we’d already had some but apparently didn’t. Instead, I lit several matches, placed them atop the cake, and let him blow those out. Mom fail, I guess?

This year, Woodrow didn’t even want birthday cake–he requested ice cream sandwiches, so I bought two candles in the shape of a number 1, poked them into the ice cream sammie, and we sang “Happy Birthday.” At least I had the candles this time, right?

honey smiley face
Woodrow finds wonder in almost everything. Here, a smiley face made with honey.

Cake and ice cream aside, there are many, many parents who remember and reflect on April 16 in a very different fashion than my family or I do. Because on Woodrow’s first birthday–April 16, 2007–parents of almost 3 dozen individuals lost their children in the Virginia Tech shootings. I recall that day with great clarity. Woodrow hadn’t begun to walk yet but was taking steps as he passed from one piece of furniture to the next. We went grocery shopping that weekday morning, just he and I, and I bought him a big, helium-filled balloon. I have a picture from later that day of Woodrow holding onto the coffee table in our living room and reaching for the balloon as it bounced across the floor.

But even as we rejoiced at seeing our chubby-cheeked, bald little baby turn one, I ached for the parents who would never get to celebrate with their children again. Who would never throw birthday parties or buy balloons or go to the grocery store together again. There were several students killed that day at Virginia Tech who’d been involved in the Cru (Campus Crusade for Christ) movement on that campus. Later, I read a book about the life of one of those students, Lauren.

bowl of shells

Now that Woodrow is 11 and has officially crossed over from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts, he’s begun to go on camp-outs without us. When he does, I pray off and on all weekend for him. I know that I can’t spare him of every hurt or protect him from every disappointment, and I pray for myself, too–that I will trust God with what He allows to hurt my child. I will safeguard my children; I will set healthy boundaries. And I will also seek to trust our Father with what I can’t control. I don’t know how that ultimately plays out; neither did the parents of those killed at Virginia Tech ten years ago.

I do not in any way believe that God causes this type of evil, this kind of tragedy. But I do believe that there are times when God could stop some kind of suffering but chooses not to do so. I don’t understand all that and have no good answers for the “why?”, but if I’m humble enough to acknowledge that I am not all-knowing or all-powerful and certainly not perfectly loving, I must acknowledge also that I don’t see the whole picture. That I’m called to trust God more than I can see or feel. That He will ultimately bring all things to their rightful end.

If asked where God is when the ones who love Him suffer, I would say–He’s right there with us. When I was bullied at age 16, He was with me. When I was sexually assaulted at 21, He was with me. Although there have been times I’ve doubted this (and times in the future when I’m sure I will wrestle with this, too), moments when I’ve cried out, “God, do you SEE me?” Yet I’m learning to say, like Hagar in the book of Genesis, “You are the God who sees me.”

He is with His people when we suffer, and He suffered FOR us. That’s what Easter embodies–the Son of God willingly giving up his life, in agony and torture and execution, to reunite us with the Father who loves us and made us for Himself. That Father who, like the parents of those shot and killed at Virginia Tech, also mourned the death of His own Son at the hands of sinful humanity. Indeed, it was MY sin that held him there…

Revelation 21:4-5… “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”

*A helpful book dealing with the question of why God allows suffering is The Problem of Pain, by C.S. Lewis. Another is Trusting God:  Even When Life Hurts, by Jerry Bridges.

We’re Together, and They’re Mine

A month or so ago, I finally watched the movie Loving–even though it was released last November. In case you don’t know about this film, you can view a trailer for it here. We received free movie tickets as gifts over the past year, and I wanted to use those to go see this movie. But we ended up finding it on Vudu or something (you’d have to ask Mike if you want to know for sure.) So the free tickets are saved for another day.

As a woman in an interracial marriage, I feel a kind of kinship to the couple in this story. I’ve never feared that Mike or I risked going to jail for marrying each other. But had we lived (and married one another) 50 or 60 years ago, we would certainly have faced push back, maybe even persecution. And because, even generations later, there are still challenges involved in interracial marriage.

I watched the previews for Loving 3 times before watching the entire movie, and I cried at it exactly 3 times:  at the sadness of this practice of White supremacy, outlawing marriage between Black people and White people because miscegenation was such a hated concept. At the frustration of how courts (and sometimes churches) redefined marriage as being a union that could occur between men and women as long as they were of the same race. (Well, actually, the White supremacists didn’t seem to mind if Black folks married Asian folks–for example–but they didn’t want White people marrying outside their race.)

My great-great grandmother, a Choctaw Native American living in Mississippi, married a White man (my great-great grandfather) over a hundred years ago. She entered into marriage with a man of a different culture and ethnicity. I think about her sometimes and wonder how she folded herself into a family and culture so different from her own. I feel a kinship with her because I too married a man unlike myself in some ways; I too birthed children who look different from myself. She must have been brave, I’m sure.

My Papa, who died on Valentine’s Day this year, was one-quarter Choctaw. When we were little, our grandfather would point to a dark birth mark on his arm and tell us, “That’s all the Indian I have left in me.” In myself, I have only one-sixteenth.

I’ve been asked several times if my half-Korean sons were adopted. “Are your boys biological, or did y’all adopt them?” a mom at our home school co-op asked years ago. “Where did y’all get your boys?” a man asked me at our church one Sunday. Once, a college student at an apartment complex asked me, “What are they?” I didn’t quite know how to answer that until he said, “So, are they Thai? Or what?” In all fairness, he seemed a bit tipsy, and he told me that he was also half-Asian.

nanny boys and me at michael wedding
My grandmother, sons, and me at a family wedding about 5 years ago.

We sold a chair on Craigslist once to a young Asian- (I think Vietnamese) American woman who brought her mother with her to our house to pick it up. I could see the mother, who wasn’t speaking English, gesturing to my sons and then to me as she asked her daughter questions.

I could guess what she wanted to know. To all these questions, I simply respond, “My husband’s Korean.” And that takes care of it. Truthfully, these questions don’t bother me; most of the time I think they’re funny. Although when I was pregnant for the first time, I did mourn a tiny bit that people might not be able to recognize that my child was mine–even though I would grow him inside of me. Now, I am so grateful that my children’s appearances reveal their Korean heritage.

Calvin on bench at airport
Baby brother (AKA Garfield) waiting at an airport in 2012. Can you stand this cuteness?

When they were each very little–just learning to talk–both my sons asked me, “Why you white, Oh mah?” They also wanted to know why my eyes were green (I’d grown up thinking they were blue; now they look watery gray-green to me). They would say, “Why you have green eyes?” My typical answer to these questions was simply, “That’s how God made me.”

They also wanted to know why I had a black dot in the center of my eyes. Their eyes are so dark that their pupils are often difficult to distinguish from their irises. Woodrow and Garfield didn’t notice a black spot in their own eyes and were confused as to why I had these spots in my eyes.

Just the other day, Garfield pointed to the underside of my upper arm and declared that the skin there was “ridiculously white.” My response was something along the lines of–what did you expect, honey?

One morning when they were very little, I took the boys on a bike ride while I walked beside them. Across the street from us, an African-American boy was riding his bike to school. Garfield pointed him out to me and stated, “He brown, Oh mah; he brown. That mean he Korean.” Well… We’ve grown in our understanding of different cultures and ethnic backgrounds over the years.

Not only have my children grown, but *I* have grown, too. Marrying someone of a different cultural and ethnic heritage has helped reveal to me how much I went through the world not really aware of my White-ness. How much I didn’t recognize the struggles of people with skin a different color than mine. I’ve been humbled in this cross-cultural marriage of ours, realizing just how ignorant I am in many ways, especially as I’ve come to understand how much my husband has had to learn to adapt to the majority culture in our country.

mike and me at tiri tiri matangi
Mike and me in New Zealand, 2005.

I take notice of the world around me and realize that it’s looking more and more like my children look, and I wonder about the spouses God will give my boys. Will their children be even more multi-ethnic than they are? Will my grandchildren have more African heritage than Asian?

When I think about the words in Revelation, the last book of the Bible, describing the great multitude surrounding God’s throne–from every tribe, tongue, people, and nation–I am almost overcome with weeping. I can hardly wait for that day, to meet all my brothers and sisters in Christ. Some will look like me; others, like my husband. Many will look like nobody (currently) in my earthly family. And some will certainly share the coloring and features of my great-great-grandmother.

 

 

 

The Adventurous Life of a Boring Mom

When I was 8 or 9, my family and I visited some extended family members in a small town near Vicksburg, Mississippi. While there, my distant cousin, Dru, who was the same age I was, had a soccer game. Her step-mom invited me to go along, so I went, happy to be included.

I’d never been to a soccer game before, ever. At that time, the sport of soccer had not made its way to my rural hometown. I had to sit alone during her game, since her step-mom had to work the concession stand or keep score or some other job.

The weather was hot, and I got bored. So, near the end of the game, I occupied myself by turning cartwheels on the sidelines. Over and over and over. I kept myself busy by moving–and moving a lot–but always coming back to the exact same spot.

primary colors plate

Last school year, I read a book aloud to the boys:  Carry On, Mr. Bowditch. I did a fair amount of research before reading that to Woodrow and Garfield, because I couldn’t figure out how to pronounce the name “Bowditch.” I finally discovered it’s pronounced like “bough,” as in “take a bow.”

The story centers around travels on a ship, so the pronunciation makes sense:  like the bow of a ship. Some of the phrases, particular to those seafaring men, connected with me. When a sailing vessel has insufficient wind to move it along, that ship is said to be “becalmed.” Another phrase that struck me:  Swallowing the anchor. Which refers to the time when a sailor retires from sea-going life and settles down.

There are times, whole seasons, in life when I feel this so acutely. When I feel that I’m where I’m supposed to be, but I’m just cartwheeling myself along the sidelines until the game finishes. When I feel I’ve lived with steps of faith and taking risks that led to adventure, but that those days, whole seasons, are passed–and that I must swallow the anchor and settle down to life ashore. These feelings ebb and flow with the natural push and pull within my own soul.

A genuine contentment {most of the time} at being at home:  home school mother, stay-at-home mom for right at 11 years now. My life truly revolves around our home–parenting, teaching, hours of reading aloud and playing games and listening to countless stories about Garfield’s favorite Hot Wheels and Woodrow’s ideas for new inventions. And all the serving that goes with this life-orbiting-around-the-home–from giving haircuts to piggy back rides to birthday parties. This is what I want.

Henry Ford drawing by Calvin
Garfield’s recent portrait drawing. My boy is a Ford truck man.

A genuine restlessness {once in a while} at being at home:  My husband travels to New York for a week, serving others in his ministry role, while I stay back and home school and take the boys to Scouts and fix meals. He eats at fancy restaurants and sees a Broadway musical, and I think to myself–pettily, I know–But I loved New York first! I lived there for a summer during college, serving with Cru on an inner-city mission project. I went back for a week during my time serving with Cru at Mississippi State, leading a group of college students to serve in and learn from inner-city ministry during spring break. Then I also spent a few days there right after 9/11, involved with Cru service there. Mike thinks he doesn’t travel much for work (and compared to others, he really doesn’t), but he gets on a plane numerous times a year. I haven’t flown since 2012.

Before we had children, I discussed with my then-team leader our plans to go to New Zealand for a year and join a team ministering to college students there. I pondered that, if we were going to do this, it might be better to go before we had babies. His response:  “You better get while the getting’s good.” It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that his comment terrified me. What did that mean for my life one day as a mother?

butterfly drawing

I have ten years left–only ten!--to finish laying a foundation in my children’s lives, before they are (more or less) launched into the world. I will not wish away a single moment. I will continue to stop what I’m doing and make eye contact with the child who has another question, another story. I will sacrifice the travel and give up the adventure for time–lots and lots and lots of time, for there simply is no substitute for it–with my children.

Yesterday, we spent a half hour finishing an elaborate game of Memory that Woodrow had made up. Before bedtime, we spent almost half an hour reading, even though I’d already read a chapter from that book in the morning, too. If time is money, I’m investing it in these boys.

When my sons and I spend a morning packing homeless care bags together, or shopping together for socks and underwear and t-shirts to send to a ministry to men engaged in survival prostitution, or cleaning together at a friend’s condo as she prepares it for a new tenant, my eyes of faith crack open a bit wider, and I can see more clearly:  This IS the adventure. 

 

 

How Not Complaining Gave Me Better Understanding

For Lent, we decided as a family to fast from complaining–and we chose not only to give up something but also to add something during the season of Lent. We elected to add acts of kindness. As you can imagine, at least one person in the family fails almost daily in the giving up of complaining. But therein lies the value of choosing to ‘sacrifice’ this habit for Lent:  We know that we can’t be good enough in our own strength, our own power, to uphold our own standard of goodness (much less God’s standard). So as we slip and stumble, we’re reminded of our need for Christ. Of our need for the gospel. Of our need for the gospel EVERY SINGLE DAY.

smiley-face

But recognizing that we ARE fasting from complaining helps to make me at least more intentional about noticing when I do it and about kicking it to the curb when I catch myself at it.

This past Sunday afternoon, on a glorious and bright and sunny day, we took the boys to a lake with Woodrow’s kayak and their fishing gear. I took my workout plan and found a shady spot to do my crunches, squats, Russian twists, and the rest, while Mike watched the boys play around with the kayak mostly near the shore.

A massive, well-attended dog park sits next to the park with the pier and the lake where our family spent time that day. Dog owners bring their pets to the dog park here to run and play; they even have a bit of lake shore set aside for their enjoyment. All this is separated from the lake park (called Lake Baldwin Park) by a fence. The fence even extends several feet out into the water, and the place across from the multi-acre dog park–where the boys paddled in the kayak and fished off the pier–is marked with a sign reading “No Dogs Beyond This Point.”

Almost every time we visit this lake park, we see dog owners bring their pets right out onto the pier, past the sign informing them not to bring their dogs to that area. The dog park has its own entrance, so there’s no need for the owners to walk their dogs on or near the pier. Sometimes these dogs startle my children while the boys dangle fish hooks in the water, but the dogs are usually on leashes, and I typically don’t say anything to the owners about it.

This past Sunday, however, we encountered a different situation with a dog and her owner. The man dropped his dog off at the dog park and then walked over to the lake park, to the pier, and stood on it while yelling at his dog across the fence. He wanted her to swim around the fence that stretched out into the water and make her way over to him on the pier. He tried to get her to swim around to him over and over. She didn’t seem to understand the command. Eventually, he went back inside the dog park to retrieve her. Then he brought her with him back to the lake park, to the side of the lake NOT designated as a dog park. He took her off her leash, letting her run freely.

And run she did, round and round. She ran around him; she ran around me; she ran around the pier and into the water. At one point, Garfield turned around while sitting in the kayak to see a large dog running full speed toward where he sat in the water. I called out to him that it was OK. But it wasn’t OK with me. 

During the time the dog ran wildly around the lake park, the dog owner kept calling to his dog. It was clear he’d lost control, although I could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t want it to sound that way. When I tried to reassure Garfield that it was OK, he heard me and answered, “Oh, she won’t bite; she just wants to run.” I didn’t respond to him, but I could see how exasperated he was getting with the dog. He seemed to be the kind of person who wanted to give the appearance of having things under control, of being IN control. It seemed to matter to this man that the handful of people at the lake saw him as a guy who could get things done, as somebody who certainly wouldn’t be bested by his dog.

We got ready to leave just a few minutes after this man finally wrangled the dog and got her back on the leash. As I walked over to Mike (from where I’d been exercising), I considered venting about this irresponsible dog owner. Which is a bit of a pet peeve for me, y’all. But I believe God prompted me to hold my tongue; there was no reason at this point to comment on the situation. So I chose not to say anything–not to complain.

But I thought about this occurrence at Lake Baldwin Park over the next couple of days. I thought about this man, not just about what he did that bothered me or frightened my children, but about him. And I concluded that he was embarrassed. He was embarrassed that his dog had gotten the better of him–and in front of other people at that. All his bravado, his very calculated nonchalance, was to cover up his embarrassment. His fear of not being seen as the person he wanted to portray to the world, even to strangers.

And instead of feeling annoyed by him, I felt some compassion for him. I also realized that most (all?) of us struggle with this to some degree:  fear of being exposed, of being found out, of not being seen as the pulled-together and competent and capable people we want others to know we are so that we can be assured of being accepted and wanted.

When I think about all this, my heart feels freed up to extend more grace to this man. And just think–perhaps none of that would have been possible if I’d complained.

Healing in the Death of a Dream

When I landed on “heal” as my word of the year for 2017, one of the things from which I envisioned healing was the loss of a particular dream.

I read about a unique and vital service to women called the Luo Pad project a couple of years ago. GAiN (Global Aid Network), a ministry of Cru, gives leadership to this project, providing cloth, reusable menstrual pads to women in struggling areas. I’ve blogged before about how I’d been involved as a volunteer from home. I helped create a few of these pads, using flannel mostly from pajama pants bought at Goodwill. After sewing some with a friend–and recruiting my mama to sew other pieces I’d cut–I mailed them to GAiN’s warehouse, and from there, GAiN staff got them in the hands of missionaries in developing countries to use in their ministry to women.

I appreciated so much about this model:  providing a tangible resource to meet a real need; communicating to women that they are valuable and that their needs matter; resourcing staff who already have their boots on the ground in these parts of the world, who know the customs, the people, the spiritual climate, who are best equipped to reach out to people in those areas with the message and the deeds of the gospel. I’d also heard about lack of access to menstrual hygiene products that kept many girls out of school. I wanted to do more than cut out pieces of terrycloth and flannel; I wanted to help this project grow. To recruit more volunteer sewers and, eventually, to take production of these pads overseas. I imagined this as a means of helping women overseas gain a livelihood, meeting their own needs and helping meet the needs of others. The proverbial fire in the belly burned bright.

After a few emails with one of the GAiN leaders, we arranged a phone call. We discussed how I might help fill a gap in leadership for the Luo Pad project. I communicated upfront that I could contribute on a part-time basis, since I home school the boys. And we continued our conversations–brainstorming ideas of how to recruit women in churches or in campus ministries to sew; how we might solicit donations of fabrics from stores; how we could increase the number of pads produced and sent overseas–about this time last year, only a quarter of the demand was being met.

sewing-machine

After we spoke and emailed, I took some preliminary steps to try and implement some of what we’d discussed–I asked a cousin in ministry and my sister (a pastor’s wife) about recruiting people from their churches as volunteer sewers. I reached out to friends around the country about this need, asking if they could get involved. I made lists, set aside time to send emails and think through ideas, and had those ready to talk about for our next phone call. Because this role existed within Cru, I could switch from my current Cru staff role of editing stories (on a part-time basis) to Luo Pad project oversight without leaving the organization of Cru. I even asked my husband about the possibility of moving to Dallas to be near the GAiN U.S. offices if I got asked to take this role. I would lay in bed at night imagining trips to Southeast Asia or various places in Africa to help set up production for Luo Pads among groups of women learning to sew and to support their families.

And then, as these things happen, delays in the process occurred. Phone appointments had to be canceled and rescheduled; the person with whom I was in communication welcomed a new baby into the family. Progress was put on hold. I felt content to wait, although the longer I waited, the more concerned I became that the opportunity was slipping away. Some emails didn’t get answered. I waited some more. Finally, months later, after waiting and wondering, I realized there must be a reason we weren’t moving forward. I contacted the director who’d been in talks with me previously (after seeking out other people, too, who told me just to get back in contact with him–the person I’d been trying to reach already). I expressed disappointment that nothing had come to fruition as far as my finding a place to serve with the Luo Pad program, and so I was concluding that they didn’t see me as the right fit for the role.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

Almost immediately, the director sent a response telling me that he was so very sorry to have been out of touch, but they really wanted a full-time person to staff this position after all. I’d begun to suspect this months ago. Just like that, the opportunity and travel and service I’d envisioned died. I knew I couldn’t continue parenting and teaching my children as I know I’m called to do while working a 40-50 hour per week job. The dream must be crucified. It was finished. And I grieved. After all, we always grieve a death, don’t we? 

Last week, instead of regular school lessons, we spent our Tuesday on a kind of field trip:  As a family, we went to Cru headquarters here in Orlando and helped pack seeds with GAiN. At this seed packing event–which helps resource people overseas with heirloom, non-GMO seeds that will produce crops that will then produce seeds to be planted and then re-planted–Mike and the boys and I sat side by side. We labeled hundreds of envelopes for squash seeds. And while we worked, we talked with one of the GAiN staff. Overseeing the Luo Pad program falls under her leadership. She just reported to her job last summer, a few months after I heard a definitive “no” about my own role with Luo Pads. So the full-time staff person was found; the need has been met, and I am glad for that. I hope and trust that many more women will be served around the globe because of this individual’s work. It was bittersweet, though, to hear her stories and make casual conversation while realizing that the job she now had was one I previously wanted.

cake-with-raspberries

As much as this loss still sometimes brings me sadness, I am seeing God’s work to bring healing. A couple of months ago, a friend from our old church contacted me about sewing Luo Pads. I had mentioned the idea to her back when I hoped to recruit groups of volunteer sewers. She now wanted to get started sewing on her own; we discussed using the terrycloth she had left over from an abandoned attempt at making a bath robe for the pads’ inner layers.

Then my sister Rachel (the pastor’s wife I mentioned above–she also does about a million other things from refinishing furniture to raising 4 children) asked if I would speak to a group of women at their church this summer about participating in the Luo Pad volunteer efforts. I don’t “officially” represent Luo Pads in any way, but I CAN show these women who are keen to serve others the patterns, the stories, and the vision of this project.

So this is how I’m experiencing healing in the death of this one dream:  Marveling at how God has purposed to use me to advance this program apart from serving with GAiN in any ‘real’ capacity. From this vantage point, it’s clear that God’s plans for me didn’t fall through the cracks. Recognizing that is healing.

Life Lesson Through Parenting: Calvin’s Clip

This week, the online platform of Live with Heart and Soul magazine published a guest blog post I’d written. Like so many–MANY–lessons I learn in life these days, this post centers around one I gleaned from parenting my two boys. The events that I share in this post took place a few years ago, but re-reading it this week brought not only the experience but also the lesson back to mind. It’s a good concept to ponder as we grow in our faith.

You can find the post hereand the title is “Calvin’s Clip.” FYI, Calvin is the one I call Garfield on my blog. He’s now 8 years old and rarely shoves things between his teeth anymore. Woodrow put a piece of plastic in his ear at age 4–to save it for later, he solemnly told me at the time I discovered it–and that DID result in a tense trip to the pediatrician. Hopefully those days are behind us.

socks-and-flip-flops
Calvin’s feet:  This is how we dress for cold weather in Florida.

You can also find the link to “Calvin’s Clip” by clicking on the “Featured In” button down below, on the bottom of this page. However you get to it, I hope it ministers to you. Thanks, as always, for reading. I love sharing about my life in this little corner of the world, and I always welcome your feedback.