Hormonal Conversations

(I don't think anyone reads this, but if you happen to stumble over here and learn something new, please don't post it publicly on my Facebook wall.  I'm not ready to share the news with the whole world yet, but happy private messages are always welcome.  Thanks! :) )

This morning as I was puking in the kitchen sink, Ethan looked up from his breakfast and inquired, "Mommy, are you baaarfing?"  I moaned out a yes in between heaves, which was met by laughter.  Then, the 3-year-old jokester started imitating *every* gag and puke sound my body made, right down to the spitting.  (Seriously, what's with all the extra saliva??)  He couldn't stop laughing and kept fake-gagging until I finished, then said, "Mommy, are you done being sick now?"  I wish, Dude; I wish.

A little while later I told him it was time to get dressed to go to CBS (a women's Bible study with an awesome children's program we go to weekly).  He was tracing letters, mid-alphabet so not surprisingly, he asked me to leave him at home and just take Zachary.  I tried talking him into it various ways, but he just wasn't having it.  As a last resort, I took the scary-truth approach.  I told him that since he's only 3, he isn't allowed to stay home by himself.  I told him that he can't stay home alone until he's 10, and that's a long way away.  I said that everyone at church would miss him and know he was home alone, and that when little kids stay home alone, they get taken away from their mommies and they have to go live with new families.

And that's when the unexpected happened:  I completely broke down in tears! Sobbing like a freak. I told him that I would be so sad if he couldn't be my baby anymore and I needed him to always be in our family because I love him so much. All of that through tears. Even, "Look Ethan! Look how sad it makes me just thinking about it! You HAVE to be my baby!"  My mouth was in full word-vomit mode and I couldn't stop. Ethan's eyes widened as I sobbed but he didn't cry or get emotional.  He just calmly and rationally said,  "Okay, Mommy.  I'll go," and put up no fuss afterward.  He even started making jokes to try to help me pull myself together.... or to change the subject because I was being weird and awkward.

At this rate, I'm pretty sure this pregnancy is going to scar him for life.  Or maybe, it'll just make him be a really awesome husband one day, calming down the future hysterical woman in his life. 

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Fun fact:  Here's how a typical Ethan joke usually goes:  [the microwave beeps]  "Mommy, where did that sound come from?  Did it come from the... pillow??? .... No, not from the pillow!  Did it come from the cup?  No, not from the cup!  Did it come from the  [insert object, repeat at least 20 more times with 20 different objects then say]  I tried everything!  WHERE did it come from???  The MICROWAVE! It came from the microwave!!! AHAHAHA!!!")

Simple.

Imagine having the opportunity to sit down with Jesus and confess, "Jesus, I want to be involved in what God's doing on earth.  What do you want me to do?"  What would you expect him to say?

I don't know about you, but I would fully expect him to tell me about all the pain and suffering the world, to chastise me for my time-wasting and self-centered pleasure seeking, to tell me that I'd be better off spending  my money feeding the hungry than on a Groupon (no matter how great the deal was).  I'd expect him to tell me to find a homeless person and invite them to dinner and probably adopt an orphan or two.  Maybe even 20 since our house is spacious and we aren't on welfare.

I'm well aware that I'm wasting a lot of potential for good over here, and I wouldn't expect Jesus to say any different.  Because of that, I find it so surprising that when a group of people had that very chance, the response was so, so different.

Then they asked Jesus, "What must we do, to be doing the works of God?"  Jesus answered them, "This is the work of God: that you believe in him whom he has sent."       John 6:28-29

Really?  That's it?  Just... believe? 

I've been a Christian for decades.  I know there are things God desires for His children and I know that there are sacrifices pleasing to Him-- "cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice,correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, and plead the widow’s cause" just to name a few from one tiny verse in Isaiah. There are many, many more.  I've read them, studied them and compared myself to them!

But Jesus didn't say any of that to the crowd. And going out on a limb, I imagine that Jesus knew some of these people might not be back the next day--- that they might not hear any more of the message--- and the *only* thing he felt important to include was belief.  That's it.  No list of deeds, no feelings of guilt to muster.  Just sweet, freeing belief.
 
I'll say it again.  I've been a Christian for DECADES.  I *know* it only takes belief, but here I sit, so surprised by the response and so convicted of my distrust in such a simple system.  I know I'm distrusting because I've spent much of my time on earth feeling like I'm failing at becoming like Jesus, that I'm not helping enough people know Him.  In my best moments I am giving and temporarily selfless but then I get prideful and imagine that those deeds are earning God's love.  Add up enough of those up and down moments, and somehow, I forget Jesus and think I'm earning my own salvation and God's favor.

But I'm not.  I will never, ever be perfect enough to earn the kind of acceptance I need. Only belief, unwavering, and all the way to the end is what He desires.  The rest is His to sort out, and all we have to do is hang on for the ride without giving up.  I'm willing.  And I'm grateful He's made it so, so easy.

I know I am always so close to falling away, becoming numb, and not caring at all about Jesus.  Being a Christian isn't always fun and it's not very satisfying if you're doing it without the Holy Spirit.  Forcing myself to be be kind like Jesus when I just want to hormonally scream "SHUT UP AND GO AWAY!!" isn't joy to the full, even if I try to fake it and pretend it is.  And that's why it seems easy to drift slowly and not be concerned if my heart turns to stone in the end.

But this, this just *believing* is fresh air to my soul.  I can already feel the guilt lifting. And I already know that it's going to be a whole lot easier to believe with my entire heart until the day I die now that I fully realize I don't have to worry over I'm *doing* enough.  He's done it all already.

 To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy— to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore!  Amen.                                                                            (Jude 24-25)

Adoption Costs

Friends of friends are adopting 3 little girls from Africa.  In their efforts to raise the money it will take to bring them home, they detailed the fees involved as follows: 

$250 Application Fee
$500 Dossier preparation, review, and processing fee
$4,750 Agency Services Fee
$1,000 Community Development for the DR Congo
$6,500 Foreign Services Fee (Part One)
$5,500 Foreign Services Fee (Part Two)
$15,000 Adopting two biological siblings of child #1
$1500 Three Congolese passports for our girls
$1750 In-country travel and administration fee for escort of our children to the capital.
$1500 Kinshasa emigration assistance
$600 Medical exams for all three girls required for Visa by US Embassy in Kinshasa
$500 DRC Consulate Legalization Fee
$250 Dossier Translation Fee
$720 USCIS I600A Filing fee
$170 USCIS Fingerprinting for both parents
$1200 US Visa fee for adoptive children
$300 Accomodations in Kinshasa per night
$50 Mandatory Airport Exit tax per passenger. Paid at airport in Kinshasa
$4000 Two round-trip tickets to DRC; one per parent
$4500+ Three one-way tickets to US for our girls!
Total: $50,540

Over fifty-thousand dollars!!  Following Jesus is costing them.  And that's just the *beginning* of their parenting journey with their future daughters. 

I studied the list.  While I understand medical exams, plane tickets, and legal fees (to some extent), I have no idea what the $12,000 of Foreign Service Fees are.  Who gets this money?  The officials in the country?  For what?  Their own gain?  So that they will be empowered to live in luxury while they let their citizens literally rot away in cardboard shanties without food, water, or medical care? 

It hurts my heart to think that greedy men somewhere could profit from the sale of the impovrished children to wealthy Americans.  If that's the case, what makes these precious babes any different than slaves? 

Immediately my heart felt hard.  I wondered if this is something we should even be apart of.  Empowering wicked men to continue in their wickedness?  At what price will these three girls be rescued from loneliness?  How many children will be left behind to reap the harshness that $12,000 brings to the hands of thugs?  Is supporting that the Christian thing to do?

But isn't that was Jesus did? 

My heart hurts just thinking about it.  Ultimately, I know our job is to love as Christ loves, no matter the cost, no matter the consequences.  No matter who seems to reap the rewards of evil in the meantime.  God will tip the scales in the end.  It's so hard to remember sometimes.  And at others, it's plain ole difficult to wrap my my around -- how to have enough faith to keep believing, press on and do good for the *one* you can save, in spite of it the rest of it.

Just a Phase

I have only been at this wonderfully trying, refining thing called motherhood for 843 days.  I had no idea what I was getting into that Sunday morning when Ethan entered the world, which makes me absolutely certain I have no idea what is still to come.  But I'm stopping to takes notes along the way.  To pep talk myself with the tiny bit I've realized this far:

It's all a phase. 

During Ethan's first few months of life, I spent my days engulfed in a state of loneliness I thought would never end.  I thought having a newborn was going to open my eyes to a glorious, rich new world, and instead, I was birth-maimed and in pain, alone all day in a with a babble-less baby and an unfathomable amount of laundry.  I lamented my state (but never my baby!) and thought surely my soul would rot along with the poop-smells. 

But it was just a phase.

A season later, when Ethan would kick and squirm and wrestle me through every diaper change, I thought I was going to lose my mind.  I was quite certain he'd overpower me, leave me with black eyes and broken bones while he ruled the roost alfresco.  But he didn't.  And a few seasons later, he stopped fighting.  It was a long, annoying phase, but it was just a phase.

Each phase has plenty of irritations and requires certain sacrifices.   Being tied to the house for nap-time, packing diaper bags, traveling with Pack-n-Plays, being confined to wearing clothes that allow easy access for feeding,  not being able to relaxingly eat dinner in public.  It requires such a heart-battle to willingly, joyfully give all of myself away, even when I'm giving to those I love most.

But now, I know it's just a phase, and that makes the surrender so much easier..  I don't need to wallow in pity like I did before.  I don't have to worry myself silly over schedules or getting everything just right; I know now that the second I finally feel comfortable with life, the boys will grow, their needs will change, and I'll have to adjust all over again. 

I know now that while there will be new difficulties, there will also be new reasons to celebrate.  And when the current difficulties fade, some of the previous things I've cherished will vanish with them. 

Ethan's only two and already I ache with the knowledge that childhood is so, so fleeting.  Every day has moments to cherish, and I'm fighting with all that's in me to ensure I don't miss them.

Minimzing Regret

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one whose heart still hurts over dumb decisions.  Trivial things like wearing my headgear to a sleepover when I was in eighth grade or later, at fifteen, trying to turn a Lisa Loeb song into a monologue for Advanced Theater.  (Since that abysmal, face-reddening ordeal, I haven't been able to listen to a single song of hers without feeling ashamed.)  The events weren't near as ridiculous as how deeply they're etched in my memory.  I'm probably the only person on the planet who remembers.  But for some reason, it still embarrasses me to think about them.

I've made some other, more consequential stupid moves, too.  Lots of lost friendships through clumsy ignorance and entirely too much self-seeking.  I never intended to be a crappy friend, and I didn't even realize I was being one until it was too late.  I always only wanted people to like me and for *me* to feel appreciated, loved, wanted.  And in that me-centric world, I blindly didn't consider that other people had needs I could be meeting.  And I shuffled through friends (much in the way that first-friends painfully shuffled through me), then I ran away to college and repeated my bad behavior on new hearts.

So, I have regrets.  I don't want to make more.  

Since wisdom comes with age, I've been studying the moms ahead of me.  I make a mental note when I read about a mother who said she never thinks back on her children's youth and wishes she'd vacuumed more.  I read and listen; I hunt for simple ways to to implement all the things my heart wants for my kids.  Just this week I added to my (very long term) to-do list the invaluable practice of praying with the boys as I drive them to school.   

There is so much I don't *know* to do that I sincerely want to do.  I don't want to screw any of this up.

I want to raise my kids to love Jesus.  I want to help them sift through what the world offers and cling only to Truth. I don't want to be so wrapped up in my own plans that I waste away the days on memories that won't satisfy.  I want to be present, to be entrenched in enjoying their world, their laughter, their warmth.

I don't want the death of friends-of-friends tiny sons and tiny daughters to make me pause, realize them important, and hug my sons tighter.  It's my goal to always live with the knowledge of death.  And to *always* (even in the frustrating moments) see my children's presence as a blessing.

Blowing Off the Dust

As I sit here wondering how to start this entry, I hear the lyrics "You can start over again" repeating in the background. Seems apropos.

When I was in college and wondering what to do with my life, the deep in me wanted to write. But after my parents talked me out of a career in acting (hindsight shouts, "Thank goodness!!"), the increasingly practical part of me decided it wasn't wise. Plus, everyone's a writer. The girl across the street, my dad's best friend's daughter, all of those smartie-pants, ever referencing the vague, poet-types in my lit classes. Who was I to write? And anyway, hasn't it all been said already?

So, I stuffed it down, moved into the shallow end, began to write about the day-to-day, then eventually quit my blog. And life happened. I got a job, quit a job, got a new job, got a husband, a house, a dog, deployments, baby, another baby, and a whole lot of tiny people's bodily fluids to clean up.

I didn't even have time to shower more than 3 times a week. Why would I even consider these keys?
Then Lent happened. And while I've never practiced it before, I missed the regular, purposed fasts at our church in Augusta and decided to partake in the soul clearing.

It started so simply:  Give up screens during naptime; replace them with Jesus.

And what I found is that there *is* room in my life for Him. For peace. For rest. And for the cultivation of my soul. For reading, journaling, writing... and even sometimes vacuuming.

I've been trying to listen to the wisdom of the women in my world, who tell me what it's like to look back on these years. Who know what's really important. Who would tell me to stop running around the house like a maniac trying to Clean All The Things during the eye of the storm that we call naptime. Who would tell me to just REST. And enjoy my life. Enjoy Jesus. Enjoy the sun pouring in the windows.

(Ann Voskamps, "Only amateurs hurry" keeps coming to mind.)

So, I have been. And as cheeseball as it is, I feel my heart... blooming. And I find myself looking at the world differently. The way I used to, when everything was a metaphor and a lesson from God. When my ordinary moments turned parable for something greater, about Someone greater.

And it makes me want to write. Not for other people to read it, but just to write, to chronicle this journey He has me on, so that I'll remember it happened. So that I remember that when the boys are older and they help me pull weeds that I want to share with them what Jesus said about the seeds in soil. So that I'll have clarity, focus, purpose. So that I don't waste my life in shallow ground.

As the pollen count tops 9300 this week, I'm blowing the dust off these keys and writing. Making it a point to write. For me. For Him.

Funny guys

Today I took the little boys to the doctor for Zachary's 4 month well baby visit.  We saw a new-to-us PA, Julia.  And she. was. awesome.  She let Ethan play with her stethoscope when she wasn't using it, and Ethan did his part by cracking us up with the way he played.  He started out with the earpieces wrapped around his waist like a belt and held the circle part up to his heart.  Later, he tried to put them in his ears, but somehow he ended up with the sticks crossed and clamping down on his chubby cheeks.  I'm sure that's one of those "you had to be there" things, but if you could see the mental picture I took, you'd laugh, too.

When Julia listened to Zach's heart, super-ticklish Zach naturally started giggling. Ethan, who usually ignores Zach all day every day, stood there studying what was going on, then cracked up and laughed with him.  To some moms that might be cute, but Ethan's brotherly interaction is so rare that those moments are extremely precious to me.  Happiness!!

After Julia left the room and we were waiting for the nurse to come back in for shots.  Ethan saw the used tongue depressor still on the table and snatched it.  Then, he started looking at his fingers and counting them.  Well, trying to count them.  (He still requires a weeee bit amount of coaching, in the form of me repeating everything he says.  He can get to 10 that way! Silly kid still hates saying two things in a row without some form of interruption.)  Anyway, he counted to three, and I counted up to five, then he opened up wide, put the stick on his tongue and said, "AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"  It was so unexpected that I couldn't help but laugh.

Anyway, it was a good morning.  They both made me so happy that we even stopped and got Chick-Fil-A on the way home for lunch!  Wee!