How Much is That Doggy in the Window

When I was little, I used to follow my brother Adam around like a puppy.  In fact, his wrestling team gave me the nickname lil' pinner because not only did I look like Adam, but because I would follow him around at his wrestling meets, often times wearing his sweathsirt, eating Jello jigglers, and practicing my wrestling moves on the mat.  I wanted to be just like him, even in his wrestling skills... which were superior enough to earn him 2nd in State his junior year, and also the nickname Pinner.  As I shared earlier, my brother passed away on Halloween night when he was a senior in high school.  That night, I had unknowingly walked house to house, trick-or-treating on the same street that he would later be tragically shot and killed.  For my Halloween costume that night, I had dressed up like Adam.

I wore his wrestling singlet, his warm-ups and his headgear.  I was lil' pinner.

If all of my following and idolizing every bothered Adam, he never once let me know.  He tolerated my presence and so did his friends.  Only once did he ever initiate this type of behavior though, and it is one of my favorite memories of Adam.  He actually asked me to follow him around.  We had just gotten a new puppy, a tiny little maltese, named Mia, that was just big enough to stretch to the size of your palm.  I had just finished soccer practice and had gone over to the stadium to watch Adam's soccer game.  I was sitting on the bleachers with Mia sleeping inside my shinguard, on my lap.  After the game, Adam saw his cute little sister, holding a cute little puppy who was sleeping in a tiny shinguard.  He insisted that I follow him around, like a puppy... and with a puppy!  It took me a while to realize why he dragged me around that stadium until every pretty girl got a good look at him in all his tender glory with his baby sister and adorable sleeping puppy.

This memory was sparked by my friend, Chrisann, who volunteers at an Animal Rescue in Kalamazoo, Michigan.  Every year they do a big fundraising event and silent auction and she works hard to accumulate items to auction to raise money for food, supplies and medical care for lots of adorable little puppies.  This has to be a thankless job in a lot of ways, so, for Day 12, I mailed two my headbands to Miss Chrisann to go to the highest bidder.  I am sure these will bring in millions upon millioins of dollars. Each.

Actually, I have to admit that today I was a little less others-focused than I have been for most of this month. Instead I was a little more focused on the "oh boy, we are maybe having a baby any minute, which will change the trajectory of our entire lives, for the rest of our lives, so I should complete nine months of nesting in 24 hours just in case because I should be ready for anything... orrrr nothing will happen at all."  So, completing an act of kindness today was not going to happen randomly, it had to be intentional... and I needed back up.

So, I packaged everything up and sent my boys on a mission to the post office.  I handed Harper a candy and gave him clear instructions to give the treat to the postal worker and say "my family is doing 31 days of kindness, so this is for you!"

Instead, Harper said "It's 30 kindness!"

Since the postal worker doesn't speak cryptic five year old, he rejected the treat and sited "I don't eat candy" as his excuse.  Tom politely encouraged him to do the kid a solid and "maybe he could share the candy with a friend."  He accepted, but wasn't really thrilled about it.  The most shocking thing I have learned so far this month is how difficult it is for people to graciously accept kindness from a shady stranger.

I am beyond guilty of this.  I can't even graciously accept a gift (or a even a compliment) from a close friend without a stupid reaction of shock and guilt and fear.  I cannot imagine that this is the joyful response a gift-giver is hoping for.  I must have ruined so many generous moments for people.  I am learning not to rob people of the blessing of giving, because I feel guilty receiving.

I had a little practice with it today when my old friend, Julie, offered to send some baby boy clothes and cloth diapers our way.  My first instinct was to lie and say "No, we don't need anything, we have all things we need, always, everything is fine and we never need. Ever"  I tried a little of that, but she shut me down pretty quick and I am pretty sure the items shipped today.  Too kind.

I get it.  It is hard to accept the baby clothes, or the diapers, or the squashed candy from the boy at the post office.  Honestly though, just take the stinkin' candy bar already and keep your trap shut.  Act excited and blessed and maybe even kiss a lady on the mouth.  That's the fun of giving, and that is what makes it contagious.

Day 11 + Bonus Feature: ADOPTION UPDATE

Day 11 blew my mind.  What I did today was not very mind blowing... but the day itself has blown my mind.  In the interest of saving us all some precious time... I am going to neatly list the events of the day below.  Let us not forget that this is my blog, and while I am trying to act kind in the outside world, in my blog world... I get to be as rude and bossy as I like.  So, just start loving the bullet points.

• I attempted to bring donut holes to some ladies at a bus stop, because it was about 47 degrees and for me, that's quittin' weather.  I brought them over, briefly explained what I was doing, and they refused to even look at my face.  They just said "no thank you, ma'am."  After rethinking the situation, I fear that they think that I thought that they were homeless.  My bad.
• So, I took my donut holes over to the guy who wears the Cash for Gold sandwich board sign.  I just gotta believe that that is a horrible job.  Who ever said "Ya know, I was on my way to some place else, but that sign just drew me right in and I couldn't help but bring you all these gold watches."  Who has gold they no longer want, on their person?  I understand a sign that says "Stop here for a delicious food item!"  Because in the impulse of the moment, the sing might actually work.  But nobody in the history of the world has impulsively exchanged precious metals for cash money.  So, he gets donuts.  He was happy to look me in the eye and was even so thankful that he offered to pay it forward by taking me to "a nice dinner and a movie."  I pulled out my go-to response when a situation like this comes up... I say something along the lines of "Yeah, that sounds like fun... but, I would have to check with my HUSBAND to see if he will babysit all FOUR of our kids."  (Insert good-natured chuckle.)  He no longer wanted to do dinner and a movie and thought that Tom might "come after him with a hammer."  Which I would pay good money to see.  But, I'll have to convert all my gold first.  
• I went to the post office to mail more M&M's to my pregnant stepsister, because she saw that picture from my blog and gave me a facebook message that was the equivalent of puppy dog eyes.  Plus, she is building my niece or nephew from scratch... so she gets candy.
• I bought five more stamps to leave at the register for the next stamp-needer.  The post lady almost wouldn't let me do it!  She was very leery, asking if it was some kind of chain letter and "what does it all meeeean anyway?"  I couldn't understand how it could possibly have anything to do with a chain letter, but I assured her that no curse would come from anyone not willing to participate... but that I did hope that it had a chain reaction type of effect.  She did not seem to think it would, but I think she secretly loved me for it.  
• THEN.  This has nothing to do with random acts of kindness... it has more to with our current adoption process.  I got a call from our social worker and she gave us some information about a birthmother we have been praying for since July.  She had chosen our profile (which means that of all the families whose information/photo books she saw, she chose ours!)... but later had fallen out of touch for about a month.  Eventually, after a long time with no contact from the birthmom, the social workers decided that it wasn't fair to keep us waiting for a situation that was obviously not going anywhere... until TODAY when we learned that this baby is coming any day and (at this point) the birthmother still wants us to parent this baby.  Nothing is set in stone, clearly, but we are potentially going to get a call any time saying to go to Manhattan to pick up our baby boy!  
• Tom is in a catatonic state, there was even a low hissing sound at one point.  I'm not sure where the confusion came in... I know that he filled out the paperwork and went to all the same interviews that I went to.  He has saved money and raised funds like a champ... but, somehow he forgot that all of this results in BABY #5!!  Welp, surprise!  He'll get on board soon enough, and maybe then I can take the bib off him.  Just kidding... he isn't really that bad.  He's just a little stunned at how quickly things turn around in this journey.  I am a little stunned myself.  But even at my worst, I would never, ever hiss.

To support our adoption, consider doing a Random Act of Kindness by making a donation... 

or stop here to buy a shirt.

YOU get a car, and YOU get a car...

Since there seem to be some readers who are joining this journey a little late, I will make it easy to catch up here:  Day One, Day Two, Day Three, Day Four, Day Five, Day Six, Day Seven, Day 8, and Day 9.

Now that you have the whole picture of how this month has gone... you may be wondering about Day 10.

I fell asleep in the rocking chair and just woke up in the shape of a question mark.  So, I am tired and sore and really want to go back to bed.  But, as my one last act of kindness for the day... I will not leave my millions (handfuls) of followers hanging.

So, today might seem a little anti-climactic, but it was the best reaction I have gotten from someone yet.  I have discovered that people are very suspicious of you when you randomly behave kindly.  They look at you with a lot of suspicion, like you are about to yell that they just got punked.  To be honest, the first reaction a lot of people seem to have is anger.  I mean, I get it, nothing ticks me right off like a bunch of kindness, right!?  I don't think people are actually angry, I think they are just afraid to get excited because even the smallest act of generosity from a stranger seems like an internet scam in on the horizon.

So, I had to get a few things at the store, and when I was in the checkout line, I bought three Snickers.  I paid for all my items, and the cashier was probably a 15 year old kid.  He bagged my items and handed me the receipt.  I thanked him and said "Oh, but this is actually for you."

I handed him the Snickers and it was as if I gave him the keys to a brand new car.  Ha!  He just keep saying "No!  You serious?  Really?  Naw, I can't accept that.  Really!?  It's for me?  You can take it, I can't take that from you.  Really!?  You serious?"

I mean, it got to the point that I felt like I had to tell him that he didn't win the sweepstakes, it was just a candy bar.  Then I realized that there is no way that this kid is old enough to know what the sweepstakes were!  Then I wondered, what in the world was the sweepstakes!?  Now THAT was a random act of kindness.  Anyways, so I told him that it wasn't a new car, it was just a candy bar, but that he was doing good work and to keep it up.  He really didn't seem like he was going to recover.  I pictured the ladies on Extreme Home Makeover that faint when they "move that bus," and then re-faint in each new room.  He woulda been a fainter.

The other two Snickers weren't as exciting.  I was going to give the second one to a mom with a lot of kids.  Mistake #1 in this scenario, never give a single candy bar to someone with many children.  Mistake #2, probably shouldn't give it to someone with a peanut allergy.  Woops, and woops.

So, I chase this lady down in the parking lot, she has a cart full of kids and she is yelling at one of her kids "Well, if you can't hold on to the receipt, then you can't be my receipt holder anymore!"  I know this mom-moment, when you are to the point in your day when you are so frazzled that one more infraction - from your trusted receipt holder, no less - is just enough to push you over the edge into public hysterics.  So, I gave her a Snickers.  She told me about all the children and their peanut allergies... I felt dumb and said "Welp, are you allergic to peanuts because it was for you!  You do all the work right!?"  She did not have an allergy to peanuts, and concurred that she did in fact do all the work.  She took that candy bar with just enough vindication to take a little edge off her impending insanity.

The third Snickers delivery was a little more work.  I was insistent on giving the third one to the grocery cart collector guy.  This is a horrible job because 1) it is freezing for most of the year in this part of New York.  2)  You have to wear a neon yellow vest for absolutely no reason that I can possibly ascertain.  I know that it is a reflector vest, and some will argue that it is for safety... but this is broad daylight and I don't care... I would rather get run over time and again than always have a bulky, neon vest on.  The man deserves some candy.

I drove around 'til I caught him, and as soon as I hopped out and started toward him, he zipped away in a motorized cart.  I got back in the van and chased him down again.  Then I had to go a good bit on foot before I finally gave it to him.  He was unimpressed and shoved the Snickers in his hideous vest and peeled out as fast as the motorized cart would take him.

It was nothing remarkable at all.  It cost me about $2.50, tops.  But, I noticed that I skipped back to my car, and my guess is that the fainter had a pretty good shift after that, too.  Not because it was that big of a deal, but because even a small deal can lift our moods and our hearts... and it is so easy, I really do not understand why I haven't been doing this all along.  People have paid big prices for our comfortable lives in America, and it just seems silly to be anything but randomly, unnecessarily kind and generous.  After being a Christian for most of my life, I hate that I am just now starting to see how simple it is to love another person. I have always thought of myself as someone who would lay my life down for another... but, maybe God doesn't always require us to die for someone else.  Maybe, sometimes, He just wants us to buy them candy.

The Mother of All Care Packages

My mother used to send me the world's stupidest care packages.

Before you feel bad for her, and think badly of me for trash talkin' my mama... let me explain further.  The first one I ever received was when I was away at a college for a sports camp.  All my friends got care packages in the mail, and I was hoping that I would get one too.  When I finally saw mine arrive, I was beyond excited!!

Would it be chips?  Would it be cookies?  Pretzels?  Wait... could it be gummies!?  Oh, yes, please let it be gummies!

Nope.  It was not gummies.  It was a pen that didn't write anymore.  It was the last four sheets of a pad of post-it notes, the kind where the sticky strip isn't sticky, but is kinda brown.  A crumpled receipt and a crushed mint covered with bottom-of-the-purse mung.  There was also about 40 pamphlets from the bank about how to get the most out of your home equity loan.  If I was really lucky she would throw in an old coaster and a fridge magnet (right from our own fridge.)

If you are a normal person, you are thinking:

• A)  "Oh, maybe they were poor.  That sounds like something someone would do if they were really, very poor."
• B)  "I know, her mother must have had a severe mental illness.  The poor thing must think that these inedible pieces of garbage were treats!  How sad!"
• C)  "That sounds like one cruel, sick woman."
• D)  None of the above.

The correct answer is D. none of the above.  (Welllll... and maybe just the tiniest dash of the other three.)  The true story is that nothing made my mother throw her head back in a maniacal fit of laughter like a haphazard and pathetic care package.  If there is any question about the origins of my twisted sense of humor... here you go.  Enter, my mother.  I picture her like a mad scientist, releasing a low Cruella Deville laughter with each new addition to the box.

"Oh, and this half a frisbee will be perfect!  MwAhahAHaHAHAhaHAhahAHa!"  

Since I am using the next 31 days to be kind and focused on others instead of myself... I thought for Day 9, I would send care packages to a couple of totally unsuspecting friends.  I didn't think anyone on this planet (save my sisters) would understand or appreciate a traditional Provencal care package.  So, I opted for actually sending something nice.  Less twisted, less funny, probably way more kind.  

So, two friends who are living away from home, will be receiving a little something in the mail.  They will absolutely never see this coming.  I feel very excited because:

1. Even if they hate the contents of the package... they will still get that feeling of excitement of discovering a package just for them on their front step.  Trust me, that is where the excitement ended for me on care package day, so I know that that is enough. 
2. Even if they hate the contents of the package... they will maybe read this and know that I really did my best given what was modeled for me.  (As long as I am not sending whatever trash is under the back seat of my car, then I have improved upon the family legacy.)
3. Even if they hate the contents of the package... they will know that I tried. :)

While at the post office, I paid for five stamps and asked the postlady to keep them at the register, so that the next five people who came to buy a stamp would get one for free.  I piggybacked on this idea from my friend Sam who left half a roll of bubble wrap at the Post Office for the next fragile-gift-sender, and my mother, who bought an extra movie ticket and left it at the register for the next person who came to buy a single ticket. 

You've come a long way since those care package days, Mom, I love you.  Ya jerk. xoxo

Go On and Kiss the Girl...

You know that really old, crabby guy that lives down the street from you?  Well, he is the lovechild of Mr. Rogers and a Care Bear compared to my old, crabby guy that lives on my street.  I don't care how grouchariffic you think your old man is, mine is grouchier.  Mr. Al is not your run of the mill, neighborhood meddler... those guys are nosey, sure, but Mr. Al actually trespasses, peeps, spies, swears in front of the children and just plain makes stuff up.  

My two best pieces of evidence that Mr. Al is the worst neighbor in history are these:

1. When new neighbors moved in across the street, Mr. Al told them that I had just gotten out of the hospital because I have an eating disorder.  This is categorically untrue.  I had just gotten out of the hospital because I had surgery.  (I had a "floating kidney" which basically means that one of my kidneys totally hit the fan, lost composure and started bobbing around my torso like an apple.  This left my kidney dangling below the protection of it's ribcage home, which is dangerous.  Plus it was really weird to have my kidney on the loose like that.  And painful. So they stapled it to my back muscles. True story.)  So, yes, I had been in the hospital, but it was in no way related to an eating disorder.  Mr. Al thinks I am too skinny.  I think that he and I could probably share pants, so he can stuff it.  But, whatever.
2. When I was suffering from the world's worst pregnancy (think dehydration, home IV's, home nurses blowing all my veins trying to get some electrolytes in me...) Mr. Al would stop anybody who came over to help out with the kids or bring a meal, and he would fish for information and then tell my helpful guest that I should just have an abortion. 

Can I stop there?  Is this enough proof that he is a bit of a challenge to live by??  Now, as a family, we choose to love Mr. Al.  We have offered to bring him to church with us, we allow him to put his garbage in our bin so that he doesn't have to pay the monthly fee to dispose of the 3 ounces of garbage he produces every week.  We honor his bucket (which he keeps in the middle at the end of his driveway year round to discourage people from using his driveway to turn around.)  We have the utmost respect for his bucket.  We talk to Mr. Al, we help him with his computer problems, we unload his discount lawn mower under the most dangerous possible conditions, while he is forcefully directing, we help with his online banking password problems, we let Mr. Al tell us exactly how to vote, we patiently explain the Google, and why we are okay with "the blacks" moving in.

Occasionally I have threatened his life behind his back, but for the majority of the time... we are cordial and polite and pleasant.  Now, I already confessed that I am not really all that pleasant.  So, if I seem pleasant, it might be because I am trying not to maim someone.  In my pleasantness and civility toward Mr. Al, I have not really been loving to him at all.  Sure, we have done nice things... but I can admit that my heart has not always been loving and kind toward him.  So... I decided to bring Mr. Al dinner.  Day 8.

I kinda dread going over there because he is just so pushy.  One time I ended up in his basement, where everything was covered in plastic, and I spent two hours separating all of his Christmas ornaments and wife's old jewelry. I wanted to impale myself right there on the Christmas tree.  'Tis the season.

In hindsight, I may have overcompensated with my kindness today because I did a few things.  Perhaps I knew my heart wasn't really bursting with kindness toward Mr. Al.  So, I sent apples and pears with Tom to give to the newest pastor at our church.  He is doing an awesome job, and his family was totally uprooted and they all just jumped right in, serving and connecting right out of the blocks.  So, they get produce.

Then, I made almond butter to share with some people. 

Then, I served the kids their dinner to start letting it cool.

Then, we got their drinks.

Then...

Then I realized that I simply had to stop stalling and bring Al his dinner.  So, I did.  And he must have seen me coming because when I got to his door he flung it wide and fast and ushered me in so intensely.  He seemed like he had been waiting all day for me to get there with this dinner that I had promised him... even though I definitely gave no warning and in fact considered just leaving it on the doorstep like a humongous jerk.  

When I gave it to him, he grabbed it with a huge smile and put it directly to his face, smelled it, and then kissed me right on the mouth.  YEP.  He was so excited and thankful, and he wanted to make out about it.  Okay, not really that kind of kiss... but he really did give me a big, elderly smooch.  I tried the quick mouth twitch to one side, so he got a little lip corner and a little cheek.  But, he seemed glad about the whole interaction.  

It was the happiest I think I have ever seen him.  The kiss was a little upsetting.  But, I learned a few valuable lessons. I learned that you can act pleasant and civil, but only intentional acts of kindness are really gonna get an old man riled enough to plant one on ya.  You can twitch your mouth faster than the speed of light, and Mr. Al will still get a little lip.  And last, but certainly not least... everyone grouch on the block needs a little kindness.  And maybe a little action from time to time.

                                   

White Chili Soup for the Soul

I have to admit that week one has been hard, but awesome. I love that sense of urgency about something that actually matters. Instead of that inner alarm going off (forcing my head to pop off the pillow in a panic) because I forgot to call someone back, or buy dish soap, or switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer, or a million other things that won't really have any significant impact... It is really nice to feel an urgent sense that I need to serve someone else!

Today was one of those days, a rare day that we had a few lollygaggin' hours with no place to be, so we went to my in-laws for the afternoon. Those kind of hours can pass so quickly, and before I knew it, my kindness alarm went off! Blaring, "I have to do something kind for someone!!!"

We recently heard that neighbors down the street from my in-laws received news that their 14 year old son has cancer. He just started his first round of chemo, and bringing a meal had been on the fam's to-do list.

We brought muffins and white chili and some porch-front prayers. It was emotional and heavy, but I am so thankful that we didn't try to "protect" the kids from that experience. It was good for them to see real life and real pain, and the meeting of real needs.

I want my kids to see that in this life we will surely have heartache, but that everybody else has a story too... something they are struggling with or going through. I want them to view others through a lens of compassion, understanding that every person has a proverbial cheese vat to clean.

In an effort to give my kids the kind of life and family I wanted, I fear that sometimes their life is so charmed (not
with material things, but with security and stability) that they can't really appreciate how rough life is for some.

Don't get me wrong... I am their mother, so they get plenty of crazy in their lives! But they are blessed to have a two parent home where both of us are not only engaged in their lives, but are also relatively awesome. And by relatively, I mean supremely.

I am hoping that this month of kindness will teach them to be compassionate, but also thankful. Seeing a mother weep over her son's battle for life was a great reminder to me why I started this project 7 days ago. I saw my own mother weep for her son's life, and I remember the meals and groceries people brought to meet the most basic needs, so my mom didn't have to think about anything other than surviving.

I am really glad that my kids haven't seen the things I have seen. I am thankful that, so far, they have been spared from great heartache and they get to be on the meal-bringing side of the tragedy.

But someday, they will know that deep pain of tragedy, and they will need help. And hopefully then, London will finally understand why so many years ago, we had to say goodbye to those delicious muffins.

Where's Wanda.

I can't believe that I have only been doing this "31 Acts of Kindness in 31 Days" for 6 days! I am completely aware that I haven't done anything major or life changing... but I still can't believe the amount of effort it takes for someone as selfish as me to try to stay constantly aware of other people's needs.

Today I met a woman who is kind as a profession. I mean she is in the business of showing kindness to people who need it most. Here is how it happened...

The other day, when I was offending the pretzel makers and awkwardly explaining my mission for this month, one lady mentioned that October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month. So that has been on my radar for the past couple of days, hence Day Six's project.

I filled a large mason jar with small pieces of paper folded up, each paper holding a simple, but truthful message. I felt like most battered women are likely to have a disconnect somewhere that doesn't allow them to hear and receive truth... that or they don't have anyone who is even trying to get the truth into them.
So, I thought I would try.  I brought my jar-o-truth to a transitional home for battered women and children and asked if the jar could sit out for women to take a truth when they first arrive at the shelter. Wanda looked at me like I was a crazy fool.

Yes, Wanda. She is my new bff. (sorry to any previous bff's... but I like Wanda better.)

 Wanda works at the transitional shelter and she primarily runs the children's activities.  Wanda and I got to talkin' - you know how bffs do - and she asked me why I was doing this 31 days thing. I knew I could trust her (b to the f, 4-eva) so I briefly explained all my baggage and how I wanted to spend this month doing something positive and life-giving, something that would honor my brother's memory and represent the God he and I both love.

Well, can I just tell you that Miss Wanda listened to every single word I said like it really mattered to her. Then she hauled out her own baggage, carefully unpacking her story of how her brother was murdered 14 years ago.  When she said how long it had been since he had passed, she almost seemed embarrassed... Like it shouldn't bother her so much any more. She said "but it really doesn't seem like it has been that long."

I know what she means. But I also know that no matter how much time passes, that person that you loved and lost, and that person's story does not just sit on a shelf with an expiration date. The person, the story, the wound... It can stay so fresh on your heart for a lifetime.

Wanda and I dipped in to our own jar of truth today. We affirmed each other's journey to healing old wounds that still feel fresh some days, no matter how much time passes. We talked about our faith and how we both sneak it into all the corners of our life... even when we are told we aren't allowed.

It's only been six days.  I am exhausted, and  I have a lot of days to go, but I already feel my own disconnect  from the truth starting to reconnect a little. I am not a battered woman in the traditional sense, but life has certainly gotten in a decent jab or two. I can understand how the disconnect happens.  I can see how life and people can knock you down and tell you there is no hope, and maybe even steal your lunch money.  I have believed my fair share of lies, and taken a few too many hits, so I understand the disconnect between what is true, and what you end up believing.  I enjoyed Day Six, because it gave me an opportunity to speak truth to sad and broken women, and it just so happens they were truths that I needed to hear.

Nobody Ever Accused Me of Being Pleasant... except that one time.

For those that have no idea what Day Five means... catch up here: Day One, Day Two, Day Three and Day Four.  For those of you who know and have followed my 31 day journey in doing something life-giving throughout the month of October (instead of hovering just above the emotional poverty line), thank you so much for reading and supporting me.  So many people have come out of the woodwork to offer kind words of encouragement, stories about how my brother's life impacted theirs, and my favorite... some have even joined in and started doing their own acts of kindness!

My original plan for Day Five was to give a kind gift to my friend Abby.  She once asked me to go to a Starbucks and order my coffee and when they ask for my name, say "Primrose Everdeen."  Then, when my coffee is ready and they call out "Primrose Everdeen" I would yell "I volunteer!  I volunteer as tribute!" (*This is a reference to the wildly popular book/movies series, The Hunger Games.  If you do not know what I am referring to, then you should ask the google about pop culture.)

While I reeaaallly wanted to do this, I kinda came to the conclusion that it wouldn't really count because it is more an act of hilarity than an act of kindness.  See I can do hilarious.  Or sarcastic.  I can even do somber.    Maybe November can be Random Acts of Hilarity and Bitterness... but, we are still in October and I am supposed to be kind.  Not hilarious.

So, I decided that since I was meeting my friend Courtney for coffee at Starbucks that I would donate the remaining couple of bucks on my gift card to the most unpleasant customer.  Now, after the cheese vat incident yesterday... I have learned that I do not like to choose who gets the kindness.  In the future, I will either bring enough kindness for everyone, or I will make someone else the judge of worthiness.  Today's judge was the barista.  I gave her my gift card and a note that said "Hope you have a great day!  Pay it forward!" and asked her to apply the remaining amount to the total of somebody who seems like they are having a bad day.

I was only ever accused of being pleasant one time in my life.  I was actually engaged once before Tom and I were together.  (Gasp!  I know right, so much scandal!)  Anyways... I was engaged to a guy with a lovely family and I felt really sure that I should be, and could be, a very lovely gal.  I tried very hard to be lovely and pleasant and a gentle, quiet spirit.  It did not go well.  There was this one occasion, though, that I overheard one of this guy's family members describe me as "pleasant."

What!?  It was one of those moments when I realized... these people have no idea who I am.  I am a LOT of things.  Some good, some bad, some... lovely even.  I can tell you right now though, I am not pleasant.  I'm just not.  The people who know me best, who love me best, would not use the word pleasant to describe me.  It just isn't me.  I have too much heaviness in this heart and I am too honest and too sassy to ever be accused of such a thing..... and honestly I am fine with that.

So, when I envisioned the person who really needed a random act of kindness... I couldn't bring myself to wish it upon somebody who is already pleasant.  I wanted to brighten the day of someone who had some sort of crack in their day, a crack that was big enough for the patience and pleasantness to just sort of seep right out, leaving a frazzled (and maybe even crabby) customer behind.

I am not pleasant.  Maybe when I grow up I will be, but for now, I will settle for real.  So, to the man or woman who was deemed unpleasant enough to receive Day Five's Random Act of Kindness... I salute you.  You are in process, you are struggling, you are in good company!

I can't help but consider my faith in all this.  I can't separate the notion of random, undeserved kindness from the cross.  Jesus himself said that He came not for those who are well, but for the sick.  I am a sick, sick woman, and I am keenly aware of my need for the undeserved kindness of Christ's substitutionary death.  Maybe I am not pleasant, but I know the cracks in my heart that allow the joy and peace and love to seep out, and I know that they are being healed as I go through this month reflecting on what has been given to me.  Perhaps living in light of this gift, and in response to it, will, in time, make me pleasant after all.

May the odds be ever in our favor.

Soft Pretzels are the New Orange Julius

I have a friend who said that the worst job she ever had was cleaning the Orange Julius machines at the mall. Tom and I had a date night planned anyways... so for Day 4, we could head to the mall just before it closes and hit up the Orange Julius.

"You wanna clean the Orange Julius machines!?" My usually supportive husband thought that was going a bit too far. I reassured him that I had no intentions of going elbow deep into any Julius, orange or otherwise. But, I wanted to surprise an Orange Julius worker with a gift card.

We get the gift card and I write a little poem that says:

I have a friend who's worst-ever job was cleaning the Orange Julius machines...
I bet she wished someone had thanked her and said how much her work means...
So here is a little note to say thank you...
So go buy a drink and something to chew.

Horrible right? I don't do poems. And just like I don't do poems, our mall doesn't do Orange Julius.

So, I write this poem about cleaning the Orange Julius machines, but apparently I haven't been to a mall since 1987... So my poetry made no sense to the unsuspecting soft pretzel ladies. But, cleaning the vat of cheese seemed pretty gross, so I though I would randomly act kind toward them.

Problem #1: No Orange Julius.

Problem #2: Horrible poem, no longer applies.

Problem #3: TWO ladies. ONE gift card.

Problem #4: I actually ask who is in charge of cleaning the cheese vat tonight because that (in my mind) was the only way to sensibly determine who needs the kindness more.

Problem #5: When you ask a food service worker who is in charge of cleaning things... They automatically want to shove your face in the cheese vat, because it is way more likely that you are going to yell at the cheese-cleaner about something than to handsomely reward her with gifts.

After explaining it about six different times, they finally realized that I wasn't being critical of the cleanliness, but that I just wanted to thank someone who does a thankless job.  We all do things during the day that nobody notices or appreciates, and it feels good to have somebody acknowledge even the trivial tasks we accomplish.  I am thankful that I believe in a God who sees.  He actually sees us reaching out to a friend, He sees us walk our kids to school, or compromise with a difficult co-worker.  He sees us wipe our kids buns for the 48th time today, and He sees us clean out the vat of cheese.

The best part is that He doesn't just see, He promises that He also cares.  I am certain that I did not communicate any of this to the pretzel ladies...  but, I hope that they felt seen, and I hope they felt appreciated.  If nothing else, He sees that I am trying.  So, being four days in... I count that as a win.

We Put the Random in "Random Act of Kindness"

If you need to, catch up on Day One, or Day Two so that you know exactly what I am attempting to do, and why.  I must say that I have been so encouraged and excited by some of you who have pledged to join in and commit 31 random acts of kindness during the 31 days of October.  I feel blessed by how many people remember Adam's life... not just his death.  

For Day Three, I wanted to do something for the people who work so hard day in and day out to save the lives of children.  I have brought my two youngest kids, Harper and London, to the emergency room for different reasons.  Harper has pretty bad asthma and any germ he comes in contact with seems to turn into pneumonia within minutes.  To the ER we go.  London had to have a series of blood transfusions because she had acute anemia caused by a rare form of bone marrow failure.  Again, to the ER.  I know how fortunate I am to have been spared from the other possible outcomes if modern medicine had not been readily available when my kids needed life-saving medical intervention.  

The doctors and nurses in the ER don't always save lives... but, they always try.  When they can't save a child's life, they have to live with that heaviness.  And when they do save a life, they will likely never get to see that child again... so, the way I see it is that they should probably have assorted pastries on hand.

Our act of kindness today was to take treats to the  Pediatric Emergency Room staff at the hospital where both Harper and London could thank everyone and it would be a beautiful full-circle moment.  I pictured some "yes! I remember you!" and maybe a little hugging, and definitely some high fives all around.  That is not how it all went down.  

Problem #1:  London COULD ABSOLUTELY NOT GET PAST the fact that we had cookies in our vehicle.  She wanted the cookies.  Could she please have all those cookies?  Will the "hostiple" ladies share those cookies?  Will they take blood?  And share those cookies?

Problem #2:  I went to the wrong "hostiple."  All the cookie passion was heating up and I got distracted and pushed the wrong button on the GPS and ended up at an ER that does not have a pediatric wing.  

Problem #3:  I was not smooth about this mix-up.  I knew something felt "off" so I asked the security guard at the ER desk where the pediatric triage was.  He said "We don't have a peds department here.  You are thinking of Strong Memorial."  I say "Oh, well I brought you all a little something."  He calls my bluff, "Welll, you meant to bring them here or to Strong?"  I mean, what does this guy care?  So, I lie "Nope, these ones are for you guys here.  Just for anyone saving lives, really.  Lives of any age."  Oh gracious... I just wanted to  high tail it out there at that point but I couldn't because of...

Problem #4: London was face down on the ground sobbing "I will never have doze treats!"

She was right, she would never have those treats.  And the people that saved my children's lives, they would also never have those treats.  But, whatevs... the acts of kindness are supposed to be random right?  How random to end up at the wrong hospital and give a huge bag of pastries to a security guard who knew I was fibbing about who those treats were for... all with a clinically depressed toddler who went boneless on me as I was trying to get off the premises.

Day #3 was probably mostly a fail.  But, the peeps at Highland Hospital, I hope, would disagree.  

Adam's Apple

So, I am doing 31 days of kindness with some friends, and I am doing it to honor the memory of my brother, Adam, who's story I shared here.

This, I am realizing, is going to take a lot of thought. I want to do something different each day, and I feel like I am already out of ideas! So, day two, I went with one of the biggest American clichés ever... Bring your teacher an apple.

My friend Lexi faithfully overloads us with produce, so we had apples on hand. Since this project is to honor Adam's memory, I want to do it right. See, my brother wouldn't just bring his teacher an apple. He was the kind of guy to root for the underdog, and maybe even put a bully in a headlock so the underdog could gain the edge. No... Adam wouldn't bring his teacher an apple.

Adam would fill a bag with apples and he would give them to the most under-appreciated school employees in the district. So, that's sort of what we did.

I loaded the girls up with apples. One apple for the world's best bus driver, Mary Ann. An apple for each teacher. Apples for the secretaries. Apples for the lunch ladies. Apples for the aides. Even an apple for "the white lady that is really helpful." (As it turns out, this was a hall monitor with such white hair. Apple for her.)

The girls really enjoyed being a part of this, and I loved explaining to them that we were doing this to remind ourselves that being kind to others is one way to love and serve God, because that is what Jesus taught us to do. I was able to tell them about how sad I feel without Uncle Adam, but how happy my heart gets when I love and serve somebody else like Uncle Adam would. Like Jesus would.

It was hard to write that story last night, the story of when we lost Adam. I asked my sisters and my mom for their permission first, and part of me was secretly hoping that someone would forbid me from saying it out loud. But, after such a kind and compassionate outpouring - comments, texts and emails - I am really thankful.

I felt lifted up today, supported, and thankful that Adam's life, while short, still makes an impact. I realized that if we don't talk about the fact that he died, how can we talk about he fact that he lived!?

So day two: apples. It was pretty simple, but it reminded me that what I do is a lot less important than who I am. The apples are just a small thing for my kids to see me do, but I am really hoping that when I join my big brother and my Father in heaven... It will remind them less of what I did, and more of who I was trying to be.

And maybe, just maybe, they will pay Uncle Adam's apples forward in some way.

This is how my kids eat apples.  Seeds, core... everything but the hat.

The Hardest Story I Never Told

I am going to tell you a story.

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly.  But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well.  So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game.  He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom.  I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid.  I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship.  And he's free.  He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow.  I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did.  He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free.  He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble.  So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice.

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth.  And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single bullet through the front door.

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated.  But only one life was ended.  My only brother, my parents only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble.  He was gone.

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready.

So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 31 years old... outliving my big brother by 14 years.  I need to do something.  I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression.  So, I accepted an invitation from two beloved friends, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people.  31 days of kindness toward others.

Day One: a total bust.  I woke up with two fractured hips and a migraine.  Welcome to October.  Okay, not real fractures... but, something in my back is out of whack and my hip is paying the price.  I did not leave the couch today except to go to my first round of physical therapy with my friend Marci who braved the battlefield of bad insurance companies that (I am certain) is run out of a basement in Philly.  There is no actual coverage happening.  We are always billed.  Nothing is ever actually IN network.  But, she got me pre-approved and she zapped my hip with a buzzing thing.  So, my first chance to randomly act kind toward a person in the outside world, was to give her a headband... my only current useful skill is making accessories, so I acted at random with as much kindness as my old hips could muster.  I think she liked it.

I have no idea what this 31 day challenge is going to teach me.  And I have very little faith in my ability to stick with this.  So, this is me going on public record promising to let these next 31 days not be all about me, and all about memories and sadness and lost life.  Rather, I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done if his life had not been cut short.  I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.  Well, here is my chance... 31 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing.

The Lie That Love is Enough

Five years ago today, I met my son.

No, I didn't bring him into this world five years ago, another Mama did that. I just met him. I went and got him.

So, we call today his Gotchya Day, and we celebrate it with a donut in bed. I tell him the story of his birth (the little that I know) and the story of our first meeting him. He loves every minute o it and thinks he is awesome.

Something in the back of my heart is keenly aware, though, that it won't always be this easy, or this fun, to tell his story. My guess is that he will reach a point in his pre-adolescent identity crisis where a donut and a story from his white mother won't cut it.

In a way I look forward to the day that we will hash this thing out, the day when we talk about the tragedy and the miracle that is adoption. It will almost be a relief to say out loud that being separated from the woman who grew you into a person is an actual tragedy. It will be a relief to affirm what I assume he will always feel but not be able to articulate.

I say it will be a relief because I feel so much pressure to do this adoption thing right. I just want to do it honestly, and give him permission to do it honestly. To grieve, to be angry, to be thankful, and to forgive... just to feel whatever it is, with authenticity and unabashed freedom. I will feel relieved when the temptation to shape his perspective on his experience is gone. I will always want to positively shape his experience, but I look forward to no longer having any say over his perspective.

Gone will be the days when he asks me "is it hard when you don't match your mommy and daddy?" By then, he will know that it is, his perspective will be formed and there is something freeing about that. As terrifying as it is, there is something appealing in just getting to that hard truth of it all and taking it from there.

I am certain that some of you may be thinking what many have already said to me: "Does it have to be such a big deal? Can't you just parent your adopted children the same way you parent your biological children? Isn't love what matters? Isn't love enough?"

The answer is no. Love isn't enough.

Sorry to blow the fairy tale wide open, but the way people love - the way I love - just ain't gonna cut it. People love too imperfectly to heal wounds that deep. People love with expectations and selfish motives and busy schedules and fearfulness and baggage of their own. At my best, I got donuts and a desire to do life and adoption honestly. At my worst, I am totally useless. I don't know what the fairytalers' lovin' looks like, but in my world... love isn't even close to being enough.

So, we did donuts and the story of how we "Gotchya" and for the first time, we watched the home video of meeting Harper. And holding him close while he saw himself as a newborn for the first time, it was sacred.

The thing I realized today was that not only is love not enough, but all of my intentionality and my effort and my communication isn't enough either. The bottom line is that nothing I try to do will prevent Harper from experiencing the pain he will eventually have to process. Love isn't enough, and neither are hope or good intentions.

So I thank the God I love for being enough. For being the one and only one Parent that has been with him, start to finish. I thank Him for His love, which is perfect and pure and whole. I thank Him for creating such a remarkably gifted boy, and for the joy and responsibility of raising him.

Saying "love is enough" is a joke and a lie and it sets us all up for some serious disappointment when we are loved well by another person, and still feel broken and empty. So, I thank God that He actually is enough, so that my love doesn't have to be.

Baby's First Blasphemy

Me: Jesus is who?
London: God!!

Me: And what did God make?
London: He made all thingth!!

Me: Why did God make all things? He did it for His...
London: ...For hith private awea!!

Ooooh... We were looking for "glory" on that one. Jesus did all things for His glory, never for His private area.

Perhaps this is indicative of the age, with all the focus on potty training and privacy and what is and isn't appropriate, but I can't help but wonder what on earth she could possibly be thinking!

Meh, two out of three is a good start. We will keep working on (survey says...) "glory!!" You don't need to go to seminary to know that survey doesn't ever say "private area."

My Daughter's First Real Kiss

Almost nine years ago, when I was in labor for Annalee, my firstborn daughter, I had no clue what I was doing.  I knew a few things: I knew that it was going to hurt (because during my whole pregnancy that seemed to be all people could talk about... but when it was actually game time, all I could think was "How come nobody warned me it would hurt this bad!")  I also knew that I wanted to have a natural delivery, with as little intervention as possible.  And, I knew that I wanted to be strong and controlled, and I wanted Tom to be proud of me.

I achieved my goals and was able to give birth three times with no medical intervention or pain medication, and I will happily speak for Tom and say "Was I proud!? (Guffaw) Proud is an understatement, Lara is my hero, and she should be your hero too. And she gets more attractive with age, in fact, I don't see any sings of aging at all.  And she is a delight to live with, and at weddings, her dance moves are superior to all others."

Aww, isn't he sweet?

Anyways....

I achieved my big goals.  Each birth was amazing and wonderful (except with Marlie, when I threatened to kill Tom because he ate pretzels.  In his defense, the whole thing lasted 32 hours and the poor guy needed a little snack.  In my defense, I made a person from scratch.  And her way of thanking me was by attacking me from the inside out.. for a day and a half.  Aaaand pretzels are the crunchiest food you could ever eat, and nothing infuriates me like a crunch while I am laboring.)

I knew that these experiences would be precious and rewarding, but one thing I did not expect to come away with was a little red dot on under my right eye.  This little red annoyance was a just a tiny capillary that had broken when I was pushing.  It really didn't bother me, I was even a little proud that I had a visible war wound as a reminder that I did it, I actually birthed someone.

It wasn't long after Annalee was born that my little badge of honor healed up and turned peach again.  At some point during the 32 hour delivery with Marlie, it came back with a new sense of commitment, and it hasn't even considered the option of going away.  It was not as tiny as the first time around, and I am not as pleased as I was then.  Now, it is just another reminder that 1) Not all concealers are created equal, and 2) Behind every pretty face there is a (proverbial) broken capillary or two.

This little flaw has been on my face for the better part of nine years, so I hardly think twice about it... or at least I wouldn't think twice about it if London didn't ask about it once every 48 hours.

She calls it my booboo and she is very, very concerned.  Tonight, when I was tucking her in to bed, she grabbed my face between her two chubby hands and she tilted her head to one side, and leaned in, like she was ready to give me the closed-mouth-Disney-finale-kiss, and she said "Oh my Mama LyLar, (which is how she says Lara) I love you and yoy sweet hoyt and all dis booboo in da whole whole woyld."  And she Disney-frenched my little wound with such passion that I think she might have made it worse.

She proceeded to kiss every possible bit of face that she could and tell me that I was "so happy bout dat."

And she was right, I was really happy 'bout dat.

I am so blessed to have had the gift of biological children, AND the gift of adoption.  I feel like I have been given such a rare, but full look at all the different ways that God loves us, and chooses us, and brings us to be known as His children.  I know what it is like to labor and wait and break parts of yourself to bring a child into this world, and I know what it is like to sacrifice your comfort and security and your finances to wait for someone else to bring a child into this world and into my heart.  It is such a picture of what Jesus did for us, to bring us into His family by blood and by choice.

I don't know if I will ever feel loved the way I would like to feel loved.  I honestly don't know if I am even capable of feeling loved the way God intends me to be, but one thing I am learning is that I AM loved, whether I am capable of accepting, acknowledging and feeling it or not.  The way I delight in my children, and they way London delighted in me tonight is such a picture of loving in spite of flaws and scars and broken places.  It is the spirit of adoption; loving by choice, and loving on purpose.

If I died tonight, I would go with a full heart and thoroughly kissed face, and I would rejoice in meeting the One that created me - flaws and all - the difference in that moment would be that when He held my weary face in his pierced hands, each kiss actually would heal and perfect me, and I will finally feel as loved as I already am.

I'll Tell Ya Where You Can Put That Cobbler, Marsha.

I keep telling myself that life will settle down.  Or, that I will spontaneously develop a remarkable skill set that will allow me to manage life better.  And that my house will stay clean.  And since we're throwing out total pipe dreams, in all these scenarios, my hair will be long and flowing.

As it stands, life is full of tragedy and my hair is refusing to budge past my shoulders.  I just want to swish it back and forth like Marsha Brady, that witch.

Where was I?  Oh yes, all my shortcomings.  So, I am just not the superstar I want to be.  I want to be one of those wives that says things like "Oh honey, don't be ridiculous, I've already bathed all the children!  Aaaaaand I've made cobbler."  Or maybe even something like "Who wants some cobbler that I just made?"  Or, let's say that this has nothing to do with cobbler, and that maybe I just have a hankerin'.  Either way, I want to be the kind of wife who has all the laundry put away and has things to say about cobbler.

I realize that I am at it again.  Comparing myself to others.  Or to the idea I have of others.  It was just over a year ago when I wrote this post about the comparison trap.  Here I am a whole year later, and I have made almost zero progress.  It comes in waves, and it is particularly worse when I am overwhelmed with everything on my plate.  Perhaps that is why these were both August posts... as fall looms before me, I realize with great clarity that apart from God, I am helpless to successfully accomplish even the most basic task, let alone do everything required to run a household, small business and family of six (almost seven!)  I become so aware of my limitations that I shut down a little. (so much more than a little.)  I shut down because this life is hard and painful.

I spent last night in the emergency room with Harper because he couldn't breathe properly.  Pneumonia and asthma combined caused his oxygen levels to plummet.  I laid with him on the stretcher watching his little chest retract as his body tried in vain to suck in as much air as possible and his belly moving in and out so fast and his heart pounding from the steroids and he just laid there with these big, brown eyes that pleaded, "Mama fix it."

 I couldn't fix it.  I couldn't do anything.

 I do not have what it takes to navigate this life and this world, not without Jesus. I really do not understand how people do not have faith.  Don't get me wrong, it is not a judgmental thing at all... I mean I get WHY people don't believe in God.  I just don't get HOW they can survive.  I just know that I need Him.  I can't get the laundry done, I can't do an at-home dance party without crampin' up a good amount, I can't stop comparing myself to others, and I can't fix broken lungs.  I can't give my friends the babies they want but can't have, and I can't give back the babies that my friends had, but lost.  I want to fix all the lungs, and the brains and the hearts that are broken in my life... but, I can't do Anything. At. All.

Apart from Jesus, my hope would only be in this world, and I would be in for some serious disappointment.  So, I choose to believe.  Even when it makes me look stupid, and even when I am totally alone in that belief, I choose to believe.  So, I am kicking the habit again.  I quit comparing.  I am all done beating myself up for what goes undone and I am done expecting more from myself than I am even capable of giving.  I am clinging with total desperation to my capable God, the God who sees.  And if He sees, I am banking on the fact the He probably also cares...about lungs and lost babies, and maybe even laundry.

But, probably not about swishy hair and cobbler.  That might be pushin' it.

There is Not Voodoo Happening

As you could imagine the adventures do not stop when our family camping trip ends. It seems like this past trip is a great representation of how our lives go... We narrowly escape some disaster, we are blessed beyond belief, then we hold our breath waiting for the next crisis to avert.

So much of life is like that - our travels, our adoption journey, some of our family relationships, our mission to sell our house... People make the comparison of a roller coaster ride, but we spent our first day back home at a local amusement park, and trust me... The ups and downs on an actual roller coaster are a lot more fun to experience. (With the exception of the jerky stops on the Jack Rabbit, something ought to be done about that. Seabreeze of Rochester, NY.)

I guess life IS like a roller coaster, sometimes, but it can also be a lot like water boarding. My problem is that I often see God for what He does or chooses not to do, instead of worshipping Him simply for WHO HE IS. My sense of feeling loved by God, or blessed, or protected by Him, is way too closely linked to how I think He's handling the task of giving me what I want. (I realize this is a heinous and selfish expectation, and embarrassingly immature. It's also a true story.)

Sooo... I am working on it. I am working on my lack of faith in a God who loves me in tropical thunderstorms, and in 106 degree heat. He loves me when I inadvertently squeeze the eyeball of an innocent bystander, or when I frisbee the children's breakfast out the car window. He loves me when I get my way, and He loves me enough to NOT give me my way all the time. Or ever, as it sometimes seems. I am learning that what circumstances I face do not change the simple fact that He is who He says He is, and I get to be loved by Him, even though I don't deserve it and I fail and fall short in every possible way.

I do not know how long it will take me to actually get it, but I am trying reeeeally hard to get over my obnoxious self and see the big, fat picture because I know the bottom line is that regardless of how crazy life, or a trip (or the real-estate market) may seem... God is for us and His plan is always for our good, and He is always for me, even when it feels like someone is out there with a gangly, curly-haired voodoo doll, just a-pokin' away.

Our trip ended with Robb and Tab Hibbard taking us in and becoming great friends (no longer almost-friends) who took us sledding in July and fed us cupcakes. Our curse of bad happenings followed us there and broke their dryer. We got the call about a maybe-baby and then a call saying definitely not. We explored the deepest caverns on the east coast (which seemed fitting because of how emotionally low we were at the time). And we almost went into wax museum, but the children were afraid of seeing "boys made out of ear wax" with "frozen faces."

So it wasn't all bad... We got to see "Honest Dave" (honest Abe) and some other really great things. We were able to teach the children a lot of great lessons... Like, when life gets rough, it's okay to quit if you can blame the weather.

But the best part was that the day we got home we got another call about another maybe-baby, this one a boy, due in October who's birthmother felt a strong connection with our family when she viewed profiles.

We don't know if this will be our baby for sure because a million roller coastery things have to happen between now and then... But the hope of new life and the possibility of welcoming this baby and his birthparents into our family was a sweet and beautiful homecoming... One that we desperately needed.

Below are the last pictures from our trip, and one of Marlie and me on her first roller coaster ride! The last one is a picture of London's camping uniform... Underpants, visor, wand, and so much mung on her face. (There is a definite age when this outfit is no longer acceptable.. It just wasn't as cute on Tom.)

gone baby gone

I am very sad to say that we are on our way home.

Yesterday we got a call from our adoption social worker about the possibility of adopting a baby girl who is due in a few weeks. After hearing and praying about all the specific circumstances, some of which may be challenging, we decided to go ahead and submit our family profile for the birth mother to review.

Right after that our realtor called to let us know that a potential buyer wants to look at our house.

These two things felt like the last of a million arrows that were pointing us to go back home early.

So, we left with the intention of showing our house and saving those vacation days for when we need to bring the baby home if we were chosen. Sadly for us, the birthmother decided that she preferred a childless couple.

Deep down, I am thrilled for the couple that will become first-time parents. But the more shallow, self-focused part of me is just plain sad. It felt like all the junk that kept happening on this trip was going to make perfect sense, because it was all leading up to our baby.

Unfortunately, we have come to the realization that all the junk that happened was probably leading up to a bear mauling, and God knew that only the possibility of more babies was gonna tear mama away from this trip.

When Should You Call it Quits?

I think we can all acknowledge that what began as a rough start has morphed into a rough trip altogether. I keep asking Tom if he thinks we should just go home and he said "No, we're not gonna go home, I just wanna keep toying with the idea when things go bad."

We have had a lot of fun, and obviously some memorable hiccups (disasters) in our plan. We have had to change course so many times that we are a couple of days behind schedule. It may seem like no big deal to switch gears, but when each day you are in a different state... Being a few days behind means that we are hundreds of miles behind schedule. It also means that campsite reservations have to be canceled and new campsites found, and that all of the planning and research we have done ahead of time (and some fees paid) are all out the window.

We spent three nights in Virginia beach with Uncle Paul. We had a great time visiting with him, and the kids loved every second of playing "lobster meat," bird watching, crashing the neighbor's sleepover to jump on their trampoline helping make the pancake breakfast. And despite the flash floods... We got to see most of what we hoped to.

We got all of the laundry done, re-ziplocked all the clothes, re-packed the car and re-stocked groceries for the next week's meals. We drove a few hours through the Outer Banks, NC to do the driving trail through the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge. It is said to be the one place in North America where you can predictably see a black bear. (This is why we opted for the driving trail instead of hiking right into a bear's mouth.)

We got there at 4:32pm (32 minutes after they close the gates.) One of the park service police officers saw us sitting outside the gate and came to see if we needed help. When we explained that we needed some tips on where to go from there since our plan fell through his only advice was to "take a Xanax and go to a hotel" because we are "crazy."

Quite the outdoorsmen.

When we arrived at our campsite, we were greeted by a very crowded, wet, swamp of a campsite, and the top third of a large man's butt crack.

We knew that if we stayed there we would be at risk of drowning in our sleep, and we would also be at risk of getting a peak at the other two thirds of the big, bad b-crack.

That's when we called for reinforcements. A few days ago we got an offer from some friends, Robb and Tab Hibbard, to come and stay with them in Virginia. We know them well enough to be excited to see them, but definitely not well enough to actually take them up on an offer that I am certain they made thinking "Let's just put it out there, I mean... There is no way they'll take us up on it! That would be so rude! We hardly know them!"

Well, surprise! We really are that rude. Or desperate as the case may be. So, we are doubling back about 5 hours to stay in a not-swamp with almost-friends who, I am certain, will keep their cracks concealed. God provides.

So, we are not calling it quits just yet. We will collect ourselves and forge ahead with a new plan. Or we will just join the Hibbard household permanently, depending on how it goes.

Big shout out to Uncle P and to Uncle Robb and Auntie Tab for their generous and hospitable willingness to house the pathetic. And an even bigger shout AT the man who's trousers were just low enough in back that it made you want to gouge out your eyes.

Day 8 - fail