Thanksgiving

A couple days ago, while I was working to finalize my Christmas shopping list, I turned to Phoenix and asked her, "Hey baby ... are there any new toys that you would like for presents?"
"I just already have toys in my room," she responded.
"I know, Boo, but are there any other toys that you want?"
"No."

What? Is this real life? I had wrongly projected my assumptions about children at Christmas time on to my girl, and then was blown away by her contentedness. I wasn't in town for Halloween, but apparently, at some point during trick-or-treating, she declared she had enough candy in her pumpkin.

Again, and always, she teaches me. Where it is often my impulse to accumulate (books, clothes, things for the kids, make-up, kitchen tools, whatever), she gave me a profound lesson in temperance inspired by gratitude. She has toys to play with, she enjoys them, and is therefore unconcerned with the next thing.

I love that just before the Christmas season begins, we take an intentional day to reflect and be grateful. How appropriate to stop from the barrage of emails, sale ads and gift lists to take stock of our abundance, both material and intangible.

There is a song by Audrey Assad called "I Shall Not Want" that speaks multitudes about gratitude.
Here are some of the lyrics:

From the love of my own comfort

From the fear of having nothing

From a life of worldly passions

Deliver me, O God

From the need to be understood

From the need to be accepted

From the fear of being lonely

Deliver me, O God

Deliver me, O God

And I shall not want, I shall not want

when I taste Your goodness I shall not want

when I taste Your goodness I shall not want

 This is my prayer for myself and for you this holiday season: that we would taste of the goodness of God, and be left wanting for nothing. Not things, not people, not acceptance, not success ... just basking in the fresh mercy and kindness of God. I recognize that the holidays are hard for many people -  missing home, missing family, mourning loss or estrangement. Even in that hardship, which we have a small taste of this year, may God deliver you from anything and everything that clouds the Presence.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

Friendship

I recently finished reading Father Fiction, by Donald Miller.
Since attending the Storyline conference, I've been trying to read books by all the presenters. Theoretically, I should have done this before attending, so that I could've been as star-struck as my peers. But once I caught a glimpse of the wisdom from the platform, I knew it would serve me well to dig into more of their offerings.

Miller mentioned at the conference the healing process involved in the writing of this book, as he processes his wounds from growing up fatherless and lends fatherly advice to others (specifically men/boys) with similar circumstances. Since I am not the intended audience for this book, much of it's gusto was probably lost on me. 

On an unrelated note: I will likely return to this book when my boy is older, because Miller talks some about abandonment. Jericho will grow up with a strong and loving father, but there will be a very real wound created by separation from his birth parents (even for their heroic reasons). Our parental love will simply not be big enough to heal it, so I will seek to understand those places in his heart (from any avenue available) and pray that he turns to the healing power of God.

One of the last chapters was on friendship, reminding the reader that you become like the people you spend the most time with. And, while reading that chapter, I couldn't help but feel abundantly thankful for the friendships I've been gifted over the years. I think God has been intentionally sowing remembrance into my spirit, first with our return trip to Atlanta and then a visit from some college friends this weekend. I have friends all over the country who know me (the best and worst from different seasons of life) and still love me, who challenge me, who encourage me, who are discontent with the shallow, who make me laugh, who give me hope, who spur me on, who carry me and who dream for me. The preciousness of this gift is not lost on me.

And it gives me great excitement about the friendships that are being forged now, and those that I can't forsee - I am excited to be changed and loved in community again. And again. And again.

If you have the wrong friends, be brave enough to find new ones.
If your friends have expectations of you (instead of dreams for you), find new ones.
If your dearest, inner circle friends aren't pointing you to Jesus, find new ones.

Because I've had the joy of real friendship. It is worth searching the world for, investing years in, and protecting at all costs.

Sibling Prayers

"See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms to uproot and tear down, to destroy and overthrow, to build and to plant."

I think about this verse a lot, and have for many years. Like much of my spirituality, it was sown into my heart during my days in Philly, though I don't remember the specific context. 

More recently, I think about it in the context of my kids. I'm a name nerd. and I pray that their character will someday be a reflection of the ideals woven in their names. I pray that Jericho, with his wall-tumblin' name, will break sin-chains, demolish strongholds and weed out selfishness. I pray that Phoenix, with her ash-rising name, will minister redemption, heal heartaches and spin beauty from pain. And I also pray that someday, in some way, they will minister together. What a team they would make, destroying evil and building love.

I already see echoes of answered prayer in Phoenix's sweet spirit.

I was frantically searching for my phone earlier this afternoon, and admittedly overreacted. I was harsh, intense and just plain angry with Phoenix, who was an innocent bystander hit by my crazy-shrapnel.

She found it, I apologized, and we headed to the post office.

While we were driving, her little three-year-old brain processing the earlier events, she said, "Mommy ... sometimes when grown-up girls get frustrated, big-sister girls can make them happy. I like to make you happy because I love you."

It is not her role or responsibility to attend to my emotional health. But she has always been very empathetic, very aware of the emotional realities of the people around her. Her generous, loving response to my frustration was to not to hide but to heal. 

I feel very grateful to have a front-row seat to the lives of my children, to the unfolding of their being. 

And I was reminded tonight that I also get to help write the script in a small way, not just though my day-to-day parenting, but through prayer. 

So I keep turning that verse from Jeremiah over in my head and my heart, asking that God will appoint them over nations, that they will love God and take territory for the Kingdom.

Autumn Marriage

This past Sunday morning, I woke up early to meet a friend for breakfast. I was driving along a back road, largely zoned-out thinking about coffee and impending wedding details.

Then the beautiful, early morning fog caught my attention as it rolled through a small field into autumn-tinted woods.

With the miracle of marriage on my mind, the sacrament was all I could see in that landscape.

Engaged, one stands in a clearing, looking at the beautiful but shrouded path ahead. A long walk through the woods, like marriage, it is at once mysterious, magical, tedious, exhausting and enchanting. It requires tenacity, patience, endurance, purpose and attention. At times it will be terrifyingly dark, and other times the light will dance through the leaves like a dream. At times momentum will carry you quickly forward, while some inclines will turn mere steps into gargantuan feats. There will be loss of direction, back-tracking, walking in circles, stumbling, and horrible changes in elevation. You become scarred and weathered, yes, but also strong and seasoned. And you see the face of God - the mountains, the clearings, streams, flowers, stars, songbirds - the miraculous moments that drew you to the woods in the first place are bread for the journey.

Sunday night, I watched two dear friends commit to this wooded-walk, knowing little of what lies ahead but certain of their Sustainer. It was a joy to watch them commit their strength and tenderness to one another, and we are eager to share this new season of life with them.

I distinctly remember the first time Yanni brought Kelly over for dinner at our house. She is gentle and soft-spoken, but, within minutes of meeting us, she was fearlessly singing an Aussie birthday song. We were sold.
Over the last couple years, we've had a small window into their relationship - we've seen them grow in communication, in purpose, in kindness and in sacrifice. They are both better people because of their love.

Congrats, Kelly and Yanni. You have all our love, all our support, and any ounce of walking-wisdom we can offer. 

Doug's Home

We are in Atlanta for a few days, and June Irvine so lovingly and graciously opened her home to us. When we were planning this trip, her home seemed the obvious choice - she has the space and we wanted to spend time with her.

As we walked into the house last night, both Josh and I quickly faced an emotional intensity that we weren't expecting.

Just a few short months ago, my hands rested on their siding as fifty of us gathered to pray for Doug's healing, eyes full of tears and atmosphere full of Presence. As I walked out to our car yesterday, I had a vivid flashback of June coming out her back door to update that group of intercessors, leading us all through our suffering while bearing her own.
I honestly spent very little time in this home while Doug was alive, yet every room beckons the memory of him.
The room where we would find our kids playing when we came to pick them up after a long adoption meeting.
The world's most complicated and (apparently) awesome TV - Doug's biggest contribution to the landscape of the house.
The table where we gathered after the funeral, eating sandwiches and tearing up with every story.

And the chair.

June has oh-so-beautifully redone much of their home, with peaceful earthy tones and thoughtful accents. So, in keeping with her new decor, much of the furniture is new.

But the office (where our kids are sleeping) has a chair that is not new ... it is one of the chairs where Doug spent most of his last days, where his body held off the cancer for as long as it could.

I don't want to sit in that chair. I know this is so irrational, but it feels like there must be something left of him, some Dougness that shouldn't be wasted on me. Again, this is going to make me sound crazy, but I want to just plop Jericho right in the middle of that chair and leave him. Doug never got to hold Jericho; it saddens me that Doug's intangibles, his goodness and graciousness and ferocity, were never made tangible through an embrace. I, quite literally, want Doug to rub off on my boy.

That evening when we gathered around to pray, I prayed all the things you are supposed to pray.
The theologically correct things, like "If it is your will, Lord, heal Doug for your glory." But the weeping came when I prayed the real things, like "Spare him for June. Spare him for his girls. Spare him for his grandbabies. Spare him for Josh. Spare him for my babies."

But perhaps facing the emotional intensity of this home is exactly what we, and most specifically Josh, need. To look our loss in eyes, to decidedly grieve again, to attend to the scars.

I wish soul-healing was more like scrape-healing. If I trip and scrape my knee, I can put a bandaid on it and passively trust my body to do the rest. Pray for me, Josh and all those still reeling from Doug's passing, that we would tirelessly and intentionally do the difficult work of healing.

Home

My return flight landed minutes before 10 PM on Sunday night.
We just finished stuffing our minivan with everything we've ever owned so that we can leave at 3 tomorrow morning (or is that tonight?) to head back to Atlanta for a wedding.

The last two days have been a blur of errands and laundry, and I have very little brain space that isn't occupied with a list or a nagging fear of forgotten items. And my two little shadows have been sewn back on, which is such a wonderful blessing and an added dimension of crazy.

I posted a picture on Instagram of my cuties in the cart at Costco, and a couple friends made sweet comments about me being "home."

There are so many places that feel like valid contenders for the title of "home."
Denver.
Waco.
Philly.
Atlanta.
Houston.

Opening the door to my dingy, undecorated apartment didn't really feel like coming home. But I'm not sure any place would.

I am still a transplant. My deep, strong Atlanta roots still ache from being largely severed, and my roots here (while life-giving and new) are understandably underdeveloped. 

In a rare solitary drive tonight, I listened to the song "Lift Your Head Weary Sinner" (David Crowder) over and over and over. This lyric arrested me:

If you're lost and wandering
Come stumbling in like a prodigal child

On one level, the music makes me feel like my vagabond heart is swampy and gritty and romantic in the most earthy way.
More importantly, it's a reminder that "home" is where my Father's doors swing wide for me.



(Here is a video with the song ... forgive the cheesy background picture):

Haunting Word

Words are my love language, my most natural form of worship and my medium, and therefore they wield great power in my heart. And there is a word that has been (quite literally) keeping me awake at night for the last week.

Squander.
     To waste (something) in a reckless and foolish manner.
     To allow an opportunity to pass or be lost.

I can't nail down its entry point into my brain, which is what makes me suspicious that God brought it to my attention.

A whispered warning.

I went to the Storyline conference in Chicago this week to hear from God about writing. And I definitely heard from God - about writing, about my past, about redemption, about my heart, about God's love, about agency, and so much more.
It will take me much time and reflection to bring more specific lessons to this space.

Here is what I do know: I don't want to intentionally waste or passively forgo the invitation of God. The invitation to be a co-worker in creativity, a contributor to the Kingdom and a child of second-chances.

More to come.