warning: the following contains references to faith, living green, and poop

“Acquiring a dog may be the only opportunity a human ever has to choose a relative.” 

Mordecai Siegal (b. 1934)

Today is one of those days when the world closes in with low hanging clouds and the endless sound of drizzle drips on the porch.  I love these days.  (Granted they are infrequent and sporadic…)

Especially high on my list of pros is the view of mountains on a day like this.  You can’t see them fully.  Your eyes begin at the base and slowly climb upward until the wall of white swallows up the mass.  

It’s perfect for imagining. 

When you can’t see the top, limits are abandoned.  

The mountain could be just a foothill. 

Or Mt. Everest.  

Only the cloud knows.

I love mystery and wonder of it all.

“If you rest, you rust.” 

Helen Hayes (1900-1993)

There are moments when God speaks.  Clear.  Strong.  Unexpected.  In a whisper.  In a storm.  With a healing.  With a heartbreak.

For the past while, I’ve been writing a book capturing the beauty and promise of those moments; times when we see that God desires for us to move beyond cheesy Americanized religion toward passionate, real-life, experiential encounters with him.  

I’d love to hear your stories.

Would you share one of those moments, when you experienced God?  Did you see his hand in your life?  Has he moved in your world?  Was it gentle?  Did it blow your mind? 

Don’t hold back.   Come on, already.  Share.

“Expect the unexpected.”  That’s what we’ve always said about adoption.  Twists, turns, unexpected events.  It’s the norm.  Good, bad, and ugly.

As most of you know, our path to growing a family has been a bit adventuresome to say the least.  We’ve gone through several adoption venues and most recently have been in the process of adopting twin toddler boys from Ethiopia.  Through all of the ups and downs, we’ve had an extraordinary sense of peace that God is in control.  Something we’re very thankful for, as we’ve often times felt very out of control.

In our last attempt for adoption, three years into our dreams of little African boys, last year we began hearing dates of October, December, January, February… you get the picture.

While we know all things work out in the end, we have been frustrated by the constant delays and confused by the immediate medical needs of the boys, our picture of what God should want for our lives, and the current state of our personal world.  

Earlier this year, as I was looking at pictures of the boys and thinking about the future of our 7 year old foster girl, I began to pray with a deeper sense of urgency.  I prayed for wisdom, for direction.  I prayed for divine intervention.  Most of all, I prayed that whatever was going to happen, would happen quickly — for the long-range protection of the children.

Almost immediately the cogs began spinning.  In February, we were told it had all come together; within forty days or so, we would be the legal parents of rugrats.  We began making travel plans, securing a motorcycle tour for Toby and locating museums for myself.  

I got the first twinge in early March.  I woke up and told Toby that the boys weren’t coming home.  “Nonsense,” he said.  “Don’t speak like that.  You’re looking at the past again, we need to look forward.”  But, I knew.

A week later, he woke up with the same feeling.

The next week, we got the call that sealed the deal.  As difficult as it to write this, the adoption from Ethiopia is over.  We are devastated.  

But, the loop-de-loop wasn’t over.

The next day, we got a call that OCS had switched directions, and our foster daughter (in our home for over a year) was being quickly reunited with her biological mother.

I could barely catch my breath.  Much less think, communicate pleasantly, or write.  

Slowly, I’m starting over.  I have a beautiful, pink, girly room (complete with fairies, butterflies, and ballerinas) to reclaim, and a closet full of baby boy clothes to sell.  The cribs and toys are going on Craigslist and I’m giving away the boxes of diapers.

Our social worker has set us up to foster two more wonderful boys in the system.  They’re 8 and 10.  She says we might adopt them.  They love our dog.  We love their smiles.  

It could happen.  

Only God knows.

In the meantime, I continue the ride; reaching for my lap bar hoping that I’m securely fastened in tight.  There’s not much else I can do.

This is our life, this roller coaster.  This is how we live.  Gasping for breath.  Loving the view from the top.  Throwing our hands in the air as we whip around corners.  And screaming for joy and horror as we fly up and down, and around, and back up again.

“Did you ever stop to think, and then forget to start again?” 

A.A Milne (1882-1956)

“I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch.”
Gilda Radner (1946-1989)

My thoughts exactly.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?  Why?”

“I’m not quite sure.”

It was my curse.  This ridiculous compulsion to accept responsibility for the whole of life.

I thought I had kicked the habit.  I thought I had learned to trust and live and breathe.  But, like a tickle in the back of a throat, this hacking, coughing condemnation snuck back into my life again; catching me completely off guard.

I found myself reverting back to my instinct to blame myself for random acts of life, and take on more than ever; most of which is completely out of my control.  I have felt responsible for my infertility, the economy, growth of our church, failed adoptions, decisions my friends have made, and God’s timing in other people’s lives.  

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Guilt.  It sweeps in and captures the mind, overwhelming the senses and paralyzing thoughts of a future.  At times, it surrounds a legitimate issue or a poor choice.  Often, it is launched by completely uncontrollable circumstances or familial history.

As I mentioned in the launch of my lent project, my life is often drizzled with guilt.  Occasionally, the guilt is triggered by the memory of a bad choice or decisions, and often by the realization of a wasted opportunity.  More often than not, it floods my mind as quickly and naturally as breathing; not because of anything I’ve done, but simply because of who I have come to be.  

“I’m sorry.”  It was the motto of my childhood.  I heard it all the time.  I said it all the time.  

Early in life, I was taught to “take the low road” in interpersonal conflicts, and to “remember who you are and what you stand for”.  Taking responsibility for my actions and any conflict was very important, and doing what I could to remain a proper example for other was equally valued in my home.

While a respectable standard for living, for me somehow this belief system morphed into a warped view of the world.  Everything was my responsibility.  I apologized because a restaurant ran out of soup; I should have anticipated this and suggested a different diner.  I apologized when we ran out of milk; I should have bought a cow for the backyard.  I apologized when a mobile call was dropped; I should have mounted a cell tower to the roof of my car.  I apologized when flights were delayed; I should have my own jet by now.  I apologized when I wasn’t able to do brain surgery; where’s my dang scalpel, anyway?  

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Help Wanted:  Looking for corporate cheerleader to toss boatloads of confetti at narcissistic, self-focused employees and fill voicemail boxes with chipper-sounding “employee celebration” messages.

Today, as I was reading over past notes in my moleskine, I came across an article that I read two years ago in the Wall Street Journal.  As a result of the coming of age of the latest surge of coddled youth, employers and spouses are faced with the crazy task of learning how to motivate, placate, and celebrate the new generation of contributors to our national workforce.

Corporate “celebration” advisors encourage employers to pass out helium balloons, offer a continuous flow of compliments, and, yes, toss confetti at workers - all in an attempt to keep them happy and committed.

While these measures are said to promote job retention and marriage interaction, the backlash is that often the acts and statements become rote and soon lose all depth and meaning.  The givers become detached and generate compliments merely as a means of expected communication, and the recipients become so attuned to praise that they respond to little else.

So my question is: how does this impact the church?

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