One Roof | Africa

One Time Around The Sun

2012-01-15T22:53:00.012-06:00

It started with a squeeze. Or two....

Then there were the cows. And the baby calf that shares a birthday, except Constance is a whole year older.

..but not bigger...

Mama and Papa were lots bigger, so we decided our photo op was through. We took our jugs full of raw milk and eased on down the road.

Home, where we were met by Papa and Grandma and a brand-new car!

Should one be old enough for a license? She liked driving.

Then Grammy and Grampa Laffy came too. And it was a party! Grammy says everyone needs one of these. Constance agreed.

Then came Dolly. Mama thinks every little girl should have one of these. They're super-duper sweet custom handmade dollies by my friend Jesse at Be Mary By Hand. Constance liked her eyes. Dolly didn't mind that she poked them...

...'cause Dolly is cool like that.

Poof! The next year begins.

376. Nursing baby snuggles
377. Slings, Wraps, Ergos
378. Steamed kale love
379. Her laugh
380. How she wraps us all in her love
381. Eight teeth
382. The gap between her teeth
383. Mama from her lips....honey to my soul
384. Sleeping with her in my arms
385. Those steely grey/green/blue eyes
386. And many more.....

A Year of Steadfast, Unfailing Love.

2012-01-14T11:05:00.009-06:00

[Note: She's one today. ONE. O.N.E. And I'm remembering the day she passed through the darkness, into the light and into our arms...]

"I'm not strong anymore," I stammered, gasping for breath. "Not after all that's happened. After last year." The pain of another contraction began. "Please. Please, I need drugs."

His eyes, those deep, green, melt-me-right-through eyes, met mine and he whispered, "Okay. Whatever you need." Our first four were natural births; I chose not to use drugs.

I lay on my side, trying to run from the pain, the contractions that were coming now every three minutes and the back labor that I could not escape. The three of them--my Love and two doulas--pushed down on my tailbone, doing all they could to ease my unbelievable aching. These nine months coming to a quick end, and all the pain I've carried inside surfacing, leaving me undone. In my mind, I just kept running. "Please," I whimpered, "I just want to sleep. I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. Just make it stop. Make it stop!

But. It. Wasn't.

I remembered the day. How all day Noah, the one and only, this boy who prayed for a brother now begging me: "Please have my sister today! I just want to hold her!" And the Blondie One demanding at lunch time: "I want the baby to come out of your tummy!"

I agreed with the children: I too wanted to see this precious one. To hold her in my arms. Smell her freedom scent. I felt a small whisper say, "You'll start labor at eight tonight." It was six and we were having dinner. I took note of it and went on with our evening.

But now. Now? No. I was not ready. I needed more time. Sleep. Please. It was two in the morning.

Then the prayer came back to me, the words I had spoken just hours earlier. In an effort to begin labor two days past my due date, walking the neighborhood, the children running wildly ahead with Daddy, I whispered the words. "Father, use me. I'm open. I submit to your will. Your will be done. Amen."

Three weeks ago I had read it. Submission and courage... in labor and birth, this is what it all comes down to. Had I meant it? Was I really wanting to be used for His will? Or just to be relieved of the swollen womb now stretched nine months' thin?

The pain began again and all I could do was beg... please, please, something needs to be done. Something needs to be done.

We'd only just arrived two hours earlier... My Love had forced me out of my comfortable bed and into our minivan to drive to the hospital where I would birth our fifth child. I did not want to go. At home, stalling between contractions just four minutes apart, I argued that they were not strong enough and that I probably wasn't really in labor. We should stay a bit longer. My Love called our friend Molly to come stay with our other four. We were on our way.

The doulas met us at the hospital door and up we went. The nurses took no time checking me in and when they checked to see how far dialated I was, we all sighed.

"You're just a two," she'd said, the nurse named Kim.

I knew it! "Let's just go home," I whispered to my Love.

"No, let's stay and see what happens," he said. "You always go fast."

This is true. I do. Charlotte Anne, the strong woman of grace and favor, only took two and a half hours to arrive.

We stayed. But I did not want to be there.

Everyone knew it, too. The home birth I planned was now just a dream and my Love held my face in his hands and whispered "I need you to be okay with staying. We're having our baby in the hospital. Can you embrace that?" I just cried. Another plan, another broken dream. Oh, how many of these can I take?

Olafur Arnalds played in the background and the aroma of lavender, frankincense and eucalyptus filled the room. My three helpers where there to do whatever I needed to massage away the ache. The scene was peaceful.

But my heart was a mess.

Marlita, our dear friend and doula, thought it would be best for the nurses to check me again to see how I'd progressed. I had not yet even been officially admitted.

"A four/five!" said the nurse, this time named Amy.

The mood in the room lightened... except for me. A four/five? "Oh, I can't do this! It's taking forever!" I reeled.

The room began to spin as they did all it took to admit me. Lights were turned on. Bracelets affixed. Vital signs checked. Heplock jammed into the side of my wrist. When the nurse could not get my rolling veins to cooperate after shoving the needle around for a few minutes, she called in reinforcements: the lab lady from downstairs was sent for.

They left the room and for a moment there was peace again. But still, my heart was troubled. Had God forgotten me? Was He not going to help me through this labor? I was not strong. My Love called me Brave but really I'm a coward. All I want is sleep. And for this pain to stop. Please, why more pain? Were the last two years not enough? Can I get any relief? I can't take this!

Then the disco ball rolled in. It was the woman from downstairs, the lab technician here to take my blood, complete with a pound of makeup and hairspray. She bulldozed her way through the doulas warning them to "Move out of the way" and over to my left arm. My Love was on my right, holding my hand through the pain. Like he has for years. Strong standing with me as I fall apart.

This shock of a woman had me running inside again. But this time, something changed. The wave of a contraction surged through my body and the lab technician began to poke and prod my arm. The pain was peaking when she asked me to make a fist. I was concentrating. Again, she commanded, "Make a fist, sweetheart!"

My Love, irritated, asked, "Could we just please wait for this contraction to end?" She dimmed, and in that moment of lights and noise I found peace. I ran to it. In my breathing I called out to the only one that could help me. I could only breathe, "Yahweh."

Another surge came and I did not run.

Closing my eyes, I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..."

The tight squeeze rolled over my womb down my back through my pelvis and down to my toes. Each contraction more intense. Each push bringing forth life out of the darkness of my womb. And with each breath I called to Him, "Yahweh..." and He was there. And He whispered to my now-open ears:

I've never left you. All this year darling, I've been by your side. Just like now. See?

Yes, yes, now I see. They were coming so much stronger now, faster. Threatening to crush me. My head moved from side to side as I fought to breathe. I breathed it out again, "Yahweh..." With every breath, blowing down to my toes, speaking to our dear baby girl to follow my breath and come through to light. To show us her beautiful, wet, vernix-covered face.

The room was so still. So holy. Christ himself asking me to allow Him to be strong in me. That all I needed to do was to breathe. Just breathe. I did. I did.

Another check, only an hour since the last one. "Eight."

There was a burst of water. A scurry of feet. Nurses only. The doctor had not made it yet. I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..." My body burning with fire from the pressure of life. Joy coming out of darkness, surging through the deepest, darkest parts of me.

I breathed and felt her body move down.

The pressure. Oh, the pressure.

I breathed, "Yahweh..."

A man's voice broke through and with one push she was here. Steadfast, unfailing love came into the world through a beautiful baby girl. Constance Charity Palmer. They laid her meconium-covered body in my arms and I bawled, "I needed you!"

Yes, I did. I needed her. To see. To see through pain to the light of truth. To see that beauty was just on the other side of this darkness. And that through that dark tunnel I was never alone. He never left me. Never abandoned this too-broken mess.

Joy, just on the other side of pain. I'm so thankful for the grace that opened these shut-tight eyes.

And these last days I've been struck by joy. Unspeakable joy. Her eyes. Her blotchy pink skin. Her dark hair. All grown inside me. That the Father makes beauty from a mess. Oh.

Those first sacred morning hours with my precious one. Jesus just loving me through her. Then these first days home every moment, hour, passing by... just so holy. All of it. All of this darkness, all of this darkness... and now light.

I feel held and loved. I feel rescued and delivered. I feel birthed. Whole.

And how is it that so much love can be in such a tiny package? She's messy. She's uncoordinated. She's completely dependent. And I see myself in her. I see that the only thing I can do is breathe and rely on the Father. "Yahweh..."

And this video of her birth that my Love put together. Ugly cry. So much sweetness.

Thankful for a year of kissing those sweet cheeks and many more! Happy birthday, dear baby Constance.

Group Hug America: Questions and Answers

2012-01-10T12:39:00.006-06:00

Since we announced Group Hug America last week, we've gotten a good response from family, friends, and well-wishers. We've also gotten a few questions, and, since they tend to be the same ones, we thought it'd be a good idea to post the questions and their answers here. Clarification is always a good thing.

What will you be sharing? Do you have an outline or a prepared message?
At this point, we do not have an outline or flow for what we would be sharing, because we don't really know what a time of sharing would look like yet. Group Hug America is not really a tour--it's more like a pilgrimage, where we can enter into the lives of others and swap stories with them, really. Share in their pain and their suffering and offer hope. Each stop will be different, depending on the needs/desires of our hosts and what we feel like God wants to do in us and through us at that particular stop.

Where will you be sharing? Can you come to my place?
We want to share anywhere God opens a door, whether that be through stories and songs in an intimate, collaborative time in someone's living room or through a more traditional time of worship in a church or small concert venue. We have a general idea of our overall route (more on that later), but if you'd like us to pay you a visit and it lines up with our basic itinerary, we'd love to hear from you. Feel free to contact us through our new email address: group hug america (at) gmail (dot) com.

What are your desired outcomes? How do you hope to see healing come through this?
Our main desired outcome from the trip would be the complete healing of the trauma of these last three years, as well as from deeper spiritual wounds that maybe we haven't addressed fully. We're energized by the thought of getting out of a routine for a few months and pursuing Jesus across the country, interacting with his people. We believe God is going to open doors for us to simultaneously give and receive (like a hug), and that by doing so, we'll have a better sense of purpose and direction for moving forward as a family. What we've been doing since we got back hasn't been working for us, and so we need to shake things up, do something out of the ordinary, and find a passion to pursue again. We need to come back to who we are and choose to live through the pain.

And yes, we have set up a new email address specifically for Group Hug America, which is (creatively): group hug america (at) gmail (dot) com.

As always, more to come!

[Art credits: The Palmer Kids]

The Big Announcement!

2012-01-02T11:02:00.013-06:00

Finally, at long last, the announcement we alluded to almost a month ago. But first, some context:

We got radical in 2009 and moved to Uganda—-and that fell apart, so it was back to the United States for us.

Our knee-jerk reaction was then to play it safe, so we tried to live the stereotypical American dream with a safe house and safe job—=and that fell apart.

In both of our radically different lifestyles over the past few years, we've learned a hard truth:

Outside of the Father's arms, there is no such thing as safety.

Our culture's notion of safety is an illusion. And when we try to play it safe and minimize the risks, the hurt, the suffering, we discover that those things manage to find their way in eventually. We are not guaranteed--nor will we get--a perfect life.

The only safe place is in the Father. In His plan, in His arms. In Him we are safe, huddled, protected, covered.

And so, with that in mind, we're seeing through the illusion of safety and have decided to nestle into the Father and get back to being our real selves. We need to heal from the deep soul wounds we’ve sustained these last few years, so after much prayer, we’re following the Father and taking the summer off to share our story, live and in person, using words and music, throughout the United States-—all while restoring and celebrating relationships that are flung across the country.

We’re giving America a big group hug.

Call it therapy, call it an awakening, call it a revival, call it any of those things--we're calling it “Group Hug America: Sharing Stories and Songs on the Road to Healing.” Starting in May 2012, we’re hitting the road, and since you've followed us on our journey this far, maybe you'll want to follow us a few more thousand miles and maybe, just maybe, into your hometown.

Of course, a trip like this requires money. At the moment, we currently expect it to cost at least $10,000, if not more-- we're currently brainstorming fundraising ideas to meet that goal and we'll be sharing those soon. But if 500 people give us $20 each, well, that'd be swell! So if you feel like donating toward it, just click the "Donate" button in the upper right hand corner of this page and give us a hug.

And most of all, please pray that we are open and receptive to all the Father wants to do in our hearts, minds, and lives through this excursion.

Thank you for your prayers in 2011. We look forward to what God will do in 2012!

Two Years And Counting...

2011-12-04T22:48:00.001-06:00

Two years.

Two years ago, we stepped off a plane, collected our bags, followed the signs in the Dallas airport, showed our passports, and officially reentered the United States.

They haven't been our favorite two years, but we've done the best we could. Even this past year, we tried to play it safe and only got kicked. Twice.

And we're discovering that what we're doing isn't working, so we're putting together something that will finally help us breathe again, be excited again, live again. We were hoping to announce it today, on our second anniversary of returning to the United States, but we have some loose ends to tie up and don't want to put the cart before the horse.

So stay tuned. More to come.

Messy Advent Days: Day 1 1/2

2011-12-02T09:34:00.015-06:00

We missed our first night of Advent readings--the flickering flame of hope was dark. But hope was not lost and we began it on the second day, in style, over breakfast (we'll read Day Two tonight... hopefully!).

Here's a peek into our first reading...

My Love began reading in Genesis 3:1; Constance was not a happy camper.

He read on to Genesis 3:6: "When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it."

And Constance, as if taking a cue from Eve, did a quick grab of Noah's morning smoothie...

"And she saw that the fruit was good."

A completely fitting start to Advent for the Palmers, don't you think?

Celebrating Advent: for bigs and littles

2011-12-01T08:02:00.011-06:00

The season is upon us and we are filled with joy! I wanted to share some of the meaningful ways we as a family celebrate this beautiful season of Advent.

The Cradle to the Cross Wreath made by my sweet friend Ann Voskamps son Caleb and family. We light the flickering flame of hope and wait for the Christ child to come.

We've enjoyed the gift of the Jesse Tree Advent Family Devotional from Ann as well.

And this year I'm so excited to incorporate Truth in the Tinsel an ebook for Advent designed with littles in mind. There are super cute crafts with multiple schedules to fit your families needs.

I pray this finds you all well and that you find special ways to celebrate the season with your loved ones. Ways beyond gifts that point to the One true gift.

May these next 25 days fill you with joy and peace from God our Lord and the Christ child coming to the cradle.

Hope is coming.

Thanksgiving Matters

2011-11-24T11:37:00.004-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. A few weeks ago while our family shopped at the local Target, our Noah was very disturbed by the tinsel and trees and Christmas music playing before we even celebrated Thanksgiving. He felt there should be songs to celebrate the holiday, and so began his journey to this album, Thanksgiving Matters! We hope you will enjoy these original songs written, recorded, and produced by Noah (age 10).

[Note: Dorothy and Charlotte contributed vocals to "We Wish You a Happy Thanksgiving." Dorothy unintentionally contributed flute to "Pumpkin Pies," as she was practicing in the other room while Noah recorded his vocals.]

The Grace of Interruption

2011-10-07T08:35:00.003-05:00

"Mama will you lay with me?"

I sigh. Why is this glaring screen more enticing to me than her seven-year-old nighttime snuggles?

"In a minute," I reply, thinking she might just go fall asleep before I get to her. More than "a minute" passes and then, from the bedroom, "Mama?"

I relent. Walk down the dark hall into her even darker room. Grumble as I trip over the toys left out and the Sit-n-Spin rumbles loud under my feet. Will this house ever be mess-free?!

She's tucked in under her t-shirt quilt, a Christmas gift I had made for each of us before our move to Uganda. I cuddle her close, smell her hair, rub my fingers down her arms, think of how big she is growing and she really should have had a shower before bed and she giggles, "Mama, you're taking up a lot of room." In my snuggling I inadvertently took over her pillow and now she's just lying on a corner. I scooch over a bit.

She asks for a song. "But not a catchy one--I don't want to be singing it all night." I begin to sing "Stay Awake," but she stops me. "No, no, not that one! Less catchy!" Aggravated, I sing "Amazing Grace," with all the verses. She calls Benny to her side; he lies down and lays his head across her tummy.

The song's almost over and Noah stumbles in from his room, fortunately steering clear of the Sit-n-Spin. "Mom, will you lay with me?"

I have things to do, yes, but I consent and send him back to his bed to wait on me. I sing another chorus; Benny and Dorothy sing back to me with their snores. My little gift of grace ever-growing, and will there be a day when she doesn't need a mama's nuzzle hug and song to find rest?

I kiss her cheek and go down the hall to the one and only, Noah, waiting for me in his bed. He's nine and still loves a good snuggle time, though he rarely he asks. Everything in me wants to memorize these moments. These too-precious, fleeting moments when hugs and songs are enough to bring rest. I beg/pray that the Father will remind me ever so gently, when I get too caught up in myself, to remember that these days will not always be. That there will be a day free of mess, and that day will also be free of babies and children and scraped knees and silly laughter.

Amazing grace to embrace it all. Always.

[Note: This is an archived post originally posted on April 12, 2011, and was featured on Story Bleed on October 5, 2011 If you'd like to click through and comment on the Story Bleed post that'd be just peachy.]

Glimpses In The Darkness

2011-10-05T07:00:00.000-05:00

I get the call. Voice strong, solid, on the other end of the line. "We had our appointment with the doctor this morning," they said. "The tumor was cancerous."

Shock. Fear. Dread. Anger. All in a split second. I choke it down brave. "Oh, I am so sorry. I'm so sorry."

My mind races with what I can do for them. On this earth. In the moment. Right now. Cook dinner, pick up the kids, help around the house, pray... I need to do something. The voice on the other line smiles. "We'll let you know. Thank you."

I blurt it out, ugly, raw: "This is not the news I wanted to hear!" Silence. Mind spinning, I know what I've said, what my breakneck-speed tongue has run off with. The voice in my head responds for them: "Really, that's funny. It's not what we wanted to hear, either!" My mind can whip me harder than a steel-cut man could. I bleed.

I have experience with this news and I remember the words from my childhood, spoken by my cousin: "I love being thirteen, I want to be thirteen forever." Life dances in her eyes, but the cancer in her brain is sucking it right out. She fights. We all do.

Prayers, hopes, begging a larger-than-cancer God to make it right. Put it all back together. Because isn't that what a good God would do? He heals her and she's now whole but it was not what we asked for. We want her back. Her sparkling eyes, her fabulous laugh, that smile. Living. On. This. Earth.

It comes back to me on the phone with my friend, and the fear rises up. Lately, fear has sucked the very breath out of me. I'm so afraid of dying after the five men with shotguns burst through my door. That night when I walked slowly past the barrels of those guns, begging a good God to let me live, imagining the children hearing the gunshot that ended my life. The night I closed the door, protecting my young and releasing my Love into the unknown, five barrels now pointing at him. So afraid of dying that I've stopped living. Yes, I breathe in and out, the crisp, fall air cutting my lungs. But the joy of every breath is right gone.

Glimpses come, when the blondie smiles wide, all smoothie-faced and delicious. Or the unfailing love looks deep into my eyes, believing in something, someone I do not see. How can she even remember? Or when he holds me strong and kisses deep and I remember how good it feels to melt in his arms. How the everyday hard of living life with these six and the pressure that I nearly collapse under reminds me there is still life to be lived outside these four walls.

I read about cages and hurts and my eyes open to the bars in front of me. Self-made chamber to protect what little is left of my beating heart.

But here it is. And this I can hold on to when it's all falling apart and I'm gasping for my next breath.

Where there is life, there is hope. Not all fates are the same, and my friend is still here.

And hope is life. And hope gives life. And I am not the lonely-wounded, forever. In the words of J.R.R. Tolkien, of all people, "I do not believe this darkness will endure."

"A whole belly full."

2011-09-19T06:00:00.010-05:00

Our strong woman of grace and favor turns four today!!!! (I put four exclamation marks there to really drive the point home)

Happy Birthday to our blue-eyed, blondie Charlotte Anne. We're all in awe of your grace and strength. Your beauty and passion for life. How everything is wonder, and you soaking it all in. I'm honored to be your mama, my darling. Watching you grow is an everyday gift.

Over the years our Char Char has had some delightfully adorable things to say, as young ones tend to do when they're learning the language. These are some of our family's favorite gems as of late...

"Mama, I'm opening my eyes wide so you can see the ocean."

"Mama, this chocolate meelk (milk) is gooood."

"I don't want almond milk, I want wegulah milk."

"I love you my whole belly full!"

"I love you with my whole life."

"I love you with my whole heart."

"What's tomorrow? Is it tomorrow today?"

"Daddy, can you please put 'Silvia' on?" [Current iPod play count: 52]

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 16, 17, 19, 20."

"Constance, you're the cutiest awesome baby!"

"Mama, you are cute and beautiful."

"I want to pray!!!"

"Daddy, can you please put 'The Cave' on?" [Current iPod play count: 68]

"I want someone to play with me a long time!"

"Mama, I talked in my class today. A lot!"

"Daddy, I want you to read Ping to me tonight."

"Didja hear a click, Frank?"

"Daddy, can you please put 'Lippy Kids' on?" [Current iPod play count: 22 (it's her new favorite)]

"You are such my mommy helper!"

Dorothy (gesturing to Charlotte's newest watercolor painting): "Charlotte, what's that a picture of?"
Charlotte: "God knows what it is!"

"Mama, whif (if) we had a big swing set in our backyard, as big as the backyard, anybody who comed over to our house can swing!"

Mama: "Who said you could get that [treat]?"
Charlotte (finger to her chest): "Myself did."
Mama (holding back giggles): "Yourself is not the boss."
Charlotte (chewing said treat): "Mama and Daddy and Jesus and God is the boss." (gulp)

(After spilling a spoonful of yogurt on the stairs) "Mama, I didn't do it. The spoon did it!"

(Getting out the broom)
Charlotte: "Mama, may I please sweep the whole house?"
Mama: "Why?"
Charlotte: "Because it's a big mess." (Wrestles unsuccessfully with dustpan that's clipped to the broom) "Can you please take the dustpan off this sweepy thing?"

365. How her eyes sparkle love. Pure and endless.
366. The back of her head in the morning, knotted and wild.
367. That tiny scruffy voice
368. Squeezy hugs.
369. These last four years.
370. Joy in simple things.
371. Nighttime stories again and again.
372. Constance in her arms.
373. A heart overflowing.
374. Every hard day that leads to beautiful grace.
375. Her healing. Strong. Whole.

Eight Months

2011-09-15T06:00:00.000-05:00

Everything that is right and beautiful in the world is held in her eyes. That smile. How she believes in me when I don't believe in myself. When the world as I know it has ended and my days seem grey, she believes. Still.

The way she wriggles her chubby legs to get to freedom, the whimpers in the night for a belly full of milk. How she wraps her tootsies around my fingers and my whole heart around hers. The words of love to her sister "dada" and her daddy "dada," not to be confused.

Her never-failing love that wraps us all up in His.

Tides Turning

2011-09-13T06:00:00.000-05:00

We Palmers visited a long-lost friend this summer. The Gulf of Mexico, ocean enough for these land-locked Okies. Oh, to describe the endless wonder of them running in and out of the water. Smiles wide. Laughing loud. And mama too. Baby napping on the beach every day. It was wonderfully refreshing. We see it, the tides turning.

A Brand New Day

2011-09-12T06:00:00.003-05:00

Thousands of flags wave proud in the September sunshine. The children walk solemn into the field of flags and we are heavy with loss. Each flag representing a life lost on the day our world changed. 9/11. It is the tenth anniversary and we're sharing this scar on our nation's history with the children.

Our Emma remarks how it's unbelievable this happened when she was alive. Noah just wishes it had never happened. Dorothy soaks it all in--I can see the weight of it all bearing down on her soul. Charlotte wonders when we'll go home; she's "kind of tired."

We spent the day remembering. And I could not help but ache for the many whose lives were changed that day. The shock. The horror. How it replays in your mind. How in a matter of minutes your life can change forever.

Like the kick has done to mine. To ours. How every night I lay awake, replaying it, the terror of it all fresh in my mind. I thank the Father for our lives spared. I am so very grateful for this breath, and this one and this one and...

He is good. He binds up our wounds and heals our broken souls. I eagerly await healing this side of heaven. There is hope for a brand new day.

353. Wide-open eyes that show me the ocean
354. Her solemn face taking it all in
355. Impromptu photo shoots with daughters
356. Forever friends across the miles
357. Remembering together
358. Dinner together every night
359. Flute and cello
360. Documentary video hope
361. Photos that speak
362. Setting sun and frisbees flying
363. Text messages that encourage
364. Handed-down winter warmth

"Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them slip from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. Remember the day...You came near and stood at the foot of the mountain while it blazed with fire to the very heavens, with black clouds and deep darkness."
-Deuteronomy 4:9-11 [NIV]

Uncertainty

2011-09-08T10:44:00.000-05:00

If there is a running theme of my life over the past decade or so, it is one of uncertainty.

I am an infrequent contributor to the very-good website Internet Monk. This week, they have asked all the contributing writers to share their reflections on the events of September 11, 2001. You can read my contribution, about uncertainty, here.

A Kick, The Ocean, And Another Kick Goodbye

2011-08-18T10:03:00.009-05:00

Because you've wondered....

Here we are, finding ourselves in yet another transition. Shifting once more from a just-settling normal amongst this chaotic, beautiful life to a new normal. Again.

We went from a new job to the kick of fear. That booted us into a home with four walls and thirteen people for almost a month (thanks, Powells!) until we found a new home (yay for houses!).

From there, we had less than a week of unpacking before a long-planned and much-awaited family vacation on the beach (thanks, mom and dad!). Back to the new house for more unpacking (boo for unpacking, yay house again.) A week of out-of-town visitors (we love you, Keefers!).

And now--drumroll, please--another kick. This time, a kick in Adam's over-starched corporate pants (poetic license here--I don't iron). They just didn't fit him well and his boss let him know that, then kindly showed him to the door (hello again, freelancing career!).

So as you can see, we've been a bit, how do you say, "Swamped!" We have had little time to update this here roof. But we love it here in our cozy home and we're coming back. Regular posts will resume again (yay internet!)

'Cause we love you all and are so grateful you choose to slip under our roof and join us in this beautiful mess.

Talk soon.

Poetry Friday: Choosing the Definition of Me

2011-07-01T06:00:00.003-05:00

I was in the midst of a hard week at my new job. Nothing special. Just that standard frustration that happens when you think you've gone down the right track only to have those above you who are calling the shots tell you that you've actually gone in the opposite direction from what they anticipated. If you've ever worked for anyone ever, you know the feeling.

And in that moment I'm sitting there thinking about how, nine days ago, I was staring down the barrel of a gun, and do I really need this right now?

Can't my boss cut me some slack? Can't they give me a break?

Then those thoughts stepped on a tripwire in the back of my brain and I got mad. At myself.

Let's step back for a moment. I've written before about the sour taste that develops in my mouth when I start defining myself based on what I do. That is not the point. The point is to be. Wherever, whenever: just be.

Yet there I was, defining myself not by what I do but by something that happened to me. To my wife. To our family.

I was letting it take over. The fear, the hypersensitivity, the exhaustion, the overwhelming disarray that has become our lives as we scramble to find housing. We are in as good a home situation as we can be right now, and we are extremely thankful for and humbled by it, but it's just not home.

All those things were colluding in that moment to become the definition of me.

And I had to stop it.

I had to take a stand and remind myself of who I am and what defines me. i had to make a choice not to let the difficulties take over.

So that's what I've been deciding ever since then. I haven't always made the best choices, but I've slowly been shifting my mind over to think on good things, right things. To remember what God says about me. Occasionally I get it right.

All this was on my mind when I listened to Gillian Welch's sublime new album The Harrow & the Harvest yesterday. She and her cohort David Rawlings are modern-day troubadours of Americana with voices that blend as smoothly as oatmeal and maple syrup (which I regard as a good thing).

The entire record is brilliant, but one song stood out in stark relief. Called "Hard Times," it starts as the story of a man plowing a field, encouraging his mule just to make it "to the end of the row." It ends as a reminder that my choices are my own, and regardless of what happens to those who encourage or influence me, I am still solely responsible for the way I decide to view myself and the world.

I listened, and I learned, and I worked in a new direction that my boss is much more pleased with. And as the lyrics, music, and vocal delivery combined to create a thrill in my heart and a mist in my eyes, I remembered Whose I am.

Hard Times
(words and music [I'm assuming] by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings)

There was a camp-town man, used to plow and sing
He loved that mule and the mule loved him
When the day got long, as it does about now,
I'd hear him singing to his muley-cow:

"Come on, my sweet old girl
I'd bet the whole damn world
We're gonna make it yet to the end of the row."
Singing, "Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, Bessie
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind no more."

He said it's a mean old world, heavy in need
And that big machine is just picking up speed
We're supping on tears; we're supping on wine
We all get to heaven in our own sweet time

So come on, you Asheville boys
And turn up your old-time noise
Kick 'til the dust comes up from the cracks in the floor
Singing, "Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, brother
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind no more."

But the camp-town man, he doesn't plow no more
I've seen him walking down to the cigarette store
Guess he lost that knack and he forgot that song
Woke up one morning and the mule was gone

So come on, you ragtime kings
And come on, you dogs, and sing
Pick up your dusty old horn and give it a blow
Playing, "Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, honey
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind, sugar
Hard times ain't gonna rule my mind no more."

[NOTE: If we use music for Poetry Friday, we try to embed the song in the post so you can listen along as you read. I scoured the internet and couldn't find an embed-able version of "Hard Times," but you can listen to it in its entirety over at some site called Chunky Glasses. Alternately, you can buy the song or the album at iTunes.]

They've Taken Their Toll, These Latter Days

2011-06-27T07:07:00.003-05:00

We spend days looking for houses. Rent. Houses. It's not pretty. Nothing dreamy about this. No mushaboom song. It's just tough.

Midsummer heat. Children along for the ride when they'd rather be swimming and laughing in the sun. They dread the long drives that lead us to discouragement and dead-end roads.

I do, too.

In fact, I'm beginning to think that I dread a lot of things lately.

Like: How I will ever be home alone again with the children? Or the first inveitable night we will spend in a new home alone. Just the seven of us. Will I ever sleep again? Will peace come?

I am sleeping well now, but now we're thirteen in a home. Two strong men, two mamas, two dogs, loads of kids. There is strength in numbers. What will I do when those numbers go down?

I ache for a world that is so broken we consult the crime map for every home we consider. It's so much easier to live with a blind eye turned to the ugly. The dark. The truth.

And money can buy some things. Money buys safety in gated communities with steel bars that keep the mapper away. No red, yellow or green dots showing the last three years of "activity." Just white picket fences and iron bars to keep out the ugly world.

And I am angry that this is my new normal. That my senses are so super-sensitive that we are rethinking our fourth of July celebration this year, talking about getting rid of any fireworks because loud noises startle me, take me back to the kick, the fear.

I am praying for brighter days. Dreaming of a new Earth with love at the center. Where there are no tears and no pain and we all just smile and stare at the Great-I-Am and we know we see He is. For days when our Hallelujahs are no longer cold or broken. But just hallelujah. Just glorious hallelujah.

Because they've taken their toll, these latter days.

Hard thanks today...

345. For crime maps that narrow searches
346. Friends who share their homes and lives another week
347. Learning again that home is more than four walls
348. Beds on floors
349. Sharing a room with three of our littles
350. Boxes of love from far-off readers. Encouragement.
351. Clothes to wear, even if it's the same shoes everyday (and no jewelry)
352. Boxes packed and waiting for a home

The Gift of Life (pt. 8)

2011-06-24T12:57:00.006-05:00

"No, Mama! I want you to stay with me!" The strong woman is screaming, refusing to go with my parents so my Love and I can look at the lineup pictures. I am so torn. I don't want to leave her, but taking her there is not an option either.

I hate that this happened!

We finally calm her and drive away, Steadfast Unfailing Love in her car seat. Leaving her is not an option and I ache that my five-month-old is along for this ride.

Why? Why did this have to happen?!

We arrive and meet the detective, a kind man who escorts us down the elevator to a gloomy room. Four walls. One door. Three chairs. Nothing fancy. It smells bad. I am instictively holding Constance tighter now. Shielding her innocence from this busted-up place. She squirms.

Lineup time.

I had imagined the Seinfeld episode where Kramer is in the lineup and nods at the guy next to him, hinting. But there is no lineup. No me behind a window--it's faces on paper. Four sheets of paper. I look them over and pick one off of each page. But nothing stands out. I tell the detective, "I really don't know. It was dark. I was so scared." He ushers me to the hallway. My Love and I, we switch places again. His turn.

Done. I go in. Little love in my arms and they begin to tell me about the boys.

Boys. Ages 14-17. Boys.

Boys that went on a weekend of terror. Carjacking, home invading, and ending the weekend killing a 16-year-old with the same shotguns they pointed at me. At my Love.

Loaded guns.

It had been comforting in some way to imagine that the guns had probably not been loaded. That they were props for fear and would not really be used.

But they were. And they were used to kill a boy. Twenty-four hours after they were pointed at me. At us.

This new knowledge leaves me reeling. Disgusted at a world so broken-up that children could lay hands on weapons. And use them to kill. Land themselves in big-boy prison for an undecided amount of time. Sad for a world that encourages violence with movies, music, and video games that turn real life a live-action game.

Life's a jumble. But I am alive. And we drive home silent. Stunned. Thankful for life but aching for all that is lost. Praying to the God who sees to be near and for Jesus to just come on down and free up this place. For heaven to come.

Just come.

The Depths of Love (pt. 7)

2011-06-24T06:00:00.000-05:00

It was Tuesday morning, four days after the kick of fear, when Michelle's phone rang and she didn't recognize the number. It was a detective from the Tulsa Police Department. They'd made an arrest in relation to our case.

Four of the five. In custody.

They'd also recovered a computer and he needed the serial number of mine to match them up. I gave it to him and then he asked if I could come downtown and participate in a photo lineup, to see if I recognized any of them. I agreed and we set a time.

One other thing he said, or that I thought he'd said, was that they had confessed.

Knowing I was going to be looking at photos of the men who kicked in my door, I began to relive it once more. To watch the replay in my mind's eye, always on repeat, always sending a shiver down my spine when I remembered Michelle's scream.

And in my mind as it plays, I glance up at the shirtless, unmasked leader of the group, and I see his face, and I can't remember it. Instead, for some reason I imagine the self-confident mug of NFL quarterback Michael Vick. I don't know why. I chalk it up to being a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles and being aware that Vick had been to prison for dogfighting.

The time came to head downtown, so Michelle and I went, just the two of us and Constance, following the detective's directions to the room where we would sit down and look at photos of the men who stole our sense of security. The detective asked us what happened, so we told him the story in our usual tag-team fashion. He produced some photographs and I stepped out of the room so Michelle could look at them without being influenced by me.

There I stood, in a dingy hallway in a police station downtown, holding baby Constance and steeling myself to look my attackers in the eye. I prayed that I would at least be honest and that God would help me through whatever emotions I might feel. To tell the truth, I was nervous.

The door opened and Michelle walked out. She shot me an encouraging look, took Constance from my arms, and in I went.

The moment of truth. How would I feel at seeing their faces? Would I be angry? Frightened? Traumatized? Would I even recognize them? After all, only one of them showed his face; the others had covered their faces with their shirts.

I sat down at the small table in the sparse room, leaned forward, and glanced at the first sheet the detective laid down in front of me. It had six faces on it. My instincts must've still been in a mode to get the guys out of my house as quickly as possible, because I initially skimmed the faces. Then I forced myself to examine them one by one.

Nothing.

He laid down another sheet. Six new faces. I examined them carefully.

"Maybe that guy," I said, pointing to one of them, "but only maybe."

"Okay," the detective said. "Let's keep going."

He put down another sheet with another six new faces. Nothing.

"One more," he said, laying down the last sheet.

And there, in the bottom left-hand corner, was a guy who looked just like Michael Vick.

"That guy," I said, pointing. "Out of everyone here, that's the only one that jumps out at me."

"Really?" the detective said.

"Yeah," I said. "It's weird, because every time I remember it, I picture Michael Vick as the main guy. And this guy looks like Michael Vick."

The detective smiled. "How sure would you say you are?"

"50 to 60 percent."

"Okay. Why don't you circle his picture and I'll get your wife."

He brought in Michelle and the baby, pointed at the picture I'd circled, and said, "That's the guy." Then he smiled again. "And I actually called him Michael Vick this morning."

That's when we discovered a deeper layer of tragedy in this. "How old do you think he is?" the detective asked.

"I'd say about 20, 22," I said. "And the rest of them were around 18."

"He's 15. The others are between the ages of 14 and 17."

Children. These were children.

We have five kids and we were robbed by five kids.

"Now, Mr. Palmer," he continued, "we have matched the serial number you gave us to the computer we have, and it is your computer. Unfortunately I can't let you have it yet because it is now evidence in a homicide investigation."

What?

"These kids went on a weekend of terror, basically. They performed several carjackings and robbed your house. Then they tried to steal a car that had some people in it. The driver saw them coming and started trying to drive away and these kids shot him. He's dead. And another passenger is in the hospital, dying."

These children, these boys. We found out later that none of them had been in trouble before. The unmasked boy was a star athlete in swimming and football.

And yet they kicked in our door and stole from us, and for what? For the thrill of it.

And now someone was dead. That someone? Was 16 years old.

And what for?

Why? Why did they devalue life to that degree? Not just ours, not just the one they took. What about their own lives? Why do they value them so little as to throw them away so quickly, in just a weekend?

I'm sure there is far more to this story than I will ever learn. There are just some things I will never know.

But I can know this: Jesus loves us all. He loves me and my wife and my family. He loves the family of that boy who is now dead. He loves the passenger, whose fate remains one of those unknowns.

And he loves those boys. He loves them enough to slap them in the face with the reality of their actions. He loves them enough to separate them from the rest of us, to give them the opportunity to consider their lives.

He loves them as much as He loves me. Or you.

I can't comprehend the depth of that love, but I can embrace it.

Because just as much as those boys need it? So do I.

So do I.

The Body of Christ (pt. 6)

2011-06-23T06:00:00.003-05:00

We're at my parents' house and we hardly sleep. The night that began with a kick now drags on. Endless. I'm replaying it in my head, lying between the screaming baby and toddler. I wish it was a dream, beg for it to be untrue. In the dim light of the room I stare deep into the eyes of my Love and ask time and again, "Really? Really for sure? Are you sure that just happened? For sure?!"

Why can't it just be a bad dream?

We're in emergency mode. We've done this before. Foxhole buddies, us two. An amazing team living it out as if it had been well-rehearsed. The kick. The scream. The five shotguns. How he took my place. How I took the Blondie out of the room. Wordless teamwork. A well-rehearsed nightmare.

The sun in all her glory finally beams through the windows and we begin a new day. Just like he'd prayed hours before. Mercies new every morning. We had no idea how new they would be.

Knowing we'd never feel safe in the home again, we discovered an army of friends willing to help us pack, and just twelve hours after the kick, the scream, the shotguns, they were there. Bearing smiles, hugs and willing hearts. 31 of them to be exact. Each of them asking us, "How can we help?"

They bring boxes and buy packing tape. They arrive with snacks, bottles of water and ice. They volunteer to return library books, to clean, to take apart beds, to pack, pack, pack.

The body of Christ at work.

Humbling is an understatement. We were floored by the generosity of so many to give up a Saturday and come help at a moment's notice.

And in just four hours it was done -- even the trampoline had been taken down. These folks meant business. As we were getting ready to leave some more friends popped by and took down the children's wooden playset. Packed. Completely.

Four hours and 31 people. Our hearts filled with encouragement and love. Humbled and overwhelmed by the goodness of our Father and the generosity of His children. Homeless refugees. Believing and hoping for better days.

His mercies were enough for today.

And they will be tomorrow.

The Idea of Safety (pt. 5)

2011-06-22T06:00:00.002-05:00

When Emma was seven years old, she had a recurring fear that the man who came into her room at night to put her to bed was not her father but was instead the devil dressed up as her father. Rather than trying to convince her of the implausibility of her fear, I decided to take a different tack to put her at ease.

"Emma," I said, "we should come up with a code phrase that only the two of us know. That way if you think I'm someone else, you can check it."

"Okay," she said, lighting up at the thought of a secret code. "Like what?"

"How about something where you ask me, 'Are you my dad?' and then I have a reply that doesn't make sense. An impostor would answer that question by saying 'Of course' or 'Yes,' but I won't answer it that way. I'll say something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," I said. Then I spit out the first word that came to mind. "Waffles."

She laughed. "Waffles?"

"Sure, why not?" I said. "Try it."

In the dim light of her bedroom, I wasn't sure if she was smiling or humoring me. "Are you my dad?"

"Waffles."

We both chuckled, and then I kissed her on the forehead and tucked her in. I walked to the doorway and she tried it again. "Hey, are you my dad?"

"Waffles."

Now I knew it. I could hear her smiling as I left the room.

We did that the next few nights, and eventually her fear went away as she began to grow out of it. We both forgot all about that little exchange.

Then fear came back, came bursting through the door, snarling like a rabid dog in search of raw meat. Fear armed itself with shotguns and demands for material things, then turned around and ran. Fear left our house, but it also left behind its thick, smoky, horrid stench of doubt and uncertainty.

Emma was half-asleep/half-awake when it happened and so has vague memories about what occurred. She remembers that I came into the kids' bedroom and told them to stay put and be quiet. She remembers Michelle coming in minutes later, just to gather all the kids together and hope and pray. She remembers the police arriving.

She remembers the insecurity.

On the second night after fear forced its way into our home, we were at Michelle's parents' house and the girls were having trouble going to sleep. They were on a makeshift pallet on the floor, constructed of a couple of comforters and a bed sheet. Dorothy, the social one, wanted to feel connected to Emma, and she wanted to achieve that by draping her legs over Emma's legs, which went very much against Emma's isolationist nature. It turned into a minor fracas and so I laid down with them to help ease their transition into sleep.

Emma began to philosophize about the nature of safety, and how we always feel safe in our homes. She quoted The Great Divorce, about how the people in the grey town imagined houses in order to make themselves feel safer, even though their houses couldn't even keep out rain. She was drawn to this idea of safety being an illusion, and how our house had once felt safe to her but that now the illusion had been spoiled. She wondered if she ever would feel safe again.

And then, from the depths of my mind came a memory, and so I said, "Hey, Emma?"

"Yeah?"

"Waffles."

I heard the quick exhalation of laughter, then a pause. Then: "Thanks, Dad."

Once again, I could hear her smiling, even in that lightless bedroom. But instead of leaving the room like I had so many years ago, I snuggled closer, pressed myself deeper into a couple of comforters thrown on the floor to suggest the idea of a bed.

And then we were quiet, and soon they were asleep.

And we were together, breathing. Living. Alive.

Real.

...

(Waffles.)

The Sound of Love (pt. 4)

2011-06-21T06:00:00.000-05:00

We reached Michelle's parents' house at 3:00 in the morning. I tried to drive away from the fear, but it wasn't fast enough, even on the turnpike where speeding is a prerequisite. The conversation was subdued, consisting mostly of Charlotte saying, not whimpering but with a matter-of-fact tone: "Daddy, I don't want those five guys to come to our house anymore."

"Daddy, I don't like those five guys to come to our house."

"Daddy, why did those five guys come to our house and take your computer? Did they not have a computer?"

She needed reassurance, and Michelle and I did our best to provide it despite our fear and exhaustion. "Maybe they do need a computer, Charlotte. But it's wrong to take things from other people."

"Do they not know it's wrong?"

And on and on went the questions until we were safe in the driveway and Michelle's dad was putting away their pit bull in the laundry room. We went inside, exchanged pleasantries, and did our best to get everyone back to sleep.

There are two spare bedrooms over there, right across the hall from each other. We put the big three kids in one bed and ourselves and the two little ones in the opposite bedroom. Michelle and I began to pray against the fear, praying over Charlotte, that she would not be affected negatively by this. We were deep in prayer when I looked up and saw that one of the kids had come into the room quietly and was now standing right next to the bed.

My mind had time to process all this in an instant. I even had time to think, "Calmly let Michelle know that there is a child standing next to the bed, because that will definitely startle her much as it did you."

I did not, however, have the time to put any of this into action, because even as all this went through my mind, Michelle turned and saw and we both, the two of us, screamed in hyper-vigilant terror. Of course this startled our poor little one, who ran screaming and crying out of the room and back to their bed.

Michelle and I immediately realized the error of the way we'd reacted and moved quickly to calm fears and heal emotions. It wasn't long before we decided we all needed to be in the same room--the separation, even by a hallway, was too much to bear.

Thus began the first of many nights of layers of quilts on the floor to create a sort of bed. Over the next two hours, the seven of us went through various configurations of sleepers: kids on the floor, parents on the floor, a parent in the bed and some kids on the floor... we tried many permutations until sheer exhaustion forced a stalemate.

Constance was apparently affected the most and refused to settle down. She'd never cried that much before, and she hasn't since. She was inconsolable, but Michelle did her best, often taking her into the other bedroom to give the rest of us a modicum of solitude.

Everyone finally lay still, and quiet once more enveloped our night. But the loudest sound to me was in my mind as I kept replaying, over and over, the events of the evening. Kept hearing the BANG! Kept hearing Michelle scream, sending a shiver down my spine each time I recalled it.

I tried to go back to sleep but my mind would not let me, instead forcing me to relive it, each time trying on a different ending to see how much better or worse things could have gone. My self-deprecating and analytical natures weaving themselves together to study the event.

In each scenario, I would do something different, or Michelle would, or the thieves would, and in every instance, it ended worse. Even changing one variable led to a disastrous imaginary outcome that usually ended with violence. I tried to keep my mind from going there, but it felt right to me, in the moment, to embrace these alternate endings. Maybe it was a part of the way I processed the trauma, or maybe I was just too tired to resist them.

None of the endings I came up with felt satisfactory to me, even ones where I got to be a hero. There was only one. A single time where I thought to myself Oh, if only...

In my imagination I saw it all happening again, saw the criminals in my house, saw the guns, saw myself locking down the children, saw Michelle crossing in front to take care of Charlotte, saw myself walking to my money, saw it in my hand, saw the lead thief's hand take it. All as it happened. Up until I said, "That's all I got, man."

Then came the imaginary variable. I imagined this man thinking about the way I look, and how it resembles most artistic representations of Jesus. I imagined him feeling conviction that he was robbing Jesus. And then I imagined myself in the role of Jesus and began to speak to him as Jesus would: "Everything I have I give to you, ______________." I knew his name and said it. "I give it to you because I love you."

"How do you know my name?" he said.

"I know everything about you! I know how you got those guns. I know you have a car waiting outside, and I know you stole it from ______________ and ______________. And I love them, too! Oh, if only you knew how much I love you, you wouldn't be living like this!"

And that's how the scenario ended in my mind. I didn't have enough imagination to take it farther than that, or perhaps God wouldn't let me. I don't know.

The thought stuck with me for the rest of the night, what little was left. Jesus. The depths of His love, even for men who would show so little concern for His children.

I didn't want them to suffer. I didn't want them to die. And believe me, I tried those scenarios on. Multiple times. They didn't satisfy.

In the end, I had to let go of my bloodthirsty desire for vengeance and see the bigger picture. These thieves needed to be brought to justice, to be sure, and I was all for that. I wanted them to be punished to the fullest extent of the law--and still do.

But mostly I just want them to know the love of Jesus. I want them to realize how valuable their lives are and how selfishly they're wasting them.

I want them to know the love I'm learning more about, day by day. I want them to realize the depth, the width, the breadth, the height of Jesus' love.

That's the one that fits. That's the one that feels right.

The sun was up too soon, the first light of a new day. God's daily kiss on my cheek, the whispered promise of a new day. I took a deep breath, prayed for strength for the day, exhaled, and thanked Him that we were all safe, snuggling on the floor of my in-laws' house, not knowing what else today would bring.

I heard the heavy, slumbering breaths of the children, and added an audible breath of my own. I thanked him again for the air I just moved through my lungs. The sound of life. The sound of love.

The Breath of Peace (pt. 3)

2011-06-20T07:00:00.001-05:00

Life flipped upside down in one kick.

The kick of fear. The kick of rebellion. The kick of anger.

Five thieves; five shotguns. One kick.

I close my eyes and see it. Replay it all in my head. How it went down.

First the kick. Then the scream. The barking commands. Handing over my Love's livelihood. Him, taking my place in front of the barrels of five guns. Bravery like I've never known. Love that overwhelms.

It plays on repeat in my mind.

Over and over and over again.

Loud noises now make me startle; fear races through my body; knees buckle. When I walk through public places, groups of people remind me of the five. Five who stole my peace and replaced it with this nagging feeling of dread that will not leave. It creeps in the background of my everyday.

But it will not defeat me.

I read in the car, 7:00 am, morning drive, taking my Love to work. One car. Living simply is not simple. We drive children yawning, wiping sleep from their eyes. Mama reads out loud.

The Lord is my light and my salvation- so why should I be afraid?
The Lord is my fortress, protecting me from danger, so why should I tremble?
When evil people come to devour me, when my enemies and foes attack me,
they will stumble and fall.
Though a mighty army surrounds me, my heart will not be afraid.
Even if I am attacked, I will remain confident.
--Psalm 27:1-3

Peace like a river flows over my body. I breathe. Safety in Him. In Christ alone. My fortress.

The kick. The scream. The commands.

I hear them again. See the shotguns. But I breathe. And each breath is life that was spared. And death did not conquer. And fear will not either. I'm breathing.

The "Strong Woman of Grace and Favor" lately struggles with fear. Being alone in the backseat of our minivan as I drive--it's too much for her. Mama wants to help. To ease the pain of anything she saw when she walked into the living room that night.

I pray, and the Father leads simply. as He always does.

A bear. We build a bear together. I write the scripture on a piece of paper, fold it, and slide it into the stuffing of the ready-made bear before they sew it up. The bear comes with a little stuffed heart, which I smother with kisses. She smiles.

The store employee finishes their work and now the bear is ours. I hand it to her. "This is your safety bear. God's love is safe, and every time you squeeze this teddy, you can remember God loves you. He protects you. You're safe in Him."

Beaming, she squeezes the bear with all her three-year old might.

I pick the big kids up from VBS. They like the idea and we go back to make three more. Forty-dollars. Four bears, and Mama stuffs each one with verses and kisses. Peace in the midst of storms. Beautiful simplicity.

Night comes and the children snuggle down on makeshift pallets of quilts and sheets. We are thankful for friends that open their home and lives for us, the homeless.

And peace is a word we hold dear. We cry out to a good Father who cares for us and beg peace. Comfort for our hearts. He hears, and though we have a long road ahead, this is enough for today.

335. Vacation Bible School fun
336. Friends that take us in
337. This breath. (And this one, and this one, and this one...)
338. Life Recovery Bible
339. Prayers of love that humble
340. Sunshine and pools
341. Little Love's tooth peeking out
342. Gifts of love
343. Real safety in Him
344. Messages that encourage

The Kick of Fear (pt. 2)

2011-06-17T00:10:00.009-05:00

Michelle was coming off an extremely rough day on Friday, and so I, grasping at ways to help her (and being exhausted myself), suggested we just put the kids to bed as soon as possible and then get to sleep ourselves. This is how I wound up going to bed early, saying, just before I rolled over and went to sleep, "Tomorrow is a new day, hon. His mercies are new every morning."

And then I was out.

I was dimly aware, around midnight, that Constance was being fussy and Michelle was up with her. Mother was singing to baby, a special bonding moment happening in the living room, the voice of my favorite singer in the world ringing clear in the quiet night. She sang softly, intimately, one-on-one, and even though I was half-asleep, I treasured eavesdropping on such a sweet time.

Then: BANG!
Then: Michelle screaming: terror, unfiltered fear, absolute fright, uncapped and rushing out, rising high like a geyser.

These two sounds took a half-second to wake me, then another half-second to register. My sluggish, sleep-addled brain struggled to put together something coherent. I remembered that Michelle had been in the living room with the baby, so I jumped to the logical conclusion that something had gone wrong and now there was a medical emergency. Something heavy had fallen on Constance, a bookcase maybe.

That was the bang. That was the reason for the scream.

Michelle's scream continued as I leapt out of bed, answering her with a primal, instinctive scream of my own, the way animals in the wild communicate warnings to each other. At some subconscious level I wanted her to know I heard her and was on the way.

I landed on the floor, stumbling, lurching out the bedroom and around the corner as quickly as my still-asleep legs would allow. I was ready to see blood.

I was not ready to see the barrel of a shotgun.

Or the man holding it. Demanding my computer. Michelle handing it over, saying, "Take it." A half-second to think Good job, Michelle.

Another half-second to register what was going on. Time enough for me to swear.

It's all flashes of instinct now. My brain is rushing to process and catch up as the rest of me goes on autopilot.

I go to the kids' room, just right there. The three oldest are sleeping together these days, along with the dog and the bearded dragon. Surely the noise has awakened them and they need to be secured. "Be quiet and stay put," I say, my tone reassuring but urgent. No time to say "please."

I go back out to the hallway, hear the man now demanding money.

I see Michelle look at me, her eyes emanating waves of fear. I hate to see her looking like this. I see her mouth moving, forcing the words out, asking me: "Money?"

I see Charlotte, now awake from the noise, toddling out of our bedroom and into the terrible scene unfolding on the other side of the wall.

Mother & Wife and Father & Husband have a wordless exchange and know exactly what to do. Mother crosses room to secure Child. Father & Husband emerges fully into the living room, calmly, rationally.

I see a group, a gang of men standing in my living room, lined up in the entryway, each of them with a shotgun. One of the guns is crowned by a bean-shaped canister and I think, That's a paintball gun but do nothing with the information. I'll give it to the police later.

I know my family is out of the room now, safe for the moment, and peace overtakes me. I walk purposefully but cautiously across the living room toward the kitchen. I extend my arms and look at the men. "It's cool, fellas," I say. "We're cool here." I don't want any lethal accidents caused by a jumpy trigger finger.

I reach the kitchen counter, where I know my money clip is laying. I know it has about $30 on it, and I know this will be a disappointment to the men. I do not worry.

I hand the money clip to the lead assailant, noticing he is not wearing a shirt, while the rest of them have shirts pulled up over their faces. His boldness strikes me. Only a baseball cap and black shorts. And the shotgun. I notice his physique is athletic but not over-muscled, like a wide receiver or a swimmer. He looks like he's in his early 20s. The rest of them around 18 or just beyond.

"That's all I got," I say. I look at his face but not at his eyes. I do not want to connect with this man. I just want him gone.

He takes it and turns around. The rest of them turn and begin filing out. I follow them to the door like a hospitable host escorting his party guests out.

The last one out shuts the door, but it caroms back open and I see them turn left as they run away.

My instinct steps aside and puts my brain back in charge.

I ran into our bedroom. "They're gone!" I said to Michelle, who was holding Constance by now. "Where's the phone?" If she answered, I don't remember. I ran to the side of the bed to get Michelle's phone, then, still addled, left the room to go to the kitchen counter to get my phone instead, which makes no sense except in the logical way that I never use Michelle's phone; I always use my own.

I couldn't find my phone and figured they'd gotten it from Michelle while I was out of the room securing the kids. I ran back into our bedroom, grabbed Michelle's phone, and dialed 911.

After a few rings, the operator answered and I told her what happened. She put the call through and asked me some more questions. Not two minutes later, she said, "I'm showing that police are in your neighborhood; do you see any cars?"

I was worried the men would be coming back, that the money wasn't enough, so I was peeking out through the front window, trying to see as much as I could without exposing myself. There was nothing.

"No ma'am," I said. "Nothing yet."

"They're probably doing a perimeter sweep; they'll be there shortly. Would you like to stay on the line with me until they arrive?"

"Yes, please." Now I have time for "please."

Michelle had taken Charlotte and Constance into the big kids' room, so I stepped in to tell her the police were in the neighborhood and would be here soon. She wandered back into our bedroom, still holding Constance and muttering, "They were pointing guns at me. They were just pointing guns at me." She lost her legs and nearly fainted, but I grabbed her arm and helped her instead collapse in a heap against the bed. Pale as a ghost.

In less than ten minutes, an officer was knocking on my door, his gun drawn, his eyes taking it all in. He asked for a description and I gave him all I could tell him, which wasn't much. I couldn't remember anything about anyone's faces, just their general heights and the build of the shirtless leader.

It's a blur from there. Six police cars, including a K-9 unit. There was a lot of confused conversation about possible suspects, MOs, how and why they chose our house... it all runs together now. The dog tracked them to a nearby drainage ditch and there are fresh tire tracks. The officers nodded at each other and discussed a report of a carjacking they'd received ten minutes before I called them.

I had to fill out a police report, stating what happened for the record. I didn't want the kids to be alone, so I went in their room to fill it out, and they asked me what was going on. All except Noah, who was still asleep.

Emma said to me, "Dad, the thing I just can't get out of my head is how much God loves them."

Even in the midst of my adrenalized state, I chuckled and teared up. "Thank you, Emma," I said. "I needed to be reminded of that."

There wasn't much to do after that. Michelle said to me, "I'm never sleeping here again," and I said, "I agree." That was that.

She packed a bag while I jumped on our desktop computer to change the passwords to all my email accounts and my online banking account. Though I assumed the thieves would have difficulty getting past my password-protected computer, I didn't want to take any chances with such critical information.

We loaded the van while two of the officers waited in our driveway, ensuring protection as we made our escape. Just after I backed out of the garage, I parked in the driveway and approached the lead police officer.

"Would it be okay if I pray for you?" I asked. I don't know why; it just seemed like the right thing to do.

She smiled and said, "Of course." I have no idea what I prayed, but it was simple and not very profound. It was just an intentional connection with God, and I desperately needed that at that moment.

Then I got back in and we were off on the thirty-minute drive to Michelle's parents' house, out in the country.

The thieves took my computer and some money, and they took a lot of emotional security from us, but they didn't take any lives, and for that I was grateful.

It was now 2:30 on Saturday morning, only an hour after five men with shotguns broke down my door and shattered the peace of my home. But we were safe, physically unharmed, and alive.

Today was a new day. It was morning. And God's mercies were new.

The Kick of Fear (pt. 1)

2011-06-15T07:00:00.006-05:00

Bang! The door burst open from the power of a swift kick. And then they came in, one after another piling into our home.

Five men.

Five shotguns.

Pointing at me.

I screamed. Blood-curdling fear. Mind racing. Not believing that five men with shotguns are in my home.

Surely I must be dreaming.

But I was not.

The lead intruder cut me off with a barking demand: "Give me your computer!"

It was the middle of the night, 1:30 in morning. Five minutes before, I had sat down with My Love's laptop; I had spent two hours before that rocking and singing to a fussy-teething Constance and I was restless. After laying her finally asleep body down, I took my very awake self into the living room to check emails.

The intruder only had to say it once. "Take it!" I said, handing over the laptop to one of the other four thieves and releasing it as soon as I felt its weight lessen. His hands inches from mine. My Love had an almost-completed book on that computer and it was not backed up. Months of work. Gone.

My Love stumbled out of our bedroom onto the scene, jolted awake from a dead sleep. Realizing what was happening, he peeked his head into the room where our three oldest were. "Be quiet and stay put," he said, and shutting the door behind him, he walked out into the living room. Took my place in front of the five gun barrels.

He took my place.

"Give me money!" The lead intruder barked again My Love calmly began walking toward his wallet, taking the focus off me. "It's cool, guys," he said. "It's cool. Let me get my money."

Charlotte walked out, stumbling, sleepy. I crouched and walked to her, guns inches from me. I whisked her into our bedroom where Constance was now hysterical. Shutting the door was so hard. My heart was being ripped out of my chest with the thought of never seeing My Love again. That they would surely take his life.

Lifting Constance in my arms and searching for the cell phone, I cried out. "In Jesus' name. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus!"

It was all I could muster. Just His name.

Then it was over.

My Love ran into the room. "They're gone! Where's the phone?" He found my cell phone and called 911.

Within minutes the police arrived. Six cars. Dogs picking up the scent from the muddied footstep in my living room.

It. Feels. Like. A dream. So unbelievable.

I close my eyes and see it again and again. Like a dark cloud, a rabid dog lunging to attack.

Unreal.

We thank God today that we are alive. We thank God that the next day, over thirty of His people flooded our home and packed it all in four hours so we never have to sleep there again. The body of Christ at work. Healing. Beautiful.

There is a long road of healing ahead. Fear barks angrily in our ears, our hearts. We would appreciate prayers today and in the coming months for the Father's grace to process it all. Please pray for Emma and Dorothy, who heard most of it cuddled together in their room. And for dear Charlotte who saw the intruders. The guns. For Adam and me to walk wisely as we take the next steps for our family--our things are packed but we do not have a home. We long for a home.

Lastly, please pray for the five gunmen, running from a Father who loves them dearly. who sent His only Son to free them from the darkness that ensnares. We pray that they be chased down buy his unfailing, merciful love.

His love never fails.

In Our Own Backyard

2011-06-08T09:07:00.000-05:00

We participate in a local mock human auction and reality stings. It's so much easier to turn my head, blank stare in the opposite direction of truth. The truth of a multi-billion dollar industry running off of the sale of human beings. Disgusting.

My Love "bought" our Dorothy in the mock human auction, and even though I knew it was a mock auction my mama heart went there. I still can't get it out of my mind, seeing her little body slung over his shoulders. Imagining the many little girls for whom this is a reality. To be

sold, carried off by a stranger, and forced to "perform" unmentionable acts.

My stomach still turns at this thought. I read the headline Nigerian 'Baby Factory' Raided, 32 Girls Saved and it turns again. Thankfully these girls were rescued from the strangle hold of slavery. But I can't help thinking of all the others who weren't saved.

The children crying into their pillow to God to rescue them. Or to just let them die.

Unimaginable pain.

I cry with them today. Join the cry. I recently attended a conference where Love146 director Rob Morris spoke on the ways they are rescuing children from the pit of slavery. Amazing stories of rescue and renewal.

I am heavy-burdened for these today. Hearing stories and feeling helpless behind these four walls with these five. Today I am doing what I can do. Praying. Sharing stories and praying to a God who rescues to come and pick up these broken pieces. For mercy and justice to come like a flood.

Come, Jesus. Come.

Rolling Fevers and Magical Rings

2011-06-05T21:19:00.012-05:00

"Ding." The beep indicated the thermometer was ready to show the fever wreaking havoc on our sweet blondie girl. It was a scorcher 103.6, hotter than the 99-degree weather in our Oklahoma backyard. She was miserable. Her choice words were few and consist mainly of "No!" and "Mommy," usually put together into one lovely sentence.

Let me replay that for you "No, Mommy!"

Insert this text into just about anything I said or did over the last few days and you will get the gist of our weekend.

Poor little darling is miserable. I know because I took the pictures.

See? Miserable.

I broke away from her misery to go to a local home-educators used book sale, where I found a Lord of the Rings edition of Stratego for $5! The warring in our home has been endless. Emma the victorious one lived up to her name and slaughtered opponents all weekend long. Victorious? Brutal?

In other weekend news Little Love is on the cusp of a new super-power. Rolling over. We are all very thrilled about this as you can see from the pictures. We spent exhaustive minutes encouraging her with her new super-power bribing her with musical toys and silly faces. She is still perfecting her art and would not comment for this story.

One super-power is not enough for our Steadfast Unfailing Love darling. She is going for a two-in-one punch! Eating her tootsies too! Amazing I tell ya!

What a joy to have a home filled with these five darlings. So much love to share.

We're often stopped in stores. Onlookers patting me on the shoulder, saying, "Whew, you've got your hands full!" I smile and nod. Yes, my hands are full. They're full of love. and I would not trade a second of this beautifully rich life for anything.

I'm so thankful....

325. Thermometers
326. Daughter who wants Mommy to read to her
327. Books that comfort
328. Children that love deep
329. Fun finds
330. Steadfast Love that never ceases, His mercies new every morning
331. My Love who never stops amazing with his giving spirit and sacrificial love
332. Tootsies
333. Squishy baby legs
334. Joy in our midst

Kuplink, Kuplank, Kuplunk!

2011-06-01T17:56:00.015-05:00

"One day little Sal went with her mother to Blueberry Hill to pick blueberries."

That is how one story begins...

Except in this story, instead of little Sal insert Palmer Five and instead of Blueberry Hill read Thunderbird Berry Farm.

They were met by the owner of the farm, Mr. Hansen, and his grandchildren. He gave them little blue pails to fill to their hearts' desire with blueberries at only $3.00 a pound!

The Palmer Five were thrilled and delighted to see the loads and loads of blueberries on the bushes. Mama told them to only pick the blue blueberries and leave the red and green blueberries on the bushes. "They're not ready yet," mama said.

The Palmer Five nodded, halos shining over their heads. Halos or Oklahoma sun? No matter.

Like little Sal, Only Son could not resist the delicious berries.

Oldest Daughter squealed delight "There's a birds nest!" And there was. Wonder of speckled green waiting to burst forth life, nestled amongst the green berries waiting to burst blue.

The Blondie of the Palmer Five forgot her shoes in the bustle of leaving. This made her very sad. But the berries helped. A bit.

And just a few bushes away from the speckled-miracles waiting to burst was this, four little birds snuggled in a nest.

The Blondie One remembered mothers words "Only pick the blue blueberries, not the green." She considered this after pulling a bunch of the green berries off of the bush. Only the blue, she thought... and dropped the green ones on the ground.

"Mama, I'm done." And the wonder shined from inside the blue bucket, berries as blue as her sparkling eyes as she walked barefoot down the field...

...to the pony!

The oldest of the Palmer Five gave Only Son a hand and led the pony around the field. She's learned a thing or two about horses and leaps at the chance to use her knowledge.

I am very hot, thought baby Constance as her wild hair blew in the open field. Blueberry picking is not fun for me, she continued. I want milk.

I am scared, thought the Blondie One as she squeezed the life out of her dear friend Bonnie's neck. I feel like I am going to fall. If I fall it will be far. It will hurt. But she put on her brave face and rode on. Friends can help us be brave.

The Oklahoma sun shines... Love.

Independence.

Laughter.

Family.

And those feet did not stay bare long. Prince Charming saved them, giving up his own for the princess.

One last stop on the farm. Chickens!

The children ran wild down the fields of hope as the Oklahoma sun shone down.

And friends are friends forever.

One last, last stop. Wild dewberries. And wildflowers.

The Palmer Five enjoyed their day at Thunderbird Farm. They thanked their mama and friends for the fun trip. Mama filled the bowl full of love and work and fun in the sun.

Blueberries for Sal is a delightful little story by Robert McCloskey. After the berries were put away we all snuggled on the couch and I read it aloud. Never gets old. Just a treasure!

Thunderbird Berry Farm is open for picking Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays through the summer. Go to their Facebook Page here.

Pruned Fingers and Sun-Kissed Cheeks

2011-05-31T09:09:00.006-05:00

Five Minute Friday: On Forgetting....

2011-05-27T15:06:00.009-05:00

We interupt our regularly scheduled Poetry Friday, to bring you.....Five Minute Friday.

Emma and I participated in Gypsy Mama's, Five Minute Friday link up last week and really enjoyed it. Every Friday Gypsy Mama gives a prompt and you have FIVE minutes to write. No editing. Just art for arts sake. Fun stuff.
Here's what Emma and I came up with this week.

Mama words:

GO
There is nothing I want more than to bottle up these moments.
Ever. Fleeting. Moments.
Maybe it's the realization of everything beautiful and holy being placed before me on a daily basis and the strangling fear that I'll forget every single one.
Take it for granted. Choose laundry over, uno. Sweeping over rocking.
And I do.
I do.
I miss the point so much.
And grace covers my mama fails. Blankets the day in and day out hard. Monotonous.
Brings me to a place where my memories are joy and the lost moments just reminders to soak in now. Today.
Rock longer. Listen closer. Squeeze tighter.
To be here fully.
STOP

Emma words:

GO
I can't believe myself... I know I placed this thing somewhere just a minute ago. Thats one type of forgetting. But now I'm forgetting on a much bigger scale. I'm slowly forgetting uganda. I just don't remember the language I don't remember the name of that guy. I'm forgetting what I promised I'd never forget, I feel disloyal. I feel like a traitor
STOP

Holding

2011-05-26T07:29:00.004-05:00

I held her for an hour last night. The house was calm, still. I held her like she'd slip away if I let her go. Like I needed her for breath.

Maybe I did. Do.

This constant reminder of His Steadfast, Unfailing Love. Her eyes that sparkle hope. Cheeks full and glowing. This darling of mine. Of ours. Bringing us all so much joy.

Stroking her hair, patting her fluffy wool diaper, I held her.

Maybe I was holding her for all of the mothers whose arms are now empty. Their children lost, blown by the wind, stuck in the rubble. They held tight only to be ripped away from all that they hold dear. I'm holding her because I can, and wouldn't it be tragic if I ever take that for granted. When mamas with empty arms dream of days when they could.

Days when babies were drowsy and warm, bundled safe in their arms. When the house was messy, the kids were running wild and the baby wouldn't sleep. When dinner gets ruined because the chicken was boiled in the soup all day long with the plastic still accidentally inside.

Those days.

These days.

It's almost impossible to put her down in her bed. I keep thinking of those mamas. Aching.

Squeezing her tighter. Too tight?

And then exhaustion hits like a freight train and I relent. Lay the sleeping babe in her warm co-sleeper. She nuzzles in, blanketed by grace. I breathe, thankful.

Thankful for these six and the glorious night snores. For a less-than-perfect home, filled with less-than-perfect people. But filled. And standing. Life is beautiful and I'm praying for grace to see the beauty today.

Today may be all I have.

Storms Coming

2011-05-23T22:09:00.006-05:00

Thankful tonight as we hear the storms brewing in the distance for...

315. Hands that save
316. Children that give
317. Love that sustains
318. Peace like a river
319. Dreams and dreamers
320. Missionary heroes
321. Hope for the broken
322. Him behind that guitar
323. Mercy made new in the sunrise
324. Daughter poetry

Poetry Friday: The poetry of being born.

2011-05-20T10:34:00.000-05:00

Her eyes sparkle hope.
Hope alive.
From the darkest places in my womb, my heart.
Springing forth in winter,
blanketing us.
Pure, white, holy.
Nothing to say,
but full of words
Unspoken.
Heard only through the listening, soul-ears of a wounded woman,
looking for redemption.
It's here.
She's here.
I find it.
And I am reborn.

Five Minute Friday: When Seasons Change

2011-05-20T09:25:00.005-05:00

Emma and I wrote these in five minutes, five minutes no changes after the timer went off. Fun times. Thanks to Gypsy Mama for the Five Minute Friday prompts!

Mama words:

I kick scream.
I want it back.
Want the sunshine.
The palm trees.
My son.
My daughters innocence.
But planes cross oceans and dreams die on red dirt.
Eighteen months of flailing wild.
She's born.
I'm reborn.
Then this.
A call. A calling?
Another change.
Another. Change.
And this time an artist dream dies.
Days of coffee shops and self scheduling.
When mama needs back up it's a phone call away.
I struggle to breathe through these days.
STOP

12 year old Emma words:

When seasons change
Its a matter of adapting.
some people adapt quicker than others.
change is the only constant other than Gods love
change is sometimes difficult like when one moves or looses someone
seasons are like big rolling hills
once you reach the top there always another one to climb
STOP

Golden Birthday for a Golden Girl

2011-05-12T09:10:00.000-05:00

Twelve years old on the twelfth of May. Emma's birthday wish is to build a water tank in Uganda. Thanks to all of you who have bought crafts from her online store or who have donated directly to the Ugandan Water Project by clicking on the "Donate" button located at the top right of this page.

She is still far from her goal, so please take some time to peruse her wares or click the donate button on the top right of this page. And in the meantime, enjoy this photo retrospective of the first twelve years of our Beloved, Victorious daughter.

Our Little Secret

2011-05-11T07:00:00.003-05:00

Adam here. I'll never forget it, that phone call. The one I'd been waiting for and, yeah, I'll be honest: dreading. The phone call that was going to change everything.

I'd been expecting that phone call for at least three weeks, two weeks leading up to the big day and then, agonizingly, my extended to the day after. Then another day. Then another.

Six altogether.

And then it came. Michelle's voice on the other end, "Well," she said, "my water broke."

And just like that, my life changed irrevocably.

This was not a child we'd intended to have. When you get married, especially as young as Michelle and I did, the inevitable question you wind up fielding all too often is, "When are you going to have kids?" My standard answer at the beginning of our marriage was, "We'll give it a couple of years."

Two years later that was still my answer. And then Michelle started acting weird, moody to extremes, craving odd foods. We were still too young to piece it together until a couple of months passed by, and then, despite our precautions, we discovered the truth: Michelle was pregnant.

My soul neatly divided itself into two separate pieces: the one that was thrilled and the one that was terrified.

The thrilled piece dominated my imagination during the pregnancy, guiding me to envision building a wonderful future with my new baby, whether it be a boy or a girl. I pictured myself flying the little tyke around the house like a chubby spaceship. Picnics in the park, trips to the zoo, a first concert, a first baseball game... it was easy to let my mind wander.

Michelle was sure the baby was a girl. We didn't want to find out ahead of time, but she just... knew. And maybe I did too. A friend of ours threw us a baby shower and, as part of the decorations, used two mylar balloons, one boy, one girl. We took the balloons home and let them hover in two separate corners of the living room, playfully deciding that whichever balloon stayed inflated the longest was the correct one.

One morning I was sitting on the couch, pulling on my shoes, and I noticed the girl balloon losing steam while the boy balloon kept going strong. I knew what I had to do: I rummaged through a drawer, found some masking tape, tore off a piece and stealthily affixed that girl balloon in the top corner. It wasn't going anywhere. Not on my watch. Not while the thrilled piece of my soul was in charge.

The months passed by, and then came the phone call. And up rose the terrified piece. I had known, from the moment Michelle told me she was pregnant, that this piece would rise up full-force at the moment of truth and stage a coup on my emotions.

I was a wreck as I drove home to scoop up my no-longer-waterlogged bride and race to the hospital through five-o-clock traffic. My parents beat us, waiting at the entrance as we pulled up, my dad offering to park our minivan so I could stay by Michelle's side.

I am, by most accounts, a patient man, but this quality utterly disappears when it comes to waiting through labor. Since this was our first baby, we really had no idea how long we would have to wait, but all the medical professionals said it would probably be twelve, fourteen hours and we'd have a baby in the morning.

The terror, the dread could gain its footing, literally, overnight.

I tried to remember everything from the birthing classes, but nothing was coming. All I could do was fake my way through it, feign calmness through my panic, portray peace even though inside I was clenched with fear.

What was I going to do with this new life? How in the world was I supposed to be in charge of another human being? I didn't feel adequate to be in charge of myself, let alone a moldable, shapeable baby that I was just apt to wreck and destroy. Who in their right mind thought this was a good idea?

Michelle carried on through labor and I did my best to be there for her, right next to her, supporting her, partaking, in my own limited way, of her extremely painful and narrow world.

Things got rough, and then, miraculously, in came the doctor. It was time. Push. Push. Push. Push. There's the head. Push. There's the rest of...

...her.

A baby girl.

Hair. Pink skin. Toes. Fingers. Everything as it should be.

Perfection.

Three minutes before midnight, we were able to put a face with the name "Emma Laurel," and the thrilled part of me swept back in to save the day. Or the night.

And you know what one of my very first thoughts was? That stupid balloon. The one I'd taped to the wall.

Maybe my instincts were okay. Maybe I did have what it takes after all.

Maybe, just maybe, God knew what He was doing when He gave us this child.

Maybe He believes in me.

Maybe I should follow suit.

I'd like to say that, from that moment forward, I've never once been terrified in my now twelve years of parenting. But I can't. I've stood next to Michelle during four other labors and deliveries, partly thrilled, partly terrified. When our third was born and I realized we were suddenly outnumbered, my beard went grey. Too often I carry a burden of responsibility that God wants for Himself.

Tomorrow we celebrate the twelfth birthday of that little miracle, the one who, along with her brother and sisters, has taught me so much about the world around me, about myself, about my relationship with Michelle, about the way God feels about me. They have forced me to look at this world through their eyes, and I am a better person because of that.

So most days, I am more thrilled than terrified. And I have them to thank for that.

And if you ever happen to catch me taping a balloon to the ceiling? Just go with it. Let it be our little secret.

No Us Without You (Part 2)

2011-05-10T07:00:00.001-05:00

Mom,

When I think of what to say to you, I think of all the ways I've chickened out. I think of the time our band made the newspaper, and you got the article framed and had us sign it, and how I wrote, "Thanks for a great raising!" I think of the thousands of ways I've blunted my emotions through sarcasm, deflected actual feelings with a well-placed one-liner.

So let me take the time right now, while I have you as a captive audience, to say this deeply, clearly:

I love you.

I love the way you took care of us, doing whatever it took to keep food on the table and lights on, even if that meant you had to get a job, too. The money dad earned could only go so far, and so there you were, just on the other end of the phone if Randy and I really needed to call you.

I love the way you stretched dollars well past their breaking point with coupons, sales, and all sorts of other means.

I love the way you did the jobs of thousands, not just working full-time but also putting hot meals on the table every night, making sure our clothes were clean, keeping the pantry loaded, and all the other behind-the-scenes stuff I never knew was going on.

I love the way you taught me to read, marking up all my storybooks with phonetic symbols so that I picked it up quickly. Then, when I was older, the way you and Dad made sure I had a weekly trip to the library, instilling in me a thirst to open the pages of a book and drink deeply.

I love the way you sang on Sunday morning, never needing to sneak a peek at the hymnal for lyrics, because you knew all the words by heart. You sing from your heart, Mom, from a place deep within that no one can touch. A reservoir you share only with Jesus, in perfect harmony with everyone else in the congregation. You gave me insight into what musical worship really is.

I love the way you loved Dad. You two showed me the importance of friendship in a marriage, that it's not enough to love each other, but that you actually need to like each other, enjoy each other's company.

Those are just a beginning, Mom. I'm older now; I've been a parent for almost twelve years and each passing moment I grasp more and more the responsibility of a parent, the responsibility you've had for so much longer. And I'm understanding that it's not enough to hint at it, to suggest it, to joke around it, or to reserve it for special occasions or the closing phrases of phone calls. So here it is again:

I love you, Mom. Always.

Adam.

No Us Without You (Part 1)

2011-05-09T08:00:00.002-05:00

Dear Mama,

If you'd never given me the sweet gift of birth, carried me in your swollen womb for nine long months, then I would never know your love. The love of a mother who lived through hell to get to where she was, and who did everything in her power to ensure my life would never follow suit. That I would never know the extreme poverty of a dirt floor hut, a tin roof, meals cooked on a charcoal stove under the hot Costa Rican sun.

You are strong, Mama.

How you crossed a gulf to find some decent work, and all you've ever known is work, Mama. You'd just work your fingers raw cleaning those fields when you were a girl. I picked outfits; you picked coffee beans.

Thanks for the doll you gave me as a girl, something you never had, except for that corn husk doll you got one Christmas. I loved her. I love you.

I love how you smile. It's just the most beautiful smile. And those lines on your face, the ones you abhor. Lines from the smiles and laughs you've had over these years. They shape you. They've shaped me.

Your tender heart. Tears flowing freely at the first sign of someone's pain. And you understand pain, don't you Mama? I know yours runs deep. I know. I'm sorry.

And I've contributed to it, to your pain, stuck a word knife deep into your scarred soul. Time and time again. Those words. Mama, I'm sorry.

I look at my five. Five, just like you. These five that are the world to me and I can't breathe thinking of life without them. Can't. Breathe. And I pray for a lifetime to pour my love into these souls. A gift from the Father to touch souls. Lifetime of discipleship. Just like you've done for me, Mama. Taught me how to love.

I love you so much.

Michelle

304. Chubby fingers wrapped around love bouquets
305. Table of mamas
306. Handmade cards
307. Books and love words
308. Mama and the way she holds her
309. Surprise visits
310. Lessons learned
311. A toad-poison-free dog
312. New beginnings
313. Twelve years and the one I cut my mama teeth on
314. Water tank dreams, $200 closer

Vintage Pearl Giveaway Winner!

2011-05-09T07:00:00.000-05:00

We have a winner for our Vintage Pearl Giveaway. Thanks to all who entered; we wish we could give you all something! But as it is, username "Anna Marie" pulled down the coveted randomized result. Please contact us through the email address at the top of this page so we can get you your prize!

Poetry Friday: Emmas Golden Birthday WISH

2011-05-06T07:00:00.019-05:00

Ice is nice.

I buy it on a whim after a late night grocery run. A bag of ice. Two bucks at Sonic (I do love me some Sonic ice; everything else Sonic, not so much). My drink of choice on a hot day is a large cup of ice water with fresh lime juice squeezed into it.

I get home, cut a lime in two, squeeze the juice into a glass, fill it to the brim with my Sonic ice, pour water over it. Voila. Heavenly. I take a sip and feel like royalty.

Then it hits me: this is luxurious.

I have ice. Ice and clean water.

And even a lime.

I am rich.

Just seventeen months ago ice was not so easy to come by. Nor was clean water to even make ice with. Life was work. Though my life in a third-world country was vastly different than the natives of the country. (I lived very comfortably, slept in a bed with a spring-coil mattress off of the ground, had appliances with which to cool and cook my food, comfy couches to sit on, fans to keep us cool at night and keep the mosquitoes away... you get the picture.)

To get water we had to use a ceramic Berkey water purifier. It took hours to run three gallons of water through. Had to be cleaned very regularly, a chore in itself. Water was precious and since our purifier was smaller we never used it for ice. Just water. For drinking.

My sweet Lori had ice. She would share with me when I'd walk the red dirt to her house, just down the way. What a dreamy walk that was, with Lake Victoria in full view. Sun shimmering, flowers sparkling and the trees, oh, the trees. Absolutely beautiful.

Lori had a bigger water purifier and she loves her ice. So it was always available.

But not at my house. Certainly not at my neighbors' house, where "Mama" cooked all day long for the men constructing the dam a few kilometers away. She spent all day over a charcoal stove outside my kitchen window. Smiling and laughing at my wild Mzungu children as she stirred pots of curry and rice. Oh, she was lovely! She cried the day I told her we were leaving. Mama. I miss her.

Nope, Mama did not have ice. I didn't have ice.

And we made it. Ice was one of the many things we had to give up for love. For Christ. I think back at all we've lost. All we've gained. All this pain.

And I sit here, cup full and running over. Overwhelmed by His blessings.

Ice is nice.

I wrote about our Beloved Victorious daughter just yesterday, and now she's almost twelve, with big plans up her sleeve. She likes ice, too. Clean water. It's a thing in our family.

So she's been dreaming big. We Palmers do that, too. But her big dreams are partially reliant on your help, dear reader. Friend.

Emma's a justice girl. Not the clothing company, the actual concept. Her words:

"I saw things in Uganda with my own two eyes and I'll never be the same, and kids should not live without basic needs when my needs are met, and clean water is the most basic of basic needs. I would find it hard to live with the knowledge that the people who lived next door were dying of thirst and I wasn't doing anything to help. Now that I have seen, I am responsible."

She sings that Brooke Fraser song (which is embedded at the end of this post) repeatedly through the day, dreaming of what will be.

So here it is. Our Emma, Beloved Victorious daughter, is teaming up with our good friends over at the Ugandan Water Project. They're going to build a water tank, folks! Did you know most children in Uganda have to walk miles to get water for their families? And most of the time that water isn't even clean? It's full of dirt and disease and they drink it. Wash in it. Cook with it.

Emma has seen and now she's responsible.

Will you join us? Emma has been crafting up a storm and has set up shop over at Etsy: aprons, dolls, hair accessories, jewelry... She's amazing! (And no, she did not learn it from me.) A sizable portion of all the proceeds from her store will go to the Ugandan Water Project to help build and install a rainwater collection tank.

These tanks are made in Uganda and installed by Ugandans on the grounds of local churches throughout Uganda. It is a project for Ugandans, by Ugandans, and our friends at UWP say it will only take $3500 to build a tank that serves over one hundred families! Clean water for families all year long, and it would only take 350 people giving ten dollars each. Emma's a patient one; she has a yearlong plan. But her birthday is just around the corner--her golden birthday--and since she truly does sparkle, would you dear friends consider making this twelve-year-old's dream come true?

Link up. Tweet it. Share it. Head to Emma's store and buy what you like, or click the "Donate" button at the top of the page.

May 12th is the golden day. One week from today. Come on. It'll be fun. And remember:

Ice is nice.

(And so is clean water.)

On Being Born: A Vintage Pearl Giveaway

2011-05-05T07:00:00.006-05:00

I remember the day I found out our Beloved, Victorious daughter was on the way. I was twenty years old. We'd taken precautions. It was a bit of a shock. A life-stopping shock. There were things I wanted to do and places I wanted to go. We'd taken precautions. No, I wasn't ready for this.

Not yet. Not yet!

We had music and a band and we were just getting somewhere with all of this. I had dreams. Dreams that included a family, yes--all I'd ever wanted was to be a wife, singer, mama and a missionary to Africa--but this was too soon.

My protests did not stop my belly from swelling, and as it grew, I grew more and more afraid of what was happening. Life rushing on before me as I trailed behind like beer cans tied to a "just-hitched" truck. Bruised from my too self-conscious stumbling.

Don't get me wrong. We were thrilled about our quickly coming bundle. Thrilled and terrified. Would I be enough? Would I love her enough? Would I have enough milk? Would we have enough money? Enough, enough, enough?

Insufficient me. Always needing more. Lacking. Ugh.

The due date came and she stayed put. Six days later, she arrived, three minutes before midnight. All pink and flailing wild. Perfect. Mine.

Ours.

As we prepared to leave the hospital, I begged the nurses through tears to please just let me stay one more day. Just one. I wasn't ready to do this without professional help. Terrified at my lack. Enough?!

My Love drove us home, slowly, feeling the precious weight of the cargo we carried. Home. Home was a teeny rent house with barely enough room for the two of us and our cat, let alone another member of the family.

I held her in the kitchen just days after bringing her home and it hit me. This is home. Mothering is where I belong. This child in my arms is the greatest rescue I could ask for. I had been too wrapped up in my "music" and "plans" to see His perfect ways.

He gives us just what we need, and all I needed was to hold her to see that no, I was not enough, never would be. But He is. And He knew that my heart needed this. That everything right and beautiful in the world is wrapped up in a baby's coos and smiles. The newborn grunts in the night.

We've added a handful since then, and He always uses their messes to reveal mine.

And I am quite a mess.

But He's enough. And through Him I am. He's given me all I need to mother these five. Though I struggle with that thought, too often believing the voices screaming in my ears of how much I lack.

I'll always remember the day I held her. Newborn nuzzled to mama's chest and the way He whispered His love, through her, to me. The day I was born.

With Mothers' Day quickly approaching, I wanted to give a gift to you mama, something to share His love. A reminder that He is enough through you. The Vintage Pearl--a beauty of a store in my town, (don't worry you can also buy online)--has given me a $25 gift certificate to use however you please, in their store or online.

Leave a comment below and you'll be entered. For multiple entries you can follow us here at One Roof | Africa or follow either me or my Love on Twitter. (By the way, did you know he's writing a book on Twitter? It's super-cool. Check it.) Leave a comment letting me know you're following us. One for each follow. We'll pick a winner through randomizer on Sunday, Mothers' Day.

Hope you know how wonderful you are and that you are loved. And He is always, always enough.

[Note: Our friend Jeff Huston of Steelehouse Productions produced the following video, a Mothers' Day surprise of sorts. I bawl every time I watch it. Our Dorothy is one of the voices--see if you can pick her out!]

Going Corporate

2011-05-04T07:00:00.001-05:00

Last week I wrote a post about doing the work of the Lord and the many different ways we can see that become manifest. And I wrote it (as is the case with just about everything I write here) as a means of publicly thinking through the stuff I happen to be wrestling with at the moment.

So now it's time to lay it all out there. The reason I wrote about putting my focus on being instead of doing--especially when it came to my career--is this: I was about to go corporate.

I've been in the process over the last six weeks or so of landing a job. The details are boring, but the result is this: last week, the day after I wrote that post, I was offered (and subsequently accepted) a position as a copywriter for a remarkable outfit called Williams & Williams, an international company that specializes in real estate auctions. They need a lot of writing help in a lot of different areas and feel like I'm the guy to provide it. I'm honored.

Michelle and I have put a lot of thought and prayer into this, weighing the pros and cons, seeking peace and wisdom, and we both feel like this is the step God has for our family right now. I haven't had an actual corporate job in over six years, so the thought of stepping back into that sort of routine (and giving up the sweet, sweet flexibility of freelancing) is a little daunting, but I temper my concerns with the thought of that even sweeter steady income.

Honestly, looking back over the almost eighteen months(!) that we've been back in the United States, I did not see any of this coming. The long, dark road we've walked has been difficult, and, heaven help us, we've made so many mistakes along the way. But we've always trust in our Father, that He's good, that He knows what He's doing, and our hearts' desire has always been to do whatever Jesus put in front of us.

And now He has put this in front of me. Not just a glorious means of provision, but a new and exciting adventure in relational ministry.

So I take it up with gratitude, happy for the chance to serve my Lord once more in an unexpected way.

I start on May 16th. Your prayers would be appreciated.

Floods. Tornadoes. Riots. Death.

2011-05-02T09:55:00.002-05:00

Just this, today.

Come Jesus. Come.

Poetry Friday: Her Cries Heard

2011-04-29T07:57:00.005-05:00

Her Cries Heard

Violence keeps me awake,
reports of tear gas and gunshots,
images of brutality,
blood staining the red-dirt, I love,
Uganda.

People riot, police beat, military descends,
chaos flows wild in the Motherland.
In my heart.
The deep blue between us can not silence her cries.

Desperate pleas,
to The One.
The One, true God.
To Jesus.

Mercy. Freedom. Peace.
I join my brothers and sisters in their freedom song.
Abba. Daddy. Please.
Bring Peace.

Leviticus 26:10-12 (The Message)
6-10 "I'll make the country a place of peace—you'll be able to go to sleep at night without fear; I'll get rid of the wild beasts; I'll eliminate war. You'll chase out your enemies and defeat them: Five of you will chase a hundred, and a hundred of you will chase ten thousand and do away with them. I'll give you my full attention: I'll make sure you prosper, make sure you grow in numbers, and keep my covenant with you in good working order. You'll still be eating from last year's harvest when you have to clean out the barns to make room for the new crops.

11-13 "I'll set up my residence in your neighborhood; I won't avoid or shun you; I'll stroll through your streets. I'll be your God; you'll be my people. I am God, your personal God who rescued you from Egypt so that you would no longer be slaves to the Egyptians. I ripped off the harness of your slavery so that you can move about freely.

Doing The Work of the Lord

2011-04-28T08:54:00.005-05:00

Adam here, and I owe you all an apology. Let me explain.

I've been blessed to make ministry my main focus over the past few years, first as a freelance writer, then as a missionary of sorts. When we were in Uganda, I was able to focus completely on family and relationships as a means of ministry. We were leading worship, hosting short-term teams, working with other missionaries on practical, need-meeting projects, sharing Jesus' love with other adoptive families... the opportunities were boundless and we did them all. I didn't have to "waste time" moving any widgets or making money for some faceless company. No, I was able to "do the work of the Lord."

Then we came back and I started casting around for a job, anything. The dream was to go back to freelancing full-time, but nothing was happening on that front, so I worked mostly on a handful of small freelance writing projects and spent most of my time delivering dry cleaning. In the meantime, I hit up WorshipJobs.com looking for a full-time position where Michelle and I could lead worship and get back to that missional life of "doing the work of the Lord."

Nothing came to fruition on that front, though, and I started to get desperate. I tried shaking a few trees among my various connections but no freelance fruit fell out of them, so I went full-time at the dry cleaner, spending my mornings putting plastic bags over clothes and my afternoons delivering them.

Then, through a random connection, I got a major ghostwriting gig for a pastor in Florida. This was definitely an answer to prayer. Then another gig came on top of that, this time for a pastor in Washington, and the scheduling couldn't have worked out any better. I was able to transition rather easily back into the full-time freelance world, once more using my talents to "do the work of the Lord."

And this is why I owe you guys an apology. Because I've been so wrongheaded, so smug in my humility. It started long ago when I first embarked on a freelance career that was fed mostly by the Christian publishing industry, continued into our time in Uganda, and then reignited at the same time as my recent freelancing time.

I've fed this insidious notion that, in order to "do the work of the Lord," I must be overtly working in some sort of recognizable ministerial fashion.

How wrong I've been, how unknowingly I've looked down upon a "normal" career. As if there was no possible way to serve Jesus through any means other than those that look the most like "doing the work of the Lord." As if I couldn't serve him in the way I love my kids, or the way I treat my wife, or in the voice of kindness I use when I order my morning coffee. As if working in the corporate world is not "doing the work of the Lord." As if parenting, talking, driving, having friends over for dinner, you-name-it... as if none of these things mattered to Jesus.

I am so sorry.

I got blindsided by my own importance and lost sight of the main goal, which has nothing to do with "doing" at all. Yes, a love for Jesus will inevitably lead to action in this world, but that is not the point. The point is not to do.

It is to be.

To be His. Wholly and securely.

Wherever I am, whatever I am doing, I must simply be.

Because by being, I am doing.

Messianic Passover Seder: Palmer Style

2011-04-26T23:31:00.005-05:00

On Maundy Thursday, the day Christians commemorate the Last Supper, we celebrate our Passover Lamb with a Messianic seder meal. This was the second year of our new tradition and we were thrilled to invite another family to join us. We were then blessed with a last-minute guest and our table was bursting. Our hearts overflowing. Overwhelmed by the symbolism of it all. A spotless lamb sacrificed for us.

We read. Eat. And then a special surprise from the children. An impromptu costume party. A song. Some jokes. Dances. Oh, it was a scene.

What a beautiful, holy, time we had. Family. Food. Friends. Holy; wholly beautiful.

A "Beloved" Lost

2011-04-26T10:55:00.008-05:00

I read the words on Twitter late Friday night. And they cut into my mama heart like a blunt, dull knife. Pierced the very depths of my soul.

"Emma is going to heaven on Good Friday."

I have an Emma, my "beloved." I panic, breathe heavy just thinking of life without her.

A few years ago my Love and I did the music for the saddest funeral ever. The funeral of a three-month-old baby named Emma, she was their "beloved." Why pain? Why suffering? Why our children?

Why. Why? Why?

This Emma's mama, Heather of Especially Heather, is a cancer fighter and survivor. Little Emma was sick from before birth and Heather has shared the good, the bad, and the ugly on her hope-filled blog. I read about the way she has been blessed to mother this darling daughter, how she's enjoyed every moment. An inspiration to fully live each day with my children. To soak up these life gifts. Every breath.

The kind folks over at Dayspring are coordinating a card basket for Heather and her family. You can make a card for them and Dayspring will gather all the cards in a pretty basket and ship them to Heather and her family. Just put in "heather" as the coupon code and Dayspring will take care of the tab.

This is a chance to love on a hurting mama. You don't have to know her or follow her blog.

Just sit for a moment and enter into her pain, her husband's pain, her son's. Love this family by taking a moment to grieve with them on this earth. Then put those tears into words on keys.

The body of Christ lifting up the broken. Join us.

[Click here to go to the card basket page.]

Poetry Friday: Beautiful Scandalous Night

2011-04-23T07:28:00.007-05:00

This post, today.
Meant for yesterday, but my days run together and leave me undone.
So this. Today.
For you. For me. For all.

Beautiful Scandalous Night
(Steve Hindalong & Derald Daugherty)

Go on up to the mountain of mercy
To the crimson perpetual tide
Kneel down on the shore
Be thirsty no more
Go under and be purified

Follow Christ to the holy mountain
Sinner sorry and wrecked by the fall
Cleanse your heart and soul
In the fountain that flows
For you and for me and for all

At the wonderful, tragic, mysterious tree
On a beautiful, scandalous, night you and me
Where atoned by His blood and forever washed white
On a beautiful, scandalous night

At the hillside you will be delivered
At the foot of the cross justified
And your spirit restored
By the river that pours
From our blessed Savior's side

At the wonderful, tragic, mysterious tree
On a beautiful, scandalous, night you and me
Where atoned by His blood and forever washed white
On a beautiful, scandalous night

Where I Find...

2011-04-21T11:23:00.004-05:00

Remembering the Suffering

2011-04-20T10:45:00.007-05:00

I find her knelt-down, hammering, putting a nail through two sticks to make a cross, and I remember. Remember that I put the nails through His hands. How my sin drove Him to the cross. His blood on my hands.

I bow down and feel the ache of regret. All the times, just this week. Today. Times I have put myself before my Love, my children, my family. How I choose frustration over patience. Anger over love. Pride over humility. Internet over prayer.

I need the cross. Every minute. Every second. I can't do this myself.

I've been planning a Messianic Seder again this year, this time inviting another family to join us. I look over pictures from last year. Our family, all giddy with delight over this newfound tradition. The reading is beautiful and this walking-through rememberance powerful.

I look at these pictures from just one year ago. I see her hair. The pain she could not vocalize, shining golden on her tiny head. I remember a family torn apart. Dreams shattered. Hope destroyed. And just one year later, we're healing. Hair growing back. Lives rebuilt. Hope shining bright in our eyes. We remember.

We never want to forget what He brought us through. Tomorrow we'll circle the table again, with five more. And Daddy will re-tell the story.

Embraced

2011-04-19T08:30:00.006-05:00

The Company Kids has a wonderful new program called "Buy One Give One", where they'll give away a comforter to homeless children for each one you purchase. But before they can do that, they need a design for the giveaway comforters.

So they posted a contest on their Facebook site and the entry with the most votes win! Their design will be used on all of the comforters given to the homeless.

Our kids heard about this contest and immediately connected with it. They wanted to make sure that homeless children feel embraced. That each night, as these children go to sleep under the stars instead of in the warmth of a home, they are wrapped in a warm embrace. They wrapped their arms around the idea of children sleeping on streets. Cold. Alone. They wanted to help. Bring a little comfort.

So the Palmer children put their creative minds together and came up with an idea for a design that would do just that. Would you consider voting for the Palmer kids. They worked real hard and they need your vote.

Click here to vote.

A Hug For The Neighborhood

2011-04-17T22:54:00.009-05:00

We spend hours. Over several days.

Sorting. Piling. Washing.

Piles and piles and piles of clothes.

It's for an upcoming church event, a "hug for the neighborhood." Nearby our neighbors suffer in poverty, often lacking basic needs, and on this day we want to encourage them, give them free clothes, pray with them, hug them, cut their hair, manicure their nails, feed them some burgers and hot dogs. It's a small gift and it's not going to make their suffering go away. Not going to rescue them from the dark pit of poverty.

But that's not our job anyway. We know a Savior who died on a bloody cross who can.

So we have a party and we invite them to come.

The children and I become part of the volunteer army, spend almost a week, taking time to sort clothes at the church. Pile them. Wash them. Hang them. Fold them. One day the kids happen to be at the church and they assemble Easter eggs for a neighborhood hunt. 600 of them. Just the four kids.

And each night leading up to our Saturday-sized hug, as we give thanks around the "flickering flame of hope," at least one of them says it--sometimes more, but always one. They say how thankful they are that they can be a part of something that helps bless others. That they can bless others, serve.

Saturday comes and we pile in the van, the spring wind blowing our hair wild, but we do not relent. We go. I wrap up baby Constance and we hug our neighbors. Oh, to see my children's faces as they watch neighbors filling bags with clean clothes.

Clothes that they sorted, piled, and hung. Doing what they could do. Because children can do something. And I'm so thankful they did. So are our neighbors....

296. A church looking outside its four walls
297. Children who serve
298. People cleaning out closets and filling hearts
299. Sunny spring days
300. "Steadfast, Unfailing, Love" all wrapped up with a smile on her face
301. The gift of a second language (Thank you, Mama!)
302. Sunday morning sun-kissed cheeks
303. To bless and be blessed

Poetry Friday: Rocket-Building

2011-04-15T07:00:00.005-05:00

Adam here. So my friend is sitting across the table from me at the coffee shop and he asks me, "Bro, have you heard the new Elbow album?" And I'm puzzled and say, "I've never heard the old Elbow album. Albums?" So he hands me the new one, and it's called Build A Rocket Boys! and that missing comma really bugs me but I trust his judgment and pop it in. I listen to about thirty seconds of it and then post this as my Facebook status:

How am I just now finding out about Elbow? I thought you people were my friends.

I'm taken by the melody and atmospheric musicality of the first song, but it's the poetry of the second song, "Lippy Kids," that seals the deal. I see the song as a fragile, candid reminder of the way we tend to waste our youth doing nothing of consequence ("stealing booze and hourlong, hungry kisses"), only to recognize the squandered time once it's gone and we have too many responsibilities to be able to sit and dream.

It's a hopeful lament, one I've already shared with my own children many times over. Michelle and I have always tried to encourage them in their dreams, their ambitions, the multitudes of wacky schemes they concoct over the course of a day. We try to shepherd them to, in the song's parlance, "build a rocket, boys."

And yet, as I listen to this song and mull the theme, I can't help but tell myself to build my own rocket. There's no reason I can't. You are never too young to start dreaming, and never too old to stop.

So I get back to work, loving my children, adoring my wife, embracing each other, holding each other close. Walking out this life together. Dreaming. Scheming. Looking back with fondness and ahead with anticipation. Drenching everything in lessons of grace, gratitude. A sincere and honest love for Jesus. The work of a family.

We're building a rocket, boys.

Lippy Kids
(words by Guy Garvey [I think], music by Elbow)

Lippy kids on the corner again
Lippy kids on the corner again
Settling like crows
Though I never perfected the simian stroll
The cigarettes, and it was everything then

Do they know those days are golden?
Build a rocket, boys.
Build a rocket, boys!

One long June
I came down from the trees
and curbstone cool
You were a freshly painted angel
Walking on walls
Stealing booze and hourlong, hungry kisses
Nobody knew me at home anymore

Build a rocket, boys!
Build a rocket, boys.
Build a rocket, boys!

Lippy kids on the corner again
Lippy kids on the corner begin
Settling like crows
And I never affected that simian stroll
No.

Do they know those days are golden?
Build a rocket, boys.
Build a rocket, boys!

One long June
I came down from the trees
and curbstone cool
You were a freshly painted angel
Walking on walls
Stealing booze and hourlong, hungry kisses
And nobody knew me at home anymore

Build a rocket, boys!
Build a rocket, boys.
Build a rocket, boys!

Going In A Different Direction

2011-04-14T07:00:00.001-05:00

Adam here. A few months ago I wrote a post for one of our weekly "Poetry Friday" installments, this one being about Mumford & Sons, a quartet from London who came out of nowhere and essentially hand-delivered exactly what I needed last year.

In that post, I talked a little bit about a difficult work situation I was in. See, I'm a writer and editor by trade, but when we got back I couldn't find much work in the writing/editing fields. So I accepted the gracious offer of a part-time job delivering dry cleaning while I searched for more sustainable employment. Every few weeks I'd have something more long-term on the line, hoping against hope that it would turn out right, only to have it go belly-up at the last.

The lowlight came when I had three separate job opportunities fall apart within three days of each other. It all happened in the same week, and I decided I never, ever wanted to hear the phrase "We're going in a different direction" again.

I had no idea how we were going to make it. I'd just hung up the phone after being told the third time about a company going in a direction other than mine when my phone rang again. It was a friend of mine, asking where I was. I told him I was at the dry cleaning plant.

"I'll be there in a minute," he said, and sure enough, there he was, just a few minutes later. Handing me a check. "Someone gave this to me to give to you," he said. "They were just praying about you guys and felt like you could use it."

And that's the way it's gone for us since we've been back. Michelle wrote about a similar incident that happened not three weeks ago. God has always taken care of us.

But one way He's provided that I haven't talked about yet is in the area of freelance work. In November, I was connected with a pastor in Gainesville, Florida to work on a book project that was near and dear to his heart. And this project was big enough that I was able to lay aside the dry cleaning job and become a full-time writer once more.

The same week I inked that deal, I got an email from an old client who'd had me do some work for him while we were in Uganda. He wanted to talk about another project that wouldn't start until the first of the year, slotting perfectly into a break I would take between drafts of this other project.

Two book projects secure in one week.

It's nice to be a full-time freelancer once more, and even though I'm going to be wrapping up these projects in the next few weeks with nothing major looming on the horizon, I know God will see us through. No matter what. Because He is always going in my direction.

Learning In An Instant

2011-04-13T07:00:00.001-05:00

Adam here. It's amazing what your instinctive reactions to stress can tell you about yourself. One time, I had a harrowing driving experience where I had to employ some knee-jerk swerving to avoid a collision, and in that instant I yelled out, "Jesus!" And not as an exclamation, but literally calling on Jesus to be present in that situation. A half-second later, everything was fine and I was on my merry way, but I felt, oh, I don't know, proud of myself that my first reaction is to call on Jesus.

I had another such experience this week, though not while behind the wheel. No, the Palmer Tribe was hungry, and it was Wednesday night, which meant it was time to head to Taco Cabana for free kids' meals. And naturally, since they give out free kids' meals on Wednesday nights, ours were not the only kids in the place.

TC (as we call it around our house) does the Wednesday Kids' Night thing very well. So well that they always have a clown. Every week! She is a super-sweet lady who always has fun with the kids, and this time around she happened to be playing games with them in a little anteroom off the main restaurant.

We happened to sit near this room and so there was a constant stream of children going in and out to play games with the clown. I was facing away from the door but I kept seeing them out of the corner of my eye.

And then I saw some movement from the kid line. Someone stepping toward me. I turned my head and looked down in the direction of the movement and saw a pair of black and white sneakers hopping into my field of vision and landing with a smart and satisfying thwack! on the concrete floor. I looked up into the beaming, million-dollar smile of a little African-American boy.

I registered all this in an instant, and in that split-second, my brain did a back-flip.

It was Sterling.

That was my first, initial reaction--that Sterling had made a little hop toward me. You know how your brain will sometimes do that, try to mesh two things together that at first seem to make sense, and then just a snap of the fingers later seem strangely dissonant? That happened here. It was like my mind took a snapshot of this boy, searched through all my mental images and paired him up with Sterling. "We have a match!" my brain said.

All this takes a long time to write down, but in that moment, it all happened faster than I blink my eyes. And so you know what my instinctive reaction was, upon seeing a boy I was sure was Sterling?

I made a slight, ever-so-imperceptible move toward him. To pick him up and hug him. To squeeze his little body in my arms. To hear him squeal and giggle and call me "Daddy!"

In that instant, he was not a victim.

In that instant, he was not a perpetrator.

In that instant, he was my son again.

And in that instant, I loved him.

Thankfully, my brain's higher reasoning took over and I saw the boy for who he really was. A small, energetic child, maybe three or four years old, who was working out as much of the room as his mother would let him. Of course he wasn't Sterling. Sterling would be much older by now, about to turn seven in another month.

Nevertheless, the whole experience rattled me, and I was glad the kids were playing with Chatters the Clown. I told Michelle what happened and then excused myself from the crowded restaurant to go outside, get some air, and calm down. I leaned against a small tree that decorated the parking lot and began to go over what just happened. To reflect on my instinctive reaction.

It wasn't one of bitterness or revulsion. I didn't instinctively move to protect Charlotte, and my instinct to embrace him wasn't one of preserving the other kids around.

My instincts tell me that I still love him. That my arms miss him. That there is a part of my heart that he carries with him, and that when I thought he was there, that part had been replaced. If only for a moment.

I took a few deep breaths and walked back inside, sat down with Michelle and Emma, sipped my lemonade, and watched my kids play. A few minutes later we rounded everyone up, got back in the van, drove home, and got ready for bed. I hugged each of the children extra tightly that night, and thanked God for them. They are a gift to me, a treasure from heaven. A little while later, I was drifting off to sleep, thinking about that moment, about the way Sterling was right there in front of me, if only for an instant.

You can learn a lot about yourself in an instant.

I learned that I still love.

The Grace of Interruption

2011-04-12T06:51:00.002-05:00

"Mama will you lay with me?"

I sigh. Why is this glaring screen more enticing to me than her seven-year-old nighttime snuggles?

"In a minute," I reply, thinking she might just go fall asleep before I get to her. More than "a minute" passes and then, from the bedroom, "Mama?"

I relent. Walk down the dark hall into her even darker room. Grumble as I trip over the toys left out and the Sit-n-Spin rumbles loud under my feet. Will this house ever be mess-free?!

She's tucked in under her t-shirt quilt, a Christmas gift I had made for each of us before our move to Uganda. I cuddle her close, smell her hair, rub my fingers down her arms, think of how big she is growing and she really should have had a shower before bed and she giggles, "Mama, you're taking up a lot of room." In my snuggling I inadvertently took over her pillow and now she's just lying on a corner. I scooch over a bit.

She asks for a song. "But not a catchy one--I don't want to be singing it all night." I begin to sing "Stay Awake", but she stops me. "No, no, not that one! Less catchy!" Aggravated, I sing "Amazing Grace," with all the verses. She calls Benny to her side; he lies down and lays his head across her tummy.

The song's almost over and Noah stumbles in from his room, fortunately steering clear of the Sit-n-Spin. "Mom, will you lay with me?"

I have things to do, yes, but I consent and send him back to his bed to wait on me. I sing another chorus; Benny and Dorothy sing back to me with their snores. My little gift of grace ever-growing, and will there be a day when she doesn't need a mama's nuzzle hug and song to find rest?

I kiss her cheek and go down the hall to the one and only, Noah, waiting for me in his bed. He's nine and still loves a good snuggle time, though he rarely he asks. Everything in me wants to memorize these moments. These too-precious, fleeting moments when hugs and songs are enough to bring rest. I beg/pray that the Father will remind me ever so gently, when I get too caught up in myself, to remember that these days will not always be. That there will be a day free of mess, and that day will also be free of babies and children and scraped knees and silly laughter.

Amazing grace to embrace it all. Always.

Learning To Dance Through Thanks

2011-04-11T07:00:00.006-05:00

Little feet stumble through the halls and the modern-day compositions of Olafur Arnalds fill the room. We've had a full day of schooling and I'm laying on the bed, nursing the littlest of the five. [Side note: she is the yummiest little squishy-love ever! Now, back to the post.]

I lay little love down and wander into the living room, and there they are. Three tutus and lots of pink! My girls, led by the oldest daughter, the strong, fierce, compassionate one. She's decided to give her younger sisters a ballet lesson and they stumble through steps.

As I watch, I think of the night before, and the way we stumbled through our lent offerings of thanks. How it was messy and uncoordinated. How there were crumbs on the table. How the candle was burning wax all down the beautiful way of light wreath, and the house was a mess, and Charlotte wouldn't stop whining and why can't people sit still for a few minutes!

Ungraceful thanks.

The girls use the orange, handed-down club chairs as a dance bar as the oldest daughter leads them through the bar exercises. Dorothy is stoic--she takes her dance very seriously and this is a lesson she wants to learn. Charlotte tries hard to follow to first position, then to second, and back again, but her stubby little legs, chubby little tootsies, just don't quite get it right and now we're all laughs. [Second side note: She is extremely squishy, too.]

I wasn't laughing when I could hardly hear through the whining during our thankful time. Then the baby was fussing and I found it impossible to focus in our quiet contemplation time. So many distractions. Eventually, I just ask the Father to help me see Jesus. Help me see His Son and the journey He took, help me embrace the passion of Christ during this Lenten season of waiting. I just want to see Him.

All focus now on Charlotte. She's trying so hard! Big sisters are teaming up to make her efforts a success. They gently walk her through the steps, one foot in front of the other and soon she's picking it up. Delighted she spins through the living room. Tripping over her feet she falls to the ground.

The Father, He's walking me through this dance of thanks. Teaching me to step into His grace and follow His lead as I dance through this beautiful life He's so blessed me with. Thankfulness is the song I dance to.

Little love is awake now and we all giggle as we slip her into the purple tutu gifted at her birth. It's the first and last time she will wear it today--she is so darn squishy and we had to pull hard to get it over her little tummy. [Third and final side note: We can hardly contain ourselves she's so squishy!]

So here we are. Learning the steps of thanks and how to dance through grace. Yes, we stumble most days. Trip over anger and stubbornness, fumble over selfishness and impatience. Somedays we get it wrong. All wrong. But we're dancing. And learning to just put one foot in front of the other, to be delighted whether we get it right or not.

So thankful for:

#285. Writing dates with my Love
#286. The Father providing all of our needs
#287. Children who serve joyfully alongside mama
#288. Friends going Further in on Fridays
#289. Piles of clean laundry... done by my Love
#290. Daughters who sing with their mama
#291. Noah the Super Genius, his growing mind
#292. Worshipping together
#293. Readers who encourage and share their journeys... what an honor
#294. Nine ounces gained in a week
#295. Eight hundred Family thanks and counting...

Poetry Friday: Newspaper Blackout

2011-04-08T07:00:00.003-05:00

Someone turned my attention yesterday to a very good article called "How To Steal Like An Artist (And 9 Other Things Nobody Told Me)". Of course, with a title like that, I couldn't resist heading over there to see what it was all about.

Turns out it's by a guy named Austin Kleon who does a lot of different artistic-type things, one of which is a form of poetry he calls Newspaper Blackout. He even has a book full of it.

You saw the gist of it just above: he takes a regular newspaper article and blacks out all the words he doesn't want. What remains is sometimes quirky, sometimes sublime. Regardless, he has suddenly found poetry in the midst of the mundane.

Kleon's style appeals to me for a variety of reasons. For starters, I love the concept of "finding" poetry in the midst of something as ordinary as a newspaper article. It speaks to the side of me that looks for higher things in the ordinariness of this world we live in. That's a guiding philosophy I try to have when I interact with the world: what can this movie, book, time in line at the grocery store, drive to a coffee shop, moment playing Ticket to Ride with my kids teach me about Jesus?

But I also love the do-it-yourself aspect of Kleon's work. Most of the times I look at art or poetry and think, "Man, I wish I could paint/draw/write like that!" Yes, I am a professional writer of words, but poetry--the good kind--eludes me. I'll never string words together like Pablo Neruda or even Cormac McCarthy.

This? I can do this. Michelle can do this. The kids can do this.

You can do this.

So we're going to try it, trying creating art/poetry together as a family. And if we have decent results, we'll share it here with you.

I can't wait to see what we find.

"So here's what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him. Don't become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You'll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what he wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you." -Romans 12:1-2, MSG

Cleaning Up

2011-04-07T07:00:00.009-05:00

"I'll take care of it myself!"

I force these words out at a clip as I child-stomp out of our bedroom and into the 1950s-style, checkered-tile, bright yellow bathroom. Just moments ago, a spectacular, flaming sunrise woke me to find a very smiley, explosively poopie Steadfast, Unfailing Love in her co-sleeper waiting for mama to save her from herself.

I'd planned to shower this morning and this explosion shouldn't stop me. I enlist my Love to lend me a hand and I can tell he's irritated. He's a man of routine and this throws a hitch in his morning.

I sense his irritation and come a bit--how do you say?--unglued. The whole house is asleep as my old ways are waking up.

The old ways of shutting down. Detaching. Curling my toes in my shoes and white-knuckling my way through life, through relationships. Yep, old habits die hard. And I've been slow dying for years. These years of healing. Years of relationship and trudging through the "in sickness and health, for richer and poorer till death do us part." After fourteen years you'd think I'd love better.

I don't.

Li'l love gets a quick bath in the sink. Wrapped up in the handmade bath towel, dressed, and put back to bed. Noah the one and only says he can't stay mad at anyone when he looks at her. I remember this, then disagree. I can.

Passing my Love in the kitchen, I make sure there is plenty of room between us. I need space. I'm feeling the regret even as I walk out of the room, but my too-stubborn heart marches on. Self-reliant, three-year-old stubbornness.

"I can do this myself!" Sigh. Will I ever learn?

The shower warms me and my mind spins, running through the exact reasons he is so wrong. So selfish, unhelpful, singleminded. Irritating! And the irony is not lost on me. On the fact that, as I judge him, I'm full of sin myself, casting stones, mind stones. I see grace, tenderly opening my eyes to the ugly truth of me. Another layer of grace uncovering the compost of my soul.

And I cry, soul-sick when I open the fridge and see there at the top... a gift of love.

He'd gotten it for me the night before. We'd run out of dark chocolate and I'd had a hard day and he knew what Mama needed: dark chocolate almond milk, Ghirardelli chocolate, and cookie dough. I'd fallen asleep before he got home with these little Mama treats.

Selfish? Unhelpful? Singleminded?

I swallow these words. Words never spoken with my mouth but loudly by my heart. And my heart has spoken against my Love this morning and many mornings before. And I can't take them back. And won't I ever learn? And how can I bear another minute in this skin?

He comes home for lunch. Our eyes meet, we half-smile, he leans in close. We're breathing hard now. He breaks the silence: "I'm sorry I was irritated."

I blurt out, "I'm sorry I was irritated with you being irritated."

He smiles and gets the last word. "I'm sorry I was irritated at you being irritated that I was irritated."

We're laughing now. Grace floods us and I'm afloat, carried by a Father who teaches me that, when I judge others, I really judge myself. And my Love, who stumbles through this life with me at his side, is laughing hard, loving long, and forgiving often.

"Don't pick on people, jump on their failures, criticize their faults— unless, of course, you want the same treatment. That critical spirit has a way of boomeranging. It's easy to see a smudge on your neighbor's face and be oblivious to the ugly sneer on your own. Do you have the nerve to say, 'Let me wash your face for you,' when your own face is distorted by contempt? It's this whole traveling road-show mentality all over again, playing a holier-than-thou part instead of just living your part. Wipe that ugly sneer off your own face, and you might be fit to offer a washcloth to your neighbor." Matthew 7:1-5, MSG

The Prodigal Benny

2011-04-06T07:00:00.005-05:00

Adam here. So I'm driving in the van behind our stupid dog Benny as he runs pell-mell (literary note: all dogs have run "pell-mell" since the 1950s) down the street. Oh, this dog. I can't blame him too much for his genetics; he is, after all, a fox terrier, bred specifically to bolt through any opening he sees and run in straight lines until he catches something. If our neighborhood was rife with foxes, then everything would be okay. But it is decidedly free of foxes (save the ones living under my roof), and so he runs.

And runs. And runs.

Minutes before this, I'd driven around the block looking for him, whistling, calling his name. Nothing. Then I finally see him in my neighbor's yard and do what I always do: stop the van, open the door, and call him excitedly. "Hey, Benny! C'mere, boy!" He wags his tail and beelines straight toward me, just like always. I'm anticipating the next thing, him jumping into the van with me, the dopey mutt all excited at the prospect of a ride in a real live automobile.

Instead, he gets within inches of the van and then swerves to start running down the street. Oh, this moronic creature. He has me mumbling not-nice words under my breath as I pursue him at bottom speed, the needle on my speedometer acting put out at being asked to do so little.

Minutes before this, I'm sitting in the rocking chair in the living room, enjoying the evening breeze through the screens, holding Constance and patting her back. Benny cavorts toward us and I instinctively reach down and give his elongated snout a little pat. He's a cute fella. Michelle takes a seat on the couch and we start talking, trying to figure out I-don't-remember-what. Suddenly, she looks out the picture window. "There goes Benny."

"What? He was just here!" I turn around and, sure enough, there he goes, trotting down the street and toward the park. I get up and find that my enjoyable evening breeze blew open the kitchen door. Oh, this stultifying mutt. I hand the baby to Michelle, grab the van keys, and set off to retrieve him.

Two days before this, I'm sitting in church and my friend Gyle is teaching on the parable of the prodigal son. He's talking about the way this son was really superbly jerky to his family, how completely reprobate he was and how he offered nothing to the family but a lasting drain on their resources. And yet the Father is delighted to see him and elevates him the second he returns home.

And I'm struck by the sheer grace on display in this story. Mostly I'm struck by this: the only thing the son had to do was head home. All he had to do was say, "This sucks; I'ma go back and see if I can work for my dad." He didn't come home looking for redemption or restoration--he was just looking for a job. Didn't matter why he came home; all that matters is that he did.

So I'm driving in the van behind our stupid dog as he runs pell-mell down the street, and this parable comes back to me. Or maybe it was when Benny swerved away from my open door and hit the street. Or maybe it was when I left the house to look for him. Regardless, I'm seeing myself in both stories.

I'm the prodigal who wants it his way until it gets tough, then tries to come back to God on my own terms.

I'm the stray dog who likes the idea of coming home, but veers away at the last second to live some more of my perceived freedom.

But I don't see God in both stories. In this story of the stray dog, the owner pursues and curses and swears to exact revenge on this miserable varmint for putting him out at dinnertime. The owner eventually relies on a kind neighbor who was trimming his hedge to subdue the dog. Then the owner puts the dog in the van and then, when they get home, into the crate for the rest of the night.

That's not the type of God I serve. I see my God in that other story. I have a Father who knows that, no matter what, I'll come back someday. And He doesn't care why.

He's just glad to have me home.

Hope Speaks

2011-04-05T07:00:00.005-05:00

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I'm trying to listen quietly, but the clock above my head in our dining room is all I hear. Closing my eyes, I beg the Father, speak. "Speak Lord, your servant is listening. And can you do it quickly? I've only got a few minutes."

I'm setting aside time, quiet time, time when babies are tucked in and Mama has a few moments to herself. I'm sharing them right now, there are other things to do, but right now in these next few minutes...I'm listening. Speak!

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

He is silent.

But now, I'm not.

The audacity. I realize my error and shrink into the wooden handed-down chair at the mismatched Amish table. Hurry up, God? Hurry up? Really?

Disgusted at myself, I let my mind wander. The tick-tock-tick-tock continues, but it's just white noise now. I've tuned it out. Regret is now screaming in my ears, my heart. Years I've spent yelling at the Father, an ungrateful child demanding my way. Wanting only sweet pleasures today, never accepting the bittersweet grace of tomorrow.

I've missed the point.

Contrary to some popular middle-class beliefs, Christ did not suffer, bleed, and die so that I may live a life free of heartache and suffering. My friends across the ocean on the red soil can tell you that. They suffer daily with malaria and AIDS. Lacking food and clean water, they watch loved ones die on a regular basis.

But their faith is solid. Christ is their only hope. Not for a shiny new car or a convenient parking space. Not for a bubble that shields them from problems and pain. But hope for eternity.

Hope for peace in sorrow and joy in the morning.

Hope that the Father has all our needs met and He will never leave us or forsake us.

Hope that, though we may not know what tomorrow holds, He holds all our tomorrows and that our job is to trust Him with them.

Hope to wake up each morning and trust Him again. And again. And again.

The dishwasher whirs now in the background, drowning out the tick-tock-tick-tock. My heart whirs happy. Hopeful. Thankful. Thankful for friends in distant lands that teach me grace and trust, and for a Father that is sometimes silent and always good.

He has spoken.

Sometimes, Fun Is The Point

2011-04-03T23:03:00.004-05:00

It was eighty-six degrees in Tulsa yesterday. Absolutely amazing weather. After Sunday morning worship, my Love, with a borrowed mower, sheared the lawn for the first time this year. The children played and the birds sang. Ah, spring. Beautiful, promising, spring.

Our beautiful day led us into an awesome night of square dancing. Yes, dancing. There was a fundraiser at church, and after the auctioneer called his last bid, we lined up.

And danced.

And danced. And danced.

Oh, the laughs. Dorothy takes her art seriously, and when mama wanted to be silly, she smiled a half-smile and moved a bit further away so as not to be distracted. Noah, focusing intently, bumped into me and many others several times and when later he asked, "How did I do?" I honestly replied with, "Did you have fun?"

"Yes," he said.

"Then you did great! Fun was the point."

How many times we miss the point! But not tonight. Tonight we laughed and danced (and did I mention the laughing?).

#273. For prayers and answers
#274. Handed down much needed clothes
#275. Piled up clothes to be given away
#276. Sunrises, birds singing and always waking to his warm arms
#277. Friends making time
#278. Mama who calls
#279. Emails and messages from brave overcomers...me too
#280. Wild ideas and art and communities and dreams
#281. Words spoken that change perspective
#282. Love, love, love
#283. Grace, grace, grace
#284. Elbows and poetry

Poetry Friday: For All Of You Who Said "Me Too."

2011-04-01T07:00:00.011-05:00

You email me. Say those two words, "Me too." And I am overwhlemed. Me, trembling bare through words on screens. And beautiful you, comforting me, encouraging me, thanking me. My Love, he calls me brave. This I am not. Not. One. Bit. Not in my own strength.

But I am learning to be brave in Him. Brave in Jesus. In Him, through Him and because of Him. Oh, He is so good.

Today on Poetry Friday I want to share what I feel is truly poetry: the twelve steps for sexual, physical, and emotional abuse. I walk these steps out on Monday mornings, circle up and share. Repeat these until my mouth and heart are one. I wanted to share them with you today. Maybe you read yesterday here and you said, "Me too." Maybe you've been hurt and you're just. trying. to breathe.

I'm learning to breathe through these steps. Walking out healing and learning to trust Grace.

Twelve Steps for Sexual/Physical/Emotional Abuse

STEP ONE
We admit we are powerless over the past and as a result our lives have become unmanageable. (Romans 7:18)

STEP TWO
We believe God can restore us to wholeness, and realize this power can always be trusted to bring healing and wholeness in our lives. (Philippians 2:13)

STEP THREE
We make a decision to turn our will and our lives to the care of God, realizing we have not always understood His unconditional love. We choose to believe He does love us, is worthy of trust, and will help us to understand Him as we seek His truth. (Romans 12:1)

STEP FOUR
We make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves, realizing all wrongs can be forgiven. We renounce the lie that the abuse was our fault. (Lamentations 3:40)

STEP FIVE
We admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of the wrongs In our lives. This will include those acts perpetrated against me as well as those wrongs I perpetrated against others. (James 5:16)

STEP SIX
By accepting God's cleansing, we can renounce our shame. Now we are ready to have God remove all these character distortions and defects. (James 4:10)

STEP SEVEN
We humbly ask Him to remove our shortcomings, including our guilt. We release our fear and submit to Him. (1 John 1:9)

STEP EIGHT
We make a list of all persons who have harmed us and become willing to seek God's help in forgiving our perpetrators, as well as forgiving ourselves. We realize we've also harmed others and become willing to make amends to them. (Luke 6:31)

STEP NINE
We extend forgiveness to ourselves and to others who have perpetrated against us, realizing this is an attitude of the heart, not always confrontation. We make direct amends, asking forgiveness from those people we have harmed, except when to do so would injure them or others. (Matthew 5:23-24)

STEP TEN
We continue to take personal inventory as new memories and issues surface. We continue to renounce our shame and guilt, but when we are wrong promptly admit it. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

STEP ELEVEN
We continue to seek God through prayer and meditation to improve our understanding of His character. Praying for knowledge of His truth in our lives, His will for us, and for the power to carry that out. (Colossians 3:16)

STEP TWELVE
Having a spiritual awakening as we accept God's love and healing through these steps, we try to carry His message of hope to others. We practice these principles as new memories and issues surface, claiming God's promise of restoration and wholeness. (Galatians 6:1)

Dear friends, maybe you'll join me, find a place in your neck of the woods to walk out these steps.

Tonight as my Love and I sat in our living room worshiping, we sang this chorus: "We will overcome / By the blood of the Lamb / and the word of our testimony / Everyone overcome." I can hear it now, all of us healed overcomers, shouting out our healing, speaking the hushed truth. Only because of Him. Because of beautiful grace do we sing. Through Jesus, we will overcome.

Me Too

2011-03-31T07:00:00.010-05:00

I was checking a message the other day on Facebook when I noticed the sidebar on the left of the page. There was a heading that caught my eye, listing "Memorable Status Updates" from my Facebook friends. My Love's status from December 4th of 2009 punched me in the gut: "Stealing some internet at DFW. Two hours until we land in Tulsa." And within seconds I am replaying it all in my head. How it all went down. The day our lives changed forever.

Just seconds before reading this I had lost a message I'd typed out to a friend. Was it me? Technology? Or was it Providence? Was the message I wrote out not what the Father would want me to say and the glitch His way of giving me a second chance at getting it right? Speaking His words and not my own. I'm pondering this... providence.

I think of the ten months that our dearest, ocean-blue-eyed blondie suffered in silence. Her pain hidden behind closed doors.

In a moment her silence was broken. That moment when I walked in and saw the pain she had been suffering through. The moment I was brought into her pain and given the chance to walk with her out of it. To board a plane from the red dirt dreams and begin walking out healing on the North American concrete.

Why didn't that moment of truth come sooner? Why did she have to suffer months before the Father revealed truth? Why? Why?!

I wonder this, and a tear burns my cheek. Will I ever know?

Providence. Providence?

The truth is I won't know why. Because why is not for me to know. The past has passed.

For healing we must look forward. "Trusting that He will make all things right, if I surrender to His will," as the prayer says.

If I believe the Father is good--that He has our divine care in mind, that He guides our destiny--then I must trust.

But trust is a four-letter word to me.

I'm going to let you in on a secret. I. don't. trust.

Not since it happened to me.

There are many years of my childhood I can't remember. Most of it actually. And this is where my deep-rooted seed of un-trust comes from.

I was sexually abused as a little girl. For many years. Years I spent silent. Alone. Suffering behind closed doors. I never told a soul.

Never told my loving parents, who would have rescued me in a second, had they only known.

Why would I tell? Convinced it was my fault, I kept a tight rein on my heart and emotions. Locked up the door and threw away the key. I was a "dirty little girl" and this abuse was "all my fault."

I believed the lies and kept them a secret. But secrets kill a soul; locked lips lock up a heart.

Oh, the years I spent running from the pain. When your body is used against you, you begin to hate the skin your in. Anorexia, bohemia, drugs, alcohol, sexual sin. The list goes on. I spent years hating my body. Hating myself. Hating life.

I pushed the pain so far down I actually forgot about it. Forgot about the abuse until the nightmares came. At fifteen years old, I had a week of terrible nightmares, of horrible recurring dreams where I saw myself being abused. Relived it.

Then it all came back to me. My desire to escape from myself increased, my behavior got worse, and my father didn't know what to do. Desperate he told me that, if I wanted to stay in their house, I had to change.

I didn't want to change, so I ran again, this time away from home, and for four months. Four very dark, painful months.

I was running from God now. Convinced He knew what had happened to that tiny little girl and that He could have very well stopped it, I ran. I was angry. I didn't trust Him.

But it's tough to get very far when you're running at fifteen. I quickly used up all my free passes to crash on the couches of my friends and drug buddies and found myself, four months later, with no place to go. I was alone. Again.

Then I happened to run into my brother-in-law, who said he and my sister had been looking for me and wanted to give me a place to stay. To take care of me. Help me back on my feet.

Providence?

Having no other choice, I accepted there too-generous offer. A few days later I found myself at my parents house getting my social security card so that I could get a job. My mother could hardly look at me through her tears (Oh, I ache for the hell I put them through).

Then came the words. My little sister, four years old at the time, came running up to me and hugged my legs. Those precious brown eyes melted my too-cold heart right through. "Michelle," she said, "why don't you live here anymore? Daddy just wants you to change your clothes and you can move back home."

"Change your clothes."

That innocence floored me. In her mind, if I just changed clothes, all would be well.

Broken and exhausted, I left my parents' house. The whole way back to my sister's house I heard a still, small voice whispering to me: "I don't care what you've done. I forgive you. Go home. It will be okay."

It was either God or a bad trip. I figured it was the latter as I laid my head on the pillow and went to bed.

But the voice was there the next morning. And a thickness filled the room that I can only describe as a warm blanket of love, embracing me and all of my pain. And like a record, it played on. "I don't care what you've done. I forgive you. Go home. It will be okay."

Until I cracked. My heart split in two in that bedroom, and, falling to pieces on the floor, I cried out to the Father: "I am so sorry. So sorry for running. I know you're with me. You have always been. I want to go back home, want you to make it better. Help. Forgive. Help. I need you. Amen."

And that was that.

The story goes on. But the long and short of it is this.

My parents took me in. Lavished me. Put me in a fast-track school and then to a private school. I met my Love that summer and married him a little over a year later. So much healing took place. The Father used my darkest time to put me right where I needed to be to hear him, wooing my soul.

I can thank the Father for all I went through as a little girl because I have received so much healing.

My pastor says that the two most beautiful words in the english language are "Me too." One day I can look into the ocean-blue eyes of our blondie girl, look deep into her pain, her brokenness, and say just that. "Me too."

"Me too," baby girl. I understand how it hurts to have your body used against your will.

"Me too," darling. It's so hard to forgive, and yet it's the only way to full healing.

"Me too," little one. It hurst to know this could all have been prevented and why, why, why, didn't someone stop it sooner?

"Me too," precious one. I hurt so deep, and nobody will ever know how, and sometimes I feel so alone.

"Me too," sweet love. I have trouble trusting people, because I have been hurt by people and my deepest pain in the world came from someones hurtful hands, and how can I ever trust?

"Me too," angel. Every moment I was being hurt, the Father was with me. Holding me. Stroking my hair and crying over me.

He knows our pain, baby girl. He won't leave us alone in it. He's the only way out and through. He came to this world to be broken for all of our brokenness, and we're forever in His debt because of the price He paid.

We don't have to live in the past. We have hope for a future. A future of life and joy and all that is beautiful in and through and because of Him.

Providence.

[photos by the fabulous Melissa Lukenbaugh]

Just Trust: College Edition

2011-03-30T07:00:00.000-05:00

Adam here. So, I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of letting go. How Jesus is teaching me that I don't need to control what He's up to in my life; that I can just trust Him, with no additional effort on my part.

And I talk about it like it's this new thing I'm learning. Except, during a conversation with a friend of mine the other day, I realized: I've learned it before. A long time ago.

You may recall that my adolescence and early adulthood were socially backward, especially when it came to the opposite sex. I just never could seem to get any girls to like me, and the longer the drought lasted, the thirstier I became.

(I did manage to talk someone into going to the prom with me, though it was only because she didn't have a date, either. We went to Sonic for dinner.)

It got especially bad when I hit college and I still hadn't had an actual girlfriend or even a real date. I'd never kissed a girl; never even held hands. All these biological milestones to hit and I was a complete non-starter.

And then I said the prayer.

I remember it exactly. It was the fall of my second year in college, getting toward the crisper weather as autumn edged sideways into winter. I was bundled up against a chill wind, walking from the parking lot into a building to attend my first class of the day. Stepping carefully to avoid the cracks in the concrete (it's a thing I used to do).

"God," I said, "if you never want me to be in a relationship, if you just want me to be single for some reason, I'm cool with that."

And I meant it.

And then there were fireworks, and the clouds parted, and a warm breeze of righteous air blew on my face, and God spoke audibly about how holy I was, and a crowd gathered and applauded in awe at my sacrifice, and then my pockets were full of money, and hundreds of beautiful girls with amazing personalities approached me and threw themselves chastely at my feet. And my smile got a thousand times whiter.

Except here's what really happened: nothing.

I said that prayer without even breaking stride or stepping on a crack, and then I went to class.

And then I finished the semester, and sometimes a cute girl would catch my eye, but that was about it. The longing was gone.

I may have still been in a drought, but I was no longer thirsty.

I'd like to say that I started having this knock-your-socks-off relationship with God, where I craved worship and scripture and spiritual discipline. That such was my diligence in the faith that I became, say, a modern-day Smith Wigglesworth and that people sensed the presence of God even when I walked past them in the library.

But I just lived my life, struggled with the same old temptations, studied for the same old exams, did the same old routine.

A few months later, though, I met this gal named Michelle, who came to sing for this band I played in. And we became friends, because she was just so cool. And then we started hanging out so much she sort of became my best friend. I wasn't even interested in her romantically, because that would be weird. Why would you start dating your best friend?

The rest, of course, is history, but I've been thinking a lot about that prayer lately. 1994. That's the year I told God I was "cool" with being single (I really did say it just like that). Two years later, I was married to my best friend, someone who wasn't even in my world when I prayed that prayer.

I trusted. Even back then, with something so important to me, I laid it down in an instant and trusted that Jesus knew what He was doing with my life. And He did. He gave me exactly what I wanted and needed, before I knew I even wanted or needed it. He gives good gifts, and boy, did He ever go overboard when He gave me Michelle.

And if I could trust Him then, how much more can I trust Him now?

Home-Schoolers Have No Class

2011-03-29T10:03:00.007-05:00

But they do have lots of fun!

Of Groceries, iPads, and Thankful Hearts

2011-03-28T06:54:00.002-05:00

In a last goodbye, I posted on my Facebook page:

"Finding it hard to write without a laptop. My blogging days may be over."

It was a bit dramatic. But after many threats to its livelihood--water spills, being dropped on the floor while I saved a baby from falling, a trip to Uganda and back, and countless other perils--my old hand-me-down, seven-year-old iBook was throwing in the towel. And I was missing her.

It had been over a week since my last post and it really was seemingly impossible to write without a laptop.

Then a message in my inbox from a too-kind blog reader, someone I've never even met. She friend-requested me long ago and I accepted and the rest is... well, I'm about to tell you the rest:

dear michelle,
you do not know me but i am just one of the many many many people who is so blessed and brought nearer to the heart of my God through your blog. when your status popped up this morning is was so very saddening to me. and then i thought, hey no need to be sad when i can do something about this!

bottom line: how can i help?!! this is a kingdom investment! your words soothe souls, teach of the Father's love and encourage so many hearts. it's worth every bit to keep you writing and being such a faithful messenger of our Jesus.

"Floored" is hardly the right word to use. Really there are no words for how I felt when I read that. Most days I feel silly for writing. I don't even like the word "blog"--it's so ugly! It sounds so BLAH. But then this. An affirmation from the Father that He wants to use me to keep me writing. Little. Old. Me. Mama of five, who's crazy in love with her husband and her juicer. Me?

This kind blog reader offered to help me purchase something to write with. Craigslist is my favorite and if you have not checked it out in your town, you should. It's fabulous.

After a few days of prayer and research my Love and I came to the conclusion that we didn't need an entire new computer--an iPad with a keyboard would do the trick. It would be just what I needed. And with the new iPad 2 having just been released, many Apple lovers were selling off their old ones to get a shiny new one. Since I am married to an artist and we have five children it is rare that anything shiny and new is ever placed in my hands. Most everything in our home is a generous gift of love and handed down. I'm okay with that. I like that. I'm a bit too frugal to have it any other way.

The Father knows that about me. I scoured Craigslist and though I found exactly what I needed...A young man had been given an iPad for Christmas; he did not want it and never even took it out of the shrink wrap. It came with a keyboard, a case, and a camera connection kit for exactly the same amount of money I had been given. To the dollar.

I write today because of this gift. It still overwhelms me that the Father uses me. Me. What a gift.

This week has been one full of blessings. Just a few days later in my inbox an email from another reader, this one a friend whom I know. She writes that she wants to bring me dinner and groceries. Dinner. AND GROCERIES!

This friend does not know that this is a very thin month for us and that we have more bills this month than we have money in the bank. That though we've skimped and don't buy shiny things, there have been unexpected expenses, and bills will be bills, and they don't ask if it's a convenient time, and freelancing is a feast-or-famine world. She had no idea.

She brought an amazing dinner dish. That would have been enough. Don't get me wrong--I love cooking, but a meal made with love in another person's kitchen is absolutely lovely as well! Yes, that would have been enough. But she didn't stop there.

She brought grocery bag after grocery bag full of yummy veggies and fruits. In her email she asked what groceries we would want. I felt so awkward sending a list. I hate being picky. I'll just take whatever I'm given...but she insisted I give a list. I complied.

And she filled it and beyond. The dark chocolate bars are almost completely gone. We shared one at game night last night during a ravishing game of Ticket to Ride.

Our blessings overflow this week. I'm so thankful for a good God who provides all of our needs according to HIs riches in Glory. A good Father that pours out His richest blessings on His children. We're rich. Maybe not in the "typical" sense. I've never really cared to be. There's a song that's carried my Love and me through harder times, and one of the lyrics is "We don't need a lot of money/ we'll be sleeping on the beach/ keeping oceans within reach/" That about sums me up. Us up.

Our needs are provided. We're rich in family and rich in love.

The chorus of that same song goes on: "Etcetera, whatever, I guess all I really mean is we're gonna be alright."

I believe that. I believe it when laptops break and bills pile high. I believe when groceries are sparse and mouths are many. I believe it because He's always provided. Always.

And we're gonna be alright.

#261. Late-night games
#262. 7:45 bedtimes
#264. Bedtime songs and little girls
#265. Little hands on a hurting head asking the Father to heal
#266. Thankful hearts around a table, 450 thanks and counting
#267. For grandmas and easter dresses
#268. Dimples
#269. Smiles that overtake her ten-week-old body
#270. Singing with ragamuffins
#271. Pastor/friend/dreamer
#272. Oldest daughter's art delight

Poetry Friday: Jesus Is For Losers

2011-03-25T07:00:00.002-05:00

In an effort to quantify the media I consume, I make lists. I am constantly ranking things, finding favorites, figuring out personal bests... that sort of thing. A little over a year ago, I made a doozy of a list: my top media of the last decade (it's very long, but you can read it here, if you have the time).

Recently, though, I've started thinking through my top media of the previous decade, the 1990s, and as a result I've been revisiting a lot of music I listened to way back then. So imagine my surprise when I dusted off 1993's Squint by Steve Taylor. It was the first Taylor album I really got into, mainly because I liked the sense of humor he displayed while gently tweaking the foibles of the church, foibles I was just beginning to be aware of during my freshman year at Oral Roberts University.

One of the tracks I admired at a surface level was the provocatively titled "Jesus Is For Losers," Taylor's own take on Jesus' quote about the sick needing a doctor, not the healthy (it's in three of the gospels, here's one of them).

Before he recorded this album, he'd put his "Christian" career on hold and experimented with testing the regular ol' "General" market, starting a band and signing with MCA. It was a grand miscalculation, an "epic fail" in today's parlance, and much of the lyrical content of Squint is a scarred-but-smarter examination of this time in Taylor's career. I'd always skimmed "Jesus Is For Losers" as one of these meditations and left it at that.

But now, 18 years older (and, presumably, wiser), with way more experience under my belt and the insufferable know-it-all knocked out of me, the song has taken on a new resonance. I see myself in Taylor's world-weary braggadocio, his desire to grab it all, and his simultaneous repulsion at that desire. A lyric like "If I was hoping respect would make a sturdy footstool, I am a fool," well... then it was a nifty turn of phrase; now that means something to me.

So I've found myself returning to Squint quite a bit in the past few weeks, and in so doing, embracing the simplicity of the gospel. Accepting that I am sick, and I need a doctor. That I am a great, big, glorious loser.

JESUS IS FOR LOSERS
Steve Taylor

If I was driven
 Driven ahead by some noble ideal 
Who took the wheel?

If I was given
 Given a glimpse of some glorious road
 When was it sold?

So caught up in the chase
 I keep forgetting my place

Just as I am 
I am stiff-necked and proud 
Jesus is for losers
 Why do I still play to the crowd?
Just as I am 
Pass the compass, please 
Jesus is for losers 
I'm off about a hundred degrees

If I was groping 
Groping around for some ladder to fame 
I am ashamed

If I was hoping 
Hoping respect would make a sturdy footstool 
I am a fool

Bone-weary every climb 
Blindsided every time

Just as I am 
I am needy and dry 
Jesus is for losers 
The self-made need not apply
Just as I am
 In a desert crawl 
Lord, I'm so thirsty 
Take me to the waterfall

And if you're certain
 Certain your life is some cosmic mistake 
Why do you shake?

And if you're certain 
Certain that faith is some know-nothing mask 
Why do you still ask?

They don't grade here on the curve
 We both know what we deserve

Just as you are 
Just a wretch like me 
Jesus is for losers 
Grace from the blood of a tree
Just as we are 
At a total loss 
Jesus is for losers
 Broken at the foot of the cross

Just as I am
 Pass the compass, please 
Jesus is for losers 
I'm off about a hundred degrees
Just as I am 
In a desert crawl 
Lord, I'm so thirsty 
Take me to the waterfall

[Note: I've embedded the original 1993 music video below, mainly so you can hear the song if you've never heard it before. The video is embarrassingly '90s--but all videos looked like this back then...]

What Do I Know?

2011-03-23T07:00:00.006-05:00

I'm not going to lie: I was in a very dark place at the time.

We'd just come back from Uganda, had been back maybe two months, three. My faith was in a shambles, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't know. I just didn't know what was going on in my life, in my family, in my world.

You have to understand this about me--I crave knowledge. I am a lifelong learner, always looking to add some factoid or bit of trivia to my arsenal of knowledge. I love to learn new things about the world around me, and I am a total nerd for science. I have the Popular Science website bookmarked in Safari under news. I check the Astronomy Picture of the Day every day (and if I accidentally skip a day, I go back through the archives to find out what I missed). I follow several smart, science-y people on Twitter.

I love to know. I love to be able to answer a question with, "I know!" I used to be a really insufferable know-it-all, though now I'm shooting just for plain ol' sufferable (and if I ever tried to out-intellect you or prove I was smarter than you, I'm really, really sorry).

So here we were, lives upended, faith crushed to dust, barely limping along in our daily lives, and I don't know a thing.

All the standard Christian platitudinal answers were of little--or no--comfort. I could only mumble meager prayers, halfhearted and unsure if they even went anywhere, or if they died out in a pathetic fizzle to lie on the ground a few feet away, dormant and smoking.

But even in the midst of this, I got an idea, and I promise you it was from God.

I went to the library and checked out The God Delusion.

For those unfamiliar with this seminal text, it is an argument for atheism written by noted Oxford biologist Richard Dawkins. (I also checked out God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything by Christopher Hitchens, but he's such an insufferable know-it-all [and believe me, I know one when I see one] that I couldn't get more than ten pages into it.)

I say this idea was from God because it challenged me to go back. To step back to the very foundations of my faith, to survey the scene of carnage from above in order to assess the damage done to my family and to my worldview. I had to read the book critically, because that's how I read everything. I don't believe everything I read, and neither should you.

So I had to think it through. What were Dawkins's arguments against God? Against religion? Was he being logically thorough? Intellectually rigorous? Applying the same lines of thinking to both sides of the debate?

But mainly, I had to ask this question over and over: Does he have a point?

And it forced me to focus on the question of Jesus.

What do I do with Jesus?

Where was He when it all went down? Why did it have to happen this way? How could He have stood by and watched the horrific traffic accident that was our family?

And do you know what happened? I came back with an answer. Finally, at long last and with much relief, I could answer those questions with intellectual rigor and emotional honesty:

"I don't know."

Me, the know-it-all, the guy who has to be the smartest one at the table. I don't know.

I don't know why God does what He does. I don't know how He does what He does. There is so much about him I don't know, and the closer I get to Him, the longer I pursue Him, the less I know.

Or perhaps I should say that I get progressively more comfortable in my deepening knowledge of His character, in my (hopefully) increasing trust in Jesus. The longer I love Him, the more I relax, content.

I don't have to have the world figured out. I don't have to be paralyzed by the unanswerable whys of life. I can just trust Him.

One of those smart people I follow on Twitter is a guy named Sean Carroll, a theoretical physicist (and atheist) who recently posted an essay titled "Does the Universe Need God?", a question which he answers (spoiler!) "No."

Carroll's essay was the inspiration for this post, not because of his arguments against God (which are less virulent atheist and more God-is-outside-the-realm-of-testable-and-provable-science), but because of the way he framed the question.

Does the Universe need God?

Does it matter?

I do.

This? I know.

[Note #1: All of the above images are from NASA's invaluable Astronomy Picture of the Day website. Bookmark it.]

[Note #2: After reading The God Delusion, I happened to discover that N.T. Wright had a new book, After You Believe: Why Christian Character Matters. This makes an excellent follow-up, should you decide to do the same. Really, you can't go wrong with any N.T. Wright book, for that matter.]

[Note #3: one thing about Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins--while they are both pretentious and arrogant, they believe what they say, and for that I give him credit. Also, Hitchens is suffering from esophageal cancer, which is something I would never wish on anyone. Though he doesn't care for them, my prayers are with him. After all, he is a man, just like me, and Jesus loves him. Dearly.]

View From The Stage

2011-03-22T07:00:00.009-05:00

"You make beautiful things out of the dust."

I sing this on a Sunday morning. I'm standing on a stage with dearest Constance snuggled in a Didymos sling (the same one I used with her sister--on this same stage), earplugs in her ears, sound asleep. Oblivious to the fact that she's in front of a crowd of believers worshipping the Father.

My Love on the acoustic, soul crying out.

Voice trembling, cracking, I can hardly get through the first verse. I didn't write the lyrics and how can the authors know my story so well? How could they know I ask these same questions?

"All this pain. I wonder if I'll ever find my way. I wonder if my life could really change at all."

I'm choking back tears. The congregation silent. Pensive.

Do they wonder too?

The first verse is not over yet. I'm still questioning. We all are.

"All this earth. Could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?"

These words are the most difficult; I feel angry when I sing them. Demanding. Will anything beautiful ever come out of me again?!

She wiggles her legs. Breathes a heavy sigh. I pat her bottom, a mama involuntarily calming her back to sleep. I remember. I relent.

The chorus comes and the believers sing it out, a room of ragamuffins remembering:

"You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of us."

Hope becomes our song. We hope together. Sing on.

"All around hope is springing up from this old ground. Out of chaos life is being found in you."

Now it's a battle cry. Some of us in battle, others on the other side. But all fighting. All together. And it is beautiful.

I smile at my Love on my right. He's singing too.

"You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust. You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of us."

I look across the room. The stage lights hindering my view. I squint past them.

I see the couple on the brink of divorce, holding hands and fighting the odds.

I see my friends with a daughter fighting a hard battle with cancer. We circled around them last week, and I held her as she cried and we prayed, a family battling together.

I see my friend who once was held tight by the noose of drugs and now stands free and worships with his wife and children.

I see the elderly couple swaying side to side, hands locked and smiles wide, the years written in the lines on their faces, inspiring me to love long.

I see dirt. Lots of it. And I smile wide because isn't that just what the Father looks for? Why the bloody crown was placed on His head and the nails through his hands?

He came for the broken. The wounded. The messy.

And we're here. We're singing. And He's making us new.

He's making us beautiful.

How Seven People Give A Thousand Thanks

2011-03-21T07:00:00.009-05:00

"What are you doing for Lent?"

This question had been my topic of conversation with two close friends as the first day of Lent neared. My Love and I had been discussing how we wanted to celebrate lent as a family. We asked the children to be thinking of things they were willing to sacrifice, and I prayed, asking the Father for His direction as we sought a way to be intentional as a family during this season.

We would be using the Way of Light Wreath but I knew we needed more....

Then came the day. Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. We still did not have a plan.

I served six bowls of soup in the bright colorful fiesta dishes mama gifted me for Christmas (springtime can be any time of the year) and set a broken-up loaf of bread onto the table. Water was poured into cups from the ceramic water crock that sits nearby.

We had a discussion with our beloved victorious daughter who was having trouble seeing the good in things. Having trouble being thankful. Then it hit him. My Love gently, lovingly offered up the way we could celebrate Lent as a family.

Be thankful.

We would sit around that table every night, and each of us would share what we are thankful for.

I suggested: what if we have one thousand things we are thankful for by the end of Lent? Noah calculated how many thank yous we would each need a day. Four each, and one person to do five. My Love would write them down in a journal so we could look back on them.

Reminders for ungrateful hearts...

Each night we light the candle after dinner and have a few moments of quiet thanks as we think of all that Christ did for us on the cross and how He rose again to bring us new life!

We just crossed three hundred last night, and I am so thankful for a family that circles the flickering flame of hope and thanks the father for all that He has done.

#251. Worshipping together
#252. Beauty out of dust
#253. Rag dolls hand crafted love
#254. Sunshine
#255. Daffodils smiling at spring
#256. Facebook messages that make writing possible
#257. Wrap skirts made in Uganda wrapping me in memories
#258. Chacos
#259. Champion juicers
#260. Children dancing in sanctuaries, teaching this mama how to worship

Just Trust?

2011-03-16T08:00:00.003-05:00

One of the benefits of being a freelance writer is the mobility. I can go just about anywhere there's an internet connection, rent a table for two bucks, and get a cup of coffee to go with it. And then I'm good for a few hours, writing like Tolstoy in the public square, getting inspired by the hustle and bustle of the Everyman as he/she goes about his/her business. Although the public square I tend to frequent has a hipper vibe than Moscow. And better music.

A side benefit to all this mobility is the welcome intrusion of friends and acquaintances who sometimes find themselves in the same coffee shop as me (and I do have my preferences). Since I believe relationships are more important in this world than just about anything else, I have a long-standing rule to put aside whatever I'm doing to chat with some long-lost friend and catch up. Some days I don't see anyone I know; some days I see people with a tangential relationship to me; some days are a veritable parade of some of my best friends.

Today was a day like that. I ran into one of my best friends, who plunked his Mac down at my table, handed me the power cable, and said, "Can you plug that in, please?" He was here to stay.

My friend is going through some serious stuff in his life, as we all are, and is thinking through a lot of the same spiritual questions I am these days. Every time I see him, the conversation usually begins with him looking me dead in the eye and saying, "Adam, can I really trust Jesus?" He isn't so much asking as he is chewing cud, and half the time I don't know what to say.

Well, I do know what to say, and I've said it a million times to him, though it often feels like a wad of cottony platitude in my mouth. "Of course you can," I say. Because that's true, right? The Bible says it, I believe it, that settles it... all that, right?

Right?

The thing is: I can know a thing dead-to-rights in my head, but getting it into my heart? That's a different story altogether. Heaven help us if I start to quote C.S. Lewis in every post, but he just always seems to have the right thing to say for whatever I'm going through, this time from Mere Christianity:

I [used to assume] that if the human mind once accepts a thing as true it will automatically go on regarding it as true, until some real reason for reconsidering it turns up. In fact, I [assumed] that the human mind is completely ruled by reason. But that is not so.

For example, my reason is perfectly convinced by good evidence that anesthetics do not smother me and that properly trained surgeons do not start operating until I am unconscious. But that does not alter the fact that when they have me down on the table and clap their horrible mask over my face, a mere childish panic begins inside me. I start thinking I am going to choke, and I am afraid they will start cutting me up before I am properly under. In other words, I lose my faith in anesthetics. It is not reason that is taking away my faith: on the contrary, my faith is based on reason. It is my imagination and emotions. The battle is between faith and reason on one side and emotion and imagination on the other.

So I've been trying to imagine that God knows what He's doing, and that I really can trust Him. My friend told me about a sort of war of words he had with God while praying earlier today. God tells him, "Trust Me. Trust Me. Trust Me." Just that, over and over again. Finally my friend got worn down and said, "Okay, trust you for what?"

"Nope. Just trust Me."

My friend and I, we're learning just to trust, no matter what. He told me a story about some missionary friends of his who need a good deal of money for a ministry endeavor, and their sarcastic frustration in what seems to be a silent God: "If He would just give us the money, we'd have no problem believing it was from Him."

I have for so long been dead set on finding out God's will for me so that I could go do it. And then wouldn't I be awesome. But I'm starting to see, with the help of my friend, that I've been needlessly complicating it so that I could be a part of the equation. So that I could help God along a little. So that I could work. So that I could do.

"There is a remnant chosen by grace," the Apostle Paul writes in Romans 11 (verses 5 and 6). "And if by grace, then it cannot be based on works; if it were, grace would no longer be grace."

So if you happen to see me out and about, come pay me a visit. I'll probably whip my headphones off, push out a chair for you, and start the conversation with a question. One intended to get the truth into my heart, one that will hopefully help faith and reason trump emotion and imagination. And I'll ask it not as a means of grasping at straws, but more in an astonished, is-it-really-this-simple tone of voice:

Can I really trust Jesus?

Poetry Friday: Of Songs and Aussie Rockers

2011-03-11T07:00:00.001-06:00

She sang songs in my living room. Windows open; sun shining down. She was poetry sitting with her acoustic guitar and punk rock hair, her heart pouring out over song.

And her song. Oh, her song.

Song of a little one who had caught her heart. The red dirt had captured her soul and this was one of many trips she would take. I remember the comfort I felt in that foreign land sharing songs. And her talent stood out. She captured me.

This kindred spirit followed our story after her journey on the red dirt ended. She followed us even though she's in Australia and we're back on the concrete of the US. She's kept up with us and I with her and her journey. Her songs flourishing.

Then this week, a large white envelope came in the mail. As I opened it, my heart smiled:

Hey Lovely,
So you can get Brooke's new album.
Hope you love it as much as I do!
Love, Annette

An iTunes gift card. A gift of love, from one songbird to another.

Isn't she lovely?

The CD is Brooke Fraser's latest, Flags. And it, too, is lovely.

I'm stuck between two tracks and the children sing along as I play and replay them in the van. Today I'll pick the title track. The lyrics in this song break me. "You who mourn now will laugh again," she writes. Oh, I long for this. And it's coming. "Of this I am sure."

Flags: Brooke Fraser

Come, tell me your trouble
I'm not your answer
But I'm a listening ear

Reality has left you reeling
All facts and no feeling
No faith and all fear

I don't know why a good man will fall
While a wicked one stands
And our lives blow about
Like flags on the land

Who's at fault is not important
Good intentions lie dormant
And we're all to blame

While apathy acts like an ally
My enemy and I are one and the same

I don't know why the innocents fall
While the monsters still stand
And our lives blow about
Like flags on the land

I don't know why our words are so proud
Yet their promise soothing
And our lives blow about
Like flags in the wind

You who mourn will be comforted
You who hunger will hunger no more
All the last shall be first
Of this I am sure

You who weep now will laugh again
All you lonely be lonely no more
Yes, the last will be first
Of this I'm sure

I don't know why the innocents fall
While the monsters stand
I don't know why the little ones thirst
But I know the last shall be first
I know the last shall be first
I know the last shall be first

Only the broken-hearted...

2011-03-10T13:21:00.004-06:00

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

...And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costilest nard.

Ah! happy those whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

Oscar Wilde

Seeing Myself As He Sees Me.

2011-03-09T07:00:00.003-06:00

Adam here. So there's this group of friends I hang out with, a bunch of drummers and me, and we get together on occasion and they play the drums and I play samples off my computer and we use that as a means of prayer. It's kinda cool, the ways that God chooses to use our rhythmic expression for His glory.

We had one of these get-togethers last week, and as I played a looped sample, I flipped out my Bible and opened it to, of all places, Song of Solomon.

Call it the leading of the Holy Spirit or what-have-you (I am personally very careful about such terminology, but it seems to be appropriate here), but I was understatedly shocked at what I read.

I've long understood Song of Solomon to be both a love poem and a metaphor for Christ and the Church. But this time, I read it and found I was placing myself in the role of "The Woman" (as the Message translation puts it, which is the translation I happen to tote around in my backpack). Not the Church in general, but me. Just me.

It may sound weird, but here's what leapt out, and I'll keep it short to avoid this looking like a sermon:

^5-6 I am weathered but still elegant,
oh, dear sisters in Jerusalem,
Weather-darkened like Kedar desert tents,
time-softened like Solomon's Temple hangings.
Don't look down on me because I'm dark,
darkened by the sun's harsh rays.
My brothers ridiculed me and sent me to work in the fields.
They made me care for the face of the earth,
but I had no time to care for my own face. (Song of Solomon 1:5-6, The Message)

Let me back up and tell you a bit about my adolescence. I was not what anyone would call "lucky with the ladies" as I grew up. I was, in fact, the complete opposite, the guy who was so nice and kind and smart and awkward and funny that no girls liked me. Their mothers all adored me, but that's pretty much the kiss of death in high school, or at least it was back then. So I pretty much grew up knowing only the warmth of my nerdy friends, Christian rap, and Weird Al Yankovic. And this was before geek culture was celebrated in the way it is today; instead, I had my very specific brand of nerd, and as a consequence, I had a low opinion of myself.

Carry the remainder into college, where I manage to somewhat reinvent myself. I was still an insufferable know-it-all, but I grew my hair long and slicked it back with copious amounts of Dep gel. I started listening to cooler music. I started a band with a friend of mine, and we found a singer, and then, a couple of years later, I married that singer.

I don't know how in the world I convinced that woman to marry me. I felt like the luckiest man on the face of the earth that this beautiful and talented woman would stoop so low as to hitch her wagon to my star. You would think that marriage would be the ultimate confidence-booster, but the tracks of low self-esteem are well-worn in my brain and have become a familiar--even comfortable--rut. There is a line between humility and self-loathing, and I dip far too often into the latter. It's just the way I've learned to live.

This was all in the back of my mind as I read that passage from Song of Solomon, and I found myself agreeing wholeheartedly with "The Woman." I understood the feeling of being weathered and ridiculed, if even only by myself. I was there with her.

Having fully identified with "The Woman," I read on, and what do you know, I started to see how "The Man"--Christ--described her: "...loveliest of all women... a lotus blossoming in a swamp of weeds... beautiful from head to toe... beautiful beyond compare... absolutely flawless..." It goes on and on like that. For pages.

Eight chapters, actually.

Eight whole chapters of "The Man" telling "The Woman" how beautiful she is, convincing her, over and over. Wooing her. Because her beauty isn't based on what she sees. It's based on what he sees.

Eight whole chapters of Jesus telling me how valuable I am, convincing me, over and over. Dare I say it? Wooing me?

My worth has nothing to do with my viewpoint. I am worth something simply because Jesus says I am. That should be all the proof I need.

I read the entire book twice while my friends banged on their drums and my loop started to run out.A few minutes later, we were finished for the night and packing up. I got in the minivan, drove home, and walked into the arms of my beloved.

I'm beginning--just beginning, mind you--to feel like the seasons are changing in my opinion of myself. I'm beginning to believe what He says about me.

^10-14 Get up, my dear friend,
fair and beautiful lover—come to me!
Look around you: Winter is over;
the winter rains are over, gone!
Spring flowers are in blossom all over.
The whole world's a choir—and singing!
Spring warblers are filling the forest
with sweet arpeggios.
Lilacs are exuberantly purple and perfumed,
and cherry trees fragrant with blossoms.
Oh, get up, dear friend,
my fair and beautiful lover—come to me!
Come, my shy and modest dove—
leave your seclusion, come out in the open.
Let me see your face,
let me hear your voice.
For your voice is soothing
and your face is ravishing. (Song of Solomon 2:10-14, The Message)

And the winner is......

2011-03-04T07:33:00.013-06:00

Charlotte put on her best dress to announce the winner of Ann's work of art, One Thousand Gifts.

Mybeautifulsimplicity please email us oneroofafrica [at] gmail [dot] com to claim your prize.

Thanks to all who entered if you do not own Ann's book you can buy it HERE.

Have a great Friday!

The Hard Yes: One Thousand Gifts Review (And A Giveaway!)

2011-03-03T10:20:00.004-06:00

The day was beautifully exhausting and coming quickly to an end. My Love reached his hand out to pick up the very late mail that had just been dropped at our door. And there it was.

I'd been trying all day to throw my forty-week-and-two-day pregnant body into labor, but when I jumped up and down squealing at the package he held out to me, I was not intending to kick-start anything. I just couldn't hold back.

After ripping open the package I held it in my hands. Finally. Finally!

Grabbing my camera and my Love, I ran to the front porch to catch the light before it slipped away.

I had been hoping to receive Ann's book One Thousand Gifts (now a New York Times best-seller) before the birth of our Steadfast Unfailing, Love. It had not come and labor would be any day.

But now?

Now.

I imagined the sweet days holding our new little love in my arms and reading Ann's own labor of love. Her life story, inked on pages. How she found joy in the darkest of places.

That night I went into labor. And Constance Charity Palmer was placed in my arms, a continuing reminder of His love for us.

The days that followed were spent rocking and reading. Every spare moment found me in front of the fire with her in my arms and this book in my hands.

So many times while reading, I asked myself, Where was this book a year ago? Feeling like it would have been such a light in my dark days.

Ann writes of her family losing Aimee, her precious two-year-old sister, tragically killed.

I remember our loss. And it's almost as if she wrote my heart out when she writes:

"No, God? No, God we won't take what you give. No, God, Your plans are a gutted, bleeding mess and I didn't sign up for this and You really thought I'd go for this? No, God, this is ugly and this is a mess and can't you get anything right and just haul all this pain out of here and I'll take it from here, thanks. And God? Thanks for Nothing."

Yeah, that was pretty much me.

Last year.

And now again, I find myself gritting my teeth and sputtering out these same words as I watch our Strong Woman of Grace and Favor aching deep.

I can barely breathe when Ann remembers meeting her brother-in-law at the back door of her farmhouse, the way he said, "You control so little. Really it's God who decides it all." This farmer who has suffered such loss after losing two sons. He's thankful for the time he spent with them on earth. He says "God is still good". That "It's all good."

I'm flooded holding our dearest Constance in my arms. Ann's words, reeled beside the bed of her five-month-old terminal nephew, are now burning my cheeks: "If it were up to me....I'd write this story differently!" I am much too familiar with these words.

When she asks

"How do you keep breathing when the lungs under your fingers are slowly atrophying?" I want to know. How?

This book is raw. Ann does not look away from the pain. She stares it down. She looks into the face of darkness, the darkness that once kept her swallowing pills and gasping for air. And in this darkness she finds light.

Eucharisteo.

She digs heart deep over dishes and runs to capture the moon. The light.

In this beautiful book she finds and shares that light.

Light that she has not easily come by. Maybe that's why I love this book so much.

It's not a "Christiany," easy-answer book, where if you follow these two simple steps, voila, the Genie God will give you what you wish for.

Nope. This insight could only be found in the dark places of a soul, hard-searching, where the Father meets you with His light.

I find perspective when I read of a good God and his good plan. How we can accept his plan and receive whatever comes with it.

On a good day, I say yes to this "good God plan."

Yes, to the aftermath of tragedy that He could have easily kept us all from.

Yes, to the hard reality of what that tragedy has done to each of us. To her. How it's left us flailing for breath. Wondering if the dust will ever settle.

Yes, to trusting He will make all things right if we surrender to His will.

Yes is not sexy; it's hard. Hard to choose to see that the Father is good even when it all looks ugly.

Ann encourages us to say yes everyday. Yes to the ugly. Yes to joy. Yes to grace. Yes to thankfulness.

I've been writing down my thanks at home and on this space for the last year. And when I am faithful to look for grace in the everyday, He is faithful to show me.

Thanks Ann for going to the hard places in this book. For getting raw and showing us that living in Christ is not always roses.

But it is always good.

Because as C.S. Lewis writes about Jesus in The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe "He isn't safe. But he's good."

I'm learning. Hard learning, to trust that the Father's ways are good and right. That I can trust Him in all things even those that look ugly.

And I'm counting. Counting all His gifts. Because they are there and these blind eyes are beginning to see His beauty in all things.

Thank you Ann for your gem of a book.

I believe in this book so much that I am giving away a copy of One Thousand Gifts today and today only. The comments have been turned back on and there are four ways to enter:

1. Just leave a comment saying what you are thankful for and you will be entered to win.

2. Enter by following our blog and leaving a comment saying you've done so.

3. Enter by tweeting about it and mentioning @oneroofafrica.

4. Enter by sharing it on Facebook and leaving a comment here saying that you've done so.

Do all four and increase your chances.

Winner will be chosen using Randomizer and I'll post their name on Friday.

Disclaimer: Zondervan sent me a book for review. Nobody hung me by my toes and forced me to write this review. I had a double of the book (that I'd paid for with my own money) and am giving it away. Today I want to be liked and giving things away is a surefire way of getting people to like me. Oh, I just realized that not winning is a surefire way for people to dislike me. Well, by the end of tomorrow I will have at least one person who likes me. That will make it all worth it. Good luck!

The contest is now closed. Congratulations to mybeautifulsimplicty who won Ann's work of art One Thousand Gifts.

Wide Eyed Wonder Girl

2011-03-02T11:33:00.004-06:00

She stops my heart with her smile. Her eyes sparkle joy and all that is right and beautiful in the world I hold in my arms.

Babies have a way of healing the deepest of wounds.

A long night...

2011-03-01T10:52:00.004-06:00

It's coming out both ends at our house. The big kids have been struck with a stomach bug.

The two little girls with colds.

Gonna need some prayers folks.

That is all.

Across the miles

2011-02-28T09:26:00.008-06:00

The tears burned my cheeks; I hadn't cried this hard since our return.

She listened and shared tears as we ached over the loss. It was our first time to see each other since I watched the gate open in Uganda and my lifeline drive away, back to America, leaving our family reeling and wondering if we'd ever see them again. We weren't sure.

Then she came through the threshold of my kitchen door. We squealed joy and I could not believe she was really here. Funny--it's still hard for me to believe... why can't I believe good things are happening?

But she was. She was here and we after spending a year apart we were sharing rosemary scones, laughter and tea.

Our daughters who share the same middle name and spunky spirit were climbing trees and playing dollies in the bedroom.

Together again.

I remember making the choice in Uganda to love her. It was a choice because I knew her family was on the last leg of their time there and that in ten short months they would be hopping a plane and moving back to America. It never fails. All my life I have made friends, spent time building relationships, and then watched them move away. I have friends spread across the globe.

And it hurts when they leave, because a piece of me goes with them.

But I chose to love her. Knowing it would hurt. Knowing full well the ache would be deep when she left. I decided it would be better to love. That love is worth it.

And it was.

Our hearts were full as we cooked a Ugandan meal together in my kitchen. In America. It was funny being in our home country and feeling out of place. Our only context having been the red dirt roads of Uganda. The smell of curry filled our little American home, the children all begged seconds, and we remembered our time across the ocean. Time that, though now behind us, can never be forgotten.

Memories of days past, of simpler times when the ache was not so deep. When the children played in the red dirt and the mamas sipped tea on the front porch. When seeing each other meant walking a few steps down the road, maybe passing a cow along the way. Now a visit involves jets and intense scheduling.

The days are different now, but the friendship has not changed. Lori is still beautiful, fun-loving, creative, spirited and energetic. The same Lori that I loved in Uganda I now love in America. She teaches me so much, this friend full of hard-earned wisdom. She teaches me about love and community. About being intentional in life. About fasting and seeking. Relationships...the list goes on.

Since our return, friendships that were deep have seemed unable to last the miles. People are busy, and since we were gone, well, it seems life went on without us, and our place in peoples' lives was filled with other things, jobs, pastimes, people.

Dorothy hasn't come back to the friendships she left, and having Lydia Jane, even for a weekend, was a balm for her soul. She laughed deep and long with this dear friend of hers. I imagine she feels quite the same as I do. To have a friend who understands. Who listens. It's the most wonderfully beautiful gift in the world.

Giggles were plentiful. They climbed trees, painted, played Polly Pockets and oh, they laughed.

To share love. Soul-filling.

I could have self-protected again, could have kept up my guard and not shared my heart or heard hers. I'm getting rather good at it actually.

But I didn't. I chose to love. To be vulnerable. To share tears. To receive her coming and going as a gift. To know that these moments together would be too short and I would ache when she was gone. And, having tasted a deep, meaningful friendship, I would be more lonely when she left.

Dear Dorothy bawled when they drove away. It was as if her heart was physically breaking, she ran outside to the playhouse where they had spent the afternoon, laid face down, and cried. Wailed. My heart broke for her.

And she is learning too.

Loving hurts. It's not safe and the ache is deep.

But oh, it's worth it. To have someone to love and to be loved, to know that, no matter the distance, there is someone in this world who understands you, who knows you. It's worth every burning tear.

I am so thankful for my friend. For the time she spent here in my home. We don't know when we'll see each other next; with five kids each, it's difficult to find the money and time. But oh, the time we spent was sweet and my heart needed it so.

Thank you dear friend for making a way. For loving my broken self. You are worth it.
#239. Seeing her face after all these months
#240. Their giggles in the morning
#241. Rosemary lemon scones
#242. Dish towels wrapped in pretty bows
#243. Husband who sends his wife and daughter all these miles to see me
#244. Farm house dreams
#245. Three AM delirious laughter
#246. Blood Orange sherbet
#247. Driving with the windows down and the kids loaded African style
#248. Her tears over our loss
#249. Sharing books and friends
#250. That all her favorite people are broken

Awake

2011-02-24T11:31:00.002-06:00

What's my part?

I find myself asking this question after a year of gasping for air.

Our family's desire to care for orphans took us across the globe in four months and brought us back, broken, just ten months later.

Since I was a little girl I've had a deep-rooted passion for the poor. For the fatherless. The orphans. And now when I hear the word "orphan" I cringe and ache, the loss is so deep. People say they are adopting and I ache for the children we loved. The ones we could not keep.

I'm sitting now on one of the orange chairs in my living room, under the African art, as Mumford and Sons reel "Awake My Soul" and tell me "where you invest your love, you invest your life."

My heartsong filling the room.

My soul has been asleep. My passion for orphans, the fatherless, the poor has not left me. But instead has just been sleeping, a soul stagnant begins to smell and I reek of the pain.

So this weekend we are road-tripping to NW Arkansas for The Idea Camp. They're talking about orphans and the poor, talking about ways to love on those the Father's heart aches for. The ones that teach us how to love and give thanks in all things. The ones I miss.

We're packing the minivan with five kids, four days' worth of cloth diapers, nuts, seeds, Cheddar Bunnies, homemade Larabars, the acoustic, and souls ready to be awakened.

When all else fails...

2011-02-23T08:22:00.008-06:00

Noah was in his room doing schoolwork, Emma at the kitchen table. Constance had fallen asleep, so I laid her in the co-sleeper, and the little girls went out to jump on the trampoline.

I was in the kitchen and saw their wild joy out of the window.

How could I resist? I wanted joy. I needed it.

So I threw on Emma's shoes sitting by the back door, told the big kids to listen for the baby, and ran out towards joy.

Their squeals of delight are still ringing in my ears. "Mama, you jumping with us!" Charlotte's eyes sparkled in the sun, hair glimmering gold.

"YES!" I said.

And I threw this postpartum mama's body onto the bouncy fun.

And we jumped.

And jumped.

And oh, we laughed!

Emma, who had been watching in shock out the kitchen window, could stand it no longer. She grabbed the baby monitor and ran outside, barefoot.

Shocked and delighted she hopped up and we all jumped.

And laughed.

And laughed.

Constance woke up and I had to leave the fun.

I took my postpartum mama body off the trampoline....a bit sore this time, and I wandered back to the house.

Jumping did not change my circumstances.

The day was not all laughter after our jump. Children bickered. The floors were still dirty.

But it was a moment of joy stolen with my girls, some wild, spontaneous fun that we'll all remember.

These little moments, I'm begining to realize, are what make up a life.

And the more I choose to take advantage, to capture, to join in on the life beauty, the more beautiful our life becomes.

And when all else fails... just jump.

Thankful for light

2011-02-22T08:49:00.005-06:00

When there has been so much darkness one feels, well, dark.

And this last week has been just that. Dark. But the truth is: had I never seen darkness with my own eyes, I may never have believed. Dear Charlotte may never had been rescued from it.

I want to be thankful.

To thank the Father for the light that He shed on our dearest blondie girl.

Today I look for light. Light shining on our sunshine girl.

One Roof | Africa

One Time Around The Sun

A Year of Steadfast, Unfailing Love.

Group Hug America: Questions and Answers

The Big Announcement!

Two Years And Counting...

Messy Advent Days: Day 1 1/2

Celebrating Advent: for bigs and littles

Thanksgiving Matters

The Grace of Interruption

Glimpses In The Darkness

"A whole belly full."

Eight Months

Tides Turning

A Brand New Day

Uncertainty

A Kick, The Ocean, And Another Kick Goodbye

Poetry Friday: Choosing the Definition of Me

They've Taken Their Toll, These Latter Days

The Gift of Life (pt. 8)

The Depths of Love (pt. 7)

The Body of Christ (pt. 6)

The Idea of Safety (pt. 5)

The Sound of Love (pt. 4)

The Breath of Peace (pt. 3)

The Kick of Fear (pt. 2)

The Kick of Fear (pt. 1)

In Our Own Backyard

Rolling Fevers and Magical Rings

Kuplink, Kuplank, Kuplunk!

Pruned Fingers and Sun-Kissed Cheeks

Five Minute Friday: On Forgetting....

Holding

Storms Coming

Poetry Friday: The poetry of being born.

Five Minute Friday: When Seasons Change

Golden Birthday for a *Golden* Girl

Our Little Secret

No Us Without You (Part 2)

No Us Without You (Part 1)

Vintage Pearl Giveaway Winner!

Poetry Friday: Emmas Golden Birthday *WISH*

On Being Born: A Vintage Pearl Giveaway

Going Corporate

Floods. Tornadoes. Riots. Death.

Poetry Friday: Her Cries Heard

Doing The Work of the Lord

Messianic Passover Seder: Palmer Style

A "Beloved" Lost

Poetry Friday: Beautiful Scandalous Night

Where I Find...

Remembering the Suffering

Embraced

A Hug For The Neighborhood

Poetry Friday: Rocket-Building

Going In A Different Direction

Learning In An Instant

The Grace of Interruption

Learning To Dance Through Thanks

Poetry Friday: Newspaper Blackout

Cleaning Up

The Prodigal Benny

Hope Speaks

Sometimes, Fun Is The Point

Poetry Friday: For All Of You Who Said "Me Too."

Me Too

Just Trust: College Edition

Home-Schoolers Have No Class

Of Groceries, iPads, and Thankful Hearts

Poetry Friday: Jesus Is For Losers

What Do I Know?

View From The Stage

How Seven People Give A Thousand Thanks

Just Trust?

Poetry Friday: Of Songs and Aussie Rockers

Only the broken-hearted...

Seeing Myself As He Sees Me.

And the winner is......

The Hard Yes: One Thousand Gifts Review (And A Giveaway!)

Wide Eyed Wonder Girl

Golden Birthday for a Golden Girl

Poetry Friday: Emmas Golden Birthday WISH