Morning

This is not my morning.  It is sunrise in the East, while at home in the West our family sleeps in the cool, still night.  The sunlight will soon soak into our chilled skin, warm and delicious; but for now Magdalene and I ache from our restless, uncomfortable night on the plane.  Yes, red-eye indeed, we have two sets to prove it!

In the airport we see faces everywhere, some are fresh, others seem to be a bit bedraggled-looking like ours; yet each is uniquely beautiful, made in God's image.  The stories held closely in the heart of each traveler are not for me to know, yet each person we see is a Somebody to Someone, whether they know it or not.  To God, there is no one more valuable than they.  Do they know this?  In the launching and the landing, their journeys take them from my wondering.

Our adventure is encapsulated in a 29 and a1/2-hour visit.  Anna, Zion's birth mother, has invited us into the next chapter of her story.  She has just given birth to her second child, Isabellia, whom she will parent, with her fiancé Fisher by her side.  Four years ago, when Zion was born, Anna and I were given 48 hours together in the hospital.  Then, Anna was 16, fragile and brave.  The exquisite intertwining of the grief and joy of adoption is difficult to describe.  If you ask Dennis and me about it, tears may come before words.  The beauty of an open adoption is that Anna and our family has a relationship and the pieces of the puzzle of Zion's life fit together for him to see.  We love Anna fiercely, and like all our birth mothers, she is part of us.

Outside the airport, Magdalene and I are a rumpled pair.  We are thankful for the metal bench, warmed by the sun, which lends us a spot to rest.  Fisher stops at the curb inquiring if we are his passengers.  He likes my shoes, and says so.  I like his smile, but I don't say so, not just yet.

The hospital room, in dimly lit reverence, welcomes us.  Anna, smiling through her exhaustion, shows us her precious child.  I tremble a little in amazement, for Isabellia closely resembles Zion, yet she is pink and feminine.  Our quiet hours together are rich in conversation and tender moments, but they disappear far too quickly.   I weep inside, after our embraces of good-bye, for there will be challenging days ahead for this new family.  But, this is not my baby.   She is Anna's.  This is not my family. This is Anna's.  Though I love Anna, God loves her more than I do.  His plan for Anna, Fisher and Isabellia is their unique journey, which we will encourage, celebrate and into which we speak life.  The interwoven members of a healthy family tree must grow outward and upward separately for the branches to become strong.  

The trip home is quiet and contemplative for me.  Magdalene studies Science for an early morning test.  She lends me her pillow, which softens the hardness I feel.  Her companionship is invaluable; she is the infusion of joy, which strengthens every good thing.

Elias kindly greets us at our airport in the West at 1 a.m.  Soon we will enter the cool, still night of our own home and Dennis will be there for us.   When daylight arrives, Zion will gaze at the pictures of Anna and Isabellia in awe, he will be pleased as he proudly shows his siblings.  In this morning there will be happy faces. 

Arms Wide Open

Ezra's face lit up into a smile, she jumped to her feet, spread out her arms widely and ran to me. She buried her face into the crock of my neck and I breathed deeply, it was a moment of delight. The reckless abandon of my child's embrace is a picture of the way I want to live, in trust and surrender to God.

When I think of this kind of love, I am reminded of a woman I met during our years in Germany. She gave me a vivid view of the strength that comes from trusting in the Lord.

As I stood at the edge of the ICU entrance, I waited, as my friend spoke her final earthly words to her beloved husband. The day before her husband experienced a brain hemorrhage, from which he would not awaken. By the waiting room, I stood rooted to the floor as I watched the elevator doors open to reveal my friend's five children huddled together. Their mother came through the ICU doors and knelt to the ground. Although her petite frame looked frail, the width of her arms seemed boundless, as she tenderly reached out to encircle them. They fell into their mother's embrace and sobbed, as she was strengthened by the presence of her Savior.

During her husband’s funeral my friend’s lovely soprano voice enveloped the listening crowd. She sang these words written by Horatio G. Spafford:

"No pang shall be mine, for death as in life

Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

It is well, with my soul,

It is well, it is well, with my soul."

To surrender to the One who chose to commit the ultimate act of selflessness by stretching out his arms on the cross, is to overcome. Today and for all eternity, God is with you; he is waiting with arms wide open.

DISCARDED

I want our children to love books. Some of our favorite days begin with picture books piled high on our bed where little fingers and bright eyes pour over them with delight.

One morning Salome', our six year old, found a lovely old library book in the shelves downstairs, which I had never read. The story, "Lost in the Storm" by Carol Carrick, was tender and eloquent with pictures painted in soft artistic watercolors.

As I closed the book I noticed a stern-looking red stamp, which marred the yellowed front page. DISCARDED it announced. It was a sad proclamation, yet perhaps it was the very reason we were holding the book after all. One single strong word of judgment over something or someone can influence thoughts profoundly.

In my hand I held my camera to capture the tender moment of Salome' reading to Emmaus. As I peered through the lens I understood the profound irony of our two precious children, adopted siblings from across the globe, thoroughly enjoying this book labeled discarded.

The bold, stamped declaration also prompted me to consider, "Are there people outside of my own little life whose stories I discard? Sad, hurting people who need restoring, who need to be noticed, but perhaps I obey a false idea that their life is better left unopened to me. Maybe at first encounter it is easy to see reasons not to pursue relationship. The world often gives us false guidance in this regard.

Yet the Author of Life has written His story throughout the ages on the pages of human hearts. As our stories meld, our dependence on each other, to love, uphold, value and notice, encourages and fulfills us. And we are strengthened in our understanding of the truth: That which is immortal is that which matters.

A few days ago I was amazed to hear the familiar Southern dialect of my sweet exceptional friend calling from Georgia. She is 63, calls me Mama and we had lost contact two years ago. She asked for the usual $50 dollars for Christmas (if I had it and if I did, she wanted it!), plus two devotionals, a book to read, and some coloring books. She asked me to look at the window of my cell phone to make sure I could see her number and she said in her strong voice, "I've got this cell phone with me 24/7 and when I go to the bed, it is beside me and when I leave the bed it is with me. You can call me any time!" She also asked if I'd gotten her letter from 2009. On college ruled paper she had written, "Dear Mama," then every subsequent line read "I love you, I love you, I love you..." and on the backside, the same, with her signature at the end. Each word was carefully crafted in her very best penmanship.

Stories, lives intertwined, all of value, yet those that cause our hearts to soften, and widen our perspective to love, are perhaps the very stories we must seek. None should be discarded.

The Daily Adventure

Last week Salome' invited every willing sibling into her space shuttle under the kitchen table for the afternoon's first adventure. "To the moon!" she ordered her faithful make-believe shuttle, which offered ample room, natural pine knots for knobs and no animal or snack restrictions. The smooth take-off only rattled my coffee cup and saucer, which sat proudly on the surface as an appropriate hood ornament. The phrase. "If walls could talk..." would not surprise a child in this house, as every piece of furniture seems to have an imaginative alter ego.

This morning Malachi, in a similar mindset to his sister, propped up a marvelous toy catalogue we'd received yesterday in the mail. He gave each little sibling markers and paper while he guided the creation of tiny paper people to fit into the castle, which stood magnificently over a two page spread. "I'm sure this is too expensive for Christmas Mommy, so we can play with it just as it is in the book!" our nine year old exclaimed happily.

I marvel at the way our children use the resources at hand to experience joy in the moment. Their unfettered imaginations soar boundlessly as I watch from the sidelines, chained to the cold metal bleachers of my practical reality. Freedom lies in one place and I am humbled daily to seek to live it, it is in the childlike faith and trust of the One who is unseen who unlocks the captive soul and fuels the imagination.

Two weeks ago I embarked on my own adventure. For eight years I have sought a place called Safe Pasture. I'd read a passage in scripture, Psalm 37, which inspired me to find a piece of land where Dennis and I could build an expansive house with smaller dwellings around it where many could find refuge. As I stood on a parcel of land which from a distance could have been the very spot I'd envisioned, I felt disheartened. For under my feet the soil was uneven and rocky, while the grass was sparse and dry. As I lifted my gaze, the surrounding fence seemed to speak of trespassing rather than invitation.

The following day, while heading home from the Children's Art Museum, I glanced through my rearview mirror at our five littlest ones happily chattering in the backseat of the car. It suddenly dawned on me that Safe Pasture is not a place at all, it is we. When we pour out God's grace, and are fueled to love and live radically, we are the Safe Pasture. To soar or to rest, the daily adventure is soul to soul, not of flesh. And to dwell is to fully live in the adventure of the moment with those we love. Imagine that!

One potato, Two potato...

Some weeks ago I discovered that the gorgeous bush I had lovingly nurtured in the herb garden was a weed! On the same day I removed a scrawny, overgrown plant from the roses on the other side of the yard. To my delight, uprooting this "weed" revealed three beautiful red potatoes, which appeared to be a thank offering for the tiny plot of earth the potato vine had borrowed, grace to my unintentional neglect. Ezra admired the three cold potatoes. She and the faithful, battered garden frog thought it curious and delightful to find lunch in the rose bed.

Amidst my days of preparing the garden for winter, I worked in the front flower bed where I discarded everything. The plants, which were lovely in their season, had to be removed to make room for stronger plants and spring bulbs which would be hearty enough to face the coming harsher weather. As I stripped the patch down to bare earth, Ezra kicked off her pink, rubber boots and dug her toes into the soft, cleared earth. Delicate brown toes enveloped in fresh dark earth, no blooms will ever compare to such beauty.

I felt lazy when I left the weed in the herb garden. Two days ago I noticed it bore stunning red blossoms which now stand gazing at me in a vase on the table. I accept them as a sweet gift, they remind me that there is purpose in all things in the seasons of our lives.

5 for 5

Sleepy six-year-old Salome' peeked her face around the hall corner and smiled her tender, toothless smile. I believe she was the sunshine's opening act. She sighed in a motherly way when Zion, who is perpetually hungry, held up the only remaining banana and announced he was saving it for Ezra. Emmaus entered the room frowning and Salome' crossly told him to stop being cross. "Shall we feed him?" I asked, as a seasoned Zoo-Keeper might. Salome' leaped to the task, pausing only to dip her toast into my coffee. With mommy's help, scrambled eggs containing just a hint of shell, appeared on three plates, along with three grapes on the side, for Emmaus.

Ezra quietly slipped into the day while Salome' and I showered. Towels were shared frugally, jeans found, and out of my closet stepped Salome' in black stilettos, dolly in hand and a seldom used purse to freshen her outfit. "Carpe Diem" indeed! "Shall I awaken Malachi?" she asked, in motion to do so. Thankfully, my intervention meant the beloved 9 year old brother, friend and sometimes foe, was spared the wake up call, as his midnight snacking left him in morning hibernation bliss.

This is the "stuff that dreams are made of". I love this joyful, chaotic, and challenging life!

When people ask us, "Was eight children your plan?" and "How did you come to adopt five children?" The truth is I desperately wanted just one more child, after our three biological children, five more would have seemed impossible. But Dennis felt three was enough, so without an "us" decision I was forced to wait. For five long years I researched every possible place from which to adopt. Each time I lay the material before Dennis he said, "Thank you Honey", as he does when I give him driving instruction from the passenger seat. The clock ticked, my thirty-five candles and our youngest child celebrating her fifth birthday, felt like the death of the dream to adopt a child. My time-line was done, I would surrender and quietly stop submitting information to my silent husband.

However, God did not release me! Every time I prayed I couldn't help but ask for a child. Then one day as Dennis led the family prayer, he asked God to be with the baby who was to be ours! In astonishment I asked Dennis if he knew what he had said. He responded, amazed by his own words, "Yes, it must be time!" Nine months later, two day old Malachi Matthew looked into the faces of his new Mommy and Daddy, and this was just the beginning... because five years of prayer, in time, became five children. In God's time and in His way, His gifts are always sweeter than we can imagine.

Selah

My handsome husband and another good friend sat to my left, the three of us all past recipients of a notable international scholarship for post-graduate studies. The banquet tonight was held in honor of our professor and others who had invested their lives in service. We were to be presented, and in preparation, I pressed my favorite teal sweater against my pink lace top. The names were called and all eyes turned to the smiling men who stood up beside me. My name was not mentioned. I sat quietly smiling while I clapped along with the rest of the crowd. After the program a man approached me to ask my name, wondering if perhaps I’d been someone he knew in college. A person beside me offered clarification to his question, explaining enthusiastically that I was my husband’s wife.

Later that night I gazed at the woman on the other side of the mirror, any remnants of glamor washed down the drain or hung carefully on the hanger where the elegant clothes usually live. The face of that forty-five year old reflection, whose life I live, looked tired and seemed to feel sad and quietly invisible to everyone, even me. The tight space between myself and me left no room for truth, so I slipped into bed without us noticing.

In the dark there was nothing to distract clear thinking, and sleep refused my company. Truth appeared and the Selah, the weighing and measuring of that which has real value, drew my thoughts to a woman I have never met. Her name is Dolores and she works in the hospital.

In heart surgery there are many on whom my husband relies. There is the anesthesiologist, the Physician’s Assistant, the perfusionist, the O.R. nurses and the scrub nurse and tech. The operating room is a flurry of activity where hours of intense operating and life threatening decisions surround one precious human. Eventually the patient may meet and thank many members of the team who worked tirelessly to repair the heart, but few will ever meet Dolores. For when the room is quiet and everyone is gone, Dolores comes to clean. There is little recognition for Dolores, but to Dennis she is significant and he could not operate without her willingness to serve in an excellent, invisible manner.

I am so happy to know Dolores’ name, the basis of which is Latin and means sorrowful or Our Lady of Sorrows in reference to the Virgin Mary. It relates to her willingness to serve even when she knew the sacrifice that was to be required. So when I battle my pride and wonder about my life, it is Dolores to whom I look for encouragement. The crowd, the honors, the image in my mirror, they are nothing compared to the joy of serving the little faces that daily shine at me. Selah.