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.

Beloved (Zion and Birthmother Anna)

Zion likes the word concrete. He says it often, and with gusto! Emmaus is pleased to fuel his brother's widening construction-site vocabulary. Like fresh herbs from the garden added to a simple dish, the brothers transform the most bland sentences into innovative, one-of-a-kind conversations by throwing in their favorite words. To talk of the best things imaginable is to infuse joy into the ordinary.

I also have a favorite word, which has rooted itself into the natural spaces of my thoughts. I freely ask that it influence everything in the same solid manner as concrete. The word is beloved.

I first tasted the power of this word from my girlfriend Tiffany who always refers to her husband Art as Beloved. This bold word insists that of every other characteristic Art might possess, he is first Beloved. Such unabashed, life-speaking language directed my opinion long before I knew anything about the husband Tiffany adores.

My hand reaches only as far as my walking feet can journey. The only lasting shelter and protection we can offer our children is not physical, but rather the character we build in their minds. If the first word of description they hear is Beloved, then all else is filtered by who they know they are. When I call out to them, "Beloved" I am already encouraged to treat them as such. Imagine screaming, "Beloved!" It is almost impossible. With so many highly capable little ones, whose rebellion of heart is as strong as my own, I must protect them and me from anger that produces fruit from an evil source; fear, anxiety, revenge, temper and violence. It is as if I am given a natural pause when the habit of using the word Beloved comes before thought. To conquer the initial reaction to another's sin with kindness is to redirect and infuse love as the conclusion of sin. It is the way of Jesus. I need His way. Throughout scripture we are called His Beloved, so as His Beloved, we are most assuredly Beloved to one another.

You are Beloved, know that you are and perhaps this can be your favorite word as well. Use it generously for it sticks even better than concrete, just ask Zion!

Blaze-red Glory

Emmaus, Zion and Ezra raced across the lobby of the high school auditorium, delighted to have space to run. The fanciful lyrics of the Mary Poppins' song, "Just a Spoonful of Sugar", filled my thoughts as I corralled our crew away from the jovial voices of adults emerging from the theatre. My eyes darted from one to another of our five youngest children. Leashes would have been lovely on a day like today, especially since both Magdalene and Elias were in the ballet production.

In a terrible moment, Zion and I both caught sight of the bright red handle of the fire alarm secured to the far wall, at exactly the height of his inquisitive eyes. I sprang towards Zion in movie-like slow motion while our boy slipped through my grasp, reached the wall, then tilted the handle. For 3 sickening seconds nothing happened, then the shriek of the fire alarm enveloped every other sound and intent. Like a bumbling burglar I tried to undo the damage done by flipping the limp handle up to the trigger point. It refused to reengage and fell back in exhaustion, satisfied at fulfilling its heroic duty.

Zion and I threaded through the crowd of 400. As I called, "False Alarm!" to all who would listen, eyes shifted from my flushed face to the furrowed brow of our stunned three year old clinging desperately to my arm. "Please continue to exit the building," I added motioning to the exit signs, feeling like a nervous stewardess who'd prefer to be pushing a beverage cart. The graciousness with which our announcement was received amazed me. Some even patted Zion's head and said, "It's okay little guy," to which I shook my head violently, terrified that this might initiate a new trend in misbehavior!

In no time at all, a magnificent blaze-red fire truck rumbled into the parking lot. Three firefighters alighted onto the curb; two burly men and a lean, blond female. Their energetic presence brought comfort and calm to Zion for he felt he knew them. Emmaus, Zion and Ezra have nicknames for themselves from their favorite UK children's series, "Fireman Sam". Ezra is the blonde character named Penny, while Zion and Emmaus are Sam and Tom, the other beloved heroes. To Zion's delight "Penny" stood before him, then knelt to look into his eyes, while "Sam" and "Tom" stood smiling at him, just a few feet away. "Penny" gave kind, strict reasons why toddlers should not pull fire-alarms. She offered only a gentle smile to the overwhelmed mother who by then had tears streaming down her face!

Almost as quickly as everyone exited, word for re-entry was given. I scooped up the youngest three for necessary departure while Dennis gathered the rest for the second half of the show. As I choked down my emotions, Emmaus and Ezra generously lectured Zion on his naughtiness. He responded in a hushed voice, "But the Fire-fighters will fix it?" When finally home, my nerves got the best of me and I fell sound asleep beside the exhausted threesome. I awakened to a text from my girlfriend Damaris, who owns the ballet studio.

At the conclusion of the production, she had announced to the audience her thankfulness for the trust the parents placed in her and the studio. The second half of the performance was flawless and several joked that a fire-alarm seemed somewhat appropriate for, "Mary Poppins".

During the long ride home, before the nap and the text, I felt the weight of the burden I carried for my child's sin. I thought of all the ugly things I do and think, and yet the Lord loves me (us) so much that not only would He bear my sin, but send in his sinless son to take my consequences. The blatant reality of forgiveness and "clean-slate" moved my soul when later that afternoon I saw flowers on the table brought home by Elias and Magdalene. Damaris had gathered many blooms from her bouquets to create a beautiful offering just for us. Such love and grace carry much weight when we know we do not deserve them.

In these days since "The Alarm", Emmaus, Zion and Ezra notice every single extinguisher, alarm and fire-hydrant, no matter where we are. There is no risk of forgetting this experience! It is yet another picture of grace, jarringly dramatic, but welcome in its blaze-red glory, non-the-less.