When I was growing up, my mom’s answer to a good 50% of our questions was: “Look it up!” Of course, this was long before we could ask our phones questions, like “Hey, Siri, what’s the best way to fix kale?” or “Hey, Siri, is Willie Nelson still alive?” or “Hey, Siri, what’s an electric pressure cooker?” We had to struggle and work for answers. We had to open actual books and thumb through actual pages to figure out the capitol of Luxembourg. It seems like a lifetime since I cracked open an encyclopedia and only 5 minutes since I looked at Wikipedia. (How else was I going to find out what mincemeat was?) Back in the day, next to our set of World Book Encyclopedias sat our 15+ volumes of Childcraft books, illustrated reference books published in the early 1970’s that taught my sisters and me everything—from planets to poems, from pumas to Purim. We poured over each one, fascinated by the pictures and the text. One of the many facts I learned from the Childcraft books was how to clean coins. For some reason, this was a fascinating task for us. We would gather the pennies from all over the house and pile them on the kitchen table. Then we would mix a solution of vinegar and salt together in a bowl and drop the pennies in, one by one. We would watch expectantly as they were scrubbed clean. Impatiently, we would pull them out too soon to inspect their progress, and, seeing that they still held on to the dullness of age and abundant use, we would drop them back in. There were times when we forgot all about them and left them to soak for hours. When we finally remembered, we were rewarded with shiny copper coins, gleaming at the bottom of the bowl. We would fish them out and lay them on paper towels to dry. Our fingers would hold the sharp smell of vinegar and metal for the rest of the day. Like that acidic solution we used to clean pennies, there are times when my heart requires some pretty abrasive scrubbing. I think of King David as he wrote Psalm 51. He had committed adultery and murder and he had been found out. He was weighed down by his grave mistakes. Purify me from my sins, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. Oh, give me back my joy again; you have broken me—now let me rejoice. Don’t keep looking at my sins. Remove the stain of my guilt. Create in me a clean heart, O God. Renew a loyal spirit within me. Why is it that we often have to be taken so low before we see the need for a good scrubbing? How many times do I have to die to myself before I can fully realize the blessings available to the unselfish? But that is what the Lord desires for us—to forgive us and to instruct us and to cleanse us. I’m so thankful for His never-ending supply of grace. #grace

I get such satisfaction from a full tank of gas. At the gas pump, I see the numbers whizzing higher, each click tells me that I’ve added another gallon of driving my kids around town. After replacing the gasoline nozzle, I start up the engine and watch the needle slide to the FULL position. One less thing to think about. One less thing on my to-do list. I feel a similar satisfaction after a bulk-buying trip to Sam’s Club. I stock up on paper products—cumbersome packages of toilet paper, paper towels, and tissues—that I cram into our hall closet. I buy enormous containers of laundry detergent and fabric softener and other household items we use every day. It feels good knowing they are there and they are full. When I disconnect my cell phone from the charger in the morning after it’s charged all night, I notice that tiny battery icon in the corner. I like seeing that it’s all black and accompanied by a miniature 100%. There’s just something comforting about knowing that the things we need are in abundant supply. It’s a relief. There was a woman in the Bible who must’ve known that kind of relief or at least a desire for it. We call her the Samaritan Woman because we don’t know her name, only where she lived. She was going to the well to draw water and she met Jesus. He asked her for a drink and they started talking. They spoke about wells and husbands and where’s the best mountain for worship. Some scholars say that the woman was there at noon instead of early in the morning because she was shunned by all the other women of the town. This woman had a bad reputation. She had been married 5 times and now lived with another man who wasn’t her husband. I suppose she was worn down by the time she met Jesus. Life hadn’t turned out like she had hoped. Love hadn’t lasted. Memories were painful. Her future didn’t look much better. But still she had to draw water. She needed it to drink and cook and clean. She needed it to survive. So she grabbed a robe and wrapped a scarf around her head and went out into the midday heat. When she questioned Jesus’ boldness in speaking to a woman alone in public, He tells her that she’s asking the wrong question. Instead she should be asking Him for Living Water. Like I often do, the woman was only thinking about the immediate, physical needs. She asked Jesus how He’d get the water without a bucket and where this living water came from and why did He think His water would be better than this well—the one Jacob gave them? So many questions but still not the right ones. Then Jesus said, “Anyone who drinks this water will soon become thirsty again. But those who drink the water I give will never be thirsty again. It becomes a fresh, bubbling spring within them, giving them eternal life.” (NLT) Her mind must have been spinning. An endless supply? Water for eternity? Never to thirst again? Sign me up! She pleaded for Jesus to give her this water. Then Jesus told her that He knows—knows about her past and her present. He knew all about all of it and yet He still told her the big secret that was meant to be told to everyone. Jesus was the One, the Messiah.  He had come to be the never-ending, overflowing source of Life. In spite of my prayer life or Bible study methods or my own righteousness, I can look at the gauge indicating how much He’s willing to pour into me and see the needle pointing to FULL. I will eventually run out of laundry detergent and toilet paper, but there will always be an infinite stockpile of His love for me. #unconditionallove #water #worth

Yesterday, I found a much anticipated delivery in my mailbox. I received two over-priced bed pillows. (Disclaimer: It should be noted that I have bought most of our pillows for $9.99 from Walmart so my idea of over-priced may be different from others.) I don’t know what surprised me more—that I paid so much for pillows or that I bought something from an infomercial or that these pillows actually fit in my mailbox. I ran inside with my purchase and opened the package. Inside were two large hot dog shaped bundles. I tore apart the plastic, releasing the vacuum-sealed pillows from their captivity. They expanded into what I am hoping turn out to be two incredibly helpful, non-pharmaceutical sleep aids. A good night’s sleep is one of those things we can’t fully appreciate until we don’t get one. I remember the first year of my older son’s life as a constant series of eye twitches. He was the most pleasant baby during the day but a horrible sleeper at night. For about 12 months, I yearned for sleep like a thirsty woman wandering the desert searching for water…with a persistent eye twitch. When we first got married, my husband was in medical school. His stress level was high, which became evident when he was asleep. He would experience a variety of stressful dreams that compelled him to move around and talk while still asleep. Once, he got up in the middle of the night, stood at the foot of our bed, pulled the covers off of me, and yelled “Spiders!” It wasn’t the most romantic way to wake up your newlywed wife. Psalm 121, one of my all-time favorite Scriptures, reveals that—unlike the rest of us—the Lord has no need for sleep. I look up to the mountains—does my help come from there? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth! He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber. Indeed, he who watches over Israel never slumbers or sleeps. The Lord himself watches over you! The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade. The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night. The Lord keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go, both now and forever. When my twin daughters were newborns, a friend and I met weekly to encourage each other to memorize several key Scriptures. Psalm 121 is one of the chapters that remains in my memory and etched in my heart. I think of God staying awake, watching us as we sleep soundly or rock our cranky babies or scare the bejeebies out of our spouses or feel stressed or feel calm or feel anything in between. He sees every second we spend on earth. The Maker of All makes time to just watch us. Knowing and believing that should help me sleep even better than these fancy pillows. #peace

Today was one of those Tennessee February days when everyone is talking about the weather. “What a beautiful day!” “Can you believe this sunshine?” “Did you hear it’s supposed to get up to 70-degrees this weekend? Crazy!” We stand under the sun’s rays and drink it in like we’ve lived underground for the last three months. We gulp it down with closed eyes, our retinas unable to withstand the brightness. For those of us prone to melancholy during gray, sun-less days, this is better than any antidepressants—Prozac from the heavens. My youngest was just as excited about the pleasant weather. His heart still beats loudest for the sunny African days of his first five years of life so it took no arm-twisting to convince him to play outside. I pulled a camping chair from the garage and placed it strategically in a sunny triangle on the edge of the driveway to simultaneously watch him play and to read a magazine. (Moms are pretty awesome at this kind of multi-tasking.) Our yard is blessed with several trees—mostly shaggy cedars and tall, tall pines—so it was only a matter of time before my sunny spot had been eclipsed by the surrounding shade. I felt the lack of sun before I saw it, shivering slightly in my t-shirt. So I moved my chair five feet to catch the sun again. Ten minutes later, I felt another chill. I scooted away from the house and right into the center of the driveway, a concrete square by the garage doors, the only warm spot not in our sloping, grassy front yard. My son rode his bike in circles around me like we were in a very boring circus act. We spent the hour before it was time to pick up his older brother from school in this way: him peddling and me scooting. And my relentless quest for sunshine got me thinking about other pointless ventures. King Solomon, the author of Ecclesiastes, called these kind of meaningless activities “chasing after the wind” or in my case, the sun. (If you’re feeling overly happy, you should give Ecclesiastes a quick read. The narrator in my head for this book is Ben Stein’s monotone voice.)  Solomon calls everything meaningless: folly, wisdom, toil, pleasure. The reader might begin to ask: what’s the point? In chapter 11, Solomon finally gives us something positive to consider amidst all of those warnings about futile pursuits. Oh, how sweet the light of day, And how wonderful to live in the sunshine! Even if you live a long time, don’t take a single day for granted. Take delight in each light-filled hour, Remembering that there will also be many dark days And that most of what comes your way is smoke. (The Message) I need that reminder that too much of what I spend my energy on is “smoke.” Today, I will choose to live in the sunshine! #sunshine

I didn’t grow up in a family that cared much for athletics. We didn’t identify with any particular team or sport. If held at gunpoint, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you the teams playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series or the NBA Playoffs. March Madness could’ve meant any number of things to me, like spring allergies or some kind of Easter clearance sale. It just wasn’t a part of our everyday lives. One of the only sports-related memories I have from grade school was the time my cousin was sitting on the floor watching a Kentucky Wildcats basketball game on TV while holding our poodle Rusty in his lap. Somebody on the basketball court did something my cousin didn’t like so he squeezed Rusty too hard and our dog peed all over my cousin. Yep. That’s all I’ve got for the sports highlight reel. Then I met my husband… Brent was born in Knoxville to a family of devoted UT Vols fans. His parents graduated from the University of Tennessee, along with his sister and her husband. Brent was raised on Neyland Stadium Saturdays watching the “Pride of the Southland” Marching Band and the players running victoriously through the “T” even before the game had begun. When we started dating I couldn’t understand my mild-mannered boyfriend’s mood swings that were determined wholly by the outcome of a college football game. Did he have money riding on it? Was the quarterback his brother? Was there some sort of James Bond-type plot to blow up the stadium unless a sizable ransom was paid and the Vols won? (I might not have watched much sports but I did watch lot of TV.) Fatherhood has mellowed quite a bit of the intensity he once brought to a UT football game. He still cares but he isn’t going to let a Vols loss ruin his evening as it once did. But even with the mellowing (and the lack of recent championship titles), Brent still bleeds orange and here’s how I know: I listen to what he tells our son Knox, the heir apparent to the Vols fan dynasty and the boy who never had a chance to support a different college team. Brent and Knox discuss the names and hometowns of these 20-something year old players as if they are close personal friends. Son and father read the sports page of the newspaper every day. They swap statistics and devise theories for possible plays and recruiting achievements. The best part is Knox’s face when he listens to Brent talk about the UT football games of the 1990’s: going to the Sugar Bowl with his parents and watching the 1998 championship title and the excitement of all that was Peyton Manning. Brent tells Knox what he missed by being born a decade too late. But he also tells him that it’s normal for teams to win and lose. They can have successful streaks and then lose five games in a row. Then Brent explains about loyalty, loyalty to your team in the good and the bad times. He says, “You don’t switch teams just because your team isn’t winning and a different team is better.” So this is how a non-sporty girl came to like football. I can get behind this idea of loyalty to a team, even when they’re faltering. I like to know this is possible and I see this applied to his other commitments. Brent shows this type of loyalty to his job and to his family. He shows me that type of loyalty, too, for which I am grateful. I have good times and bad times and I need to know that he’s always going to be on my team…no matter what. #loyalty

When I was in college I went on a couple of mission trips to Romania to teach English using the Bible. Like any overseas trip, it was eye-opening. So much is different: the food, the customs, the language. I remember that one time when, unbeknownst to us, our shower was leaking through the bathroom floor in our flat and down through the ceiling in the flat below us. The landlord came knocking to tell us what was happening but our Romanian language skills were abysmal. We had no idea what he was saying. Like so many Europeans, he was fluent in more than one language—but none that we understood. In the end, he had to speak Romanian to a non-English speaking friend who translated his words into French. A few of us had studied French in high school, so we cobbled together his meaning: your shower is leaking, you dumb Americans. The longer we were there, the less difficult the language barrier became. We learned to point, pantomime, and draw pictures to communicate. We also learned some important phrases, like “Unde este toaleta?” (Where is the bathroom?) But mostly, we learned to be comfortable with the confusion. And we learned that in spite of our differences, there was much more we had in common. Bringing someone into our home who speaks a different language has been difficult at times, especially at the beginning. As of today, our African-born son Ezra has been in the U.S. for 10 months. He can understand nearly everything we say. Although he usually likes us to repeat it for clarity. Me: After we take them to school, we’re going to the store so grab your shoes. Ezra: Mama, what? Me: (Slowly, emphasizing every syllable) After we take them to school, we’re going to the store so grab your shoes. Ezra: Oh. Shoes. Yessee, ma’am. It may take a few times but he can get it. When I stayed home from church with his sick older brother on Sunday, Ezra was able to tell me the Bible story they learned in Sunday School. It was like I was a contestant on a game show. Ezra: “Um, a boat. Jesus was sleeping. Rain and crashing waves sound effects. Jesus say, ‘Be Still!’” Me: Jesus calms the storm! But there’s so much more to communicating with Ezra than words and phrases and idioms and explaining why he shouldn’t use his middle finger to point at things. We are still attempting to speak the language of trust and forever and unconditional love to his wary heart. There are times when I am reminded of where Ezra has been and how he spent the first 5 years of his life. Those occasions come less often than they did when he first came home so I sometimes forget that he still needs so many reassurances. This morning was one of those times. Ezra said something unkind to his sister in the car and I said, “Be nice to your sister.” To me, it was a restrained, insignificant rebuke. Full disclosure, I may have had my 7:30 am on a weekday voice which I use to say things like: “Let’s go! We’re late! Where’s your lunchbox?” But I honestly didn’t think it was a full-on Mom Scolding. For whatever reason—Ezra’s head cold or my strained tone—he took it to mean that I was mad. He gave me the cold shoulder while we completed our carpooling duties. Then he stayed in the car after I pulled into the garage, refusing to leave. I left him there to stew for a bit. When he finally came in the house, he sat at his place at the kitchen table, laid his head down, and exploded into snotty sobs. “Mama, no love me!” he cried. “Ezra,” I said, “What is the matter?” I scooped him up and carried him to the sofa. I wrapped him in a blanket and held him in the way I have held all of my babies—his body curved into a J and his head resting against my left arm. He cried with his whole being as I pulled a dozen tissues from the Kleenex box to wipe his eyes and help him blow his nose. He wouldn’t talk. He would only cry. So I started to throw out possible scenarios: Ezra, if you brought a lion in our house and the lion ran to my closet and ripped up all of my clothes so that they were in pieces all over my room, I would still love you. If a policeman came to our door and told me that you stole all the soccer balls in Murfreesboro, I would still love you. If you never learn your colors or your letters or your numbers or how to tie your shoes, I will still love you. If you fuss at your sisters and brother and daddy and me every day for 100 years, I will still love you. If you tell me you don’t love me, I will still love you. Nothing you could do or say would make me stop loving you because I will love you forever, ever, ever. In between hiccuppy breaths, he agreed to a cup of hot chocolate with no less than 12 marshmallows and we moved on with our day. Before Ezra, I don’t think I ever considered how life would be if I felt completely unloved. Sure, I’ve questioned the extent of affection from certain people but I’ve never known an utter lack of love. Now I am learning some truths about unconditional love. Love is a verb, an action, an effort. It is also a noun, a thing, a gift. Love, the noun, has more weight with the addition of our son. Love, the verb, requires constant motion. Love, the word, bears repeating over and over and over. #adoption #unconditionallove #worth

When my husband and I found out we were having twins, we were a bit like Noah filling his ark—most everything came in 2’s. Two cribs, two car seats, two bouncy seats, a double stroller. We also had to come up with two names. Before we knew we would have twin girls, we came up with a boy name and a girl name: Sam and Ella. They were short and sweet and sounded pretty good together. “Sam! Ella! It’s time for dinner!” “Sam and Ella, did you brush your teeth?” But the more I practiced saying the names aloud, the more I realized that they weren’t all that great as a combo. If said quickly, Sam and Ella can evolve into Sam ‘n Ella. Then it’s just a short trip to salmonella. Not wanting to name my babies after the bacteria that causes food poisoning, we kept looking. Luckily, we had two beautiful baby girls—Lucy and Ella. (And it was only a couple of times that someone thought I said Lucy and Ethel.) Coming up with that perfect name can be a fairly stressful task for expecting parents. So much seems to ride on a person’s name. Does it sound good paired with a powerful handshake? “Nice to meet you. My name is (insert assertive sounding name here).” Or how about: “All rise. The honorable Judge (don’t-mess-with-me name) presiding.” When I get a chance to do a little creative writing, one of my favorite activities is coming up with characters’ names. For me, it’s the first step in making fictional people real. Although we place a great deal of weight on naming someone, our names don’t have to forever define us. I love that God takes the time to change the names of some people in the Bible. Abram and Sarai become Abraham (father of a multitude) and Sarah (mother of nations) to show that they would have countless descendants. After Jacob wrestles with God, his negative name changes from “supplanter” (he would unseat his twin brother) to Israel which means “triumphant with God.” Jesus gave James and John the nickname “sons of thunder,” possibly for their fiery tempers. He took one look at the fisherman Simon and changed his name to Peter which means “rock”. Most of these new names describe what these people would become, not their present situation. God looked into the future to see that Abram and Sarai, a childless couple, would be parents to more children than the stars in the sky. When others saw an impulsive, inflexible, dirty fisherman named Simon, Jesus saw a firm place (a rock) to build his church. Though it would be impractical to legally change our names to something new, it is possible to redefine who we are with the help of a mighty God. In the Old Testament, the prophet Hosea was exceptionally obedient to God’s calling. He was even willing to live out the most inconvenient morality play in human history. Hosea was told to marry a prostitute and give their children specific names to describe God’s displeasure with the Israelites. Their first child was named after a massacre that occurred in a place called Jezreel. The next two children were named Lo-Ruhamah (which means “not loved”) and Lo-Ammi (“not my people”). That’s pretty harsh. But our merciful God didn’t leave it there. In the next chapter the Lord explains that He will pursue His sinful people. “I will show my love to the one I called ‘Not my loved one.’ I will say to those called ‘Not my people,’ ‘You are my people.’” If you feel that your name is Unloved or Unwanted, allow God to change your name and your heart. It is in His power to do it. #name #change #hope #mercy #healing

When my sisters and I would come from school in the afternoons, we liked to do what a lot of kids in the 1980’s did: we watched reruns on TV. We mostly watched classic shows from the 1950’s and 1960’s like The Brady Bunch, Leave It to Beaver, and I Love Lucy. One of my favorites was Gilligan’s Island. Even though it’s been a couple of decades since I watched an episode, I can still conjure up scenes of the Skipper hitting Gilligan with his captain’s hat as easily as if I just saw it yesterday. My sisters and I were lured in by the suspense of the story. We always wondered if the 7 castaways would ever get off the island where they had been shipwrecked after what was supposed to be “a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.” (I know you’re singing the theme song right now.) We enjoyed the show so much that we used to pretend to watch episodes of Gilligan’s Island on the back of our parents’ seats in the station wagon during long car trips. We’d ask, “How many more Gilligan’s Islands until we’re there?” One particular episode has been popping up in my mind a lot lately. In the episode called “Seer Gilligan” our man in the red rugby shirt finds a bush growing special seeds. Gilligan eats some of these seeds and he’s able to read the thoughts of everyone around him. He eventually shares the seeds with the other castaways. At first everything is fine and dandy as long as the thoughts they are thinking are kind. Then it gets ugly. They eat the seeds and read each other’s minds and think hurtful things. By the end of the show, Gilligan burns the seeds and the bush to restore peace to the island (at least until the next head hunter invasion or cosmonaut landing). I find it interesting that the castaways are so surprised by what each other are thinking. How was Ginger so surprised that MaryAnn thought she was lazy? Was Skipper really shocked to learn that they all blamed him for the shipwreck? But sometimes, we can’t explain the thoughts and actions of another person. Having the ability to read another’s thoughts only gives us insight into that moment. We lack context. Context is what I see lacking lately. My Facebook newsfeed is full of people fuming about something—candidates and elections, marches and interviews, speeches and nominations. People post angry rants and are answered by a string of widely varying comments. Then they seem surprised that there are so many differing opinions. Sometimes I read these posts and comments and I’m amazed, too. Who are these people who think this way? How could he/she feel like this when he/she has had this advantage/disadvantage or life experience? And why would he/she post that in such a public place? Context. Regardless of how you voted in November, speak to others from a place of kindness. Regardless of how you feel about free speech or gun rights or prayer in schools, pause before you resort to calling names. Regardless of your nationality, gender, race, or religion, practice Jesus’ admonition to His Apostles. He said, “When you knock on a door, be courteous in your greeting. If they welcome you, be gentle in your conversation. If they don’t welcome you, quietly withdraw. Don’t make a scene. Shrug your shoulders and be on your way.” (The Message) Jesus didn’t tell them to go to the temple steps and publicly ridicule those who live there. This is a face-to-face interaction. If you aren’t brave enough or skilled enough to lovingly disagree in person, then maybe the comment section of Facebook isn’t the place either. Check your motivation. Do you want to be right for your sake only or for the revelation of God’s glory? Unless you can not only read the minds of others but also see all the places they’ve been hurt and mistreated in their lives, don’t respond from the lofty heights of righteous indignation. Instead, obey Micah 6: “And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” I’m grateful Gilligan destroyed those seeds because I don’t really want to read anyone’s mind. That’s the easy way out. Let’s do the hard work of restoration and peace-making. #community #healing #peace

When I was around 6-years old, I would imagine that I had curly blond ringlets and blue eyes (think Cindy Brady). My imagination was so proficient, I can remember being truly surprised to look in the long mirror in my parent’s bedroom and see my boring, brown helmet hair and doo-doo brown eyes staring back at me. What a disappointed and slightly delusional little girl I was! My imagined identity was just that—imagined. In real life, I was (am) not a striking beauty, not athletic, not graceful, barely in the same species as a runway model. So as child with an active imagination, I would go to a place in my mind where my awkwardness was replaced with cool confidence. I may still do it from time to time. It’s called daydreaming and it’s pretty great. If you ask a group of 4-year old girls to raise their hands if they think they’re beautiful or smart or fast runners, they’ll mostly all answer with an enthusiastic “yes!” But if you ask the same question to a group of 5th grade girls, you’ll get a lot fewer raised hands. Why is this? Logically-speaking, they should all be more of what they had been 5 or 6 years before, but they often don’t see it that way. These gangly, growing girls only see the flaws and the awkwardness. As a 40-something year old woman it’s still difficult to not feel out of place in certain situations. But trying new things and putting yourself “out there” where you might fail can be a catalyst for growth. In spite of what you might think, I’m actually an introvert. I like intimate gatherings above large groups. I like a quiet house with few distractions, although as a mom you have to learn to block out things if you want to ever get ANYTHING done. I am depleted by noise and activity and conversations with lots of people. So as an introvert, I have to give myself little pep talks telling my “I-just-wish-I-were-home” self to take a chance and speak to a group or say hello to a new acquaintance whose name I can’t remember. Sometimes the reward for stepping outside my comfort zone is immediate and evident. Sometimes it’s a disaster in the produce aisle. There was a teacher at my kids’ school who I didn’t know well and had trouble reading. In fact, we barely had occasion to speak. Then I saw her at the grocery store. I was in the produce section, picking out some cucumbers. I turned around just as she stepped forward. We exchanged brief greetings and she raised one arm for what I thought was a shoulder hug. I guess I should explain at this point that I am an introvert but I’m also a hugger which is maybe a strange combination. I went in to fully reciprocate that hug—both arms right around her midsection—feeling validated and loved and significant (did I also mention that I am a people-pleasing, middle child?) to someone who I was never sure how she felt about me. Instead of hugging me back, she reached up to tug down one of those plastic produce bags hanging above my head. She wasn’t so much looking for a hug but more like looking for the perfect bell pepper. It was a bit awkward. I look back at that one (of many!) awkward interactions, and I have to say that I am weirdly proud of myself. I hugged a non-hugger and lived to tell about it. I’m hoping I took a step closer to becoming who I’m supposed to be, even if it was painful. One of my all-time favorite chapters in the Bible is Psalm 139. “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful; I know that full well.” I love the imagery of God creating us in this special place—a dark and cozy womb. Then what happens next? Our messy and—if we’re being completely honest—gross birth. We all start off in this same way: slimy and bloody and messy. And things will continue to be messy off and on for as long as we’re here. We make mistakes. We feel pain. We shed tears. We stretch and grow and all the while we can live with the assurance that we were fearfully and wonderfully made. What we see as awkward, God may see as progress, purpose, possibility. #worth

I am privileged to spend five hours of most every Tuesday and Thursday with a group of 4- and 5-year olds. I teach preschool at our church and every day is different. This is my favorite age of human beings. Most are young enough that they haven’t perfected the back talking (aka “Sass-Mouth”) but old enough to take care of bathroom stuff by themselves. It’s a time where anything seems possible for them. Their end of the year goals are things like learning the ABC’s (LMNOP or “ellen limo pea”?) and counting to 20 independently (13, 14, 15, 16 are the stumbling blocks that trip up many a preschooler) and tying their shoes…or at least getting them on the correct feet. About 20 years ago, my first full-time teaching position was 4-year old kindergarten. I had no kids at home so those 15 students were my kids. There was Luke who tried to convince me that 4 ½ was older than 5 because it took longer to say. There was Seth who made it difficult to determine his dominant hand because he would write the first half of his name (S-E) with his left hand and then switch his pencil to write the second half (T-H) with his right. And I could never forget Hunter. He made up a song called “God Killed All the Dinosaurs” and sang it for the class, encouraging us to all jump in for the chorus. I kept a Mason jar on my desk and I would add marbles to the jar when the class was especially well-behaved. A full jar bought them a popsicle party. After a drought of marble-adding I asked the class, “What kinds of things will get marbles for the jar?” Hunter answered, “If we pick our nose but don’t eat the boogers?” I didn’t see that one coming. Those students from my first class are grown now but my current class is still full of surprises, like yesterday when they pretended that the robot lacing cards were cell phones and they walked around our classroom looking for a place to charge them. My job is still to figure out what in the world they’re talking about. One day before Thanksgiving, when the weather was warm enough for outside recess, they ran out the door saying, “Let’s play T.J. Maxx!” How does one play a game inspired by a low-cost clothing and home goods retailer? Upon further inspection, I realized (okay…my kids told me) that there’s a TV show called P.J. Masks. Totally different. In the first few weeks of school, I intervened in an argument about one student’s lunch item, a turkey roll-up sandwich. Here’s the dialogue: Girl: “It’s not a ballerito!” Boy: “I know. It’s a burrito.” Girl: “It’s not a ballerito!!” Boy: “I know! It’s a burrito!” It escalated until I could get them understanding the other’s point of view. That’s when I had to say a few sentences I’ve never said before: “You are making her feel sad when you call her sandwich a burrito—which she pronounces ballerito. Please call her sandwich a turkey roll-up or don’t talk about her sandwich at all.” Phew. Everyone stand down. Crisis averted. Trying to understand kids is often a lot more fun than trying to understand adults. Kids have agendas but they are normally: play more, nap less, eat candy. With adults, it’s usually more difficult to understand what pain or learned habits they’re accessing when they do something unexpected. Unfortunately, kids can also act and speak from a place of great pain but it seems different somehow. My advice is to try what works for 4-year olds. Sit on the floor right next to them. Pull out a puzzle or read a book or have an imaginary tea party. Get eye-level and try to see things from their perspective, then things might clear up a bit. Unless it’s Hunter. Then you’re on your own. #children #teachers

Once there was a little boy who had never seen snow. Sure, he had read about it in books and watched it on TV. He had even seen home movies of his new brother and sisters—his ya-yas—throwing snowballs and making snow angels and sledding down hills, but his very own deep, deep brown eyes had never looked straight on those graceful, white flakes. And those graceful, white flakes had never lit on his eyelashes or shoulders or nose or outstretched mitten. The country where he was born was never cold. It was hot most days and warm most nights. His new mama took down the map from the refrigerator and showed him why. “This red line is called the equator,” she told him. “Everywhere this line touches it is a hot place with no snow.” She pointed to a city just below the red line. “This is Kinshasa. That is where you were born.” On the hottest days before he left Kinshasa, his foster mama would cover his neck, back, and arms with talcum powder to soothe his skin. There, he napped every day, especially when the sun high up in the sky made him feel so sticky and sweaty and drowsy that he couldn’t imagine doing anything else. When it was springtime, the little boy left Kinshasa and flew across the world to his new home. He was excited to see new things, places, and people. He was excited to see snow. The little boy waited through the rainy days of April and the sunny days of May, but no snow. He visited the ocean in June and saw fireworks in July, but still no snow. By summertime, he had sung “Happy Birthday” to everyone in his family. His mama in April. His daddy and sisters in May. His brother in June. The little boy asked his mama when it would be his turn to blow out the candles. “After Christmas,” his mama said. “When it gets much colder.” “Snow? For my birthday?” the little boy asked, hoping and wishing and praying. “Maybe,” the mama replied. “We’ll see.” August brought muggy heat and he watched his ya-yas go back to school, but no snowflakes fell. In September and October, the little boy was delighted when the leaves on the trees magically turned gold and red. Then the leaves fell and by November, the air began to cool. Then came December. Some days were as warm as springtime and some days were chilly enough for him to see his breath in puffs of tiny frozen drops. Each time that his mama told him: “It’s too cold for shorts. Put on pants.” or “Go get your jacket. It’s cold outside!” the little boy would ask, “Snow today, mama?” His mama would look at the weather forecast in the newspaper and say, “No, not today.” “For my birthday?” he would ask again and again. “Maybe,” his mama would say, hoping and wishing and praying, too. After Christmas the little boy wanted to know if it was time for his birthday, so he asked his family. On Monday, he asked his ya-ya Ella, “My birthday today?” “No. Not for five days,” Ella said as she helped take ornaments off the Christmas tree. On Tuesday, he asked his mama, “My birthday today?” “Four more days,” Mama said as she made a yummy soup for their supper. On Wednesday, he asked his ya-ya Lucy, “My birthday today?” “Three more days,” Lucy said as she packed her lunch for school. On Thursday, he asked his ya-ya Knox, “My birthday today?” “Two more days,” Knox said as he sharpened his pencil to do his homework. On Friday, he asked his daddy, “My birthday today?” “Tomorrow!” Daddy said as he scooped up the little boy in a big good morning hug. “Come with me and look out the window. You have an early birthday present!” The little boy followed his daddy to the window and looked outside. There was snow! Snow on the grass and snow on the roofs. The wind was blowing the snow in swirls. It flew in the air and landed in ocean waves. It was beautiful. The little boy dressed as quickly as he could, pulling up his ya-ya Knox’s borrowed long soccer socks and slipping on his ya-ya Lucy’s old pink gloves and letting his ya-ya Ella tie his warm hiking boots. He spent most of the morning exploring the backyard—jumping on the snow-covered trampoline and breaking the icicles that hung from the fence. When he was finally so cold that he couldn’t feel his toes or his nose, the little boy walked up the driveway to the back door. Before he went in the door and kicked off his boots, he looked behind him at his footprints in the snow. He saw the path where he had walked—all the places he had been—and he was happy. #birthday

I spend a significant amount of most of my days in the family minivan. Four kids—none of whom are old enough to drive themselves—require hours of shuttling around town. So I find various ways to entertain and distract myself during those trips to and from practice, school, church, the grocery store, etc. The most fun (as well as creepiest and stalker-recommended) distraction is to people-watch at red lights. The best opportunity for this is when I’m at the front of the line and cars are turning left into the lane next to me. In this way, these drivers come (often uncomfortably) close to my car and I can see their faces straight on. Some people are talking on the phone. Some are singing. Every once in a while, I’ll see a mom give her kids in the backseat and rearview mirror scolding. Most people are indifferent. In other words, if you were going to draw a smiley face representing their expressions, the mouth would be a straight line. 99% of the people who drive past me are strangers. Considering that this is Murfreesboro, if we stopped and talked we could possibly find common acquaintances with just a few degrees of separation, but these are mostly unknown faces. Strangely, it always amazes me there could be so many people in this world that I will never know, not their names or their birthdays or their favorite food. When I see these strangers pass by me with their pokerfaced expressions, I often wonder what their lives are like. Do they live alone? Do they like their jobs? Do they wish they spent their days and nights differently? In those handful of seconds when their cars are a few feet away from mine, I look into their eyes and ponder what parts joy and agony they feel on a daily basis. It can be an exhausting exercise to try to care about every motorist that comes within 10 feet of me. Even more exhausting when I take into account that these souls make up only a tiny percentage of the world’s 7.4 billion population. How do we love them all? How do we exist on a planet with so much suffering and chaos and attempt to care about so many strangers? In such a moment of disquiet and defeat, I look to how Jesus instructed those around him. When a teacher of the law tried to stump Jesus with a question about eternal life, Jesus had the teacher quoting Leviticus. “’Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’; and, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’” the man replied, confident he was getting the answer right. Then the man asked, “So who is my neighbor?” At this point, Jesus lays out the story of the Good Samaritan. He tells of the traveler who is beaten and robbed and left to die on the road. Then Jesus tells of the men who didn’t stop to help even though they would say that they understand God’s teachings the best. Then the despised Samaritan rides by. Though most likely considered unclean and unwanted by the beaten man, the Samaritan stops and helps him, dressing his wounds and taking him to a place where he can heal. Jesus finishes his story with a question: “Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?” The teacher had no choice but to give Jesus the answer he was looking for. “The one who had mercy on him.” My goal for this year is to love the ones whose paths cross mine. That may mean the paths in a 5-mile radius of my home or the Lord may put a burning desire on my heart to widen my path’s reach to a greater distance. Either way, I will try to be available to show mercy where He directs me. I will try not to be one who can walk past suffering, untouched. “I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. And because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.” -Edward Everett Hale #mercy