19 years. Four kids. 2 minivans. 1 apartment and 3 houses. 6,935 nights to say “I love you” to my husband before falling asleep. We met in college, you a junior with a plan and me a freshman without a clue. We were introduced by mutual friends, then we became friends. We went on friend dates: Sunday morning church, restaurant group dates, putt-putt golf, and that one time we tried to fly a kite in the park. After a couple of months of being friends, we fell in love. Well, the falling part happened before the title of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” became official but it stuck. For me, it started pretty much the first time we met and you offered to refill my little sister’s drink at the Subway restaurant where you, me, my sister, and three or four of my friends were eating lunch on a hot day in July. Then, a week or so later, I watched you befriend a bunch of awkward-looking freshman boys sitting alone at a student orientation event. Each time I saw you show kindness, you became even more attractive. Growing up, my idea of lasting, romantic relationships was fairly mundane. I thought it consisted of the man doing the following: 1) You ask a girl to couple skate and the DJ plays “Uptown Girl” just as you both skate to the center of the room, lights focused on the strikingly beautiful couple who can skate backwards and “shoot the duck” like pros. 2) You ask a girl to Pizza Hut where you share a medium 2-topping, drink Coke out of those red tumblers, and you play “Elvira” on the jukebox. 3) You go on the show “Family Feud” and when Richard Dawson asks you to introduce your family, you refer to your wife as your “lovely bride of 25 years.” As it turns out, none of those things have happened in the past 19 years we’ve been married or the three years prior to that when we were dating. (And I’m not hinting to go roller skating, to eat at Pizza Hut, or to sign up for the Family Feud. I promise.) When I think of those youngsters, it feels like I’m remembering scenes from a movie about someone else, a different couple. Did I ever not know everything about you? Like how you sound like Darth Vader when you sleep? How you never like to be barefoot? How you’re amazingly gentle with tiny babies? Was there ever a time that you only knew the things about me that I wanted you to know? My insecurities and my bad habits were never on display for you when I was 18 and you were 20. Suppose that was us—those cute kids without any gray hair or stretch marks or worries beyond finals for that semester—then what a journey this has been. And the craziest part is that even as great as that first love feeling was, it’s a million times better now than it was before. (Well, maybe not the stretch mark part.) We decided all those years ago that we’re both in this for the long haul. You and me. No matter what. But you make it easy, like making a commitment to be faithful to chocolate or sunshine, and then sticking with it. So even after all these years, I still love that boy who was kind and funny and smart. Or to quote the Oak Ridge Boys: “my heart’s on fire…Giddy up, oom poppa, oom poppa, mow mow” #anniversary #marriage

Sometimes it takes the holidays to learn something you already know. Maybe it’s your dislike of Brussels sprouts that annually reveals itself at Thanksgiving dinner, the only time you eat them. Or it might be your aversion to all things spooky, a fact you only notice around Halloween. Perhaps your proclivity for procrastinating is especially highlighted around Christmas, an introspective epiphany you receive as you’re frantically running through the mall on Christmas Eve in order to finish off your holiday shopping. And then there are those realizations offered to you by others from their various perspectives. For instance, when relatives who don’t live in town see your children, the talk invariably turns to how much they have grown. Unscientific, back-to-back measurements are taken to compare uncles and nephews, cousins and other cousins, grandmothers and granddaughters. Baby faced toddlers are replaced with lanky teenagers and tricycle-riders are replaced with driver’s license holders in what feels like just a handful of Christmases. Time seems to speed up when it is only seen in sequential Christmas card photos. As parents, we don’t always see these incremental alterations in our children. They change but it’s hard for us to see the difference, that is, until they put on a pair of pants that are suddenly two inches too short. A-ha! You’ve grown! Imagine Mary’s continual surprises as the mother of Jesus. Her wonder at her son’s milestone moments must have given her whiplash. If mothers had made baby scrapbooks back in those days, Mary would have wanted to include the following high points: Her pregnancy was revealed by a visiting angel. His birth was announced by an angel chorus and attended by a pack of awestruck shepherds. She was given a baby shower by a group of exotic world-travelers who brought her the items every new mother needs—gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Forty days after Jesus’ birth, once Mary was considered clean enough to enter the temple area, Jesus’ parents were given another surprise to add to the ever growing list. There they met Simeon and Anna, holy and righteous prophets who had been anxiously waiting for news of the Messiah. When I read their story in Luke 2, I want to hug Anna and throttle Simeon. Anna “began praising God. She talked about the child to everyone who had been waiting expectantly for God to rescue Jerusalem.” She sounds like a proud grandma or aunt. No doubt Mary would have wanted a photograph of Anna tenderly cradling Jesus for the baby book. Simeon, on the other hand, tells Mary that Jesus “is destined to cause many in Israel to fall, and many others to rise. He has been sent as a sign from God, but many will oppose him. As a result, the deepest thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your very soul.” Vague news of soul-piercing swords is not exactly what a mother of a 1-month old wants to hear. There was so much to come for the earthly parents of the Son of God. Maybe it was a blessing that Simeon hinted at a little of the heartache. It’s frustrating that apart from His preteen temple meeting with the priests and the catchall verse about Jesus growing up healthy, strong, and wise in Nazareth, we know so little of Jesus’ childhood. So in place of actual information I’ll assume that He outgrew tunics, coats, and sandals at an alarming rate. I’ll guess that Mary covertly watched him from doorways as he played with friends and siblings, trying to convince herself that He was ever a tiny baby. Or maybe she had a moment with her growing son like I did recently with my youngest. My son stood, feet flat on the floor, and reached his hands up to my face, one hand on each cheek. He said, “Look, Mama. I can do this now. Me big.” No more tippy toes. Just another page for the baby book. #parenthood

Watching movies with Ezra, our five-year old son, is not exactly relaxing, that is, unless you like to give a running commentary explaining dialogue, plot twists, character analysis, and generally how the movie will end for 90 minutes nonstop. His most frequent question is: “Mom, good guy or bad guy?” Pointing to the questionable character on the TV screen—the one who just lost his temper or just laughed in a creepy way or just stole something, Ezra will interrogate me for information so that he can guess what might happen next. He is trying to formulate which characters he should root for and which characters he should hope will fail. His “good guy or bad guy” questions aren’t just limited to when we’re watching movies. When he saw the characters from the movie Frozen on our paper towels (don’t judge…they were on sale), he pointed to Elsa, the ice queen who selfishly turns her kingdom to ice and consequently endangers her little sister just because she feels like “letting go.” “Good guy or bad guy?” he asked as I slid a piece of toast on top of Elsa’s picture. He’s seen the movie several times so he knows that Elsa’s actions are bad, but in the end (spoiler alert) she makes things right with her sister. Good or bad? That’s a tricky philosophical dilemma to wrestle with at 6:30 a.m. Before bed, I read Ezra a book about the story of Zacchaeus, the man who was too short to see Jesus as he was teaching to a crowd of people. As the song says, “He climbed up in a Sycamore tree. The Savior he wanted to see.” I read the story which touched on Zacchaeus’ reputation as a dishonest tax collector. Then Ezra pointed to the picture of Zacchaeus and asked: “Good guy or bad guy?” I explained, “Zacchaeus was a bad guy then he decided to be a good guy. Sometimes people change, especially after they meet Jesus.” I thought a lot about our conversation. I thought about Ezra’s need to categorize people into good and bad and I thought about the monumental task of changing your status and reputation from one side to the other. When word got out that Jesus had eaten at Zacchaeus’ house, Jesus was confronted by the people of the town. They couldn’t believe that he had dined with a “notorious sinner.” Zacchaeus could’ve decided that he had too much bad press to hurtle in order to change his life around but instead he promised to give back all that he owed and then some. This had to be difficult and fraught with a variety of consequences. I went back to read the story again and I was surprised to see that it took place in Jericho, best known for its wall that came tumbling down after the Israelites marched around it for a week. It may be a coincidence that this interaction between Jesus (Prince of Peace and Light of the World) and Zacchaeus (town creep) happened in a place known for tearing down walls that prevent people from realizing their Promised Land. Or maybe that’s what Jesus is all about. “For the Son of Man came to seek and save those who are lost.” #change #choices #grace #identity

Today, my son had his second haircut since coming to America. In case you’re keeping score, that’s 7 months living with us and 2 trips to the barber. As a white mom of a black son, I am definitely learning a lot about caring for our little fella’s skin and hair. I’ve asked friends and scoured the internet for advice. I’ve mostly tried to keep him moisturized and comfortable. I’ve done pretty well with the skin part but the hair is tricky. I’m not even familiar with all that goes along with Caucasian curly hair, so I’ve had a steep learning curve. I’ll just say that remembering to keep his hair picked out and adequately oiled hasn’t been my strength. Luckily, I have a friend who suggested I take my son to her brother’s barber shop. Even with this trusted friend’s recommendation, I felt a bit nervous. Anytime I have to go somewhere outside of my comfort zone, I feel a certain amount of apprehension. In this case, I didn’t fear for my safety. My main worry was that I would be told I wasn’t doing a good job taking care of my boy. I was afraid I would be standing in a room full of unsympathetic men who would judge my parenting skills and see that I was lacking. I was afraid they would question my ability to care for a little boy who looks different than me. I was afraid that they might tell me that if I can’t get this right then I will most definitely fail when it comes to guiding him through the big things like what he should do during random traffic stops. During the 15-minute drive to the barber shop, I thought about a white friend’s experience at Walmart just after she had adopted her African American daughters. An older black woman was looking at my friend and eventually approached her. My friend told the story this way: “The woman said, ‘You know, you need grace.’ I said, ‘Yes, ma’am. That’s right. We all need grace.’ The woman shook her head, exasperated and said, ‘No. Grease. Grease. Those girls need grease in their hair.’” That was the kind of helpfulness I was anticipating. When I entered the barber shop, I was greeted by the same man who had cut my son’s hair back in May. He and the barber in the chair next to him both remembered us and greeted us warmly. The news was playing on the television as my son climbed into the barber chair. As it was Election Day, the two major party candidates were filmed voting for themselves at their respective polling stations. We all watched and shook our heads simultaneously. As the barber spread an apron across my son and gently snapped it at the back, I showed him a picture on my phone illustrating what we had in mind for my son’s haircut. The barber started to pick out my son’s hair and I watched my son wince each time he slid the teeth into those tight curls. I knew I had failed him. I knew I hadn’t prepared him for this haircut. Tears started to roll down my son’s cheeks. The barber stopped and offered him a sucker. He gave him a toy from his counter to hold and he told him to squeeze the toy when it hurt. He kindly explained what he was doing and why. Then he sprayed oil in my son’s hair and got back to work. He picked and shaved and brushed him off. This sweet man worked until our son had a haircut he was proud of. The barber in the chair next to him gave me a half-gone bottle of hair product to use when I pick it out so that it will be easier and less painful for everyone. The owner of the shop—my friend’s brother—approached us as we left to make sure I had a pick. They made it so easy to ask questions. All of the men were beyond helpful and spoke to me without any trace of judgment. On the ride home from the barber shop, I thought of a time after my twin daughters were born. I was frantic. One of my girls didn’t nurse well and she wasn’t putting on weight. I didn’t know what to do. My husband had to talk me down from taking her to Kroger to weigh her on a produce scale. Those feelings of inadequacy came rolling back. Feelings that you’re not doing right by your kids, like you’re responsible for these little human beings but you actually have no idea what you’re doing. Then I remembered my friend’s story and I thought of the misunderstanding with the woman at Walmart. Unbeknownst to her, the woman essentially summed up parenting in a sentence: You know, you need grace. Amen. Give it and receive it. #adoption #grace

It’s been enlightening to experience so many Western Culture firsts with a brand new American. We are celebrating the 7-month anniversary of our African-born son’s arrival to the US. His language skills are improving everyday…just in time for the holidays. For instance, explaining trick-or-treating to a five-year old the morning of his initiation into the holiday (the kids at his preschool were about to go to the church staff offices in costume to beg for candy) went a little something like this: Me: I’m packing your Captain America costume so you can put it on at school today. Ezra: Why I bring this to class? Me: You and your friends are going to walk around church to see the people who work there and ask for candy. Ezra: Why they give me candy? Me: Because you will have on a costume and say, “trick-or-treat”. Ezra: Why I say this? Me: Because it’s almost Halloween and that’s what people say when it’s Halloween. Ezra: Why… Me: (interrupting) Hey, you wear a costume and you get candy. Just go with it. Now that every store has their Christmas decorations up, I have started explaining Christmas traditions. When I say them out loud, these traditions sound a little absurd. “So when it’s Christmas, we’ll put a tree in the living room. We’ll add lights and a bunch of other things hanging off the branches. You see that box with those four long socks I got in the mail the other day? Well, those are called stockings and I’m going to hang those, too, but not on the tree, over the fireplace. No. They’re not for your feet. They’re to hold toys and candy.” I’m not even going to attempt Santa Claus, and you can forget about any Elf on a Shelf. Beyond explaining the holidays and other pertinent facts about us, we’ve had to learn new things about our little fella, too. Like, his sneeze. It’s an explosion of sound and fury, and it comes ashore with no warning. The first time my husband and daughters heard him sneeze we were at a funeral visitation for a family member. People gathered in hushed circles all over the church. Upon returning from the restroom with Ezra, I walked towards them where they were sitting in a pew. Right at the front of the church, he paused and let out a thunderous sneeze. The looks on his family’s faces were priceless. There were learning a new aspect of our boy, another piece of what makes him Ezra. During the past 7 months, we’ve had several “mis-ezra-standings” that needed clearing up. When he saw a picture of me very pregnant with our now 11-year old son Knox, Ezra pointed to my belly with a questioning expression. “That’s Knox,” I said. “Mama, you mean,” he scolded. “Why am I mean?” I asked. “You (gulp sound) Knox-y. You mean. You no eat him!” Oh terrific, I thought, now I will explain The Birds and The Bees using the 50 simplest words I can think of. It’s like Dr. Seuss wrote a book about “Your Ever Changing Body”. Every day brings more discoveries. There are times when I don’t feel up to the challenge of explaining why ice cream is cold or why leaves change color. And If I don’t express my answers carefully, I’ll invariably get the question: “Mama, why you mad?” I’ll tell him I’m not mad, just ready for a break from talking for a few minutes. This little boy has learned to read expressions and tones so quickly. He works hard to gather information from conversations (both verbal and non-verbal) so he can make inferences to better understand his family and their crazy American ways. We are getting to know the essence of him a little better with each passing moment. Even though I’m looking forward to things being easier, smoother, not so fraught with confusion, I will miss the intentionality of learning each other. Like the excitement of a first date, there is something special about falling in love with someone whose path you know you were meant to cross. Something special about learning their likes and dislikes and what makes them smile and that funny way they sneeze. #family #parenthood

It used to be that every soap opera and sitcom TV show could only remain on the air if they followed a prescribed formula. For instance, there should be at least one episode with an Evil Twin. There should also be an episode where the main characters get trapped somewhere (locked inside a freezer or stranded in a remote cabin during a storm) where they can reminisce over a series of flashbacks. Another required plotline was the Amnesia Dilemma. I saw it happen to MaryAnn on Gilligan’s Island and Luke on the Dukes of Hazzard and Michelle from Full House. Even Alf, the puppet/alien from the TV show Alf, suffered from severe memory loss after an electrical shock. Most of them were able to regain their memory with another well-placed hit on the head, but until the therapeutic blow was applied comedy ensued. Growing up, I lived in fear that I would fall victim to amnesia. I thought it was a given, just a matter of time. I assumed I would get knocked in the head (most imagined scenarios involved my older sister as the perpetrator) and I would look around at once-familiar faces and ask, “Who am I? Why am I here?” I never imagined that amnesia might actually happen without any head-cracking. I never would’ve thought that one day I might look around and ask the same questions: “Who am I? Why am I here?” But that is a possible byproduct of adulthood. There are times when, though with a fully (relatively-speaking) operational mind, I question my identity. I get caught up in my roles—someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, someone’s employee, someone’s friend—and I start to lose myself in the process. I become not just a mom, but a mom to a great student or an average athlete or the woman the preschool calls about her child’s “biting problem.” My identity gets tangled up in their identities. My worries and hopes reflect their worries and hopes. These things pile up, layer after layer, on top of me until I’m unrecognizable even to myself. If I scrub away all of these extras—the genuine and the counterfeit—and I stand bare-footed and alone, who am I? I’m offered a real and lasting identity through my relationship with an amazing God. Whether I always feel it or not, I am loved and accepted (Ephesians 1:6). I am forgiven (Colossians 1:14). I am fearless (2 Timothy 1:7). I am chosen (Colossians 3:12). I am complete (Colossians 2:10). These are the descriptions I want to illustrate the real me. They aren’t contingent on my intellect, my weight, my fashion sense, or my bank account. It may require a mighty blow to my head, but I am ready to have some sense knocked into me. I’m ready to truly know who I am. #identity

During the week of Fall Break, my family and I went to the place where dreams come true: Orlando, Florida. We spent five days at Walt Disney World and 2 days (give or take) at Universal Studios. (Thanks to Hurricane Matthew, or at least the threat of Hurricane Matthew, we spent 24 hours hunkered down in our hotel on Friday. Then we rose early Saturday morning to squeeze in a few more hours at the park before our flight out of town.) This trip was just one more way to Americanize our African-born son. He saw ordinary people lined up to get signatures of other ordinary people dressed up as famous movie characters. He saw able-bodied 8-year olds being pushed in strollers. And with the Disney meal plan, he got a dessert with every meal. Fame, food, and easy living, brother, that’s what we’re all about! For our 5-year old, the most maddening part of the trip was the lines. He loved the rides and the shows and the general atmosphere, but those lines! The planners of the parks usually try to make the lines tolerable. They often add fans, interactive games, and television screens. Sometimes, they even make the lines snake around cool set pieces, preparing you for the ride you will eventually board. But a 45-minute wait is still a 45-minute wait and to a 5-year old it might as well be a month. This is especially true when said 5-year old needs to go to the bathroom. Like, hypothetically-speaking, when he tells you that he needs to pee after you have spent half an hour waiting to make a daring escape with Harry Potter through a series of goblin-guarded bank vaults but he doesn’t tell you he needs to go until you are almost there so you tell him to hold it which he does until just after the ride is over and now he is standing in the middle of a scale replica of Hogsmeade village with wet britches and no extra clothes so his mom goes in to a shop and buys the only pants available—a pair of Harry Potter pajamas—which he will wear the rest of the day sans underwear. There are times when you are given the opportunity to get permission to move to the front of the line. At Disney World this is called a Fast Pass. It is an ingenious way to teach kids about the “haves” and “have-nots”. When you have a Fast Pass, you practically jog down the short line to step in front of the suckers who are suffering from heat stroke as they wait to climb on the ride. When you don’t have a Fast Pass, you see those arrogant jerks looking fresh as a daisy and walking right on the ride without even stopping for a minute and you try not to hate them. Voila: Empathy education. (Beware: The Fast Pass mentality can really get in your head. I found myself wanting to get a Fast Pass for the bathroom and the restaurant lunch lines.) Waiting in lines at an amusement park is a lot like life. You spend most of your time doing the mundane and boring—emptying the dishwasher and folding towels—waiting and dreaming and counting down the minutes until the precious, magical seconds will finally arrive. It’s not unusual to work for hours for a meal that will last 15 minutes or plan and prepare for days for a 2-hour birthday party. This is how life often feels, mostly cloudy with sporadic rainbows. What if we take at least a few of those mundane moments and make them a different brand of magical and precious? What if we turn off our cell phones and tell our kids a story or play rock-paper-scissors with them instead? What if magical moments can occur in places outside of Orlando like the grocery store or the front porch? They don’t have to be documented. They don’t have to be planned. They don’t have to cost more than the price of your time and attention. Don’t Fast Pass the commonplace. They may be the ride you didn’t know you’re waiting for. #parenthood #wait

Today was a big day for our family. Although our Congolese son has been legally ours for years and he’s been home for nearly 6 months, today was the day it all became official. More than 5 years since the first documents were filled out, laying the groundwork for a mountain of paperwork to follow, all of those signed, notarized, and filed documents have accumulated into this afternoon’s court appointment. We met our lawyer in the hallway outside the courtroom. I was unaccountably nervous and running out of ways to explain to Ezra why we were there. How do you tell a 5-year old with limited English that we got his siblings out of school early, got everyone dressed up, went to a place he’d never been before where we had to pass through a metal detector and ride an ancient elevator for a formality? We already spend some part of everyday telling him that he’s here for good, that he’s ours forever. When he gets mad at me and says “I no love-ee you. I no love-ee ‘Merica,” I try to say with all of the sympathy I can muster: “I know you’re angry but I still love you and this is your home” (or something less sympathetic like: “Too bad, so sad.” It really depends on my mood and if it’s still 90 degrees outside…which it probably is). When it was time to step into the courtroom, we introduced ourselves to the kind and friendly judge and our lawyer asked us a few questions. She asked if all of our documents were correct. She asked if we were able to take care of our son. She asked if we would allow our son the same rights and inheritance as our other children. She asked if we would promise to look after him and give him a place to live until he turned 18 or finished high school. These were easy questions. Each “yes” was simple and expected. But there was something monumental about having to say them out loud and under oath. My friend Julie recently experienced the same event with her son who came to America from the Congo just a few weeks before Ezra. Julie said, “As adoptive parents, we had to promise to bequeath our son our inheritance just like our biological children and we cannot ever disown him (even though we could disown our biological children). Adoption is for keeps. He doesn’t fully realize what it means to be in his forever family, but just like so many in the Bible were grafted into the lineage of Jesus, so our son is now grafted into our family.” This was a voluntary occasion. Ezra is a part of a family who has been praying and waiting for him. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to explain the whys of the long process that finally brought us to this afternoon, but he is now forever ours. #adoption

Being a parent is really hard, so much harder than I thought it would be when I played “house” with my baby dolls growing up. Dilemmas involving my kids arise nearly every day that call for some major, on-my-knees prayer time: when to step in and when to let them fail, grades and friends, time management and basic courtesy, boundaries and responsibilities, actions and reactions. It is not for the faint of heart. I am fairly reluctant to write a “Parenting How-To” for anyone to read, partly because I am sometimes a failure at this job and I don’t want anyone to accuse me of thinking I have all the answers. There are times when I lose my cool. There are times when I prioritize in a wacky, mixed-up way. I have done and said things I have regretted, all while wearing my “Mom Hat” (assuming there’s a hat for everything we’re expected to be and do). But just like any job, parents have days when they rock at their stuff and days when they should’ve stayed in bed. My kids are not perfect by any stretch of the imagination but—as of right now as I type this—they haven’t stolen any cars and they don’t kick stray dogs. Keeping those parenting credentials in mind, allow me to lay out a few of the things I’ve learned about parenting. Don’t give young children too many choices. They will begin to suspect that they are the boss of the family which should actually be your job. While we’re on the subject, while they are allowed limited input, don’t let your kids tell you what to do. You don’t have to be ugly about it. It’s just the cold, hard truth. I am not above saying the following to my kids: “You’re not the boss of me.” In fact, I said it earlier today when one particular little fella said I shouldn’t go past the bank before we met up with some friends. “I am the driver. I am the adult. I am the boss.” (Repeat this to yourself several times a day if you have a preschooler…or a teenager.) Tell them stories about you. When our girls were small, they used to say, “Mommy and Daddy, tell us a story of when you got hurt.” (I’m not sure why these painful stories were their favorites but sports enthusiasts and accident-prone people have a lot of these in their memory bank, ready to be withdrawn.) Our kids now know stories about things that happened to me and my sisters growing up. They know about family trips my husband took with his sister and parents when he was little. They could tell you about the time my husband fell on a toothpick and it was embedded in his side and he had to go to the doctor to get it removed. These stories become a part of their legacy and inheritance (and a cautionary tale about toothpicks). Answer their questions. When your 3-year old asks where babies come from, don’t blow her off, waiting for the perfect opportunity to explain the miracle of life with age-appropriate charts and graphics. Give her a basic answer to her question, such as: “They grow inside their mommies.” See if this satisfies the question. That may be all she needs but if she asks more questions, then answer those, too. You don’t have to feel comfortable explaining “The Birds and the Bees” to all kids, just yours. Ask them questions. For the past nine years, I’ve had elementary-aged kids to walk to school. (I’ll get to start all over again with a kindergartener next year!) This was the perfect time to ask them questions. “How was school?” and “Fine” can only get you so far. Over a period of time, you’ll be able to get more specific as you build on prior conversations. There’s lots more that I could say about parenting: Don’t hold grudges. Have reasonable (yet high) expectations. Read books to them. Apologize when you mess up. Try not to embarrass them. Get to know their friends. Be a good example of kindness and generosity. Among these, the best advice I could give anyone is this: Tell them you love them and act like you like them. #parenthood

It was 22 years ago this week that my husband held my hand for the first time. We were watching a movie at a friend’s house. I liked him and he liked me. I kept my hand casually available between us and he slipped his hand in mine, a million butterflies fluttering madly in my stomach. I’ve loved holding his hand ever since. Now that we have four kids, most of the hand-holding I’ve done the past 14 years has been with them. At this point, it’s hard for me to walk through a parking lot without holding on to somebody. When I hold hands with my kids, it is mainly to keep them safe from passing cars and to keep them close but there are times when clasping hands is meant to establish a connection. Like the time my husband and I walked through an African airport, a little afraid and very travel worn. The director of airport security had been asked to help us through the checkpoints to enter the country. He found us then he found the official who could facilitate this for us. They chatted quietly and soon we were motioned to follow them. I noticed that they held hands and nodded to every police officer we passed. Their held hands were a bond that cast its shadow on us to ensure our delivery to the airport exit without harassment. Over Labor Day weekend, I did a lot of hand-holding with my youngest. We took a mile-long hike to a waterfall. As we waded through the stream, we saw that the rocks were slippery with algae. Many times, he would begin to slip and I would pull him up. The area was packed with other holiday hikers, so there were times when the narrow path couldn’t support two-way traffic. We would have to step back and wait for people to pass before continuing. Often we stood just at the edge of a steep drop. I held his hand even tighter then. There can be such comfort and power in holding hands. The Scriptures frequently illustrate this with our relationship to God. Holding hands signifies that I AM HERE. Psalm 73 says, “Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.” Later on in Psalm 139 we read, “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” Holding hands bestows STRENGTH. Isaiah 41:13 says, “For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, ‘Do not fear; I will help you.’” There is something so touching and intimate about holding hands. It’s even more moving to know that our Mighty God also wants to show us such tenderness. Reach out to Him because He is holding out His hand to you. #hands

I’m suffering from Olympics Withdrawal. For those two precious weeks, my family sat around the TV like it was the 1950’s. We marveled at the swimmers and the gymnasts. We asked lots of questions, like is trampoline jumping really a sport (answer: yes) and where is the nation of Grenada (answer: the Caribbean) and what is “dressage” anyway (answer: horse dancing, I think)? I teared up during medal ceremonies and full-out cried when they showed the back stories of some of the athletes who beat the odds just to make it to the games. The addition of the Refugee Team was a heartbreaking reminder of how so much of the world suffers in order to survive and find a home. For instance, Yusra Mardini, the Syrian athlete who, along with her sister, swam/pushed a boat for 3 hours towards land saving the 18 people onboard who were escaping from Syria. She showed strength enough to win a hundred gold medals in my book. There were extraordinary moments of kindness during the games, too. When U.S. runner Abbey D’Agostino and New Zealand runner Nikki Hamblin collided during the women’s 5000m race, they stopped and helped each other to the finish line. Selflessness replaced competitiveness. The drive to help won over the drive to win. Now that the medals have been awarded and all the athletes have gone home, I’ll look to other athletes (like my kids’ teams) to find more examples of good sportsmanship: One of my favorite things about school swim meets is watching swimmers from competing teams cheer each other on. I love the notion that the swimmers who have finished should stay in their lanes, remaining in the water until everyone is done. Such a simple yet profound act of courtesy. And even if the last swimmer has been lapped by his opponents three times over, when he finally reaches the wall the swimmers and the crowd cheer as if he had won. There is so much to learn from team sports and soccer is a favorite in my family. One phrase that pops up a lot, especially with younger soccer players is: “Same team!” When players stop talking to each other on the field—letting each other know they’re available or in need of assistance—and start thinking only in terms of themselves they forget to act like a team. Then everything falls apart. They inadvertently take the ball from a teammate or attempt a shot even if they could pass the ball to someone in a better position for scoring. That’s when you start to hear the parents and coaches remind the players, “Same team!” Even though the Olympics creates a country versus country situation, I like that it also gives us a “Same team!” vibe. People from all over the globe who might not share a lot of common experiences find a place to compete. We find that though we may be different, in the end—as when the athletes file into the closing ceremonies, waving and smiling and joining the large throng of people—we’re all on the same team. #community #race #soccer

We sit on the front porch—my son and I—as we quietly wait. Our lunches sit atop two T.V. trays. We slap our arms when we feel a bug come to rest on our skin. The mosquitos are in full force after the early morning rain but we don’t complain. We only wait. The sharp smell of bug spray mingles with the more pleasing aroma of hot dogs, our not-so-nutritious lunch that happens to be his favorite. A book sits on my lap. It’s the book I read him twice yesterday. It tells the story of a little girl who explores her backyard. In the book she discovers friendly ladybugs and a caterpillar in a cocoon. She finds spiders spinning webs. She sees a baby bird that has fallen from a tree and the little girl’s mother replaces it in the nest, safe and sound. The little girl describes different ways to feed birds which is why we were in the kitchen just half an hour or so ago slathering pine cones with peanut butter and rolling them in birdseed. And just half an hour or so before that we were at the store buying birdseed and a new birdfeeder. I dragged a stepladder from the garage and set it up under a tree on uneven ground. As I wobbled slightly on the top step hanging the birdfeeder and tying the pinecones with green yarn to the branches, my son said, “Careful, Mama. Careful.” So now we sit and there is no bird in sight. The swelling and then fading sound of cicadas vibrates all around us, possibly mocking our efforts that may have been in vain. I look at my son. His plate is empty and he stares towards the trees expectantly. He’s rarely this still and quiet. I silently pray. “Just one bird. Please. Just one.” Our yard is normally full of birds but it’s a hot, muggy afternoon and they stay away. In my head, I know they will come back. Big blackbirds will scare away the smaller songbirds and squirrels will eat more than their intended share. This has always been the way, but right now I want him to see the birds. I want to protect him from disappointment. In my heart, I know that he will be sad and I begin to regret setting him up for this defeat. Most of us are wired to protect those who are younger and more vulnerable than ourselves. This is a good trait. This is humanity being humane. But there are times when we mothers go a little overboard. We scoot every obstacle out of the path and make sure there is only smooth sailing ahead. We forget how good it feels to find our own way out of a sticky situation—problem solving and conflict resolution in action—so we don’t let our children do the same. I want to tell him all of this while also apologizing for the disappointing nature experiment. Instead, I step inside and bring out a shoebox of toys for my son to play with while we keep our front porch vigil. He shakes his head and climbs in my lap. We watch a bee dive into a flower and two snails crawling slowly along the brick steps. A small twig falls from a bush onto a web, bouncing the spider resting in the center. I give my son a ten-minute warning before naptime in case he wants to play. I study his face for signs of sorrow but I see none. He seems satisfied in spite of the outcome. This is encouraging. I know that there are bound to be disappointing days ahead, just as I know there will be lovely and magical moments, too. Just before we step inside to prepare for his nap, we see a tiny, gray chickadee flying high up in the branches. We stop and sit on the step, watching to see if it will find our offerings. It flies up to the feeder, nibbles, and flies away. Then it returns to the feeder and chirps. A few more chickadees arrive, darting back and forth tentatively. Soon, two cardinals join them and the chickadees flutter away. My son smiles up at me with bright white teeth too big for his little face and lays his head on my arm. I fight the urge to weep, partly because he will hush me for being too loud and scaring away the birds. Eventually we go inside and he lays down for a rest. I find the record of bird calls his grandpa gave us and play it for him on his sister’s record player while he naps. I like the idea of him drifting off to sleep with birdsong echoing in his ears. #birds #disappointment