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

I watched a bit of the Republican and Democratic conventions a few weeks ago. I couldn’t watch the whole thing—just soundbites from speeches and nuggets of interviews from protesters and political pundits—but it was enough to get the general feel for the events. There weren’t a lot of surprises. Mostly you hear the same message from both parties with nuances according to the preferences of their respective groups: “I’ll cut taxes…” or “I’ll fund programs…” or whatever they think will get the most whoops and hollers from the audience. One thing that continued to surprise me was the passion of many of the delegates and supporters. As the camera would pan across the front row of attendees, one could see people wearing campaign buttons, wild-looking Uncle Sam hats, and expressions of complete worship and devotion. They were definitely invested in their candidates. It made me ask myself if I could ever be that excited about politics. Could I ever believe in a candidate that fervently? Maybe it’s because I’m getting older or maybe because I was born just a few years after the scandal and resignation of President Nixon. Maybe it’s because nearly everything about nearly everyone is out there and available for public consumption. I couldn’t say for sure, but I can often sense cynicism creeping up on me, seeping into my thoughts and feelings and actions. So instead of concentrating on all the things I’m suspicious or doubtful of, I’ll think about what I do know and believe in. After almost 19 years of marriage, I believe in my husband. His thoughtfulness and kindness are as consistent as the rotation of the Earth. I believe in people. Most people want good for others. Most parents love their children. Most brothers love their sisters. Most of us are willing to put others ahead of ourselves and take turns. Just visit a 4-way stop to test this theory. I believe in the benefits of fresh air and good food. I believe in smiles and the power of the phrase “Can I help?” I believe in the simplicity of children playing. I believe in teamwork. I believe in God and His Son. I believe there is more to this world than what can be seen with human eyes. I believe that Love and Goodness and Mercy will ultimately win against Hate. I believe in these things because of my personal experiences. But my belief also involves faith—believing without cold, hard proof—and that’s the tricky part. Doubt is readily available for those looking for it. Contrary to what I feel now amidst the madness of the current political landscape and in our bustling modern lives, these feelings of doubt aren’t really new. More than 1,600 years ago, Saint Augustine—former playboy turned priest—wrote these words: “Faith is to believe what you do not see; the reward of this faith is to see what you believe.” He had lived the first 30 years of his life seeking to satisfy his desires but something was missing. A voice told him to open the Scriptures and read. Augustine found something to believe in. I may not be able to get behind any political candidates, but I will fight these feelings of distrust. To combat this cynicism and at the risk of looking foolish, I will continue to believe—in people, in God, and in what seems impossible. #believe #hope #Trust

When I was a little girl, my family would make the trip from our home in Nashville to our grandparents’ house in Danville, Illinois, several times a year. My grandmother was older when she had my mom (nearly 40…so old!) so by the time she became our grandmother she was practically ancient. It was a mercy she didn’t use “thee” and “thou” in her regular, everyday speaking. There were times when we just didn’t understand each other. For instance, every time I left the bathroom, my grandmother would be waiting for me just outside the bathroom door to ask me the same question: “Did your bowels move, honey?” This was not a phrase we used in our house. I had no idea what my bowels were and why they might be moving, but seeing as I was a middle child with a pathological need to please people, I interpreted from her tone that bowel movement was a good thing so I always said yes. I can’t imagine what she thought about my obviously overworking digestive system. If we had found a word we both understood for the process in question, I could’ve given her the real answer and her data (I can only assume she was creating a Granddaughter B.M. chart) would’ve been more accurate. In most situations where there is conflict, the majority of the issues could be resolved if only those in conflict could find common ground and understanding from the perspective of others. There are few things in the world that can impart peace to a troubled heart better than someone who can empathize with your sorrow. Recently we were blessed by the presence of three families in our home. These families had one very important thing in common with us. Each of us had waited years to bring home an adopted son from the Democratic Republic of the Congo. We connected mostly through Facebook and found that we all lived within 1.5 hours of each other. The boys and their siblings played at our house that evening while the parents compared notes. “How often did your son wake up during the night when he first came home? What foods does your son like the best? What non-English words does your son still use on a daily basis?” and on and on. We laughed and hugged. My husband said a prayer of thanksgiving for what had at times seemed impossible. The level of loving, non-judgmental understanding was remarkable. These families just happen to be made up of people who most anyone could get along with. These aren’t difficult people who cultivate conflict, so our evening would’ve been fine even if we had been introduced in another way—through church or school. We could’ve become friends even if we didn’t have Congolese sons. But there are times when it’s challenging to find harmony with those around us. We vote differently, worship differently, parent differently, literally speak different languages. Despite these differences, and with hard work and a little imagination, I believe we can find a place where we can work towards peace and understanding with most people. We can find a common interest, passion, or experience. Because sometimes that’s where everything can change. If you can meet someone—toe to toe—where they are, and you can see the world from where they stand, you can begin to say, “Now I see why you feel this way!” You don’t have to agree with them, but it’s harder to hate someone close up and personal, and if there was ever a time to stop hating people, it’s now. As Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, “We may have all come on different ships, but we’re in the same boat now.” #community #friendship #peace #understanding

Two dwarf Rose of Sharon bushes stand guard on either side of our front porch. Over the past seven years, they have grown at a slant, leaning towards each other as if they’re trying to hold hands like a stooped elderly couple. Once summer gets really good and hot, they put out beautiful, white blossoms with petals as soft as chiffon. It only takes a moment of listening to the buzzing to know I’m not the only one who loves these flowers. The bees can’t get enough of them. Big, fat bumblebees and smaller, quick honeybees dart in and out of the blossoms all day long. Recently, their busy movements prompted me to sit on the front porch and watch them work. I attempted to see how they harvest nectar and gather pollen but their work was too miniature for my eyes. So I did the next best thing, I googled “honey bees.” That’s where I learned what these vast armies of tiny insects are capable of. It takes 8-12 worker bees working their whole lives just to make one teaspoon of honey. One-eighth teaspoon of honey (the life’s work for an industrious lady bee) is easily what is left in the curved crevices of the plastic, bear-shaped squeeze bottle before I throw it away. There are three jobs available for employable honey bees. They can be a queen (a difficult job—she lays around 200,000 eggs every year), a worker (those are the female bees we see flying around), and the drones (the male bees who mostly remain in the hive…where they belong—barefoot and impregnating). Within these three career tracts, there are various sub-specialties. For instance, some chew the honey when it arrives to make it thicker, while others construct the series of waxy containers that make up the honeycomb. However you look at it, a beehive is a remarkable, natural illustration of teamwork at its best. Every bee has a job and gets the work done. Their most important motivation is the health of the community, and the only way to keep the hive buzzing is for everyone to work together. I love being a part of a team. I like to collaborate to make a pretty good idea amazing. I like to see what happens when you put a bunch of different people with a variety of skills and experiences together and let them loose. There’s a palpable excitement in the room when a theoretical project starts to materialize into something real. Whether you’re the boss or a lowly drone, we could all learn a lot from the bees. #community

In an effort to get away from our daily routine and to make some priceless family memories, we loaded up the minivan a few weeks ago and headed to the beach. As much as I enjoy these annual trips, the worst part is always the drive. We try to make the long car ride bearable. We bring pillows and blankets, pack snacks we don’t normally have at home—like Oreos and Pringles and Fruit Roll-Ups and juiceboxes promoted by Disney characters—and choose a bunch of DVDs (Thank you, Lord, for the car DVD player!) to bring with us on the 8 to 10-hour ride. But at some point, we all get a little punchy. It doesn’t help that six people are hurtling down the interstate in what amount to a 6x7x17 foot box and there’s no escape. If someone pulls out nail polish and starts painting her nails, we all suffer. If someone brings a package of very pungent beef jerky in the car and begins to eat it with loud, smelly snapping sounds, one person’s snack becomes a shared (and unwelcome) experience. And if someone just can’t take another minute in the car so he begins to repeat the same phrase over and over again (“Why, Mama? Why, Mama? Why, Mama?”), then we all have to dig in and fight this steep descent into vehicular insanity. I’ve learned a few things when it comes to making these epic voyages: There are two types of people in this world—people who never want to stop for non-bathroom/gas station-related reasons and people who do. If you and your spouse are in two different categories, this may require some compromise. Like you may never get to buy any peaches from roadside vendors or shop at quaint, little antique stores or stop to see the place where a monk made 125 miniature replicas of the world’s most famous buildings. But we do always stop at a rest stop to eat the turkey sandwiches we packed for lunch and sit outside for a bit. If we can find a shady patch of grass, we might even kick a ball for a few minutes. When we’re not playing movies on the DVD player, we enjoy listening to audiobooks, podcasts, and the Pandora music channel called “Family Road Trip.” There’s a lot of variety on this channel and most everything is fun to sing along with. Personally, a silent car would make the trip last twice as long. We used a GPS app this year called “Waze.” It helped us get through the more traffic-prone areas of major cities or stretches of the interstate that always seem to be under construction every year. This app is user-informed. It takes the information from the many people using the app and devises a plan to get you around the worst traffic. It even tells you if there’s roadkill or stalled cars coming up. There are times when “Waze” sent us through small towns we would’ve never known existed otherwise. For instance, south of Birmingham we jumped off I-65 and went through Columbiana, Alabama where they had sectioned off their downtown for a BBQ cook-off. (Before you ask…no, we didn’t stop.) I enjoy imagining the lives of the people in these small towns, both in the past (some houses looked as old as the hills) and the present. In the end, the best advice I can give you for any long car ride is actually something I learned from the song “Take it Easy” by The Eagles. “Don’t let the sound of your own wheels make you crazy,” because—believe me—they just might. This is what happens when a five-year old has been in the car too long. #carride #family #trip

At nearly 2:00 am—just an hour or so after the 4th of July yahoos had finished firing off their last bottle rocket—my daughter came in our room in distress. At that moment, I was dreaming I was at the grocery store and every item I picked off the store shelf to put in my cart was falling through unseen holes in my cart and onto the floor, so not a bad dream to interrupt. “There’s a noise in my room!” she cried. I followed her to her room and saw that the smoke alarm just inside her door was going off in bursts of violent sound every few minutes. “I think it’s just telling us that the battery is about to go out,” I told her, groggily. I climbed on a chair trying to remember when we’re supposed to change the batteries in the smoke alarm: Labor Day? Memorial Day? Well, this one was getting changed on the 4th (or rather the 5th) of July. I saw that the battery required to operate this smoke alarm was the obnoxious 9-volt. I looked in the plastic shoebox where we keep batteries and saw enough AA and AAA batteries to choke several horses but no 9-volts. I climbed back up on the chair to see if I could just remove the weak battery and go back to sleep and save this home improvement project for another day. But that wasn’t an option. I took out the battery but the phantom chirping continued. I started to pull the smoke alarm from the ceiling but this only revealed a tangle of red and white wires attaching the smoke alarm to the house. I felt like I was in an episode of MacGyver, attempting to choose which wire to cut to diffuse a bomb. I must have been thinking those exact thoughts when my daughter brought me back to reality. “Mom, what am I going to do? I can’t sleep in here.” I took her to her brothers’ room where we settled her on a mattress on the floor. The chirping was still persistent but distant enough for her to sleep. Once back in my room, I remembered a smoke alarm chirping situation from years ago. We had been in our current house for a few months when the smoke alarm chirping began. We checked all the smoke alarms—all of them nearly brand new—and they were fine, but the chirping continued. It seemed to echo in different parts of the house. Was it coming from the upstairs linen closet? Or maybe the hallway? Now you could hear it on the stairs! After almost a week of searching, we finally found the culprit. We had renovated the basement, adding a drop ceiling to what was once an unfinished space. The workers had built the new ceiling right on top of an old smoke alarm attached to a wooden beam from the existing ceiling. The discovery and removal of the smoke alarm was a huge victory for our entire household. Our home had been exorcised! Smoke alarms can be very effective. The sound is not meant to soothe. It’s meant to create alarm and a sense of urgency. Even when there is no reason for alarm, they can make you feel panic and a desire to flee. It’s not a peaceful feeling. While effective, it’s not what I normally want to experience in my home. What I really want is peace. But where does that peace come from? If it only comes from everyone always getting along and everything turning out perfectly—every meal, report card, family game night—then peace will always allude me. Finding peace is a choice. It’s not something the world can give you. Instead, it’s something you must find by letting go of fear and worry and giving those things that alarm you to Someone big enough to carry them for you. John 14:27 – “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” #peace

This is the first Independence Day our African-born son will be in the U.S. He doesn’t know anything about George Washington or the Declaration of Independence, but I can already tell he’s beginning to appreciate his new country. Because in order to truly appreciate anything, you have to know what life is like without it. Our son likes us to tell him the story of how he came to live with us in America. With his limited English, the story is short and to the point. It goes something like this: (You’ll have to imagine the charades-like actions that go along with it.) “Mama and Papa got on a plane and flew to Congo. The next day, Ezra came to us at the hotel. Then, after a few days, Mama and Papa and Ezra went to the airport. We rode on three planes (This is his favorite part). On the first plane, Ezra slept like a baby. On the second plane, Ezra was crazy! He would not sleep. He did not want to sit down with his seatbelt fastened. On the last plane, Ezra slept again but just for a little bit. Then Papa carried sleepy Ezra off the plane and his whole family was waiting for him!” Anytime we’ve been in the car for an extended amount of time, there’s a bit of confusion involved. He needs to be told and retold who is coming and where exactly we’re going and how long we’ll be there. When we first arrived in Lynchburg, Tennessee for half a week of church camp at the beginning of the summer, Ezra sat in the rec hall and asked me, “Mama, America?” He wasn’t so sure where that church bus had taken him. America isn’t perfect. There are things about our country that are frustrating. Groups of people still don’t receive equal treatment. Those with wealth have greater opportunities for education and healthcare and general happiness than those without. Even considering these possible disadvantages, an American is far better off than so many in this world. We may complain about our leaders (Don’t even get me started about this upcoming presidential election) but at least we get the people we vote for. If they’re horrible, then it’s our fault and a new election process will come in a few years and we can start again. So many citizens of other nations aren’t truly allowed to vote, even for a bad leader. They have no recourse for corrupt government practices. Their situation seems hopeless. I’m grateful for the nation of my birth. I’m proud to be a citizen of the United States. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. Seeing this privilege from the vantage of our son who will soon become as a U.S. citizen, I can understand a little better the beauty of this gift. #patriotism

I started painting our kitchen this week. If you wanted to know this little fact, there are a few telltale sign: The speckles of paint on my forearms and those persnickety spots on my elbows I never see when I’m washing up; The Cruella de Vil streaks of paint in my hair; The relative chaos of whichever room I happened to be painting; The recently rinsed-out brushes sitting on damp paper towels by the sink. You can learn a lot when you start a painting project. You learn how quickly you can make decisions, like picking out paint colors. You learn the maximum amount of clutter your family can tolerate (i.e.-they don’t like the microwave to be moved to the living room). You learn how old you are based on how sore three days of rolling and brushing make you. And if you’re painting your kitchen cabinets, you learn that you have 19 cabinets doors to remove and lay all over the house so that you can paint three coats on both sides before replacing them using 76 tiny, tiny screws for the hinges. But the most important thing I learn each time I tackle another room is how satisfying it is to slap on a new coat of paint. In the case of our kitchen, I have seen what had become a dull and dingy green haven for greasy finger prints and scuff marks transformed into something fresh and new. It didn’t happen with a snap of my fingers. I put in some major elbow grease just to get rid of the actual grease that had accumulated on the cabinets. Then there was the primer coat, followed by two more coats. It was a lot of work but so worth it. I love fresh, new beginnings. I love second chances. I love it when “The End” is not the end. And I love the Scriptures that celebrate this: “The old is gone, the new is here!” (2 Corinthians 5:17) “The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” (Lamentations 3:22, 23) As long as there is a tomorrow, there is a chance for something new. There is an opportunity for change and improvement. In the darkness, there is beauty to be found in the hope for a better morning. #hope

Though our African-born son has been in America for only two months, we’re often surprised by the speed he acquires new words and information. He has a few favorite English phrases, such as: “Mom, I hungry,” that he uses regularly, correctly, and usually early in the morning. He has even learned nuances to our language, like the difference in tone and inflection of the phrase “Come on.” He’ll say it when he wants us to follow him and he’ll also use the same phrase with a certain degree of disgust and frustration when I kick or throw a ball in a way he deems inadequate. (He also says, “My fault” if his throw is a bit off and “Your fault” is he doesn’t catch something I throw—even if it’s a perfectly good throw, by the way.) We are trying to teach him to be polite when he asks for and receives things. He has “thank you” down and “you’re welcome.” He’s had a harder time remembering to say “please.” He started off saying, “Mama, lipa!” when he wanted a piece of bread. Now we remind him to phrase it as a request instead of a demand. “Say: ‘Mama, may I have some lipa, please?’” we tell him. Now the conversation goes something like this: Ezra: Mama, lipa! Me: Try again. Ezra: Say, please… Me: Close enough. When we were recently at church camp, I took him to the bathroom while everyone was meeting in the large assembly room. There was no one in the boys’ restroom, so I told him he could go in alone and I would stand outside the door and wait for him. He gestured for me to go with him, but I explained that I am a girl and can’t go in the boys’ bathroom and if he wants me to go with him he’ll have to go to the girls’ bathroom with me which is okay because he is small and my son. After that lengthy explanation, complete with pointing to the boy and girl pictures outside the bathroom doors, he paused a beat and said, “Say please?” Seeing that one of the five other members of his family are always with him, we’re constantly wondering where he picks up the things he says and does. For instance, he was wrestling with our older son recently and suddenly stepped back, punched his right fist into his open left hand, and bowed low like he was about to begin a Taekwondo match. Where did that come from? Anyone in the throes of parenting young children can attest to the heavy responsibility of teaching our children right from wrong and everything in between. I’ve known this for years but I’ve felt it more acutely this go-around. When our other children first joined our family they were newborns, unable to see past their fingertips and enthusiastically sucking on their toes each time they re-discovered them. In other words, not fully rational beings. This time our little sponge comes to us as a clever 5-year old. He’s soaking up everything so quickly and hungrily and spouting it back out just as quickly. I worry if he’s watching too much TV or not looking at books enough. Should I make him practice writing his name more? What about those preschool activity books we got him? I worry about making sure we give him every advantage so that he can be successful as a person. But when I stop the frantic worrying in my mind and take a breath, I tell myself that we will not do this perfectly but we will do a few things right. We will begin and end each day with “I love you.” We will look directly into the faces of the people we speak to. We will smile more than we frown. We will hold hands when we cross streets. We will pray together every day and list the things we’re grateful for. When Ezra prays at night, we prompt him by saying, “thank you for…” so that he can fill in the blank. He says the name of everyone in his family, his bed, the car, all his favorite foods. One night he also said the “avion (airplane) to America.” Yes, baby, we are thankful for that airplane, too. #adoption #parenthood

While working on an assignment for school, my daughter found an interesting line of poetry. In her poem “Finding Voice,” Joellen Strandburg’s last thought is “I am everything of all I have met.” I’ve been thinking a lot about this idea and whether it’s true. I think about my first experiences and influences—good and bad—and how they shaped me. If I we had lived in a different town and I had gone to a different school, who would I be? Would I have turned out remarkably different? If I had never traveled to other countries or if I hadn’t gone to college, would I even recognize the me I am right now? If I had pursued sports in school instead of chorus and drama—other than being a really frustrated, uncoordinated person—would I now be more likely to watch ESPN instead of PBS? But then I think about that age-old argument of Nature vs. Nurture. How much of our personality, strengths, weaknesses, gifts, and limitations are written in our DNA from the moment we are created and how much is created in us over a lifetime of experiences? My best guess is that it is both. It is Nature and Nurture. Our actions and behaviors are a result of a mixture of inside and outside influences that make us who we are and who we could be. Of course, we are not just receivers of the influence of others. We can also be the ones who impart it. I was reminded of this fact in a bold way this week at the funeral of a kind and generous man who held a significant place in our family. There was a theme to the messages of condolence for his wife, sister, mother, and children. They told his family what a difference this man had made in their lives. They told stories of how he had selflessly served others, how he had shown up at just the right moment to help. They spoke of his concern for all and neglect of none. His example and encouragement spurred them on to be kinder, more caring people. If I must say that “I am everything of all I have ever met” then let this be my legacy. Let me be not a blank paper to be written on by whomever I encounter, a sponge soaking up their bitterness and disappointment. Instead, let me be discerning in what influences I allow and, beyond that, let me be an influence for good. Let part of the “everything” that I am be a series of writing on the papers that are the lives of others so that someday they can say, “knowing her made me a better person.” #caring #choices