We’ve been back from our trip to the Congo for six days. We’ve resumed the routines of work and school and extracurricular activities just as easily as one might step onto an already moving treadmill, in other words, a bit clumsily but fully committed. I imagine our son Ezra is back to his old routines in his Congolese orphanage, whatever that might mean. I wonder if he woke up that first morning back in the orphanage and told his friends, “You will never guess the dream I had! I was staying in a hotel with these white people. They had no idea what I was saying and I didn’t understand them. The lady cheered when I ate fruit and the man kicked a soccer ball with me for hours. So crazy…” The jet lag has worn off but the feelings of frustration and sorrow linger. Little things remind me of our time with our son: blue cleaning solution in the toilet (they added more of this chemical every day when they cleaned the bathroom in our hotel room), the smell of diesel exhaust coming from the truck in front of me, a lacing card and string lying on the floor of our bedroom (I thought we sent all of these with him to the orphanage but apparently we had a stowaway in our luggage). The memories conjured up by these reminders are bittersweet. Like most memories—even good ones—our hearts are torn asunder by the force of reality: this is just a memory, a mirage, not the real thing. I see the blue potty water and I think: “What a privilege is was to be the Momma to Ezra for mundane yet important tasks like potty patrol.” Then I think, “Who’s taking him potty now? Is anyone keeping up with his number twos?” I’ve dreamed about Ezra a couple of nights this week. Maybe my subconscious has figured out I don’t want to think about him too much when I’m awake so I won’t be a slobbery mess at the grocery store or the school pickup line, so it has worked him into my dreams—a hollow and haunting substitution for the real thing. (Stupid subconscious, mind your own business.) One morning, I woke up with Ezra’s face clearly in my mind. He was saying the same word over and over: sambo. This is Lingala for seven. I tried all day to figure out what the dream meant. Will we get to bring him back in seven weeks? Seven months? When he’s seven years old? (Please, Lord, no. I don’t know if I can wait that long.) There’s no reason to think it means anything but that’s what you do when you’re desperate. In a moment of irrationality, I actually googled the phrase: when will Ezra come home. I got a lot of links to the TV show Pretty Little Liars which I’ve never seen and I’m pretty sure won’t shed any light on the trials of international adoption but I’m thinking has a character named Ezra on it and he’s been on a trip. But we soldier on the best we can. We hope and pray for good to come of the senseless separation of children and their families but it’s not easy. We‘re happy to be home but a part of our hearts missed the flight out of Congo. A sliver of our hopes and dreams stayed in Kinshasa, invisible and lightly resting on the shoulder of a little boy who needs a place to call home, too. #adoption

A 7-hour layover in New Jersey—this is the anticlimactic final chapter to our week in the Congo. It’s not ideal. We’re watching passengers board a different plane also heading to Nashville but three hours earlier than our flight and we’re feeling a tad bit jealous. Instead of giving them dirty looks, I’ve decided to pull out the laptop and write my thoughts about our trip. Here goes: The Thursday before we left for Africa, I met Brent for a quick lunch at a Greek restaurant near Walmart so we could get a few more things for our trip. A man with an awesome handlebar mustache walked in just before us. I had noticed his giant tricycle strapped onto the back of his car in the parking lot. This guy was a real character. The cherry on top was his old-fashioned top hat. It was black silk and it had a rumpled bill—a foreign currency, I think—tucked into the band. Barely worth mentioning except that on our flight last Saturday from Brussels to Kinshasa, we saw another man with a black top hat. This wasn’t the same man but it still caught our attention. Who wears top hats, especially on a plane? Where did he keep the hat during the flight? Surely he didn’t wear it. Did he stow it? Do you know what happens to items in the overhead storage compartments? To round out the “Top Hat Phenomenon,” on the flight last night from Kinshasa to Brussels, we saw yet another man with a top hat. In addition to the jaunty hat, this fellow also wore a suit vest covered in an odd assortment of buttons. Three different men with three different but similar hats. You might ask why I would go to the trouble of describing these men. I’m actually asking myself the same question. I know I learn best from metaphors. And don’t get me started on parables—I love them. Why I can’t learn something straight up in black and white is a mystery but if I can compare one situation to another similar situation, it all seems more profound, more relatable. I’m searching for the meaning in the top hats… Here’s what I mean by metaphors: As I mentioned in an earlier post, riding in a car in Kinshasa traffic is an adventure. And by adventure, I mean, really, REALLY scary. There are so many near misses. The driver must be aggressive or he’ll never arrive at his destination. There are public transportation vans crammed to the ceiling with people. Some even stand on the running boards and cling to the inside of the van…with the door opened…in heavy traffic. Pedestrians run across several lanes of traffic with the assumption these drivers will stop for them. Africa has so many Christians and it’s no wonder. These highways would make anyone pray. My takeaway (my metaphor) is that I am used to “driving” or at least thinking I’m in control of what happens. Being a passenger this week, I had to totally rely on the driver of our car. I didn’t know how to get where we were going and I couldn’t drive on these roads anyway. Maybe Africa is gaining Christians faster than in the U.S. because they already have the mindset needed to give your life wholly to Christ: we’re not truly in control. I can start the engine and fill it with gas, but any notion that I am really the one making things happen is delusional. I dozed off for a while during the flight to Newark. I dreamed we were back in Murfreesboro but the toddler bed Ezra used in our hotel room was in our bedroom at home. In the dream, I woke up and saw the bed. I began to wander around the house, looking for him. I was startled awake and realized I was on a plane, wedged between a stranger and Brent. I started to cry, as silently as possible, as I dabbed my eyes and nose with a tiny beverage napkin. Hopefully, the lady next to me didn’t notice. She had her headphones on and continued to watch the tiny screen in front of her. The dream reminded me of our loss but it also reminded me of how little I can control. We could plan and pay for this trip but only God can set Ezra free and allow him to come home. God alone can change the hearts of the government officials (who, incidentally, aren’t in control, either). So, now I circle back to the Top Hats: unimportant coincidences as insignificant as a “chasing after the wind.” Because I can’t see the whole picture, I grasp at pieces which don’t make sense. I search for reason in this frustrating predicament we find ourselves and our Congolese son in just like I looked for a significance in the appearance of those top hats. It’s as if I think I’m owed an explanation, as if it’s my right, as if I’m the one who makes things happen so I should be privy to all that’s going on. Without wanting to admit it, I think I can script this better than God. “Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.” (Ecclesiastes 3:11) If I want to stop feeling out of control, I have to voluntarily give up control to the driver who knows where and how this is all supposed end. #adoption

I’ve only seen Brent cry three times. The first was when he was stressed out and overwhelmed in school. The second was when our girls were born. And today was the third time. As if our morning were scripted for a movie, just before our friend brought the orphanage director to our hotel, it started to rain. This is the rainy season (which lasts about nine months) but we hadn’t seen much rain up until today. The sky was gray and the parking lot was dimpled with muddy puddles. It was the personification of our low spirits. While Brent went to drop off our luggage at the early check-in, I sat with the orphanage director, trying to communicate and letting her teach me some words in Lingala. I fed Ezra, we colored in a coloring book, and watched an episode of Sesame Street from the 1970’s on the iPad. Soon, they were back and it was time. I tried so hard not to cry. I told myself this was confusing enough for our little man, so I won’t make it worse by blubbering. We sat down at the table to conduct the formalities of giving Ezra back, even though he’s ours and we’re his. As soon as we sat down, I heard Brent’s choked gasp. It was only a faint sound but I knew what it signified. We looked at each other and lost it. Our friend asked if Brent would pray but he said he couldn’t do it. Instead, our friend prayed for us and for Ezra and for all the children in the orphanage. I’ll remember his beautiful, deep voice petitioning on our behalf in a hotel room in Kinshasa for the rest of my life. Ezra sat in my lap and held hands with both of us. He rested his forehead on the table and remained still throughout the prayer even though he didn’t understand a word of it. After he had made sure Ezra was settled in the backseat and before he entered the car himself, our friend left us with three words, “God is good.” Last night, while I was struggling to fall asleep, I whispered to Brent asking if he regretted coming. He said the good parts outweigh the bad parts. At this moment, I’m not sure that’s true. I’m hoping a little time and perspective will at least help but this is a kind of despair I can’t sort out. We’ve got hours until our flight and now I just want to be home. My friend has made this trip to visit with her Congolese daughter twice so I asked her for her opinion before we decided to travel. “It’s the best worst thing,” she told me. I completely get it. #adoption #Congo

He’s spooning up his morning tea with a tiny plastic spoon. Drops cover his lap and the concrete floor of our patio. Every few “bites” he offers one to me. I take it because I have forgotten we don’t have the same germs and the same genes. Yesterday, he mimed breaking his banana in two to Brent so they could share it. He often seems concerned whether we’re getting enough to eat. This week in Congo has been the strangest lapse of time I’ve ever known. The days move at a pace I can’t quite comprehend. They aren’t slow and monotonous but they also aren’t flying by at break-neck speed. Another adopting mom staying at our hotel mentioned she feels like she’s in a time warp. It’s difficult for her to figure out what time it is at any given moment. I can sympathize. Our flight out of Nashville seems like it happened months ago. Today is the day we’ve been dreading since we made our plans to travel. Today Ezra returns to the orphanage. We’ve watched as other families staying here have said their good-byes to their children. It’s so painful. Older children who have had a glimpse of an improved, alternate life, just out of their reach. Babies, some with urgent medical needs, are shuttled back to their foster homes and the parents left in the wake are devastated. One of the greatest blessings of this week has been the fellowship with these others American mamas and papas. We’ve sat together, comparing stories, news, and tips for getting the best wifi connection. We’ve ooo-ed and awww-ed over each other’s children but from the distance of an arm’s length, respecting the roles we must fill: Only the parents give their child food. Only mama or papa should hold the child. The child should attach to these adults instead of all adults. There are only a few of us left this morning, so breakfast is quiet. Ezra has moved on from his tea and now he sits on the ground, pulling the colorful shoestrings through the holes in the lacing cards we brought from home. As far as he knows, this is just another morning like the three before. Oh how my heart hurts. #adoption #Congo

Since the beginning of this process, we’ve been told to be very careful when posting pictures of our African son. As this week has transpired, we’ve taken LOTS of photos and videos so it pains me not to be able to send them out to all of our friends and families who are praying so fervently for us. (If you run into us when we get back you’ll be lucky to escape a photo book or a slideshow on my phone. Consider yourself warned.) In lieu of a picture (which is worth 1,000 words, apparently), I give you my description of Ezra: His eyelashes are the Eighth Wonder of the world (the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are nothing in comparison). They are thick and jet-black. They curl almost into a complete circle. I tried to get a good picture of them tonight while he cuddled with Brent and watched videos of himself from earlier today on the video camera. It was like trying to photograph the Grand Canyon—impossible to catch the grandeur on film. His head is fairly flat on one side, probably a result of lying down too often as an infant. (Brent said this is common in babies everywhere and not to worry. Is there a flat-headed kids support group I can sign him up with when he gets home?) I love to rub his head. His hair is very short, almost like Brent’s whiskers if he skips a day of shaving. He has beautiful, round ears that stick out just enough and squishy ear lobes. His eyes are dark and expressive. Paired with his eyebrows, he can tell you he’s mad without saying a word (which is good because he doesn’t speak English). He has a scar on his right cheek. He’s missing his pinky-toe toenails. He’s got a mouth-full of good-looking teeth. A few of them have some suspicious spots but overall they look great. I think he takes great pride in his teeth. He loves to brush them. He did it three times today. He always wants me to brush his tongue at the end. This is oddly comforting for me. It tells me that someone has been helping him with his dental hygiene. Yesterday he wanted to spit in the toilet. Today, after brushing his teeth and getting a big gulp of water in his mouth, he wanted to go outside, gargle, and spit in the parking lot. Due to his distended belly—a symptom of undernourishment and fluid retention—he walks a little like George Jefferson from The Jeffersons. He has to thrust his elbows back a bit to compensate for the roundness up front and he kind of wobbles from side to side. He has a severe “outtie” belly button. Brent said it’s a hernia (have I mentioned how nice it is to travel with a pediatrician?). It looks like a pop-up thermometer in a well-done Butterball turkey. He has a tiny bottom and spindly arms and legs. At the start of the week, he moved like it was exhausting for him. After three days of proteins and vitamins and good rest, his energy has improved and his belly has already shrunk a bit. It boggles my mind and breaks my heart to think of what a lifetime of better care could do. I know this isn’t as satisfying as a photograph, especially since it’s only about 500 words (maybe half a picture?), but I hope it fills out a few of the details for one little boy among the millions of children who need a family. He’s a unique, smart, surprising, and beautiful boy. We’re so proud to be his mama and papa. #adoption #Congo #parenthood

My eyes popped opened at 4:30 this morning and there was no going back. Normally, if I wake up early, I can roll over and fall back asleep. For instance, night before last I was awoken by Brent combing through my hair like a monkey hunting for bugs in his lady monkey’s fur. I said, “What are you doing?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he pinched an invisible bug between his index finger and thumb and rolled away from me. I just shrugged my shoulders and went back to sleep. But not today. This morning is different because we have a 3-year old sleeping in our room with us. He fell asleep last night around 7:00 and is still going strong. (My fur groomer is still sleeping, too.) The hotel loaned us a toddler bed and camo sheets. It’s just like a pack-n-play but big enough to hold a toddler mattress. We wondered how he’d adapt to sleeping without other kids and in a strange place but he’s done beautifully so far. Part of the reason I think I woke up is because there are REALLY LOUD African birds outside our window. One feathery fellow has a mutli-note, repetitive call akin to the whippoorwill. (Disclaimer: Not much of an ornithologist, I have no idea what I’m talking about here.) Instead of calling “whip-poor-will” this African bird sounds like it’s saying “Can-we-just-skype?” If I were going to write the call musically, it would be half note, half note, quarter note, half note. I know it sounds crazy but I’ve been lying here in the growing light of morning trying to figure out what it’s saying and that’s what I’ve decided. I don’t know why I’m compelled to tell you this. For some reason, I’m afraid I’ll try to remember what the bird said later on and I’ll draw a blank. In fact, I’m afraid all of this week will be lost in my memory bank once we get back to the U.S. Sure, we’ll have pictures and videos. I can look back at my journal and read what we did and how we felt. But what I don’t want to lose is the realness of being Ezra’s mom. I won’t be able to accurately recall how smooth his skin feels or the warmth of his body as he snuggles into my chest. I’ll still be his mom even when he’s thousands of miles away from me but it won’t be the same. My fellas are starting to stir so I’ll sign off until I can write again tonight. Until then, pray for us. #Congo #parenthood

If you’re at all familiar with adoption stories, you’ve heard of “Gotcha Day.” Many families mark the day the parents brought their adopted child home and continue to celebrate it every year. In some cases like ours, the “Gotcha Day” comes after a visiting trip so the parents add the “Meet You Day” to their list of celebrations. For us, that day was today, October 6. I started off the morning with my Daily Bible reading. I like to use the Bible set up in chronological order with 365 daily readings. For today, the reading was from—get this—Ezra 7-8. Today…of all days… When I got to the part in Ezra 8:21-23 where Ezra says, “I proclaim a fast, so that we might humble ourselves before our God and ask Him for a safe journey for us and our children,” I was floored. I’m trying not to read too much in this passage about Ezra, the great teacher, leading the Jews out of Babylon…but come on. Brothers and sisters, can I get a witness? A driver from our hotel and a social worker rode with us to the orphanage. If you haven’t had a chance to ride in a car on the streets of Kinshasa during rush hour, you should really look into it. It will make you pray like a saint and poop in your pants like a toddler. There’s lots of honking and careless pedestrians and driving on the sidewalk and many, many near misses. (Last night, we also saw a robot traffic light.) Our soundtrack for today’s adventure was tape mix with five or six Michael Jackson songs played on a loop. Seeing that it’s an hour-long ride, we got to hear the profoundly relevant lyric, “it don’t matter if you’re black or white” several times. As soon as we got to the orphanage, I started scanning the yard for Ezra. I didn’t see him but I saw several adorable kiddos, younger than our fellow. We were shown into an office for a chat with the director. We stepped outside for a few minutes and when we returned to the office, he was there. I recognized him immediately. I scooped him up and held him in my lap. He snuggled in like it was something he does every day. He smiled and let me kiss his cheek. I had brought a teddy bear and a toy car, so I got those out of my bag to play with him while the adults around us chatted. Because I’m good at sharing, I let Brent take a turn holding him, too. He responded to both of us with warmth and affection. When it was time to leave, we buckled him in between us in the back seat and he fell asleep in about fifteen minutes. As he rested his head on Brent’s arm, I stared at him like I used to do with my other babies while they slept. In just the same way, I was amazed by his existence and my good fortune. When we got to the hotel, reality set in for our little buddy. I was looking at a book with him when I suddenly saw a giant tear tumbling down his cheek. He started to whimper a bit and then, a few minutes later, he began to come undone. He struggled to be free from my arms. He cried “Mama!” and stamped his feet. His wailing and my failed attempts at consoling went on for about an hour (or a month, I can’t be sure). Not wanting him to cry alone, I joined in. I wondered: What have we done? Who are we to turn his life upside-down? Eventually, Brent held him and Ezra allowed it. His crying stopped. We spent the rest of the evening tiptoeing around him like we had a deer in our hotel room. No sudden movements. Everybody stay calm. We took him outside and he kicked the soccer ball like a pro. (Knox’s prayers are apparently getting through.) We played cars on the floor and watched Finding Nemo. He ate the rice and a little of the fried plantains I made for supper. We gave him a shower and slathered him up with the crème my friend Lavy told us to use. We put his jammies on him and brushed his teeth. Then, I held him again. This time, he didn’t fight me. He fell sleep in my arms while I rubbed his head. As I type this, both of my roommates are asleep. I can hear them breathing the steady, even exhales of deep sleep. Tires are crunching the gravel in the parking lot outside our hotel room and the mini refrigerator is humming. I hear low voices speaking Lingala and French. This is a good moment, but like a pendulum swinging from one extreme to the other, Ezra’s behavior has caused me to have doubts. I have gone back and forth about the prudence of this trip. It’s as if I’m plucking the petals from a daisy: He likes us. He likes us not… I don’t know what I’ll be thinking tomorrow morning or the next day. I’m pretty sure I know what I’ll be thinking Friday when we pull out and head home. What I can say is that this moment is magic. This child is loved. This prayer is answered. This moment is a gift. Thank you, Lord. Amen. #Congo #parenthood

I’ve been singing songs from the movie Annie all week and I couldn’t figure out why. I wondered if it was because I had seen the previews for the remake but that was a month ago. Then it dawned on me—we’re heading to the Congo to visit our son in the orphanage and Annie is my messed-up idea of an orphan. Don’t get me wrong; I love that spunky, little girl with the red afro. She’s all grit and gumption. She stands up for the small (whiny friend Molly) and helpless (filthy mutt Sandy). She’s taken to Daddy Warbucks’ mansion and immediately starts to roll up her sleeves. She assumes she’s there to clean, not to take tennis lessons and lounge around in the swimming pool. She eventually scratches through Daddy Warbucks’ gruff exterior to help him realize how much he loves her and would do anything for her. She’s an uncomplicated kid. Becoming an orphan has had very little effect on her self-esteem. In spite of Mrs. Hannigan’s seemingly lax care for the girls in the Home, she apparently fit tap dancing and singing into their curriculum so Annie is able to express herself in dance and song. It all looks so easy. That is, except for the whole ex-con Rooster chasing her up a construction crane or a railway bridge…something high and scary with blinking lights…where she dangles until Punjab, the guy from the 7-Up commercials, rescues her with his turban. (When I was a kid and Annie came on TV, I always watched that part through the holes in the brown and orange crocheted throw so I can’t be sure exactly what happened. I watched The Wizard of Oz the same way. I still haven’t watched the Wicked Witch of the West scenes in their entirety.) Other than that, it’s just meeting FDR, being on the radio, and a big, carnival, dance number finale. What is waiting for us in the Congo will not be that simple. Living in an orphanage on the other side of the world is a 3-year old boy who knows very little about us or about the outside world. He never knew his parents or extended family. He doesn’t know about birthday cakes or Christmas trees or bedtime stories. We pray he knows what it feels to be hugged and cradled and praised. But we can be sure he knows hunger and he knows fear. Our plan is to meet him and take him to our hotel to spend a week together. “Hey little boy who speaks no English. We’re a couple of white Americans who don’t speak Lingala and we are…brace yourself…your parents. So why don’t you jump in our van and leave behind everyone and everything you know for a few days. It’ll be cool. I promise.” Best case scenario, at the end of the week we get to take him home to America. That’s the way it would work if not for the suspension of orphans leaving the Congo that’s been in place for over a year. Instead, we’ll bond with him, no doubt fall in love with him, and then leave a giant, bleeding chunk of our hearts in the Congo with him. We’ll board the plane like blubbering babies and cry for 24 hours. It’s not quite the Hollywood ending we’d prefer. Maybe the “Daddy Warbucks Plan” is the best idea for us for this upcoming week after all. Maybe the best we can hope for is to take an amazing, deserving kid from a bleak situation and give him five days of fun and hugs and good food. At the end of the week, if we have to say good-bye to him, we hope there will be smiles all around, a genuine one on his face and reasonably fake ones on ours. Heavy sigh. Pray for us, friends. I’ll update more as the week unfolds. Until then, I’ll keep practicing my introductory greeting to my son: “Nazali mama. Nalingi yo.” I am your mom. I love you. #Congo #parenthood

I’m always amazed to look up in the sky and see a large hawk attempting to escape from his scrawny songbird tormentors. (If you’re not aware of this natural phenomenon, check out this video.) The much larger bird of prey is swooping and diving while the mob of crows, mockingbirds, or grackles are pecking its feathers off, dive-bombing it, and even pooping on it. So why does he put up with it and why are they so adamantly pursuing this guy? It comes down to this: one crow is a meal but a half dozen is murder. (Please read the preceding sentence aloud and say murder in a menacing way. There. Wasn’t that satisfying?) A murder is actually what you call a flock of crows, and a murder of crows is a force to be reckoned with. If they can act in concert with each other, they can attack the invading hawk who wants to fly off with their young. They can protect their territory. They can stand up to the bully. They can persuade the seemingly helpless townspeople to sew elaborate costumes and construct traps to defeat the nasty El Guapo and his ruthless bandits…wait, that’s the plot of the movie, Three Amigos, but you get the point. Though weak alone, we are stronger together. I’m reminded of my communities who make me stronger: my sisters, my best friends from high school, my Bible study group. They bolster me with prayers and words of encouragement. They fast with me, even from chocolate, which is tantamount to martyrdom. They ask how I am…really. I wish I could say I’m good at pulling my end of the rope in the tug of war match that is life, but that’s not always the case. I’m trying to do better. I’m trying to remember to ask about those fears and struggles and big decisions my friends lay before me. I’m trying to set aside my to-do lists and pull out my prayer lists instead. Being truly invested in another person’s ups and downs is hard. It’s often messy and exhausting. Sometimes, you may dig too deep in a friend’s wound and the pain may push them away. But knowing you’re on the receiving end of prayers and petitions is healing and your hope is they will return. I’m honored to fly with my fellow crows. God has faithfully assigned some amazing, loyal friends to my flock over the years. Now I pray I can be the community I’m called to be, even if it means pooping on our enemy. #friendship

Dear daughter, I feel like I should explain a few things about the ridiculous way your body is acting right now. As you may remember from our past conversations, thanks to Eve, we women are designed from the get-go for childbirth. Even if you never have a baby, there are parts of you—pretty much everything neck to crotch—that have been designed for baby making, carrying, delivering, and feeding. Though you were born with all the eggs you’ll ever have, at twelve years old you’ve just entered into a cycle that could possibly continue into your grandma years. Remember that time when you got on the merry-go-round at the park and the big kids started pushing it really fast and you wanted to get off but you couldn’t? Well, get ready for the menstruation version of that. Before today’s monumental discovery, I had described the purpose for the wings on maxi pads and for the string on tampons. You know where we keep the heating pad and the appropriate dosing of ibuprofen. We had put together a discreet cosmetic bag with emergency supplies to keep in your backpack. I thought we were ready. As it turns out, nothing can fully prepare you for the icky, crampy, and just plain weird experience of your first period. But this too shall pass. In the meantime, I will do what moms do best—help you look on the bright side. For instance, I’ll offer some of the following observations: “Be glad you aren’t alive during ancient times! In some cultures, menstruating women had to sit on a filthy rag in a stinking tent. Gross! When they were unable to depend on handy boxes of pads and tampons under the bathroom sink, some women had to use absorbent materials such as animal pelts, mosses, and seaweed. I’ve even heard of ‘menstrual aprons’ and ‘belted napkins’. This could definitely be worse!” “Enjoy having the excuse to curl up on your bed with the heating pad and take a nap every four weeks.” “Think of the camaraderie you’ll experience with your ‘blood sisters’! Nothing grows a friendship like shared pain.” It may seem cruel to post this letter in such a public forum, but there is method to my madness, Dear Daughter. I want you to know that your body is amazing. It is precious and worthy of your care and keeping. And it’s too special to be mistreated or neglected or discarded. Things are happening inside of you that though unseen they are wondrous and must still be known. While this cycle of egg and blood and water retention and acne flare-ups and irritability is private, it’s still information you can choose to share. You can always talk to me or your dad (He’ll do his best—remember the man has no fallopian tubes or ovaries but his sympathy is real!) or your three loving aunts or the many moms of your best friends. You have middle school teachers who deal with girls needing a hall pass and they will understand. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. Discussions involving moms and daughters and this new phase have been happening for thousands of years. Your grandmothers may have watched a helpful video like this: The Story of Menstruation The important thing is for us to be open and honest. I will do my best to help you through this without embarrassing you. And please know it’s nearly impossible for you to ask a question that will embarrass me. To demonstrate how difficult it is for me to be embarrassed, let me offer this anecdote: I didn’t start using tampons until I was in college. After a friend talked me through the steps and I was successful, she invited me to her apartment to eat supper with some friends. I thought it was just an impromptu get-together until she came out of the kitchen with the dessert. She had made a large pan of banana pudding. Sticking out of the middle of the pan was a tampon. She lit the string and my friends applauded. It was a moment I’ll always remember. This is just another step toward making you who you will be as an adult. It’s a big deal but I PROMISE not to do this to you: New Moon Party I’m here to help. You know where to find me. Love, Mom #parenthood

Centuries after the trumpet sound had finished echoing off the stones which used to be the walls of Jericho and centuries before King David would take the throne, we have a period of “time where each man did what seemed right to him.” This was the time of the Judges—the period where we read stories depicting a dagger plunged into a king’s belly by left-handed man and tent pegs nailed into the skull of a Canaanite general by a Bedouin woman. (Never let anyone tell you that the Bible is boring!) During this time of darkness and chaos, when people were both yearning to hear God’s voice call out from a fiery pillar and also relieved that they didn’t hear it so they could try (unsuccessfully) to be their own gods, we read that there is a famine in the land of Judah. Husband and wife—Elimelech and Naomi—leave Bethlehem and head for the land of Moab. They had heard that there was food there, and their two sons—Mahlon and Chilion—were growing boys in need of good food to eat. While they were in this foreign land of Moab, Elimelech died. No doubt Naomi was sad, but she found relief in the fact that she still had her sons—grown men with wives of their own. But soon after, Mahlon and Chilion died, too. Devastated, Naomi and her two daughters-in-law—Ruth and Orpah—began traveling back to Bethlehem because they had heard that the famine was over, and Naomi was desperate to return home again. On the road, Naomi looked at her Moabite daughters-in-law and said, “Go back to your own mothers. I’m old and won’t be having any more sons for you to marry. Even if I had a son today, would you want to wait until he grew up to marry him?” The women sobbed and argued with Naomi, and eventually Orpah returned home to Moab. Then Naomi turned to look at Ruth, standing in the middle of the dusty road—scared and already worn out but resolute in her loyalty to her mother-in-law. “Do like Orpah, daughter,” Naomi pleaded. “My life is too bitter for you to share with me. You could find a sweeter life somewhere else.” Then Ruth said her most famous lines: “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.” Naomi saw that Ruth wouldn’t be deterred (and secretly she was so relieved to have a companion with her), so they set out together. When they got to Bethlehem, all of Naomi’s old neighbors came out and said, “Look! It’s Naomi! She’s back!” Naomi corrected them and tried to tame the sharpness in her voice before continuing, “Don’t call me Naomi. Call me Mara, because it means bitter and that seems to be my lot in life. I went away full and I’m coming back empty-handed.” If you aren’t currently at a crossroads right now, you’ve probably stood before some pretty big ones and may still have weighty decisions waiting for you in the future. It’s inevitable. When you get to that intersection, here’s what may happen: You’ll sit at a stop sign…your engine idling. You’ll be tempted to look in the rearview mirror—feel shame and regret from past decisions—but even though it’s important to learn from the past, you’ll know you have to look ahead. You’ll also want to look out your sideview mirrors and see what everyone else is doing, but this is mostly a waste of time and gas money. Instead imagine Ruth and Naomi, looking out at that dusty road that leads to Lord-knows-what. Unsure and feeling desperate, unseen, abandoned. Then do what Jeremiah 16:6 says: 1. Stand at the crossroads and look around. 2. Ask for the old, godly path. 3. Walk in it. 4. Then you will find rest.

Before my husband Brent and I began dating in college, we would hang out as friends as a part of a larger group. Sometimes we would play putt-putt or go out to eat or go to a park. On one occasion, we were all sitting around in the living room which belonged to the parents of one of our friends. We had watched a movie, and we were about to head back to school. Before we left, our friend shared something she was upset about and began crying. Brent was nearest to where she was lying on the floor, so he scooted closer to her and listened intently to what she was saying. Though it was nearly 30 years ago, I remember so clearly watching that moment from where I sat on a nearby sofa. We hadn’t started dating yet, but I was already falling for Brent, and this display of kindness and consideration pushed me right over the edge. I don’t think I was necessarily jealous of my friend, but I did wonder what it would feel like to be the recipient of his attention to the degree I was seeing in that living room. Even a person who detests standing in the center of the spotlight and fiercely shrinks from attention still wants to be noticed by someone. It’s wired into our brains to want to be seen and heard at least by the key people in our lives. Years ago, I remember reading a question sent in to “Dear Abby” by a 13-year old girl. The girl mentioned that she felt invisible and that no one ever called to invite her to hang out. Generally considered to be a shy girl, she wanted high school to be different than middle school had been, and she was seeking advice. I searched for the column and found “Dear Abby’s” response: No matter how you feel about yourself, everyone can be charming. Charm, in a nutshell, is putting the other person at ease and making her (or him) feel comfortable and important. The charming person makes the effort to make others feel good about themselves. Forming the habit of making others feel good will make you popular to be around. I don’t know if the young teen girl took the advice (and possibly purchased Dear Abby’s booklet “How to Be Popular: You’re Never Too Young or Too Old” for $6.00), but I agree with her advice…to a point. It seems a little self-serving. It sounds like she’s telling “Alone and Shy in California” to be charming so that she can get what she wants—popularity. Maybe it’s the word charming. We don’t use it much now, and when we do, it sounds a bit superficial. My own personal Prince Charming showed concern for our friend that night (and continues to do the same thing for me and others all these years later) with no strings attached. He isn’t kind to be popular. He isn’t considerate to be rewarded. He does it because it’s right and in line with the One he’s trying to model his life after. It’s like our moms used to tell us: “If you want to have a friend, be a friend.” Or as a radio D.J. I listen to always says: “The world is full of nice people. If you can’t find one…BE ONE!” Whether or not that makes you popular is secondary. What matters is how you make the world a better place. #friendship #kindness