I saw a sight as elusive and rare as an albino chipmunk today…a man multi-tasking. He was smoking a cigarette and texting on his cell phone while riding his bike on a busy street in the rain. Not recommended but impressive nonetheless. It’s a proven fact that women are better at multi-tasking than men. Searching for evidence reveals test after test with women coming out ahead. Most of these tests involve a combination of activities, like completing simple arithmetic problems while answering the telephone and formulating a plan to find lost keys. In other words, a typical after-school afternoon. Are women better at multi-tasking because their lifestyles require it so they improve out of necessity or do they allow their lifestyles to include multi-tasking because they are naturally capable of it? Nature or nurture? Either way, it’s amazing to witness an expert in her field. A real exception to the female-only multi-taskers is Jesus. When you look at chapter five in the Book of Mark, we see Jesus at his busiest. He’s just removed a legion of demons from a crazed man who lived in the graveyard. The people are troubled by Jesus’ power so they urge him to leave. He boards a boat to cross a lake. No sooner has he landed, than a man begging for Jesus to save his daughter approaches him. Jesus agrees to go with him, but he’s stopped suddenly by a distinct feeling. A bit of his power has left him. He looks around and sees a woman so desperate for healing she reaches for the cloak of this powerful man passing by. Jesus leans in to the trembling woman to tell her she’s free. Her faith has released her from the disease. No time to waste, Jesus continues on to help the man and his dying daughter. The man’s friends come to tell him they are too late. But Jesus tells the grieving father, “Don’t be afraid. Just believe.” Jesus leans in again but this time in a quiet room by the bedside of a dead girl. He takes her hand and tells her to get up, like it’s just another morning and time for her to start her day. The effect is immediate. The girl is up, walking and eating. I love this series of stories. I love to think about Jesus, plopping down on some floor cushions at the end of this very long day. Stretching his sore shoulders, suddenly realizing he is hungry. He’s been busy tending to others’ needs and now he can rest. It’s a multi-tasker’s finest hour—that moment when your tasks are done. #parenthood

I have never had a broken bone. I don’t know whether to chalk this up to my calcium intake or my cautious nature (neither of which are particularly high), but either way, I’ve avoided it. My kids, on the other hand, are another story. One of my daughters has suffered from a broken arm three times. Each time, she was doing something she’d done many times before: climbing into her booster seat at the table, sliding down the short indoor slide in the playroom, swinging on the swing set on the school playground. The older of my two sons has been more inventive with his breaks. He broke his elbow sliding to block a goal while playing soccer…by himself…in our carpeted basement. He also broke his finger while trying to crack open a coconut in the church parking lot during Vacation Bible School. Last week, we received word that our youngest child, our adopted son we’re trying to bring home from Africa, broke his collarbone. My husband assured me it was going to be fine. He said if a kid was going to break a bone, this was a good one because it heals quickly. This was some comfort but my heart was hurting for our four-year old son who was in pain and thousands of miles away from me. To help me visualize his recovery, I asked my husband for an explanation of how bones heal. He told me how the body is designed for just this kind of situation. He said almost as soon as the break occurs, special cleansing blood clots form around the area. The immune system sends in cells to clean out the break to prevent infection. Then a soft callus is formed, followed by a hard callus. These protective barriers cocoon the miracle happening inside: new bone cells growing on both sides of the break, meeting to bridge the gap. Finally, the body sends in special cells to break down the hard callus and remodel the bone to its original state. When I first heard that our young son was suffering from a broken collarbone, I was distraught. No mother wants her child to be in pain. It’s human nature to avoid suffering. But the Scriptures tell us that suffering—both physical and emotional—is part of life. We stumble and fall. We get sick. Our bones can break and so can our hearts. Fortunately, there’s a plan for healing. There’s a system in place to clean out the wound and build it back up. It may take weeks or it may take years. The broken section may never look exactly the same as it did before but healing is possible. “The Lord is close to the broken hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalms 34:18 #healing

Ever since I can remember, I have been blessed with great friends. I attended the same school from second grade through college, so I enjoyed a real consistency of companionship. I have friends I’ve known for more than thirty years who I could call today if I needed them. Throughout high school, there was a group of us—six girls—and we were each other’s best friends. We had a lot of shared interests but the most important common thread in our group was our lack of boyfriends. We didn’t have to choose between dates and friends. It just wasn’t an issue. Our Friday nights were free to hang with the girls. Within this circle of friends, we each had a role to play: Melissa was the mother hen, driving us on road trips in her parents’ mini-van. Mature before her time and an intuitive nurturer, you could always count on Melissa to have a “mom’s supply” of necessary items in her purse. Liz was the creative genius. She was never bored. Liz could easily say your name backwards. She was the one who suggested we whistle in harmony on the way to class or invent a new handwriting style. Rachel made sure we kept it real. Her dry, dry, dry sense of humor cut through every situation until you could see the ridiculousness of the moment and read it for what it truly was. Jenne had the built-in map skills. She was all no non-sense and get-it-done with a heavy dose of kindness and compassion. Jenne kept us moving in the right direction—literally. Karen was the artistic one. She created beauty on canvases and with found objects. She made us jewelry boxes from reclaimed pizza boxes and a lobster costume for herself out of red felt and wood glue. Karen’s art was no respecter of labels. I’m not exactly sure what my role was in this group, or what it is now. Maybe my purpose was to be grateful for it and document the uniqueness of these friendships. Those five ladies prepared me for the relationships I have had since high school, like our friends who lived across the street when we were first married and finding our way in a new city. Those friends who became mothers at the same time as me were my lifeline to sanity. I continue to have friends who amaze me. These relationships have been forged at church and at my kids’ schools and sports teams. They help me with pickup and drop-off. We stand side-by-side for hours, shivering at soccer games and cooking for teacher appreciation lunches. Some days, they share large but mostly hidden, secret parts of themselves, honoring me with their trust. Other days, they tell me little things, like when my friend told me her magnolia tree smells like lemonade when she mows around it in the summertime. These small gifts make me smile and help me know them more fully. When I get bad news, they text and ask how they can help. When I get good news, they text and tell me they cried happy tears for me. I often feel undeserving of their love and concern. No matter what, these friendships have encouraged me to be a better friend—to show up and be real and laugh easily and cry readily. It will take me the rest of my life to pay them back for their devotion, but it’s a privilege to try. #friendship

While driving to a doctor’s appointment the other day, I saw a group of cars and pedestrians stopped along a residential street. I looked to see where people were pointing, hanging out of car windows and standing along the sidewalk. Eventually, I found the reason for the traffic jam: a mother duck and her four ducklings in tow. Busy people stopped to smile and coo at the little family as they leisurely crossed the street. A woman walking her dog pulled her pup back, wrapping the leash tightly around her hand to protect the ducks from a sudden attack. For a moment, we were all self-appointed caretakers for this fragile group. I thought a lot about those ducks the rest of my day. I wondered where they came from and where they were going. Was there a pond nearby? Were they pets? I also considered the reaction of the other people on the street. Why did this poultry parade elicit such a response? I think I know why. There’s something inside us—the part of our souls where love and generosity and thoughtfulness exists—that makes us want to shelter the vulnerable. When we give in to our better self, we feel compelled to defend the defenseless and love the broken. Of course, we’re also created with the capacity to cause destruction and harm. And, unfortunately, that’s the impulse that gets the most press. We read more of murdering the innocent than protecting them. We’re told of more cruelty than kindness. And though it’s right to shine a light on abuse and injustice, I’m here to say there is still goodness (Thank goodness!). There are teachers who live to impart knowledge and show compassion to our kids. There are military personnel, police officers, and firefighters who voluntarily put themselves in dangerous situations so that we can sleep at night. There are social workers and healthcare professionals who give their time to disadvantaged members of our community who would otherwise go unnoticed. All of these servants in our community minister to the most vulnerable, the voiceless and oppressed. In other words, they see the parade of ducklings and they stop. Maybe we all have this capacity to nurture. We may just be out of practice. #caring

Here’s a sentence you’ll never hear: “Abby is so graceful. She moves like a feather floating on a breeze.” I can hurt myself just walking down the stairs, but when you add complicated workout machines and the synchronized hefting of heavy weights to the equation, my clumsiness multiplies exponentially. I have managed to fall off of and/or hurt myself on almost every exercise machine at my gym: I was brought to my knees by a moving treadmill. I nearly lost a toe in the stair climber. I hit myself in the face with the bar of the rowing machine. To add insult to injury (literally), I actually pay someone to tell me to do these painful exercises. When I want to quit running or lunging or lifting, my workout coach pushes me to keep going and I do, knowing full well I won’t be able to move my arms or legs the next day. So why do I submit myself to such torture? It’s about losing weight and gaining muscle and feeling energized, of course. It would be oh-so much simpler if I could just pay the monthly fee and see the desired results without showing up to exercise, but that’s not how it works. For many of us—especially those of us with a bit of a stubborn streak—this “No Pain, No Gain” exchange can apply to our quest to transform into the people of character we’re striving to be. When I ask God to make me more patient, He doesn’t just hand over a big plate of patience. He allows me to suffer trials to develop it. When I ask God to help me trust Him with every part of my life, He doesn’t automatically make me a person fully reliant on Him. Instead, He gives me painful opportunities to stretch the muscle of my faith. The soreness and discomfort have a purpose. After exercising, my workout coach suggests that we eat or drink protein to help those exhausted muscles repair and grow stronger. There have been times in my journey of faith where I need the same kind of post-workout treatment. My faith has been stretched with waiting on unanswered prayers and exposure to fresh examples of misery and despair. At the point of spiritual exhaustion, I need the reassurance of friends and the embrace of my kids. I need a quiet conversation with my husband just before bedtime. I need to sit with my Bible and my notebook behind a closed door. It’s time to reflect and repair and, hopefully, take a step closer to being the woman I’m meant to become. #Trust

I am a soccer mom. If you’re not sure if you’re also a soccer mom, take this easy quiz: If you have a sunburn that includes your nose and forehead (nothing covered by sunglasses), your legs from the hem of your shorts to your knees, and one side of your body predominantly over the other…you may be a soccer mom. If you have very specific opinions on collapsible, camping chairs and have occasionally experienced jealousy when seeing other people with far better chairs—usually ones equipped with built-in umbrellas…you may be a soccer mom. If you can find most or all of the following in your van or SUV: a ball pump, water bottles, long socks, and lots of grass…you may be a soccer mom. If your son or daughter would consider the name “Messi” a compliment…you may be a soccer mom. I grew up in a family where sports were an afterthought. Neither my sisters nor I played anything other than the piano. As teenagers, we attended many sporting events to cheer on our classmates, but it wasn’t life changing. In fact, “being competitive” was something I considered a character flaw. I’m beginning to change my mind. On Sunday afternoon, I watched my son’s team play three games. Our team lost the first game, won the second game against a different team, and then had to play that first team—the ones who beat us mercilessly—again for the third game. All of us parents were dreading that third game. The boys were exhausted. I was praying for a freak thunderstorm to rush in and force us to call it off. But the whistle was blown for the game to begin. They started off strong, defending positions to keep the other team from scoring but their defensive wall began to show some cracks. By halftime, it looked hopeless. Our team hadn’t scored and the other team was making it look too easy. Many parents yelled at the referees to make better calls, but deep down we all knew it was only going to get uglier. I watched my son with a mother’s eyes. I looked for tears of frustration and signs of despair, but saw none. He would attempt passes that were quickly stolen by the opposition. Even when our coach moved him to play goalie and he failed to defend two goals, he kept on going. He played hard and called to his teammates as if there was still a chance for them to turn things around. If this were a movie, I would finish the story with a triumphant ending: “They called timeout with minutes to go. In the huddle, they made a plan and Coach gave them a pep talk to end all pep talks. When playing resumed, they scored fifteen goals in a row and won!” Since this wasn’t a movie, I have to report that they lost the game. I’m not sure about the final score because I stopped counting somewhere around 6-0. When it was over, I expected my son to be disappointed. He was mainly hungry. As we prepared to leave, one of the players from the other team passed us. He said to my son, “Good game” and my son responded, “Thanks.” In that simple exchange, two ten year-olds taught me the healthy side of competition. They both played hard, but someone had to win and someone had to lose. While he was on the field, my son was laser focused on the roles he had to play for his team. Because he gave it his all, when the game was over, he could walk away feeling good about what he had done. He knew there would be many more opportunities to prove himself later. He didn’t need a token trophy for participation or even a consoling ice cream cone. He hopped in the van, a true competitor. Even if he had won the World Cup, I couldn’t have been prouder. #soccer

Since he was four years old, my son has suffered from migraine headaches. When he has an episode, the sequence of events is usually the same: He comes into our room around 3:00 a.m. He sidles up to my side of the bed and tells me his head hurts. I try to shake the fuzziness from my sleepy brain and focus on his dark silhouette and whispered words. After a minute, I get up and walk him to the kitchen where I dispense a dose of Motrin despite the fact that he will vomit it and everything else an hour or so later. Early on, we took him to specialists. He was tested and scanned and given a clean bill of health. Nothing to worry about but nothing much we can do for him. His headaches have decreased in the last year, and for this we are grateful. But when he does get one, my number one priority—in fact my only purpose for being awake in the wee hours of the morning—is to help him sleep. I know if I can only get him to fall asleep he will feel better. Two hours of uninterrupted, shut-eye is the best medicine for his headache to go from a pulsing, puking nightmare to a dull thud. So I make his room as dark as possible. I adjust his ceiling fan and blankets to be sure he’s not too hot and not too cold. I try to create the most relaxing environment possible but, in the end, he has to will himself to sleep. He must choose to breathe deeply, stop grinding his teeth, and relax his scrunched up eyes and clenched fists. I can’t do it for him. His distress reminds me of my own misery. Mine isn’t usually the physical kind, but it often involves fist-clenching and teeth-grinding, and if it goes on too long, some eye-twitching. My affliction is stress. I take on too much and bottle it up, owning the deadlines and commitments and failures until they wind me up like a tightly coiled spring—until they own me. But I have a Heavenly Father who sits alongside me as I stew over my to-do list (and my shouldn’t-do list and my what-if list and my do-better list). He brushes the stray hairs from my face and rubs his thumb along my wrinkled forehead. Then he whispers, “Be still. I’m God, not you. I’m your ever-present help in times of trouble. Even if the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, I’ll still be here. So just be still.” When I finally listen, I can feel his presence. My playlist of “Self-Reproach and Impending Disaster: Volume 101” stops repeating in my head. Well, let’s be honest, the words are still there but they move (maybe temporarily) into the background. Then I breathe deeply of His Spirit, and I unclench my fists so my hands are ready to accept His offerings of peace. I relax my scrunched up eyes so I can rest, so I can at last be still. #prayer #rest

Isn’t it great when the answer is obvious? Too often, we struggle with finding the right path when we come to a fork in the road. Should I take the new job or keep the old one? Rent or buy? Regular unleaded or premium? Paper or plastic? The decisions seem endless. A few months ago, as my husband was driving us home from visiting relatives, I checked email on my phone. One thing led to another and before I knew it I was looking at sales for a clothing store. Soon, I was mindlessly clicking shirts and skirts and watching as they flew into my shopping cart. We were home, pulling into the garage, before I could finish my purchase. Steeling myself for the misery of unpacking, I put my phone back in my purse. My husband brought our bags into our room as I sorted out the mess three kids can make in the backseat of a minivan. In a few minutes, he was back in the garage. “You need to see something in our room,” he said. I followed him to our closet where I saw most of my clothes—still on hangers—lying in heaps on the floor. The shelves and rods had finally succumbed to the weight of my wardrobe. This was a sign: I didn’t need any more clothes. I quickly removed every item from my online shopping cart. I wish every decision could be so obvious. If only I had a crystal ball I could gaze into and see how everything will turn out. Just imagine how many bad haircuts and ugly wall colors and disgusting recipes I could avoid. It would be such a relief but also—I have to admit—kind of boring. We’re in good company if we’re looking for signs and omens before taking risks. Gideon (Judges 6) came up with the wet fleece/dry ground and dry fleece/wet ground sign before he went to fight the Midianites. Moses (Exodus 4) got two signs to prove to Pharaoh he meant business—the old rod-to-snake sign and the cured leprous hand sign—not to mention ten plagues. The shepherds got a sign in the form of a baby to announce the coming Savior and Noah got a sign in the form of a rainbow to prove God’s promise of safety. These signs must have been at least a temporary source of relief and an obvious clue for their future. But, most of the time, our future isn’t obvious and the answers seem unclear. When our family said yes to a call to adopt, we didn’t know what the future would bring. Now, three and a half years later, we still don’t know if we’ll be able to bring our son home from Africa. It’s painful and frustrating and I often question the events preventing us from making him a part of our family. But if I can sit and truly search for the answer, it is obvious. I know in this moment, this very second, we were called to be in this place—this very cruel and frustrating place—because we knew we were asked to say yes. So I challenge you to look for the obvious and assume it will be there. The timing might not be right, but expect you will eventually be told what you’re called to do and when you get the call, do it. The signs are there. They may come in a million different ways—in the form of a rainbow or a pile of clothes or a tugging on your heart that just won’t go away. #choices

Since it’s already tomorrow in Kinshasa, it’s already our Ezra’s birthday. He’s four now, and four is one of my favorite ages, second only to five (It’s my opinion that five-year olds are the funniest, brightest, and best). I made the mistake of looking at this date on Facebook in the years past, his second birthday and third birthday. My comments were hopeful and I made cakes. I put on a brave face, assuming he’d celebrate with us the following birthday. Surrrrrrrely. But here we are…January 7, 2015…Mokolo na Mbotama Malamu! (That’s “Happy Birthday” in Lingala, by the way.) I have a friend who is going to visit her son in the Congo in a few days. Being a considerate momma, she offered to bring a package to our little fella for us. So what to send to a four-year old who doesn’t know English, has no idea it’s his birthday, maybe doesn’t remember us, and it all needs to fit in a quart-sized freezer bag? Batman and Superman action figures, a tiny tractor with accompanying farmer, and a fist-full of dum-dum lollipops, of course. We also found a fun greeting card that plays a song and has a spinning hamster. Again, he lives with people who don’t know English but, like I said…a spinning hamster. It extends beyond all cultural boundaries. We’ve sent several care packages to Ezra since we first saw his picture in June 2012. We’ve sent cars and books and photo albums and crayons. We’re always grateful when another adopting parent offers to deliver something for us but it’s difficult to find the perfect items that represent our feelings and hope for our future with him. So tomorrow will be difficult. We don’t have any news and nothing to point to the fact that 2015 will be THE YEAR. But we are grateful he’s in a safe place with people who care for him and get him what he needs. We’re grateful he’s made it to four, especially since one in seven children in DRC dies before reaching the age of five. We’re grateful for the time we spent with him in October. And we’re grateful for the friends who continue to pray for our boy. Actually, we’re humbled. So happy birthday, buddy. We love you! #adoption

I love Christmas music. There’s just something about the phrase “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…” that makes me feel all warm and cozy inside, like a thick pair of socks on cold feet or a good, long hug from Brent after a rough day. I can trace the introduction to most of my favorite songs to my mother’s record/CD collection. To this day, I still love hearing the close harmony in the Carpenters’ version of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” And I know all of the words to “Mele Kalikimaka” and “Christmas in Killarney,” thanks to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. These songs just make me happy. Of course, not all Christmas songs are great. In fact, some are pretty annoying. Many people—especially ones with good taste in music—cringe when they hear the song “Christmas Shoes.” You know the one I’m talking about: the kid goes into the store to buy his dying mom shoes so she’ll look beautiful when she meets Jesus. I don’t want to sound heartless, but…shoes? Who thinks of shoes when they’re 1) wanting to look beautiful, and 2) expecting to meet Jesus. How about a cute top or an expensive mascara? I mean Jesus just wore sandals, right? I don’t think He was a shoe-person, any more than Moses was a sweater guy and Abraham had a thing for scarves. Not being a professional musician, I can only guess but sometimes it seems like recording artists are forced into making a Christmas album–possibly at gunpoint–and they panic. They have to write new songs and reinvent old ones. So they take perfectly good Christmas songs and completely ruin them. Case in point: Michael Buble’s version of “Santa Baby.” In the more famous version sung by Eartha Kitt, she kind of flirts with Santa. She tells him all of the presents she wants even though she’s obviously been fairly naughty. It’s not my favorite but it’s a classic. When Michael sings it, he changes all of the words and it’s obnoxious. He calls Santa pally and poppy. What a cheeseball. Another weird rendition of a flirty song is “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” sung by Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone (the guy who sings the jingle for the laundry detergent ALL). I know they got together for this duet because they both have roles in the movie Elf—she plays Jovie and he plays Leon the Snowman. When I heard their version this year, I couldn’t help but think Leon was going to slip Zooey a rufie. It’s a creepy combo. I’ve noticed some patterns on my list of Top Ten Christmas Songs. For instance, I really like a lot of songs with questions in their titles: “Mary, Did You Know?” and “What Child is this?” and “Do You Hear What I Hear?” All Winners. I’m not sure why these are among my favorites, but here’s a thought: the story of Jesus’ birth brings up a lot of questions. Why did God wait thousands of years before He sent His Son? What did Mary expect would happen? What kind of baby was Jesus? Was He prone to fussiness? Did he sleep through the night early? The genius of the story is that it reflects our lives—starry night, childbirth, the government demanding unrealistic things from its citizens—but it also has an element of the supernatural. The band of angels and exotic wise men catch our attention. It’s beautiful and surprising and amazing. All it’s missing is a little  pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. Oh yeah, thank you, little drummer boy! #Christmas

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