Last week, I heard a news story about snow geese. These majestic birds fly from Mexico to Alaska around this time every year. I’m sure the people on the ground appreciate their flight as an annual source of wonder and beauty. This year has been a different experience for many along the route, especially those in Idaho. Thousands of the geese have dropped out the sky, D.O.A. Wildlife specialists have determined they’ve been affected by avian cholera, a disease that kills birds very quickly, sometimes even in mid-flight. Oddly enough, for some of the ailing geese, their last action is to fly upside-down just before they drop to their death. What must these sick geese be thinking? And how about their flying buddies? Goose #1: “Dude, look at Steve. He’s flying upside-down. That’s hilarious.” Goose #2: “Not cool, man. I think he’s sick. Show some compassion.” When I heard this story on the radio, the wildlife specialist interviewed didn’t seem especially concerned about the snow geese population declining due to this disease. He said to use caution if you come upon a dead bird (Check—no one has to tell me twice to step away from a dead animal), but otherwise they’ve got the situation under control. These geese made me think of Christ’s words recorded in Luke 12. He tells the throngs of people who have gathered around Him how they should fear the Lord who can hear even the whispers we utter in secret. Then He says that the Lord—the same God who sees our guilt as plainly as if we had our every sin printed on our t-shirts and tattooed across our foreheads—this same God knows if an insignificant sparrow falls to the earth. This sparrow, worth only a few pennies, merits the attention of the All-Knowing, All-Seeing, Always and Forever. Christ’s logical conclusion is that He must care infinitely more about you, the one He made from His own image. The one He loves enough to count all the hairs on your head. I feel bad for those geese. Avian cholera is probably a pretty bad way to go. As a rule, flying upside-down seems like something only Daffy Duck should be able to do. So it’s comforting to know I serve a God who knew about the snow geese epidemic way before I did. He knows and He cares and He thinks we’re worth it.

When my son was in first grade, I was a chaperone on a field trip to the science museum. On such outings, the teacher usually assigns students to your care and then the fun begins: You have to withstand the pleading looks the students give you at the gift shop and open all their juice boxes during the lunch break. Being a field trip chaperone involves a lot of head-counting and bathroom supervision. It’s mostly easy and I always learn something new. For example, on this particular field trip, I learned about the water cycle. Behind the science museum, there’s a natural swamp so they use this area to teach about things like tadpoles, aquatic plants, and water conservation. When the young tour guide explained the stages of the water cycle, she held up a drawing depicting evaporation, condensation, and precipitation. Being an attentive chaperone, I was only halfway listening to her spiel. The majority of my attention was focused on the six- and seven-year olds I was charged to protect and prevent from embarrassing their teacher by falling into the pond. But then the tour guide said something that caught my attention. She said, “All of the water in the world is recycled. It’s used again and again. New water isn’t made; it’s just moved.” For some reason, her words hit me. Of course, I was previously familiar with the concept of the water cycle, seeing how I’d already been to first grade, but I never thought about the fact that new water wasn’t created. All the water there is in the world is all the water there is. We can dam rivers and dig canals and fill reservoirs but the water there isn’t new. We can even burst clouds with rockets to make it rain, but the drops that fall are ancient and experienced. There are many places in nature we find a cycle. We see it in the seasons, planets, and plants. The merry-go-round of birth, life, and death is continuous and yet unique. We see this theme throughout the Scriptures with references to new birth and dying to our sins. When Nicodemus, a prominent religious leader of the Jews, secretly approached Jesus one dark night, he was told he had to be reborn in order to see the kingdom of God. Nicodemus had a shortsighted view of the life cycle of humans. He only knew the part about birth-to-death. He didn’t know there was another birth available, a spiritual one that guarantees eternal life. Nicodemus must have remembered Jesus’ words: “whoever believes in Him will not perish…” when he helped to prepare Christ’s crucified body for the tomb three years after their late night discussion. As he poured the burial perfumes and wrapped the motionless limbs, did Nicodemus watch the lifeless body expecting to see this resurrection Jesus had described? We know it didn’t happen as they buried him, but three days later. His body was renewed and Jesus rose from the tomb, walking and talking and even making breakfast for his Apostles. The darkness of his death was only a part of the story. As many of us pause this week to remember this pivotal series of events, I’m grateful to note Christ’s sacrifice is enough to keep this cycle going. My life here is only a part of the story. And like the water droplets that continue to fall and evaporate and form clouds and fall again, His grace is sufficient. It’s all I need and it’s always there.

My husband’s grandfather has been very sick recently, but the man you see now is only a glimmer of his former self. Known to his grandkids and great-grandkids as “Pepaw,” he stands well over six-feet tall and has a deep, booming voice to match his large stature. He fought in the Pacific during World War II. While there, he replaced the fallen chaplain and conducted funerals for fellow soldiers. He was the obvious substitute. The other men in his unit already called him “Preacher” because of his Bible knowledge and his rich bass. As a civilian, Pepaw was an auctioneer and a highly revered elder at his church. He is beloved in his small town. Now that he is a few years shy of 100 years old, he’s in a nursing home suffering the aftermath of pneumonia and the ongoing affects of diabetes. But he’s not alone. Memaw, his wife for more than 70 years, drives to the nursing home to be with him every day. Memaw is a wonder—beautiful, white hair and perfect Southern manners. You won’t hear her complain or say a negative word about anyone. In other words, she’s my standard for best behavior. Because of her commitment to her husband, it wouldn’t occur to her not to visit Pepaw, even though the man in the hospital bed—the man she married all those years ago—isn’t the same. If you were to ask Memaw why she makes those daily trips to the nursing home, she would be perplexed by the question. In her mind, it’s a given and the living demonstration of her wedding vows. To Memaw, it’s not about her. It’s about them. Their relationship shouldn’t be remarkable, but it is. If you doubt that people have a difficult time making a commitment, ask your church to put you in charge of finding Bible class teachers and nursery workers. You’ll quickly get the feeling that most people are hesitant to commit. It’s as if they’re afraid something better will come along and they’ll miss out. It reminds me of Jesus’ parable about the banquet guests in Luke 14. Jesus tells the story of a man who planned a party and invited all the important people in town. When it was time for the party to begin, no one arrived. Instead, they sent their excuses. One guest said he needed to look at a recently purchased field. (A flimsy excuse if I ever heard one.) Another guest couldn’t come because he had bought several new oxen. (Seriously? You pick cows over a party?) The last guest had just been married, so he couldn’t come. (Okay, I get that one. New wives can be pretty needy.) Once he received the R.S.V.P.s and saw how many were missing, the man sent his servants to invite everyone and anyone they could find. He wanted the party to be packed with every seat filled. Those who made excuses wouldn’t get a taste of the banquet. I have to assume those who spent the evening looking at a field or checking out an ox, would eventually regret their commitment issues. Perhaps they would eventually look back at their decision to skip the party, and wonder why they marked “no” on the evite. It stands to reason there have been moments in the past 70+ years when Memaw and Pepaw have doubted their commitment. It’s only natural for two people living in the same house to disagree and irritate each other from time to time. But I’m certain they’re content with their commitment now. As Memaw holds the weary hand of her husband and lifelong companion, she knows she’s tasted the banquet and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

When I think of the word “distraction,” my mind instantly goes to when I was three and riding in our faux-wood paneled station wagon, probably heading to my grandparents’ house in Illinois. I was sitting behind the driver’s seat, unbuckled, of course, because this was the 1970’s and the slow-motion car crash scenes of the Crash Test Dummy commercials hadn’t reached us yet. I was coloring a picture of Snow White and I wanted to show my brilliant artwork to my father—the one who was driving. I stood up and slid the picture right in front of his face, proudly proclaiming, “Look, daddy!” With a swerve and a shout, I was firmly encouraged to sit down and NEVER DO THAT AGAIN. As harmless as my motivation was, my Snow White picture had been a dangerous (albeit beautifully colored) distraction. My poor father didn’t see it coming. He was focused on the road and nearby cars, never thinking a coloring book would suddenly appear in his line of vision. I am constantly battling distractions. Whether it’s cell phone beeps or hearing the word “snow” on the radio or my children needing me to look for the thing they can’t find (which, by the way, is always under something else. Moms are apparently the only living creatures who know to look under piles of papers, sofas, etc. to find stuff). Just completing a thought without a distraction is…Oh, sorry. What was I just saying? I stepped away to find my son’s soccer cleats under his bed, help my daughter with a math problem (and Google “multiplying polynomials”), and take a casserole out of the oven. We learn early on to filter out the unnecessary but, in spite of years of practice, it continues to be difficult. Of course, I can try to be intentional: I can turn off the radio and silence my cell phone. I can tell my children to give me an hour alone and shut my bedroom door. But even with complete silence, my mind tends to drift. When I wake up in the morning, I try to pray about our day. “Lord, be with my kids at school…wait, did I sign that permission slip? Focus. And be with me as I get things done around the house…Oh, I’ve got to mop today. Why is the kitchen floor always so sticky? Come on, Abby, concentrate!” You get the point. The “Filter and Focus” plan isn’t working, so I’m going to try something new. My new plan is to stop and inspect the distractions as they pop up. There are certain things I have to get done every day as a part of being a mom and a wife and a co-worker, but I need to be open to the idea that some distractions may actually be important, too. I’m going to try to be more flexible so that when something interrupts my schedule, I can stop and refocus, if necessary. When I get a text from a friend asking for prayers for a sick family member just as I’m constructing an important email, I need to value that text and pursue how I can be useful. During the sermon at church, when a toddler in the pew in front of me dumps out his cupful of goldfish crackers and grounds them into the carpet, it’s distracting. But instead of silently fussing at the boy’s mother, I will thank God for children (and vacuums). Some distractions are just that—intrusions into my life that pull my focus away from what really matters. But I have to be humble enough to admit that some distractions offer the redirection I didn’t know I needed. So I hereby pledge to try to keep my eyes on the road, all the while staying open to the possibilities just down the unbeaten path.

The Thanksgiving holiday is about a lot of things—eating too much, Pilgrims, cornucopias, hours and hours of football on TV—but the best part is the (sometimes-awkward) obligation we place on each other to list the things we’re thankful for. (For instance, I’m thankful many literary scholars now say it’s not so bad to end a sentence with a preposition.) Of course, saying “thank you” is great. It makes us a more kind and introspective society. (While we’re on the subject, saying “please” would make us a more magical society seeing as how please is always the answer to the question: “what’s the magic word?“) The only bad thing about these “thankful” lists is the tendency to use them for boasting (i.e.- “I’m thankful for the BEST husband in the world who just gave me a brand new Lexus!”). I’m not saying that’s what everyone does with his or her “30 Days of Thanksgiving” lists but it can be misused, just like prayer requests can be misused for gossip and leggings can be misused as pants. So now that we’re officially into December and out of Thanksgiving, I propose a new movement. It doesn’t require lists, in fact that would ruin it completely. I recommend Loves-Giving Day. I got the idea when I sat down with my husband’s grandfather this past weekend. [Random Note: My genetically perfect husband has all four of his grandparents still alive and kicking. While I, on the other hand, have none. This leads me to think he will outlive me, so I’ve given him very specific requirements for his second wife: their first date must be at my grave; she can’t be skinnier, funnier, or prettier than me but she can be taller, nicer, and a better cook; she needs to be good with the kids—no wicked stepmothers allowed.] The health of my grandmother-in-law has been declining in recent years and her husband of almost seventy years has made it his sole responsibility to get her what she needs. He keeps a small laminated index card in his shirt pocket listing all of her medicines, her full name, and birthdate. On Saturday, he had a little pillbox in his coat pocket with all of those meds ready for her take right after lunch. When he talks about having to leave her behind while he was off defending America during WW2, it makes your heart melt. He is quick to say how much he loves her and how much God has blessed them even with the caveat of many deaths in their immediate family and sicknesses for the both of them. He tells me he’s thankful with his words but his actions speak love. Members of our church family have been hit by some major blows in the past few weeks. Parents losing children far too soon is something I just can’t understand. I’ve seen tears and faces etched with grief. A baby with special needs was adopted (adoption=unconditional love and acceptance) but passed away after living with his new family for just a few months. I imagine those months were pure and holy moments of love. A teen survived surgery for a heart condition only to pass away a week later, but those days of recuperating must’ve been full of words not left unspoken. The surgery made them understand how precious life is. Whether we get seventy years to tell those who are dear to us that we love them or just a few months, let’s not waste it. Let’s look into the eyes of our most beloved fellow humans, and say what’s in our hearts. While we’re at it, let’s show love to strangers, too. Let’s start a Loves-Giving Revolution! (And if you can come up with a better name, share that, too.)

Most every weekday of the school year, I pass as many as six crossing guards. My three children attend three different schools, so this isn’t out of the realm of possibility. Still, I do spend at least a few minutes of our commute in awe of these men and women. [Note: I should say man and women due to the fact that only one of the six is male. My personal theory is that women make good crossing guards because we are excellent multi-taskers. For instance, I am—right now—simultaneously typing this blog post, cooking supper, and texting about carpools. Oh, double-X chromosome, is there anything you can’t do?!] Since we see these same six people 180 days of the year, I begin to feel like I know them. For instance, I’ve created a backstory for the man in front of our elementary school. He has a New York-type accent and a pointy, white goatee. (true) I’ve decided he’s an independently wealthy, retired CEO who moved here from Silicon Valley to find some peace and quiet. He only does the crossing guard gig to get out of the house a couple of times a day. (fiction) He replaced a lady who worked nights, stopped traffic in the mornings, went home to sleep, and then returned in the afternoon (That part is not fictional. We got to know her as we walked to school. You can actually find out a lot about a person with just a couple of sentences a day for six or seven years). One of the most famous crossing guards in Murfreesboro’s history has to be the lady who directs traffic on Memorial Boulevard. She wears costumes and/or holds props for all major holidays (including Veteran’s Day). Her movements are as smooth as a Japanese kabuki dancer. She seems oddly at home right in the middle of five lanes of busy traffic. The lady who stands at the convergence of the elementary, middle, and high schools near us is the most cheerful crossing guard I’ve ever seen. At 7:45 in the morning, you’ll find her giving out two-handed waves as she walks to her spot. Looking at her beaming smiles, you’d think she was on a float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, instead of directing traffic on a cold, rainy Monday morning. Which brings me to the weather… Lately, we’ve had some very cold and icky mornings, especially for November. They can be seen suited up with bright, yellow raincoats, thick gloves, and rubber boots. In spite of their regulation outer garments, I know they’re freezing. And yet, these six community servants can always be found at their spot, on time, doing their job. It sounds obvious, right? They apply for the job, get trained, do their job, and get paid. But look at the job they do: they keep the traffic moving, they protect kids trying to cross the street, they intentionally put themselves in harm’s way for us. I love to point out these six people to my kids. I want them to see that no matter what job they choose they should do it well. Like the smiling crossing guard, they can find joy in everyday chores. Like the graceful crossing guard, they should take pride in what they do. And like the crossing guard who—when directing traffic in front of the private school down the road mouths thank you to the driver who she stopped and is now allowing to drive again—they should always strive to be polite. I also want them to see what it means to be a part of a community. We live out the phrase my grandfather used to say in all his prayers before supper. He would ask the Lord to “guard, guide, and direct”. If we can be God’s hands and do this for our fellow man (or woman), then maybe we can make it through this mess!

Earlier this week, someone told me I am the most well adjusted person he knows. To really appreciate this comment, it should be said this is an exceptionally wise person. If he weren’t a resident of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, he’d probably live high in the Himalayan Mountains. People would climb the treacherous cliffs just to ask him deep questions about the meaning of life. Then, he would stroke his long, white beard thoughtfully and answer with something like, “Life is like macaroni and cheese…” and no one would understand his philosophical and enigmatic responses. This is why I started to wonder how I could seem so well adjusted—like I said, he’s a super smart dude…and I fooled him. Kids of preachers and pastors (P.K.’s) are often skilled at making it look like we’ve got it all figured out. Even if no one ever tells you to get your act together because the members of your father’s congregation are looking at you, you can sense it. You sit on the front pew and feel the eyes boring in to your ponytail. You just know they’re watching to see if you fight with your sisters or get too many desserts at the Sunday night potluck dinner. After a while, it’s possible to forget what you really think or feel and only live in the expectations you’ve absorbed from that front pew. But it’s not just for P.K.’s. Being truly authentic will always be a struggle for some of us. And now, with the advent of Facebook, it’s even harder. We’ve become professional image consultants and fact spinners. We’ll post parenting failures and cooking disasters but only to the extent we can control the story. We want to look fallible without looking like a total failure. It’s like the girl who said, “I know this is bad but I’ve never donated blood before. I feel horrible about it but you have to weigh more than 100 lbs.” Yeah, you feel really bad about being TOO SKINNY. That’s a like a backhanded compliment, but with opposite intentions. Of course, it’s possible to be overly transparent. Status updates about eating your placenta or how your marriage is falling apart may be crossing the line. Mark Zuckerberg may think that belongs in my newsfeed but I beg to differ. Transparency is one thing. Ripping open your guts and showing us the contents of your large intestines is another. So how do I strike the right balance to live a life of authenticity? How do I set aside what others think of me and just be honest? Does it involve swearing off mascara and never shaving my legs? Who knows. Maybe it’s different for everybody. What I do know is that I prefer to spend time with people who are honest about their flaws but not consumed by them. They are so busy being interested in others they don’t have time to focus on their own mess. Their mess is out there, not white-washed and swept under the rug, but there for a reason—to keep them humble and empathic. I can’t say it any better than the Skin Horse in The Velveteen Rabbit: “Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’ ‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit. ‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’ ‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’ ‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Our boy loves his daddy. And who could blame him? His daddy is tall and handsome. He’s smart and strong. He can kick the soccer ball and is willing to hold him endlessly in the pool. All adoption-related material about acclimating kids to new parents says that children will often attach themselves to one parent over the other. I’ve read it and seen it in other families, but I guess I never really thought Ezra would gravitate more to Brent. How vain can a girl be? With our kids at home, I was the number one choice and daddy was an acceptable substitute. This may have something to do with the fact that I was the singular source for their nutrition for the first months out of the womb but who knows. I’m not complaining. It’s been such a pleasure watching Brent with Ezra. He’s a natural nurturer, which I already knew. And Ezra hasn’t completely ignored me. He’s allowed me to feed him and rock him. I gave him a shower yesterday and he was fine. Runner-up isn’t so bad, just an adjustment. In the Congo, as in a lot of other African countries, the men are often called papa and the women are called mama. (If you want to call someone “my mother” it’s mama na besu.) It’s a term of familiarity and respect. It shows the village culture at its best: we’re all here to raise these kids because it takes all of us to do it right. Today, I heard Ezra call Brent da-da. This may have been him parroting the times I’ve referred to Brent as daddy, a habit from home. But I’d rather think he said it because Brent has crossed an imaginary line in Ezra’s mind. He’s gone beyond the men around our hotel—Pablo who drove us to the market and high-fives Ezra every day or Carlos who cleans our room and lectures him in Lingala about obeying his parents or Samba who rakes the gravel in the parking lot. Whatever is going on inside his head, he’s starting to trust us. When he wakes up in the morning, he looks unsure of where he is and who we are. After a several minutes of sweet-talking and offering food, he warms up to us. It’s a game we’ve played every day we’ve been here and we’re ready to play it for keeps.

I was unable to post a blog last night (my last night would be your yesterday afternoon). It was a day we’ll refer to as “The Many Faces of Ezra”. I know he doesn’t have a multiple-personality disorder but the thought did cross my mind. At the end of the day, I turned to the wisdom of Napoleon Dynamite on the laptop instead of collecting my thoughts and writing a post. My overall, midweek impression of our boy is that he is a 3-year old. It has been said that God created 3-year olds to make the “Terrible Twos” seem like an overstatement. As with my other darling children, it is an amazing age of “I do it!” from them and “No hitting!” from us. Ezra, like a lot of African children I’ve seen, is remarkably self-sufficient. They make American kids appear pretty wimpy. He can osuba (pee) and osumba (poo) all by himself, and though this week marks the first time he’s sat on a zongo (toilet), he’s taking it all in stride. (He loooves the flushing part. He likes to walk in the bathroom and spit in the potty just so he has an excuse to flush it.) He can put on his sandals all by himself and, like any self-respecting 3-year old, he prefers them to be on the wrong feet. He uses a fork and spoon (sometimes simultaneously) even though he’s probably only eaten with his hands. We got him a Congolese staple for supper last night: fufu. Fufu is hunks of doughy bread that is eaten with stewed meat. This time it was goat. He ate the entire thing like a champ, greasy goat meat and all. He’s amazing. On the other hand, he’s showing himself to be very strong-willed and a bit of a stinker. At the beginning of the week (the time we’ll now refer to as “Shy Ezra Days”), he was happy to just cuddle and kick the soccer ball with Brent. We’ve got great video of him heading the ball and catching it. It’s my unbiased opinion that he’s got the makings of a soccer super star. Now it seems the honeymoon is over. He wants to throw the ball in the pool. He won’t share with the other kids staying at our hotel. He tried to stab Brent with a plastic fork and thought it was hilarious. Before bedtime, after he’d been especially aggressive toward Papa (Brent) and I had fussed at him and told him “Te!” (no), he gave me an “eat dirt” look (like a smile it is the same in all languages) and he threw himself on the floor for the cold shoulder treatment. I tried to lie next to him but he would always roll over, away from me. He wasn’t wanting maternal comfort. I had hurt his feelings. I know he’s testing us. He’s trying to see how far he can push us and what we’ll do about it. The African parenting culture looks different than what we’re used to. We Americans tend to pet and coo over our kids more. His caretakers up to this point have probably been a little more stern and a little less smiling. This is not a critique of African parents. God help us all when it comes to raising kids. It’s just a different set of cues and facial expressions for Ezra to learn how to read. At first, he may have seen us as pushovers. (“This white mama just cries and kisses me”) Hopefully, he’s realizing that we’re firm but devoted. We’re meeting his needs and thereby proving ourselves to him. It’s a lot of work but terribly rewarding.

After more than 24 hours since our departure flight from Nashville, we have arrived safely in Kinshasa. Flying internationally can be fraught with mishaps, and this trip marks the farthest either of us has ever traveled from home. Our adventure began with the first of many “How Did We Get Here?” moments. Our good friend Mary dropped us off at the airport. When we went to weigh our luggage, three of the four suitcases were over the 50-pound weight limit, each by five or ten pounds a piece. This forced us to open our carefully packed suitcases, exposing all manner of undergarments, and re-evaluate the contents. We were able to move enough things around and only threw away a box of sidewalk chalk and a couple of cans of sunscreen and bug spray. (Don’t worry. We still have plenty.) At some point in the second half of the trip, the exhausted, ridiculous part of my brain staged a coup to take over all operations form the reasonable part of my brain. Let me explain: Three songs started playing in rotation in my head—“All About that Bass,” the theme song from the Bill Cosby show “Picture Pages,” and “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” There’s no rhyme or reason why these songs wouldn’t leave me alone. I tried to listen to music and watch movies on the tiny screens mounted on the back of the headrests, but nothing worked. I also started thinking every fellow passenger was a celebrity. There was singer/actor Lenny Kravitz just across the aisle. And is that master magician David Copperfield sitting in front of him? Of course not. I was just experiencing airplane cabin fever. It is now almost midnight on Monday in Kinshasa. In just a few hours, we’re supposed to meet our son at his orphanage. It feels like I’m getting ready for the most important blind date of my life. Will he like me? What will we talk about? What should I wear? My greatest source of comfort, other than my belief in a God who created the Sahara desert and jet streams strong enough to hold up an Airbus while you fly over the Sahara desert, is the people who have chosen to walk this journey with us. When we started unpacking at the hotel tonight, Brent showed me a package Mary secretly gave him before taking us to the airport. It’s from the beloved girls from my Bible study group. Inside was the most beautiful leather journal with Africa embossed on the front. I started to read the many letters also included in the package, but I had to stop. I’ll ration them out along with the letters my friend Amy had our kids write to us and another bundle of letters from friends who came to Betsy and Robert’s house to pray for us last Saturday. What a great cloud of witnesses! My cup overflows.

In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice; in the morning I lay my requests before you and wait expectantly. Psalm 5:3 On Monday morning, after the safe delivery of my kids to school and before I started my errands, I paused for a moment of prayer. I sat on the lonely end of the loveseat in our living room where no one usually sits because of the poor angle it affords to anyone trying to watch television. I closed my eyes, and spread out my hands—palms up—ready to catch any blessings that might fall from the heavens. I said, “Lord, today the parliament in the Democratic Republic of the Congo is set to return from their summer break. According to rumor, they’re supposed to approve the laws already written that will lift the suspension that has prevented us from bringing Ezra home. As you will no doubt remember, it has been just shy of twelve months since this suspension was put in place. We are ready for action. Brent and I have decided to pray boldly, to expect you to listen and act. We’re begging for your intervention. We need to see you in this. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” As soon as I had finished, the phone rang. My breath caught in my chest and my hands grew cold. As I walked to grab the cordless in the kitchen, I calculated the time in Congo. Could it be? Is this the embassy calling to tell me we can go and get him? Impressive turn-around time, Lord! Imagine my disappointment when I realized it was the dentist office, calling to confirm the kids’ appointments for their cleanings the next day. Now, I’m not one to tell the Lord how to do his job (For who can know the mind of God?), but that would’ve been pretty cool. Recently, a friend told me how much she admired our family’s waiting during these years of trying to rescue our African son. I mumbled some words of humble gratitude in reply, but what I really wanted to say was “what choice do we have?” Waiting is our only option. Later, I considered the truth of waiting. It seems like the most passive way to spend your time, but there’s more to it. When all the facts point to God’s dormancy, He’s still spinning the planets and granting favor to us in ways we don’t realize or acknowledge him for. Last Friday, a new friend poured out the story of her son’s drowning, coma, and resurrection just outside our workout gym. She didn’t know about our adoption struggle but God does and he sent her to tell me that God is listening. She told me that saying “if only…” limits my belief in his power. As soon as I got home, our neighbor called me to her backyard to tell me that she and her husband will soon celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. She told me, “God is faithful, through the good times and the bad. He’s always there.” The next day, a salesperson at the hardware store asked Brent if he knew Jesus. The elderly man told Brent he had tried to kill himself three times but God had miraculously prevented him from dying every time. He said God was real and powerful and he wants to bless us. Granted, we live in the South, and there are churches on every corner but the undiluted presentation of these testimonies had to be the result of God’s faithfulness. He knew we were worried and anxious for news. He sent us these three ambassadors of encouragement because he could read our thoughts and analyze our deepest emotions. Our modern, western culture works against us when it comes to waiting. There was a time, not so long ago, when a wife or mother would send her husband or son off on a voyage that would take months or even years to complete. Often, all of that time would be spent without knowing anything. No letters, no phone calls, not even a fax. Now we have no patience for having to wait. Our desire for immediate gratification has created a slew of problems but my biggest is what to do with this downtime. When was the last time you stood in a line? Try not looking at your phone and see how awkward you feel. What do I do with my hands? Careful with the people-watching, stalker! Okay, now I’m so bored, I’m getting sleepy. It’s ridiculous. So I’m challenging myself to spend this “waiting room time” praying expectantly. When I read James 1:6, 7: “But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord,” I was kind of like “Shut up, James…” but then I started to see his point. If my faith is wholly dependent on favorably answered prayers, then it’s not faith at all. It’s a hypothesis being measured in columns of YES and NO. I don’t want a business relationship with the All-Mighty where I send in a grocery list and he sends it back with the requested goods. If that was my intention, I’d worship at Target. After so many ups and downs, I question why we are called to pray expectantly. Does God delight in watching us get our hopes up only to see them crash to the floor in a million pieces? Surely not. That isn’t the way he is depicted in the Scriptures. There I see a Father who wants good for his children. He’s just and firm, but he’s also compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in love and faithfulness. This is the Lord I serve. He is the One who knows all and sees all. And I will pray expectantly (and humbly) for a 3-year old boy in an orphanage in the Congo to be allowed to come home.

In June of 2012, our family was matched with a beautiful African boy to be his forever family. Wait, let me back up… In July of 2011, my husband and I began the process to adopt internationally, choosing the Democratic Republic of the Congo as our future child’s birthplace. Nope. I’ve got to go back a little further… In August of 2010, our youngest child was preparing to head off to kindergarten. I asked my husband if he would consider adopting to add to our family. He wasn’t ready so I waited and prayed, and I did the thing I’m horrible at doing—nothing. I didn’t nag or scheme or guilt him into agreeing with my plan to adopt. I waited. And we continue to wait. Our son was 15 months old when we were matched to him. Now at 3 ½, we can’t point to any concrete prospects for his imminent release to us. We feel foolish at times. We play the “what if” game nearly every day. (What if we had started earlier? What if we had picked a different country?) We pound our fists on the floor when we cry out to God during the low times and we smile and sigh when we get new pictures of our boy. But, no mater what, we still wait. This week, I was reminded of Noah. You know the story: God looked around at the wickedness of His people and decided to start over. He told Noah to build a boat for his family and the animals because a flood was coming. He followed God’s instructions and made the ark. The rains came down and the floods came up (wrong Sunday school song but it works here), and they were saved. Cue rainbow. End scene. Then I got to thinking about how it took Noah 120 years to build the ark. That’s about 43,000 mornings of Noah waking up, dragging his 500-year old body out the bed, and starting another day of carpentry with his sons. And you know how difficult it can be to work with your children. I’m sure there were days when Shem gathered the wrong kind of wood. (I asked for gopher wood! Gopher wood! Is that so difficult?!) Ham was acting like a…well, a ham, trying to walk across the upper beams like a tightrope walker. And don’t get me started on Japheth! The baby of the family was always complaining about a splinter in his finger or his sandal was rubbing against his ankle or the male and female tigers had attacked him. Always something with that Japheth! Even though it took 120 years to build the ark, the Lord held off the rain until they were finished. He told Noah when to begin and then He watched Noah & Sons Building Co. as they were faithful to his word. He watched them measure every cubit and round up every animal. They continued to work without a definite sign the world would be destroyed by flood and God saw them. This Bible story I’ve heard countless times was a blessing to me, a boon to my sometimes flagging spirit. I believe God gave us a charge, not to build a boat but to save a child. He gave us a start time and I believe He’s watching us as we wait for the finish. It may not end the way we’re expecting (Could Noah have ever imagined he’d see something as glorious as a rainbow?) but I’m trusting God knows how it’s supposed to end. I’m praying we’ll get to bring our Ezra home soon, the same prayer we’ve said every day for two years. And I’ll keep on praying, even if this lasts 120 years. Cue rainbow. End scene.