Growing up I was like most kids, flitting from one career path to another. I wanted to cut hair or bake pies or be an acrobat in the circus. My possible future professions were sometimes based on one afternoon’s experience: giving my cousin bangs (whoops!) or baking muffins without a mix or receiving a compliment on my monkey-bars prowess. The passion for this new skill came with a sudden and heady anticipation but it left almost as quickly. I still cut hair from time to time and I’ve been known to do some baking, but they don’t inspire me or give my life meaning. (I’m not much of a monkey-bar girl anymore. My husband does make me watch American Ninja Warrior, though.) My real and lasting dream job—the one I would barely even admit to myself—was to be an author. In my private moments, I would imagine typing away (on a typewriter, “Murder She Wrote” style) in my writing cabin out in the woods. I would carefully script my interview on Oprah when she would introduce my book as the next “Oprah Book Club” pick. (“Thanks, Oprah! I’m so glad you enjoyed reading it. No, you’reamazing! I’m just a regular gal.”) So that’s what makes the last few months so special for me. If getting your book published makes you an author, then I’ve accomplished a big chunk of my bucket list. Actually that may be my whole list. (It’s a very small bucket.) The culmination of this dream-come-true experience has been my book signing events. My first one was at the home of my good friend, Melissa. It was open to anyone who wanted to stop by and pick up a signed book. There was definitely a baby shower atmosphere, with a few alterations. Here’s the formula: Melissa’s party = (Baby Shower – Baby/Gifts) x (Book + Signature) + tiny pecan pies It was amazing and a huge ego trip. Everyone who came already liked me and are sweet enough to congratulate me and buy a book even if I’d written one about mold spores. The next event was at my Alma Mater, Lipscomb University, during their summer lectureship. One evening after the keynote address, I sat at a table and chatted with people next to where the manager from the bookstore sold my books. They were so gracious and encouraging, but this came as no surprise. I was a student at the elementary, middle, and high schools affiliated with the university. Both my parents worked there. I was just a hometown girl who came home. I spoke to many people I didn’t know but my connection to the university bridged that gap. The next stop on my book tour was at the Vanderbilt Barnes and Noble store. Here, I took a much larger step out of my comfort zone. Though some very good friends stopped by to visit, most of the people I met were total strangers. I was forced to sell my brand, something I’m not very good at. I knew it would be more difficult, so I came prepared. Since my book is set mostly in Tennessee in the 1920’s and 1930’s, I passed out mini Moon Pies to the people who came over to inquire about my book. (According to their website, “The Moon Pie brand was born in 1917” and created by the Chattanooga Bakery. Perfect!) I stamped little bags, slipped a Moon Pie in them with my business card, and Voila! Chocolate bribery! The most difficult part of the book signing, other than the sweaty palms and awkward small talk, was deciding how to actually sign my books. Down to the final minutes before I left for my first event, I was still trying to decide what I would write. Would I go for something inspirational? “Reach for the stars!” or “Never, never, never give up on your dreams!” How about something a little more practical? “Final sale. No returns.” I wanted to have my own catch phrase like Ed McMahon or Fat Albert, but nothing came to me. I finally decided on something simple but true: God bless. It’s probably overused, especially in the South, but it’s no less true. For anyone who buys my book, even if they just want to use it as a coaster, I could wish for nothing better than God’s blessings. It’s also been a constant reminder to me that, yes, God blesses. He has blessed me more than I could ever deserve or acknowledge and it’s never been more true than with my book. So…God bless, ya’ll!

Hello. My name is Abby and I’m a people-pleaser. If you’ve spent much time with me or others from my tribe (or you are also a fellow PP), you know that we yearn to tell you something you want to hear. If there’s a lull in the conversation, I’ll get you talking about yourself. I’ve done it for so long now, I give off a scent that alerts strangers to share very personal information with me. I’m the Barbara Walters of Murfreesboro. I recently went to a store to get a new battery for my watch. This particular store only sells batteries and light bulbs, a very specific inventory the salespeople are eager to explain in depth to you. I really needed to go to the bathroom, so when the clerk finished installing my battery and asked me if I knew about their new line of light bulbs, I should have told him I wasn’t interested and hightailed it home. Due to my condition (PP), I begin asking probing questions about the decline of the incandescent bulb and the halogen vs. LED debate. I REALLY had to go to the bathroom (pee-pee), but I allowed him to escort me to the display where I could compare the color and quality of the different bulbs. I am my own worst enemy. I also don’t enjoy being the bearer of bad news. So when friends ask about the progress of our adoption, I’m crestfallen. Obviously, the majority of my disappointment is because we haven’t brought our two-year old son home from Africa, in spite of the fact that we’ve been matched to him for over a year. Another part of my sadness, though, is that I can’t say: “We’re leaving Thursday!” That would be the ultimate people-pleasing moment. And no one would be more pleased than my family and me. The longer I’ve been in this holding pattern, the harder it’s been to battle the demon so easily accessible to me: Bitterness. Yesterday, I heard a news story about a Tennessee Congresswoman who’s taking on a new fight. She got wind of the Government’s plan to create new standards for the ceiling fan industry and she just won’t stand for it. She recently took on the new laws about the incandescent bulbs, too. (I know of a certain light bulb fanatic she might be interested in…) Several months ago I contacted her office to ask if she could help bring focus to the plight of the many children waiting unnecessarily to be adopted. They told me we don’t live in her district so she is unable to help. Now if only I had a ceiling fan complaint, then she would’ve been all ears! Cynicism is the fast food version of dealing with your feelings. I can run pass the drive-thru and get a greasy bag full of anger and resentment with a side of blaming others. Or I can sit down at the dinner table with my disappointment and hash it out. I tell myself that life is full of frustration and for most of the world it’s much, much worst. I say, “Buck up, Grouchy-Pants. Just keep doing the best you can,” but that will only get you so far. I want news. I want GOOD news. I want GOOD news NOW. So that’s my update for today. We’re still waiting. We hoped to travel this summer but it doesn’t look likely. Not very pleasing. Sorry.

In certain circumstances it may be just as satisfying to be the runner-up as being named the winner. For instance, according to the International Ice Cream Association, vanilla is by far the preferred ice cream flavor over #2 choice, chocolate. Not one to dither over arbitrary titles, I’ll happily take a scoop of each. In most cases, though, we don’t want to be the alternate, the understudy, the substitute. When the man of her dreams is kneeling before her with an open box in one hand, she’d rather not hear, “You weren’t my first choice but you came in a close second. Will you marry me?” On the highlight reel of her life, that invitation would come just before getting her older sister’s hand-me-downs and finding out her new ride is the family’s old minivan. That’s the educational equivalent of walking into a classroom and telling the students you are their substitute teacher. Every child responds differently. Some greet this news with anxiety. Others welcome the occasional change to liven things up. Then there are those streetwise and entrepreneurial students who quickly size you up to determine how much of a fool you are and what they can get away with. When I recently filled in for a second grade teacher while she was away on her honeymoon, I met one such Machiavellian eight year-old. I had read them a story about a group of friends who build a clubhouse. After we finished, I dismissed them to their desks to draw a floor plan of their own clubhouse. One little girl grabbed me and said, “Whenever we design a clubhouse, we alwaysget to use pipe cleaners and beads and glue and googly eyes. I know where they are. I can get them out.” I gave her the look I’ve been perfecting for the last year and a half I’ve been substitute teaching. It’s a mixture of my “I’m-shocked-by-your-behavior!” look and my “You’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me” look. It involves some major eyebrow acrobatics but it’s pretty effective. I gave her a blank sheet of printer paper and sent her to her desk. My no-nonsense approach is meant to convey that though I’m not the real thing, I’m the next best thing…and I’m all you’ve got today. A substitute teacher who wants to survive must have this approach or she’ll hear “That’s not the way Mrs. _____ does it!” all day long. I wasn’t the only one who had to deal with the reality of being a substitute that week. I was surprised to learn that in the second grade, there is note-passing. Here’s the first one I found: Transcript- Boy: I like you, _______. (I erased the name to protect her identity.) Girl #1: Cool. Will you give me candy? Boy: Yes ________. Girl #1: Fun dip please! OK? Boy: OK. Don’t tell nobody Girl #1: OK. And I want lolypops She’s playing him like a violin made of Fun Dip and lollipops, right? Well, the saga continues. I found another note crumpled under a desk, same boy but different girl. It read: Girl #2: Who do you like the most? Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2. He’s a player.) Girl #2: Can you tell me who you like the 2nd best? Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). Okay Girl #2: What about 3rd? Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). Girl #2: 4th? Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). Girl #2: 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th? Boy: You, ______ (Girl #2). All the time. Girl #2: Really? Boy: Yes. OK but for the record I don’t like you. I like _________ (Girl #1) Gasp! Girl #2: Who do you like more, me or _______ (Girl #1)? Boy: I will think about it. Love is not for those with fragile hearts! The second girl was smart to check where she stood with Casanova, Jr. After she realized her iffy spot in his affections, she was gone. No matter how much Fun Dip you’re promised, it’s not worth it to play second fiddle when the fiddler’s a player.

When I was in middle and high school, my older sister had the coolest best friend. She over-flowed with a bubbly confidence. Her constant gum-chewing gave her a nonchalance I envied. She perfected a wink that punctuated her statements with self-assurance. Not one to wear the latest fashion, (During the Keds craze, my sisters and I drew blue rectangles on the back of our Walmart sneakers to give the near-sighted passerby the impression we were wearing the real thing. It was a temporary fix, unfortunately, because we used dry erase markers.) I was always thrilled when I got her hand-me-downs. She knew how to dress and fix her hair. She was a cheerleader and she had a boyfriend whose letter jacket she often wore. There was something so effortless about her sophistication. As a chronic over-thinker, I felt like an awkward goofball in her presence. I studied her winking and tried to incorporate it into my conversations but it didn’t work. Instead, people asked me if I had something in my eye. I couldn’t keep up with the fashion trends, even if I knew what they were. I didn’t have a boyfriend and I wasn’t a cheerleader. I came to realize I would never achieve the level of coolness I saw in my sister’s friend. Now that I am old(er), I see cool in a different way. When friends arrange a birthday lunch for me or a prayer session for our pending adoption, I see cool. When my husband works hard all day then comes home to play soccer outside with our son even though he’s exhausted, I see cool. When teachers use their free time to work with struggling kids and their own money to buy these kids books at the Book Fair, I see cool. The lack of effort used to impress me. That’s the false claim of youth: Don’t act like you care. Now I’m impressed when I see someone exert an effort they didn’t know they had to do the things that need to be done without expecting anything in return. Giving that last bit of energy or brainpower or spending money is what amazes me now. It would be so easy just to let someone else make the effort. What if we all stopped coloring the back of our sneakers and got busy being the real thing—the hands and feet of Jesus?

(This is an homage to one of my favorites books, Alexander’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, but I’ve tricked it out…mom-style.) When I woke up this morning I realized that I forgot to take out my contacts last night. I tried to peel them off my eyeballs but they clung to them like second skin. I finally just gave up and left them in with the understanding that I would spend the day blinking and peering through a fog. After more investigating in the bathroom mirror, I found a long blond hair sprouting out the middle of my forehead. It wasn’t there yesterday. How could it grow so quickly? Did I accidentally replace my regular moisturizer with Miracle-Gro? I got the kids out the door for school. When I returned home I emptied the dishwasher. After all the plates and flatware and drinking glasses were neatly put away, I realized the dishwasher detergent was still in the dispenser, a chalky, soapy chunk. The hot water is what really sanitizes the dishes anyway, right? Starting my period really caught me off-guard. I was totally unprepared with supplies. (I’ve only been doing this nearly every month since I was twelve.) The only feminine hygiene products in the house were those giant pillow pads they pass out in the hospital after you give birth. I decided they would be better than nothing. I make a grocery list and head out to Kroger. I get all the way in the store before realizing that I left my reusable bags in the car. I turn around to go back and fetch them but the automatic doors will have none of that. You know how some doors that say “ENTER” are fairly loose in their interpretation of the term? “Enter…Exit…I don’t give a care.” Well, these doors were really sticking to their guns. I stepped forward, anticipating them to spread apart and ran into them instead. While perusing the produce section my list got sprayed by the automatic vegetable mister. Then I hit my head on one of those thoughtlessly placed hanging scales. They obviously don’t want me too near the vegetables. I spent most of the day running errands. When my list seems too long for the allotted time, I give myself pep talks. “Okay, you can do this! Just go to three more places and it’s back home!” At a recent soccer game, I got a mosquito bite down the front of my shirt. I was doing an indecent amount of scratching as I drove around town. This fact, plus the talking to myself, plus the stress twitch I had developed in my right eye, all added up to me looking like a crazy person who should not be allowed among regular people. When it was time to pick the kids up from school, I noticed how hot the afternoon had become. I went to change into shorts and then I paused. I hadn’t shaved anything above my knees all through the winter, jeans-wearing months. Now I had a nice set of bangs to set off my Bermudas. That’s why God made capris. (One could use the same logic that God also made bikinis, but we know Him to be a lovingGod. I’m pretty sure Adam made the first bikini for Eve. It was part of her punishment for eating the fruit—bikinis and painful, messy childbirth.) After homework was finished, supper was eaten, baths were taken, and children were in bed, it was time to breathe (and get my eye to stop twitching). I don’t know how full-time working moms do it! How do they get it all done when they’re away from home eight hours everyday? I’m in awe of them! There are days when I feel rushed and pulled and rung out, and I know that working moms have those days much more often. They are my heroes!

When Spring Break rolled around last week, we were faced with five whole weekdays with no work or school but also no plans. Though we knew it was coming, we had treated the week with hesitancy. When the optimistic part of your brain is in a constant state of hope for travel news about the final stages of an adoption making plans that include family vacations—events that require both time-off and money—are tricky. A few days before the week began, I called up our dear friends who live in Memphis to make sure they’d be in town: We were westward bound! We booked a Quality Suites in a nicer part of town with an indoor pool and Continental breakfast. We could’ve just stopped there. If push came to shove, our kids would be cool with a deepish puddle and a waffle maker. That was about all the hotel had to recommend itself but that was okay. We were actually going for three main reasons: 1) To see old friends, 2) To show the kids where we used to live, grocery shop, worship, etc., and 3) To get out of town. We arrived on Monday afternoon. Our first stop was the house we moved to after we’d been married a couple of years. (Fun fact: It dead-ends into Rosser Road.) It looked basically the same: It had the same brownish gray wood siding and the grass still won’t grow under the large oak trees in the front. The new owners had upgraded the mailbox from the one we had. Ours came with the house. It was topped off with a metal silhouette of a couple on a bicycle. Considering that it’s now a very basic, very plain, standard-issue black metal mailbox, I don’t know if that really qualifies as an upgrade. The “bicycle-built-for-two” mailbox was probably a collector’s item. After our car ride down memory lane, we went to our friends’ house. Russ and Amy moved to a different house in town just before we left Memphis but for a big chunk of our time there they had lived across the street from us. In other words, the couple on the two-seater Schwinn on our mailbox could’ve pedaled to their house in about thirty seconds. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly six years, but we picked back up with a comfort and familiarity you only experience with old friends that have been your rescue. That may sound a bit over-reaching but it’s true. I have friends from high school that I can go for years without seeing and then—click—we’re back to our same roles, our same conversation shorthand. That’s because we were each other’s rescue from the teen years. It’s the same with Russ and Amy. We were young adults together, navigating responsibilities like church work and trash day. We were newlyweds together, discussing what was normal to fight about and cheap to serve for supper. We were new parents together…no explanation necessary. We’re still trying to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing. We spent Monday night laughing and reminiscing and watching our kids blend seamlessly like they’d never been apart. On Tuesday, we went to Graceland. If you’ve never been to Elvis’ home I highly recommend it. Our kids have now been to the Trifecta of American Homes: The White House? Check. The Biltmore? Check. Graceland? Check! Afterwards we went to lunch at our favorite hamburger joint, Huey’s. Then we took a tour of the children’s hospital where Brent used to work. Guess which part was the kids’ least favorite? Luckily, it was Resident Appreciation Week and they were serving frozen yogurt in the conference room. Phew! Barely missed a huge Whine-a-Palooza! (If your kids don’t whine at some point, it’s not a real family vacation.) We took the kids back to the hotel to squeeze in a little swim time before returning to our friends’ house for supper. The kids needed to splash and yell a bit after Graceland lines and hospital tours. While they were swimming, they took turns baptizing each other. After Ella took Knox’s confession and gave him a good dunk, he looked at me and asked, “Does that count?” “Does what count?” I asked. “Ella just baptized me. Does it count?” Hmmm. “No, honey. Daddy wasn’t watching. When you do it for real I’ll make sure he’s not on his cell.” It’s been almost nine years since we left Memphis but we still carry it around with us. No, I’m not suggesting that Brent wears a white, bedazzled jumpsuit under his clothes every day. I’m also not saying that we are renovating our house into the shape of the Pyramid. What I mean to say is that during the years (eight for Brent and about 6 1/2 for me) we lived in Memphis we became “BrentandAbby,” an entity, a team, a force to be reckoned with. We did the “leave and cleave” God was so jazzed about in Genesis. After five years of married bliss, we brought home 10 pounds of beautiful baby girl. (That’s 10 lbs divided by two, for any of you mathematicians out there. Our twin daughters weighed about 5 lbs each.) If our marriage were a book, Memphis would be a really pivotal chapter most likely titled “Campbell Soup and Grilled Cheese again?” or maybe “Making Our Dreams Come True (Or Other Phrases from the Lavergne & Shirley Theme Song).” Either way, it would be an amazing chapter!

A few nights ago, I awoke to the sight of my daughter Ella standing by my side of the bed fully dressed, wet hair combed, and ready for school. I glanced at the clock—12:45 am. “What’s the matter?” I asked, groggily. “My alarm went off so I took my shower,” she replied. “I guess it was just a dream.” “Go back to bed. It’s the middle of the night,” I told her. “Should I change?” she asked, pointing down at her blue jeans, t-shirt, and cardigan. “No. Just go to bed.” The next morning I reflected on the weird sleep practices of my kids and I did what I always do when it comes to oddities in my offspring—I blamed it on my husband. Before we were married, I heard stories from Brent’s roommates about his frequent sleepwalking (or sometimes sleep running). Once he was found sitting in the corner of his dorm room playing an invisible video game complete with sound effects of his own making. After we were married, Brent continued with his nighttime activities. Once, I was shocked awake when he stood at the foot of our bed, yelled “Spiders!” and ripped the covers off me. For a Labor Day weekend early in our marriage, we went to the beach with another married couple. We were too poor to get separate hotel rooms, so the four of us shared one room with two queen-sized beds. All through the night Brent attempted to answer the hotel phone that never rang. He also picked up a large cardboard carton of Whoppers candy. Slowly he turned it upside down, letting the hard chocolate candy balls bump into each other, creating a rainfall of clattering sounds. Not satisfied with the level of noise he had just made, he slowly turned the carton right side up, creating the racket again. Our friends lay in the bed next to us, shaking with laughter. Now that we’ve been married more than fifteen years, I’ve noticed that his crazy sleep behavior has pretty much disappeared, or I’ve learned how to sleep through it. Now his only sleep-related strangeness comes in the form of dreams. We’ll be standing in our shared bathroom in the morning following a dream-filled night. As I insert my contacts, he’ll tell me some ridiculous scenario involving a person he hasn’t seen since middle school, his job at a McDonald’s with a malfunctioning cash register, and a sudden locale change to his grand parents’ house that was swiftly filling up with miniature marshmallows. It’s always a weird feeling to get a few hours into your day before you see someone who you realize was in your dream. Even if his role in your dream is completely innocent, it feels oddly intimate and slightly embarrassing to see him. Recently and in the span of a few days, two different people told me they had a dream about me. In one instance, I was giving birth to a baby. In the other one, I was in a house packed full of kids. No matter if these dreams foreshadow any baby news or they just predict a future slumber, these dreams encourage me. They’re not embarrassing at all. These dreamers were thinking of me even in their subconscious. They could’ve been dreaming about marshmallows or spiders or Whoppers but their minds were full of me and kids.

After waking up my son Knox for school this morning, we lingered a while in his bed discussing possible ways to make his bedroom more toddler-friendly before bringing home a new little brother/roommate. Involuntarily, I found myself saying “if,” instead of “when.” “We should go through all of the tiny pieces that go with your Star Wars figures if we bring Ezra home…” Fortunately, Knox didn’t catch my slip-up. He happily jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen like always. I, on the other hand, have felt burdened by this alteration in my vocabulary. My hope has waxed and waned throughout our adoption process but I have recently felt myself spending more time at the “Depressed Pessimist” side of the spectrum as opposed to the “Expectant Optimist” side. With document expiration dates looming in the very near future, we’ve begun the updating process for our files. Nearly all of the paperwork we filled out so many months ago must now be filled out again. The first time was exciting. This time is just depressing. Kind friends encourage me with: “Just keep praying!” They say, “Trust God’s perfect timing!” I hear their words but it doesn’t ring true. I can’t imagine that God is pleased with orphans having to wait for a family. How can He approve of the under-staffed Embassy that makes investigating these cases take so long? Is He busy elsewhere when children die of malnutrition and diarrhea when they simply need something to eat and clean water to drink? From my inferior, earthly point of view, God’s timing really stinks. So there’s the chasm I must jump to have a faith that can move mountains. Trusting God when everything’s going great is a breeze. Trusting God when He’s not going in the direction nor at the speed I’d prefer feels foolish and a waste of time. So I ask myself, who was I reallytrusting when there was smooth sailing and calm water for as far as the eye could see? God doesn’t change but I have more moods swings than a Miss America pageant has costume changes. My consolation during this Faith Battle Royale that’s being waged in my heart and mind is my faith in Him doesn’t change His faithfulness toward me. He is the same God no matter how poorly I try to define Him. His power isn’t diminished just because I can’t see the evidence of it. He is gravity, tethering me to this Earth with invisible bands. I can spend the rest of my days denying the existence of gravity–something I can’t see or hold–but I can’t escape its reality. I’m grateful for the friends who continue to pray for our son and the millions of other children who need families. I have days when my prayers seem to bounce back to me like a hollow echo–empty and mocking. It’s a great encouragement to know that when I can’t (or won’t) pray, there are others who step in to fill that chasm.

I wept into my Kleenex as I watched the cast of Les Miserables on the Oscars a few weeks ago. They sang a medley of three songs: “Suddenly,” “I Dreamed a Dream, and “One Day More.” I’m always a sucker for Broadway musicals. And I’ll see just about anything live. There’s an adrenaline rush for me in spite of the fact that I’m just an observer. Maybe this heart palpitation can be attributed to my own oft-times disastrous experiences on the stage. When I was in the second grade, my classmates were set to perform a Christmas program. I was selected to be one of the graceful Sugar Plum Fairies. I won’t say more, but you can read the rest of the incident in my post called “Scars”. (Spoiler: I was neither graceful nor good at remembering my line.) In the third grade, we performed a play all about Johnny Appleseed. I had the honor and distinction of being the first person to have a line. I was supposed to be one of several grandchildren who runs onstage and awakens their sleeping grandpa. Then I was supposed to say “Grandpa! Grandpa! Read us a story!” They asked the “grandchildren” to wear pajamas for their costumes. My mom made me a looong white nightgown. As I climbed the stage right steps, I stepped on the front of my nightgown. In a split second, I was facedown in front of the entire audience as they awaited my line. Did I run out crying? No! The show must go on, so I mustered up every bit of courage and soldiered on. In fourth grade, the theme for our play was the life of Thomas Jefferson. We sang songs about the Louisiana Purchase and the Whirligig–the spinning desk chair he invented. We also sang a song about the debate between the Secretary of Treasury (Alexander Hamilton) and the Secretary of State (Thomas Jefferson). It was high drama, folks! My part was a narrator/townsperson who explained the importance of the debate while fellow townspeople marched in a circle behind me with protest signs in their hands. I had a fairly long paragraph to memorize and it took a lot of concentration to recite it. This was only made more difficult when I was whacked in the back of the head with a protest sign in the middle of my monologue. Did I falter? I can’t really remember. The rest of the play is kind of foggy from there forward. In the seventh grade, I tried out for a part in “Friends Forever,” a Michael W. Smith musical full of parents who don’t understand, friends that move away, and a Boys vs. Girls number called “Get Real.” I got the part of Janet, the girl who moved away. I’m pretty sure I gave a heartbreaking performance every practice. It was a real tear-jerker. On a rainy day before the big night, we were asked to perform “Get Real” in front of the student body after Chapel. In the song the girls and boys faced each other on stage, taking turns advancing on the other group while snapping and singing. That was my limit of coordination. We were supposed to wear sunglasses for the song and I had left mine in the classroom. I asked our teacher if I could run and get them. When I returned, chapel was still in progress so I planned to sneak in the front and sit with my fellow actors on a front pew. Instead, when I entered the room my foot slipped on the wet floor and the momentum I had gained while running to the class and back carried me, on my rear and splayed out on the wet linoleum, across the front of the school. Humiliation galore. I wished I were actually moving away like Janet. I developed an even greater appreciation for the theater when I was in high school. Despite our relatively small school, we had a really active drama group and I was thrilled to be involved in any way possible. When I was a freshman I was scenery, a.k.a. a “bench sitter.” Over the next few years, I helped with props, lights, and sound. I was stage manager and assistant director. I recorded lighting cues and fed lines to forgetful actors. When we put on a performance of Miracle Worker, the story of Helen Keller and her teacher Annie Sullivan, I wrote down each move that Helen and Annie made during a silent food fight. They had to recreate this blocking every time they performed it, grabbing handfuls of scrambled eggs and throwing them in the exact same sequence for every performance. I finally tried to sneak out from behind the curtain and be on stage again my junior year. Our spring musical was The King and I. Our director had already asked me to be Stage Manager but she said I could also have a small part on stage. I auditioned to be one of the king’s daughters. I lied about my height—the princesses were supposed to be 5 feet tall or shorter but I was more like 5’3”—and I got the part. When they stood me up with the other princes and princesses my deceit was revealed and I was told I had to be a prince instead. Was I embarrassed to play a boy? Please read the above paragraphs. I would only embarrass myself if, while playing a boy I also: a) tripped, b) got hit in the head, and c) flubbed my lines. What’s the chance of that happening? I would need to enter the Bermuda Triangle of Embarrassment. I am a Drama Nerd but I’ve never been much of a Drama Queen. There are a million differences between a “Drama Nerd” and a “Drama Queen.” The most obvious one? A Drama Queen rules her kingdom through revealing, public episodes of high emotion and intrigue. A Drama Nerd is the master of no kingdom; her fiefdom is theatrical information, song lyrics, and internal emotions. When I think back on my high school years with my fellow Drama Nerds, I can’t help but smile. We spent all of our free time painting sets and searching for props and laughing…we did a lot of laughing. I wouldn’t switch to Drama Queen for anything. Who wants to be a queen all by herself when she can be a nerd with a bunch of friends?

It’s so easy to complain. That’s what I was thinking during the forty-five minutes I spent cutting hair that had wound itself around the brushes and rollers of my vacuum cleaner making it overheat and smell the way my hair dryer does when I get hair caught in the fan end. By the time I was finished, I had a giant hairball the size of my head in the laundry room trashcan. How gross! Poor me! Then I reminded myself how fortunate I am to have a vacuum cleaner at all or carpet or even such a surplus of hair! (Confession: Most of that hairball was mine. I have a lot of very long hair.) If I board the Complain Train this easily then I am spoiled. I think most anyone who is reading this post can relate, at least to a certain extent. (If you’re reading this I’m assuming you have access to the Internet and the ability to read thereby defining you as wealthy by most of the world’s standards. Prepare to feel abashed.) It’s ridiculous the things that make me mad or give me the “right” (I tried to do quote fingers while I typed that but it didn’t work) to complain. So I started a list of ways that we are spoiled: -When I unwrapped a cough drop the other day, the wrapper was printed with an encouraging message: “You can beat this!” It’s a cold not cancer. Am I really so weak that I need to hear from my cough drop that I’m going to make it through this nasal congestion? -I hear commercials all the time for “Sedation Dentistry.” I find this hilarious. I hate getting plaque scraped off my teeth as much as anyone else but I don’t have to be knocked out to survive the experience. I just clench my buttocks cheeks together and bear it. That way I get a teeth cleaning and workout my glutes at the same time! -When we go to a restaurant and the hostess gives us one of those light-up coasters and says that it’ll be thirty minutes before we’ll be seated, I internally go ballistic. It doesn’t show outwardly but I’m thinking, “Why doesn’t this place have call-ahead seating? I should be able to walk into any dining establishment, pass the suckers sitting on faux leather benches, and instantly get a table for five because I called ahead and said, ‘Save me a table! I am coming! You live to serve me!’” Why should we get seated before people who drove in their cars and physically walked into the restaurant before us just because we had the forethought to make a phone call? -Remember when you scheduled your evening around television shows? You knew that if you missed The Cosby Show on Thursday night everyone would be talking about it at school on Friday and it would ruin your day to be left out of the conversation. I’m not suggesting that we miss out on non-TV related events because we don’t want to miss our shows, but now we have a million ways to watch those shows later. My kids can’t understand why the television at the beach doesn’t have a list of pre-recorded episodes of their favorite shows just waiting for them to watch. And they don’t get it when they can’t pause the show to go to the bathroom. “How did you live like this?” they ask me. -I like to text. It’s a handy way to relay information without causing a big disruption to someone’s day. I am, however, afraid that texting has made us sloppy and lazy. It’s a lot easier to be misunderstood (IF YOU TYPE IN ALL CAPS I THINK YOU’RE YELLING AT ME) and disingenuous. I also have a problem with some of the texting abbreviations. (Ironically, “abbreviations” is a really long word.) I think it should be a rule that if you type LOL, you should actually laugh out loud. I picture someone sitting in the school carline, typing it on someone’s Facebook page without even cracking a smile. “LOL. Your cat looks awesome in that Darth Vader costume.” I would hold off on being literal with LMAO. Let’s not get carried away. -When my kids struggle in school or don’t make the team I find myself wishing things were easier. Why is simplifying fractions not very simple for her? Why should he/she have this heartache or failure or setback? The truth is that if they didn’t encounter some bumps in the road every so often, they’d be spoiled rotten. They need to do things they don’t want to and be prevented from doing things they do want to. If I hired Rosie the Robot from the Jetson family to do all their chores, they’d fill up their time with activities not in service of their family. It’s good for things to be difficult sometimes. Difficulties are necessary for us not to be spoiled. It’s okay to be inconvenienced by others and it’s okay to have to slow down.  If I look at serving others as an honor instead of a chore then that giant hairball is a gift, so is doing the laundry, teaching a Bible class to toddlers, and being a room mom. I don’t want to waste anymore time being spoiled.

We received some aggravating news about our son’s pending adoption last week. While I waited outside the dressing room for my husband to try on some drip/dry pants to bring with us to Africa, I checked our email on my phone and found out that the U.S. Embassy in the Democratic Republic of Congo has added a step to the process thereby adding 3-6 months to our wait. It made me sick. In fact, I think I covered at least three of the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) before we left the parking lot. Denial: My first reaction was “Maybe it doesn’t apply to us…Maybe we’re far enough into this that we can still go next month and get him…” As I logged onto Facebook and scrolled through fellow adoptive parents comments, I started thinking, “Maybe this information is wrong. Most of these other parents from other agencies aren’t aware of this change…” I nearly had myself convinced that iPhones don’t even get email and my phone is actually just a fancy calculator. Then Brent left the dressing room with his chosen purchases. Despite my effort to convince myself that the email was sent to us in error, I showed it to him anyway. Anger: When Brent saw the email he deflated. This man who I have seen cry only twice in the almost twenty years I’ve known him, teared up ever so slightly. It wasn’t much but I noticed it and it was effective. That shook me up and brought me back to reality. It also pushed me to the second stage of grief and I got mad. We discussed it briefly and Brent asked if he should go ahead and get the pants. I said, “Sure” in my best 10 year-old with a bad attitude imitation, so we went to the counter to pay. The hipster REI employee was over-the-top friendly as he tried to talk us into the $20 membership plan. He was like “Man, you’re gonna looooove these pants.” I almost asked him to take off her nerdy/chic glasses so I could punch him in the face. Anger was my only friend at that moment. Bargaining: As we walked to the parking lot, we sullenly discussed where we should go to eat lunch. Choosing a place to eat a) without our kids, and b) in Nashville would normally be a fairly pleasant task but beginning Jauary1st, I had pledged to fast from sweets until we brought our son home…that was assuming he’d be home in March. Upon entering the van, I told the Lord that I would continue with my fast—even though that’s the same as promising that I won’t eat another cupcake for six months and we were about to go eat at a place that is half bakery, half restaurant—if He would just try to speed things up. Bargaining with God is about as effective as bargaining with a two-year old—they’re both much smarter than me and it never works. We pretty much stayed at Stage Four (Depression) for the rest of the day. Always one to overanalyze everything, I started asking myself why this latest setback was having such a negative effect on me. I decided I could attribute my utter hopelessness to two main factors: Imagine that it’s late October and you’re eagerly anticipating Christmas just a few short months away. You get a call that Christmas is being postponed and they’ll let you know when the new date is but it’s probably going to replace Valentine’s Day. You think, “Hmmm…that makes it really hard to plan. Do I go ahead and put up the tree and the stockings? Maybe not. Constantly seeing the decorations might make our wait even harder to bear.” February rolls around and the Holiday Police—unseen people with tons of authority and no real reason to make Christmas easier for your family—say that they’ve discussed it and the decision has been made to move Christmas to May. They’re going to combine Mother’s Day and Father’s Day in June, which makes a lot of sense to them and only them. You say, “Wait a minute this is MY Christmas that I want to celebrate with MY family! I should be the one to make this decision!” But the Holiday Police ignore you and continue to make changes and empty promises until you begin to wonder if Christmas will ever come. That’s how it feels to wait on an adoption. The other, infinitely more important reason for our frustration is that our SON is in AFRICA. It’s not a faceless, nameless child who is living in a land mercilessly damaged by wars and famines; it’s our boy. I never knew my heart could form an attachment this strong to a child who I’ve never heard or touched or held. It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing logical about it. The first time I held my biological son was minutes after he had exited my body—a place he had holed up in for nine months. He looked like his sisters and his dad, so I was obviously in love instantly. My new son shares no genes with me. I’ve never cradled him in my arms during late night feedings when the rest of the house is sleeping. But somehow God has sewn us together with an invisible thread and that connection makes knowing he is so far away so painful. Maybe it’s because I’ve prayed for him every day for longer than he’s been alive. Those prayers have tightened and tangled those invisible threads, strengthening them but often leaving miniscule cuts and rope burn. Nothing about love is logical but neither are the other great virtues—faith and hope. But logic is highly overrated. Faith can move mountains (I Corinthians 13:2), hope can give us confident patience (Romans 15:4), and love can buy us eternal life (John 3:16). I will choose to suffer this illogical love for our son as I cling to a hope and a faith that defy reason.

Prologue Amelia hadn’t seen another car on the two-lane country highway for fifteen minutes. She did see a tractor coming from the opposite direction, but the driver had turned down a rough road before she had reached him. Never one to enjoy visiting elderly relatives, she had known about this assignment for weeks but she had put it off. Now that she had a Saturday with no plans and no excuses, she made the drive to the nursing home. As she turned into the parking lot, Amelia thought about seeing her Grandma Genny that last time. She had spent her final years in a nursing home much like this one. Remembering the smells of antiseptics and wet beds still made Amelia’s stomach turn. She also remembered how confused her grandmother had been and Amelia wondered if she would be able to get the information she needed today. She pulled into a parking spot and cut off the engine. After rummaging in her backpack in the front seat, she found and removed her tape recorder. She pressed RECORD and spoke into the microphone: Testing. Testing. It’s November 3, 2012 at 9:30 a.m. I’m sitting in the parking lot outside of the Dogwood Meadows Nursing Home. I’ve come here to interview my Great-Great Aunt Frankie. My mom told me that Aunt Frankie is a big talker so I’ve brought a recorder. This one has…two hundred hours of recording space—I hope that’ll be enough. The assignment from my creative writing teacher is to find an elderly relative and ask him or her questions about growing up. Then we’re supposed to compile all of our information into an essay that shows (sound of rustling papers)—and I quote—“a common thread throughout the narrative.” I’ve got a list of questions here but to start with I’m going to ask her if there’s a memory from her childhood that she thinks about every day. Then we’ll see where that takes us. Okay, I’ve got my coffee and my notebook. I’ve got to get this done before Thanksgiving break so…I’m going in. (click) Chapter 1 Nobody in town could re-sole shoes like my daddy. Many a time I remember him comin’ home late of an evenin’ on account of that sweaty pile of shoes and boots in the back of his shop. Daddy always said that Nadine Henderson could make a pair of shoes last longer than what you’d think was humanly possible. She did wear a ladies’ 11 1⁄2 extra wide, so you could hardly blame her for keepin’ ‘em a good while. Why, she had to drive clear down to Nashville to get them big shoes! Anyhow, Daddy was workin’ at pryin’ up her cracked outsole when Little Jack came tearin’ in. He banged open the door so hard he knocked off the little brass bell that hung just above the header and it skittered across the floor like it were scared, too. I jumped off the barrel where I was sittin’ and pullin’ tacks off some old work boots. I scattered them bent tacks all over the shop, he scared me so. Daddy hollered at him and told him to speak up, but Little Jack could only stand and breathe hard. I still remember his big white eyes and his ribs pokin’ out the sides of his overalls. We was stuck to the floor, waitin’ for him to talk and then the words he spoke were like a bucket of ice water in my face. He said, “Mister Frank… he dead…yor boy…is dead.” Matt had pitched hay since he was first able to walk. Left hand gripped above the right. Dig deep, swing high. He knew the rhythm of the motions like an experienced swimmer knows his strokes. He was a hard worker, but his mind wandered easily. He would allow his natural grace and athleticism to direct his pitchfork so he could think about the girl in town with the upturned nose and curly brown hair or the truck he was fixing or any other ideas that floated into his mind. Lining the outside wall of the barn, there were tidy bundles of hay made during the hot, dry months of late summer, and Matt’s job today was to move the last of the old hay from the loft to make room for the new. With one final scoop, he heaved a forkful down just as the barn door opened and a shadowed figure entered. Matt heard an unfamiliar cry of bewildered irritation. This was not one of his seven younger brothers or sisters who he had just cloaked in dry straw. This was a woman’s voice— young, most definitely annoyed. Matt slid down the ladder, his bare feet clutching the smooth sidepieces. In an instant, he was brushing hay off a young woman’s shoulders. She was in her early twenties, wearing a pale yellow dress dotted with yellow and green flowers. The dress had stylish puffed sleeves nearly as high as her chin and a nipped-in waist, flattering to her petite figure. Perched on her head was a lime green hat, bowl-shaped and perfectly suited for catching each tiny twig of hay. Matt couldn’t help but think she looked like some sort of autumnal queen with her golden crown. She noticed his amused expression as he regarded her hat, so she quickly took it off and slapped it against her leg. Her red hair spilled out of its hair pins, leaving unruly curls all about her forehead. One curl danced in front of her right eye. Matt was so struck by the force of her beauty and the afternoon sun streaming through her burnished curls that it took every bit of willpower for him to stay his desire to touch that red coil. The young woman blushed, her cheeks coloring nearly the same degree of red as her hair. “I’m Anna, Ernest’s wife,” the young woman declared as she held out a small, white hand by way of introducing herself. “You must be Matt.” Matt was struck dumb by her words. Sunlit dust swirled around them both. Was he standing in the eye of a tornado or still on the bleached pine floor of his father’s barn? “Ernest has told me so much about you,” Anna said politely, with her best city manners. Matt stared at the small piece of straw glued to her red lips for what seemed like an eternity until he collected himself enough to speak. “We didn’t ‘spect ya’ll ‘til tomorrow,” he said slowly. “I’m awful sorry ‘bout mussin’ up your clothes…Anna.” Matt hadn’t intended to say her name just then, but with a pause, two syllables, and a warm rush, his words for this redheaded stranger held more meaning and emotion than all the conversations he’d had with the girls in town in his entire life. “I told Ernest that I wanted to walk a little,” Anna mumbled, two hairpins between her teeth as she attempted to fix her tousled hair. “Maybe I should get on back to the house. Your mother said if I saw you I should tell you to come in and wash up for supper.” “Yes’m,” was all that Matt could say. As they began to walk toward the house together, Anna introduced several awkward topics for conversation. “Do you like working on the farm?” “Yes’m.” “Ernest said he mostly worked with your father fixing shoes growing up. Do you ever do any shoe repairs up at the shop?” “No, ma’am.” “Ernest seems to like his job. He said you’re the one who got his truck running. Do you like fixing trucks?” “Yes’m.” “What’s that growing on the far side of the garden?” “Pumpkins.” “They’re awfully big. Are they hard to grow?” “No, ma’am.” Their awkward, lopsided conversation continued in this manner all the way to the house, consisting mostly of Anna asking questions that Matt would answer with a shy, brief reply. As they approached the back porch, Ernest swung open the screen door to meet them. He advanced on Matt with a firm handshake and an arm proudly gripped around Anna’s waist. As they stood facing each other, any observer would see two brothers with different physiques and tastes in fashion. Ernest wore a thin moustache perfectly resting on his upper lip. His hair was oiled to a fine sheen that complemented his dark eyes and lashes. He was several inches shorter than Matt, with a slighter build. His charcoal suit pants were neatly tailored to show off his trim lines. Looking at his brother, Matt realized that Ernest had made a calculated effort to impress his family, and as his mother beamed at Ernest, he realized that the effect was working. “Good to see ya, Ernie,” Matt said as he pushed his way through the group to enter the house. As he passed his mother, she nodded in the direction of the wooden stand just inside the door, where he saw a pitcher of water and a faded blue towel. His grimy appearance must have seemed more obvious than usual, compared to this prodigal in his Chicago clothes. With his long legs, Matt took quick strides to reach the room he shared with his four brothers. He splashed cold well water on his face and dried it on the towel, which was now more brown than blue. Then he used the towel to wipe down his chest and arms. He ran a wet comb through the golden hair on top of his head and used his fingers, then his palms, to smooth down the browner sides. He put on a shirt and his other pair of pants, and suddenly wished he had a mirror. If he had seen his reflection, he would have noticed a muscular man of almost thirty, tanned from spending the summer in the fields. He would have paused to notice how different his eyes were from those of his brother Ernest—his pale blue to Ernest’s deep brown. With no other reason to stay indoors, Matt finally re-emerged from the house to join his family. Even before he reached the door, he could hear the laughter that always accompanied one of Ernest’s visits. “No, Anna, he’s not dangerous. He’s just…” “Dumb as a bucket of rocks,” George, age twelve, piped in. “George, you hesh up. You know that Rufus Haskell can’t hep how he is,” said Momma. “He just spends most of his days mowing the medians down by the square,” Ernest continued. “It’d be helpful to the city if his push mower had a blade in it!” Ernest’s southern drawl was still evident, but five years in Chicago had cleaned up some of the country words and phrases from his vocabulary, like the basket in a percolator sifts through the coffee and leaves behind the grounds. Matt imagined all the y’alls and reckons sitting there at the back of Ernest’s throat, waiting to be used, when he realized that Ernest was addressing him. “Matt, tell the one about Rufus and Miss Bennie Lee,” said Ernest. “Anna, you’ll get a kick out of this one.” “Nah, Anna doesn’t wanna hear that…” Matt mumbled. Shy as he was in public, in his family circle, Matt was known as the entertainer. He had a natural musical ability and he was an excellent storyteller. He could amuse his younger brothers and sisters, especially George, Frankie Jane, and Della Mae, for hours with tales both true and fictional. Though unaccustomed to having a stranger present during story time, Matt eventually cleared his throat and began the story. “Well, it seems ole Rufus was pushin’ his mower down by Vine Street, when he saw he’d gone off ‘thout his belt. He kep a-pullin’ his trousers up and pushin’ that dang mower and stoppin’ to pull his trousers up again. He’d put on his daddy’s ole trousers that morning and everybody knows that Big Daddy Rue was so big it was easier to go over him than go ‘round him. Anyhow, Rufus walked over to the school to see ‘bout getting some rope to tie up his britches. That just happened to be Miss Bennie Lee Waddle’s first day of teaching. She grew up in Alabama and had never been, well… formally intr’duced to Rufus Haskell. He walked up to the window closest to the teacher’s desk and pounded his fist on the glass. Miss Bennie Lee was scared nigh out of her stockins by this rough-looking bag of bones. She yelled to him, ‘What d’ya want?’ thinking he was a-comin’ for her pocketbook. Rufus yelled back, ‘I’s needin’some rope—‘bout dis long.’ Right then, Rufus held up his hands to show the length of rope he was a-wantin’ and he dropped them britches down to his toes. Poor Miss Bennie Lee fainted clear away and hit her elbow on the side of her desk on the way down. When the children came in for school that morning, they found their new teacher a-sittin’ on the floor and cryin’ like a newborn baby.” Though most of them had heard the tale many times, by the close of Matt’s story they were all wiping their eyes and holding their sides from laughing. Only Anna retained her composure. She was unacquainted with this folksy kind of humor and considered certain parts of the story to be inappropriate. “That poor woman,” she said, as much to herself as to anyone listening. “Miss Bennie Lee?” said Momma, “Oh, she got over it mighty quick. We’ve got some real char’cters in Morgan’s Hat.” She affectionately patted Anna’s hand. “Gad night a-livin’! I’m out here a-jawin’ with you younguns and your daddy’s gonna be home and hungry ‘nuff to eat the south end of a northbound skunk.” The screen door slammed behind her. Frankie Jane, not quite nine years old, used the change in subjects to begin her interrogation of Anna. She liked to tell stories just like her oldest brother Matt, but there was a definite difference in how they collected their material. Matt would sit back and silently watch people to form his stories, and Frankie Jane liked to interview them, often to the point of intrusion. “Anna, Della Mae and me wanna know ‘bout you. We heard you and Ernest met up in Chicago, but is that your home? I mean, where did you hail from?” Click here to purchase your advance copy of Oh to Grace!