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!

With just a few exceptions, I hate to exercise. I don’t do aerobic classes because I’m clumsy and can’t remember my left from my right. I’d rather be water-boarded than run on the treadmill for an hour. “Don’t make my go another mile! I’ll tell you anything you want to know!!” Running outside is a hilarious joke. Why should I punish passing drivers by subjecting them to the sight of me attempting to coordinate my flailing arms and legs? I could cause a four-car pileup! My newest form of exercise, a.k.a. relentless torture, is Wii Fit. I got the game and the balance board about two weeks ago to spice up my workout routine. I decided that if I’m going to look awkward and ungainly I’d rather do it in the comfort of my own home without a trainer hounding me to do just…one…more…sit-up. Little did I know how much the game would become my greatest nemesis. The first day that I tried it—a Monday—I stood on the balance board as the game asked me a bunch of questions. Afterwards, it calculated my “Wii Fit Age.” I’m now on the tail end of thirty-six but the game—a small black box with neither a heart nor a soul—told me that my Wii age is 47. I was a little disappointed but chose not to give that arbitrary number any power over me. It was my motivation to improve. I worked out that first day in several of the categories and felt pretty good about it. The next day, I ran on the treadmill (Please don’t ever tell me any secrets. Now that I’ve broadcasted what my kryptonite is—running in place for an hour—they’ll know how to break me!) so that I could justify buying the aggravating machine. When I went back to the Wii on Wednesday, the first thing it asked me was “Were you too tired to work out yesterday?” That was a little creepy. I felt like I was being bullied by HAL from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I started imagining the Wii contacting the other electronics in our house to strengthen its hold on me. Wii:“Microwave and Toaster Oven, report on Abby’s breakfast.” Toaster: “It’s a Pop Tart, sir” Wii: “Unacceptable. No matter. We will break her yet.” When I worked out with the Wii in our basement the following Friday, I tried a game that instructed me to flap my arms like a bird to land on these raised platforms. I felt ridiculous doing it but it did get my heart rate thumping. As I was considering how glad I was to be at home alone while making a spectacle of myself, I looked over my shoulder out the narrow window near the ceiling. I saw a squirrel sitting right by the window watching me. It sat there a full minute glancing back and forth between me and the TV screen. Eventually he scampered forward a little bit but continued to watch me. I had no idea I would ever be able to entertain woodland creatures with my exercising awkwardness but you never know how God will use your gifts. I didn’t use the Wii again until the following Tuesday. Of course, this tyrannical video game was incensed that I had been gone for so long. It also told me that I had gained 3.5 pounds. As if this wasn’t disheartening enough, it gave me a list of choices to select the reason for my weight gain. Since “Bloating/Weight Gain Due to PMS” wasn’t a choice, I chose “I don’t know” instead. Even though it had offered this as a choice, it still had a snarky follow-up question: “Are you sure you don’t know why you gained this weight?” Seriously. It is lucky it’s not built like an anatomically correct man because at that moment I would have placed my anatomically correct knee in its Wii-Baby-Maker, a.k.a. DS-Maker. In spite of the drawbacks for the Wii—annoying questions, completely inaccurate age-guessing and the possible robot army it is building when I’m sleeping—I’m still determined to do well enough to make it give me positive feedback. Why do I care if this electronic box thinks I’m fit or good at kickboxing? Why do I care if I’m fit? I can blow months of working out with just one week of vacation. That’s the hardest part about exercising, much worse than the actual work it involves. It’s exasperating to realize that no matter how hard I work out, there’s always tomorrow’s workout. It’s like every other chore on an endless, repetitive loop. The only thing I can do is keep doing something—even if it’s just a little something—every (other?) day. I’ll just remember the little guys who enjoy my exercising much more than I do. This one’s for you, Squirrel, you little stalker!

Lately I’ve been hooked on British television show called “Call the Midwife.” If you like post-WWII era clothes and music, East End London accents, and multi-layered stories with engaging characters and plotlines, then this is your kind of show. If you don’t like graphically detailed breech births and nurses piecing together placenta in metal bowls and other bloody labor scenes in all their slimy glory, you may want to pass on this one. Being that it’s only an hour-long drama, there are moments and details of the laboring process they have to skip over or at least speed through. And there are times when the newborn baby looks a little too perfect (Where’s the cone head and smushed nose?) to have hung around a birth canal as long as the scene would suggest. Still, all in all, it’s convincingly realistic enough for me. Watching these women labor like there’s no tomorrow makes me think about my own babies. When I had my twins nearly eleven years ago, I had no idea how it was all going to go down. There really isn’t anything that can totally prepare you for that first time so I didn’t even try. I didn’t go to birthing classes or read many books. I got spooked by all of the statistics and horror stories about twin births so I just soldiered on the best I could. I made it to 38 weeks before I was induced. After being admitted, my doctor said I wasn’t far enough along for my epidural so they gave me Stadol, a drug designed to take the edge off the pain. Instead, it made me loopy. I could still feel the contractions but my drugged up mind couldn’t process what was happening to me. My husband told me later that I asked him crazy questions like “If you were a Muppet, which Muppet would you be?” and “Did you just feel that contraction? It was a big one!” Fortunately, the drug wore off before I actually had to start pushing so I have a clear recollection of the big moment(s). When I delivered my son three years later, I entered motherhood with a much better understanding of what to expect. I labored at home from 10:00 p.m. until we checked in at the hospital at 7:00 a.m. the next day and then continued until he was born at noon. Since I wasn’t induced this time, I was able to steadily become accustomed to the building, ludicrous betrayal of my body attempting to turn itself inside-out, a.k.a. contractions. After they gave me my epidural, I was feeling so good that I welcomed a class of nursing students into the delivery room to watch. I put my feet into the stirrups, instructed the nurse as she adjusted the laboring mirror, and gave my doctor a nod that said, “Don’t worry about anything, Doc. I got this one.” Then I started to push. As soon as I saw that little baby head, I stopped listening to my doctor—you know…that real nice lady who went to medical school—and pushed in spite of her warning that I was about to tear. Guess what I did? I pushed anyway. I pushed and I tore a very sensitive area that really should remain intact if at all possible, that is, if you enjoy things like sitting down on a chair without a foam doughnut under your rear. Suffice it to say, I was ready to take out stock in Sitz Bath technology a month later. Even with a labor and delivery already under my belt (and the stretch marks to prove it), I still had so much to learn about becoming a mom. Now I find myself learning another motherhood lesson. Depending on how you figure it, I’m eighteen months into a pregnancy that has been just as difficult and rewarding and confusing and exciting as my other experiences. We signed our first adoption paperwork in July 2011 but conception was probably years before that. The type of pain I feel now is like that night 7 1/2 years ago when I rested between contractions that were too far apart to go to the hospital but too close together to be able to sleep or eat or think straight. It was exciting to think I would be holding my new son, the reason I was on all fours on the living room floor panting through the next contraction. But it was scary to think about the possible complications and worst-case scenarios. That’s what this adoption has been for me: The ups of seeing our little Ezra’s picture for the first time and the downs of finding out that we’re not as far into the next phase as we were led to believe. The knowledge that he’s ours but not as far as the Congolese government is concerned. The excitement of buying clothes for him but the worry that we won’t be able to go and get him before he’ll outgrow them. It’s a roller coaster ride. I have so much to encourage me and point me to the hopefulness of our situation. I can see families that have already picked up their kids from the Congo. I can trust in the experience of our adoption agency and the amazing people who work there. I can put my hope in a Sovereign Lord who I know has called us to adoption with a full knowledge (God’s knowledge, not mine) of how this will eventually end. I can remind myself of all of this every day that I wake up in a house that holds three children instead of four but it’s not always easy. In fact, it gets more difficult every day. But I have to ask myself why we started this whole thing in the first place. Did we do this because we thought it would be easy? No. If child birth has taught me anything, it has taught me that the greatest rewards often come after unspeakable pain—either physical or in the private chambers of my heart. If that formula holds true this time, this sweet African boy will be the greatest blessing of my life.

No matter who you are or what you’re capable of, there’s someone out there who has a talent that you envy at least a little bit. Maybe it’s a universally desirable skill like dunking a basketball or singing like Mariah Carey. Or maybe it’s something a little more obscure like the auto-tisement (Did I just make that up? Nope. I just googled it. Already there. Darn.) that said “British Voice-Over Talent, Call 555-1234.” That’s a talent you don’t run into every day. I have a few talents I’d like to develop over the next fifty years: Smooth Talker. I know people who can talk themselves out of any ticket or sticky situation. It baffles me how they do it. I can’t say for sure but a slight disregard for authority probably helps. For me, on the other hand, I can’t pass a postal truck without checking my speed. It’s not as if I’m constantly breaking the law but if I do I will always get caught. I was feeling really rebellious the other day so I ripped the “Do Not Remove” tag from my new pillow. Unfortunately, I ripped the seam open too. Great Memory. My husband has an amazing memory. He says it’s mostly insignificant facts but I’m still jealous. My sisters, brothers-in-law and I once played a game of Trivial Pursuit with him and he won the whole game before the rest of us ever answered a question. When I’m trying to recall the name of an actor or a movie, I have to take him on a trip I like to call “Abby’s Celebrity Road to Nowhere.” It goes a little something like this: “What’s that movie? They ride in a hot air balloon…It’s got that girl with the brown hair…Oh, I know, she played the sister of that other girl who was in that movie about horses…You know the one…The father was a bank robber…” It’s painful for everyone involved. Dance Like No One Is Watching. I’ve never felt comfortable doing anything in public that even remotely resembles dancing—just walking past a crowd can be problematic. I don’t take aerobics classes, either. Just the thought of Zumba-ing in a mirror-lined room full of strangers makes me want to vomit. I’m as coordinated and graceful as a newborn moose. It would be hilarious for everyone else but I’m not that generous. Inventor/Phrase Coiner. My son constantly asks me who invented everything. Sometimes it’s something I already know or I can look up like: “Who invented basketball?” or “Who made the light bulb?” But sometimes it’s not that easy like when he asked me “Who invented swimming pools?” That got me thinking that I’d like to invent something. Imagine if I’d come up with the recipe for the Colonel’s Secret Recipe Fried Chicken. I’d be a millionaire! Or what if I’d invented Velcro instead of that old slacker George de Mestral? I’d be adored by every mom whose toddler has easy slip-on sneakers and by every boy who carries a Velcro wallet! If I can’t be an inventor then I’d at least like to coin a phrase. It would be so cool if everyone started saying a catch phrase that I made up. Like what if I had been the first one to say “No way, Jose!” or “Fiscal cliff?” I’ve got a few options I’m going to throw out there to see if anything sticks. 1) My brother-in-law should actually get credit for this one. My sister and I were talking about the stupidity of the phrase: “That’s like comparing apples to oranges.” You can totally compare apples and oranges. I could come up with about twenty ways that they’re the alike! Instead, my brother-in-law suggested that we say, “That’s like comparing apples to mustard.” I like it. Let’s see where it goes. 2) I’ve also been working on a word for the greasy spots on my sunglasses that show up when they get pushed back too far on my face and rub against my (apparently greasy) eyebrows. I like “smoodge.” It’s short and practically an onomatopoeia. My husband prefers his own phrase: “eyebrow juice.” Since he is the trivial genius in the family, he may be on to something. I guess we’ll just have to let it play out.

‘Tis the season for receiving Christmas cards. For the most part, I really love to see photos and read updates of friends from the various phases of my life: High school buddies who saw me through my most awkward stage, married couples who lived on Campbell’s soup like we did during those first years of our marriage, fellow parents whose kids are best friends with our youngsters. The mailbox holds a new treat everyday. The drawback to the whole exchanging cards tradition is the limited amount of space we’re allowed to explain an entire year’s worth of experiences. We carefully choose a picture that projects our intended image. The kids’ faces are round with wide grins and they’re tenderly grasping hands in sibling devotion. The honest picture would show what happened just after the picture was taken. When she pinched him and he bit her and they wrestled on the carpet for ten minutes before mom had to step in and pull them apart. With the advent of Facebook, I should be accustomed to this type of meticulous name branding but it seems more intentional at Christmas. I could post things about my life all day long on Facebook, (“I just made a cake in the shape of Voldermort for Johnny’s birthday!” or “Thank God for lattes! LOL!” or “It’s Monday :(” etc.) but you just have that one chance every year for the card. I’d love to see a card starring a mom stirring a bowl with one hand as she balances a phone on her shoulder and points to the arithmetic mistakes on her daughter’s homework with the other hand. That’s real life. Maybe I’d throw in a naked toddler running just out of the frame and smoke pouring from the oven for ambience. I’m just as guilty as the next girl when it comes to putting on a show for the Christmas card. There are some friends—due to distance and/or busy schedules—whose only correspondence with me is that annual card. What do I want them to know about me and my family? What do I want to know about them? I wish I could sit down with everyone on our list and find out—Barbara Walters’ style—exactly what makes him/her one of the year’s Most Fascinating People. What would they share that they left off their 2012 recap? I know I would discover something new every time. These people I call Friends have talents and experiences completely unbeknownst to me. Although there’s nothing wrong with putting our best face forward when it comes to mass mail-outs, I have to ask myself what kind of card would God send us? Here’s my guess: The holidays are just around the corner and the three angels who visited Abraham are in charge of designing the Christmas card this year. They’re scrolling through pictures for the perfect photo. This card will be sent out to everybody (and when I say everybody, I mean EVERYBODY) so it has to be perfect! ANGEL 1: “Here’s the one with Gabriel on the slopes. Oops…he closed his eyes in the picture…” ANGEL 2: “How about this one? It’s really festive.” ANGEL 3: “No. Michael hates that one. Spike, the rockstar angel, is always trying to do the hair metal, back-to-back, air-guitar thing whenever any angel within fifty feet pulls out a camera. It’s getting lame.” ANGEL 1: “Raphael looks good in this picture. He really has that ‘Hark the Herald’ thing going for him…wait a minute…never mind. His halo’s on backwards. Good grief. We’ll never pick out a card!” After much deliberation, they take their possible choices to God’s throne to get his opinion but He has a different idea. GOD: “This is a going to sound crazy but instead of a Christmas card this year, I’m going to send Jesus down to a tiny town called Bethlehem to be born of a Virgin.” ANGEL 2: “What?! He’s the quarterback for our football team…” ANGEL 3: “And the best baritone in the choir…” ANGEL 2: “And the lead in all the musicals! We were going to do Jesus Christ Superstar this year!” ANGEL 1: “Why would you send Him down there anyway?” GOD: “I want everyone to really know Me. Not the watered-down version but the real, salt-of-the-earth, Creator of the Universe. It’s hard to explain so I’m going to send Jesus and he’ll live it out for me. Don’t look at me like that—it’s going to work. It’ll be messy but totally worth it.” ANGEL 3: “Why not send just send lightning bolts and shake the ground with thunder?” ANGEL 2: “Yeah. I like it, and so will Spike. It’ll be like the best rock concert of all time!” GOD: “Nope. I’ll shake the earth later, I promise. But this year will be about a baby—a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. Now get going to choir practice. I just wrote a new song for you. It goes like this: ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’” So keep sending those cards! I only wish I could say “Merry Christmas!” to all of you in person!!

There are plenty of things to stress over when it comes to parenting: multiplication tables and table manners, vitamin deficiency and sugar overload, caffeine and nicotine, the birds and the bees…I could keep going but I’m starting to feel queasy. One of the least important things to worry about is facilitating the development of a sharp sense of humor in my kids, right? But if I don’t do it, who will? Spongebob? I don’t think I want to leave something this important in his skinny, less-than capable, yellow hands. I have a few theories about what makes a person funny: Most of kids’ television shows today are pretty lame. The laugh tracks and the predictable storylines make me want to rip my hair out or, at the very least, change the channel. We’ve tried to strike a happy balance in our kids’ television and movie-watching habits. We don’t want them to be totally unable to relate to their peers so we’ll let them watch a few current shows and movies (I especially like Word Girl and Electric Company. And there’s nothing better for fun family entertainment than whatever is the newest Pixar movie.). To keep things interesting, we’ll add in some episodes from The Dick Van Dyke show, The Andy Griffith show, and I Love Lucy. My girls are becoming junior aficionados of musicals from the 1940’s and 1950’s. That should wow their fellow 5th graders. After I teach them the card game Mille Bornesand the finer art of constructing tissue cozy covers out of plastic canvas, their education will be complete. Voted Most Popular of the class of 2020? You’re welcome, girls. Speaking of girls, I think it’s trickier for women to be funny. I’m not blaming chromosomes or uterine lining for it; I’m blaming society. At some point, most girls are brainwashed to believe that they must giggle at every little thing said by the boys they like. This is usually done during the crucial humor development ages of 8-14. They should be making their friends laugh with witty and carefully crafted comments about their chorus teacher not giggling at fart jokes made by the baseball team. Why do you think that most successful comediennes are of the sexual orientation that makes flirting with boys negligible? Growing up, they didn’t care if they made the boys around them feel hilarious. I’m not saying you have to be gay to be a funny woman—not at all—but just think about my theory the next time you’re watching Ellen. Another important part of nurturing my kids’ love of Funny is making sure they’re open to unusual experiences. These are comedy fodder. I’ll give you two recent examples from my own life: I am the co-director for the Shining Stars, a children’s sign language/singing group at my church. We were asked to sing on a Sunday for a large group of Chinese who were coming to our building for a special service. We had chosen “Revelation Song,” a song we’d been practicing for a few weeks. At the Wednesday night practice before “China Sunday,” one of the kids in our group informed us that in China if you stick up your pinky—something that we did about sixteen times in the song—it’s the same as sticking up your middle finger here. Whaaa? Is that for real? We asked a friend whose sister-in-law is Chinese to confirm and yes, it is an offensive gesture. Great! We scrambled to have the kids change the sign to point all of their fingers up to say “I” or “is.” Phew! International disaster avoided. We had a fundraising event at my kids’ school that involved having one grade at a time go outside and walk/run laps around the parking lot. They asked me to wear a furry lion suit so that I could encourage the kids to continue running their laps with my furry hand-waving and kiss-blowing. That sounded easy enough. At the beginning of the day it was cool outside and the kindergarteners were adequately awestruck by my appearance. As the day went on, the suit revealed to me the similarly sweaty experience of its former occupants. In other words, I began to reek. To add insult to smelliness, the older the kids got the less respectful they were of the suit. It was as if an adult wearing a full body animal costume doesn’t mean anything anymore! They started trying to un-Velcro the back. They would slap me as they ran by just to see what I would do. I started fearing for my safety! I would pretend to growl at them when they were naughty but since they couldn’t hear me and my face was frozen in a non-threatening smile, it didn’t have the desired effect. Since all I could see was what was visible through two Ping-Pong ball sized eyeholes and some of the 4thgraders would be bigger than me, I gave up after lunch. Those older kids would have to dig deep within themselves to find the will to go on. I was out! I wouldn’t be able to share those anecdotes if I had been concerned about little details like not knowing sign language or how I look (and smell) in public. Although there are plenty of other weightier things to worry about for parents in this day and age, I have to at least devote a small amount of effort to make sure my kids are funny. But truthfully, they were born with all of the funny this world can handle. My job is to keep laughing so their “funny” supply won’t dry up for lack of use. The good news is that one of the best ways to encourage their humor is the same fix-all they give us for almost everything else: Just sit down to the table for supper with them as often as possible. They’ll have you shooting milk out your nostrils in no time!

A few months ago, my son had a brain scan to attempt to discover the reason for his migraines (By the way, it was inconclusive. But in this case, no news is good news!). The procedure took about ninety minutes and I spent that time in the waiting room. I had brought a book and my phone. With these distractions plus the televisions (Who doesn’t enjoy an hour of The 700 Club?) and various magazines, the time should’ve flown by. Instead, I found myself fascinated by the other family members and friends of patients in the room. I was reading their expressions and, in some cases, listening to every word of their conversations. I realized three things: 1) Some people cannotwhisper. They are genetically predisposed to have a speaking volume that is always adequate for a lecture hall. 2) Murfreesboro has a transgender community. Hmm…Go figure. 3) People over seventy are awesome at waiting. There was an older lady sitting near me with what I finally decided was her husband and daughter. Eventually, her son-in-law also joined them. They were there because a young woman in their family (Granddaughter? Great granddaughter?) was having some kind of minor surgery. The older woman brought the newspaper and used the majority of the time I was there to read aloud every ad and half of every article. She was thrilled to find out that Subway often sells foot-long sandwiches for $5! She was dismayed by the article about a groom who made his own wedding cake (Lemon curd filling? That just didn’t sound right.). She handled a potentially stressful situation—waiting to hear bad news about a loved one—with the calmness of an air traffic controller. She patted her daughter’s knee several times and kept the conversations light. Her son-in-law left at least twice to smoke in the parking lot, but she never broke a sweat. I was in awe of her, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Where I am the generation of the Video Game and the Music Video and my kids are the generation of On-Demand and Text Messaging, she is the generation of the War Department Telegram and Ration Cards. Her family survived the Depression and polio outbreaks. She knows how to wait. Her generation has perfected it. So now I wonder: Can I exceed the standards of my generation? Can I appreciate the wonders of this Age without demanding them as a God-given right? Can I be content with the ability to fast-forward commercials in the shows that I DVR-ed without complaining that I can only record two shows at one time instead of three? I watched a documentary about the Dust Bowl on PBS last night. They interviewed dozens of people who were children living in Oklahoma, Kansas, and other states affected by the crop devastation of the “Dirty Thirties.” These people spoke about the extreme hardships they faced and the small victories they won. One of the stories that stuck with me was when the flour companies began making their flour bags out of floral printed fabric because they knew the farmer’s wives were sewing their children’s clothes from the empty sacks. This was a group of people whose identities were forged by fire. I personally don’t want to suffer. Never liked it–never will. But I can see the effects of the lack of struggles and it’s not pleasant. My prayer is that God will strengthen my faith and reorganize my priorities to reflect His plan for me. And if that means I have to wear a dress made of flour sack, so be it.

If you’ve ever wondered if age is relative, ask a kindergartener how old he thinks you are. This is hilarious fun. If he’s a meditative five-year old, he may look you up and down before answering. Hmm, he will think. I know she’s older than me but she doesn’t ride a motorized scooter like great-granny. After a moment, he will guess that you are anywhere from seven to 100-years old. Of course, when that happens you aren’t offended. What does a child know of the merciless onslaught of old age? The only wrinkles he sees are the ones on his Garanimals t-shirt after naptime. To him, tooth loss equals cash money under his pillow. Although I turned a youthful thirty-six this year, I’m starting to feel old. Here are a few ways I know it’s coming: A package was delivered to the house the other day. I was so excited to see it sitting by the back door when we got home from school. “What is it?” my kids asked. I answered: “Oh! I hope it is…could it be? Yes! It’s the part to the washing machine! I’ll be washing clothes tonight! Uh-huh! Oh yeah!” (That’s me doing a victory dance.) My kids were completely mystified by my rejoicing in the street (The woman in Jesus’ parable about the lost coin probably got the same reaction from her kids.). I was looking at the apps on my phone and I realized that the one I most frequently use is the Weather Channel app. You know you’re getting old when the weather becomes supremely important and interesting. I suppose the next step is to feel “a storm a-brewin’ in my joints.” At the dermatologist’s office, I stared intently at a poster hanging in the examination room extolling the virtues of Botox. As I glanced at myself in the mirror over the sink, I saw the same lines in between my eyebrows as the one in the “before” picture of the poster. I tried to keep my eyebrows raised for the rest of the visit. It was exhausting. I had a thirty-minute conversation with a friend recently about insoles for shoes. We decided that comfort is essential when choosing athletic shoes. I tried to explain this to my ten-year old daughter when she accompanied me to the shoe store today. She actually said she would “die” if I bought those “ugly” running shoes. She also told me to stop calling them “tennies.” Which, of course, had the adverse effect because I started adding “-ies” to all shoe names after she stated this preference (We got her some “Bob-ies” because I’m too cheap to buy “Tom-ies.” I refused to buy her any “boot-ies” but I did buy her sister a six-pack of “sock-ies.” I’m such a fun mom!). I realize that age is a very flexible concept. When I’m racing my son down the driveway after rolling the garbage can out to the street, I feel young and full of energy as I beat him in the house. Then there are other days when I feel too exhausted to stay awake past 9:00 p.m. In a few weeks, Murfreesboro will host a four-mile run on Thanksgiving Day. There will be all kinds of runners stretching at the starting line that morning. Serious runners and people dressed like turkeys. Teens, families with strollers, and every other demographic you could name. And you can bet that several of these runners will be pushing 70 and well beyond. I love to see that. It makes me think that age isn’t something to hide from or fret over. These men and women are doing what they love in spite of their age. And when my son can eventually beat me in foot races I will keep in mind that these 75-year old runners probably can too.

Our final full day in D.C. was the most somber of the week. We began with a subway ride to Arlington National Cemetery. The expanse of the acreage itself is amazing. It’s made up of neat rows of tombstones as far as the eye can see. The tour guide on the tram ride told us that they average about twenty-five funerals a day. Just as soon as she said it, we saw a family leaving a graveside. It felt strange to watch this family mourning the loss of a loved one while we rode past them—like The Pirates of the Caribbean if Disney World built a cemetery (I’d call it Disney After-World.). The tram stopped at the JFK Memorial where President Kennedy, Mrs. Kennedy, their infant son, and stillborn daughter are buried—so sad. It made being the Kennedys seem not so glamorous after all. Next we watched the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. In a time when we aren’t respectful very often about much of anything, it was moving to be in a group of people that large who were completely silent. You could hear every click of the soldier’s footsteps. There were about sixty firefighters in the first two rows of the crowd. The presiding soldier eventually announced that they were going to be laying a wreath to honor fallen firefighters. They were dressed in their fanciest uniforms. Some even had kilts and tall furry hats. The patches on their arms denoted their home states. A widow was there to represent the families of firefighters killed on duty. We took a quick tour of the Lee mansion (Did you know that the original land for the cemetery was owned by the family of Robert E. Lee?) but there wasn’t much to see in the house itself. It’s being renovated. There is a great view from the back of the mansion. We headed back to town to walk around the Washington Monument (We couldn’t go in it because of the earthquake a few years ago.). Then we went to find lunch in a section with lots of food trucks…lots of food trucks and ravenous pigeons, that is. After lunch, we went to the starkly minimal Vietnam Memorial and the inspiring and impressive World War II Memorial. That evening we ate supper at the home of one of my oldest and dearest friends. She and her husband and their three adorable sons live in Maryland not far from D.C. It was such a treat to hang out with her and her family. She was with me the first time I went to D.C. some twenty-three years ago. We went with our eighth grade class. I don’t remember a lot about the trip—or I don’t remember a lot about learning much American history on the trip. One of the few things I do remember is watching my friend click her heels on the steps of the Capitol building. That’s what happens when you’ve been on a bus too long. I’m just hoping that my kids will retain a lot more meaningful history lessons than I did on my first trip. All in all the kids did a great. We kept the tantrums to a manageable low. We were able to see everything on our list but I’m sure we’ll be back in a few years.

On our fourth day in D.C., we crossed two pretty important items from my bucket list: see the place where Lincoln was shot and go through spy training. Well, those shouldn’t be permanently erased from my list, maybe just lightly marked with a pencil. Let me explain: We purchased tickets for Ford’s Theater online and arrived at the appointed time Wednesday morning. They gave us headsets that explained the events and details leading up to Lincoln’s assassination. We walked through the basement museum, looking at maps, photographs, clothing, furniture, and other various and sundry artifacts relating to what happened at 10:13 p.m. on April 14, 1865. I love history so this was mind-blowing for me to be in the actual location of the assassination. I couldn’t wait for them to call us back upstairs to the auditorium part of the tour. A ranger (Ford’s Theater is under the protection and authority of the National Parks) retold the story as he stood on the stage and we sat in the audience. He was kind of an awkward fella but it was nonetheless riveting. That is, until he told us that after the assassination the theater was dismantled, studied as a crime scene, and eventually used by the military. What a let down! They tried to recreate the theater’s interiors and light fixtures but I was still a little disappointed. It was pretty cool to look across the street and see the house where Lincoln actually died. The line was long to peek in the door so we didn’t look inside. I admit I was a little afraid that we’d see a leather sectional sofa and flat screen TV despite the ranger’s claims that it was more carefully preserved. We went to the steps of an Episcopal church to eat our lunch instead. After lunch we went to the Spy Museum. It was ridiculously expensive (We had become spoiled by the free Smithsonian Museums.) but it was a lot of fun. The first thing we did was to choose our new identity from a variety of “covers.” For some reason this made me nervous as if I were going to be grilled at the airport interrogation room of a hostile country. As it turned out, I just had to answer questions asked by a computer. No biggee. I was deemed “suspicious” by the computer but sometimes I like to live on the edge of danger. (In case you’re wondering, I was a 33-year old German woman named Helga or Olga—something like that. I was traveling to London on business. My profession was a librarian or an anthropologist. I can’t remember. Okay, now I see why I was considered a threat.) We learned about microscopic bugging devices and breaking coded messages. There was a section about the Cold War that made me want to duck and cover. The museum was really interesting and interactive but it made me paranoid the rest of the day. Later when we were riding on the subway, I scanned the crowd looking for a possible spy in our midst. I focused in on the guy with the dark glasses and long stick. Maybe he only wants us to think that he’s blind. Hmmm… Next we made a quick tour of the National Portrait Gallery. The paintings of the presidents were lifelike and fascinating, especially with the informative plaques mounted by each one. We avoided the modern art section. You never know what you might find there but there’s a better chance that it will be graphic illustrations that I intentionally left off of our “birds and the bees” talk and not a painting of a bowl of fruit. On the way to the subway stop, we took another look at the White House. We ended our day with an early supper at a little restaurant near our apartment and then a few episodes of Little House on the Prairie on the Hallmark Channel. We had one full day left in D.C. so we got in bed early. Coming Soon…Day Five!