I Have a Feeling

The last few weeks, I've had a strange feeling in my gut.  I might compare it to a word of caution, a "heads-up", or even a warning to heed.

In my mind, I'm at the beach on a gorgeous, green-flag day.   Basking in the sunshine, I kick off my flops and begin to stroll along the shore.  I cannot help but smile as I wade farther into the salty water.  Like a dry sponge, I soak in the calm surrounding me.

But suddenly, in the midst of all that is beautiful and serene, I sense a quiet rumble, an unfamiliar stirring.  The once-tranquil waters have begun to churn, becoming choppy and suddenly precarious. And just over the horizon, I can see a storm gaining momentum.

I pray I'm wrong.  But still, I have a feeling.

You see, we've spent the past month completing the final responsibilities of the Home Study phase of our adoption journey, specifically the education phase.  Reading, reading, and even MORE reading.  Books, blogs, more books, more blogs, and the mandated, 12-hour, on-line Hague Convention training have nearly consumed me.

I love to read and I love to learn.  I take advantage of opportunities to grow in my knowledge on any given subject, but the last couple of weeks takes the cake.

I've had to read about orphanages, institutionalized children, developmental delays, soothing behaviors, sensory processing disorder, reactive attachment disorder, bonding, neglect, abuse, fetal alcohol syndrome, malnutrition, cognitive and emotional concerns, and post-adoption depression syndrome, just to name a few.

With knowledge comes understanding and with understanding comes empathy.  I get this. Indefinitely, this information will help prepare me to parent our little girl.  But this knowledge also ties up my mind and stomach in knots.  Bottom line: I'm afraid and I'm anxious.

And those are two things I despise:  fear and worry.

They also just happen to be two things I'm commanded by my Lord not to do.  Remember these often-repeated words throughout scripture?

"Do not fear."  
"Do not worry."  

Yeah. I do, too.

And yet...I find myself consumed with both.

I worry about my daughter's physical health.
I worry that she is not being fed nourishing foods or protected from diseases.
I worry about her mental state.
I worry about her lying in a crib for hours and hours, neglected and understimulated.
I worry about her emotional needs not being met.
I worry that she is not being held enough or kissed enough or doted over enough.

I'm afraid she won't attach or bond to us quickly when she comes home.
I'm afraid of the "honeymoon" stage wearing off too quickly and the hard reality setting in.
I'm afraid of sleep-deprivation...again.
I'm afraid I won't be able to meet her needs, especially when she is grieving the loss of all she's ever known.
I'm afraid of being isolated during the "cocooning" phase.
I'm afraid our family and friends won't understand.
I'm afraid I won't have the strength, the patience, the perseverance, and most of all, the love I need to be my little girl's mother.
I'm afraid one day my husband and I will look at each other and say, "What the h--- were we thinking?"

And deep down, I am afraid that even though we will take our child out of the institution, it will be a struggle to take the institution out of our child.

I'm not trying to be negative.  Really I'm not.  Just honest.  It's hard, excruciatingly hard, to read what we've read and not let it affect you.

I've had trouble resting the past couple of weeks.  I've gone to bed anxious and have had less-than-pleasant dreams about not being prepared and ready.

Our social worker says to "expect the worst and pray for the best."

We are.

And with every prayer uttered on our Indian daughter's behalf, we squeak one out for us.
We are casting our cares, clinging to the only One capable of silencing the winds and waves raging within us.
We rest and rely on the One who loves our daughter(s) immeasurably more than we could ever imagine loving them.

Storm or no storm on the horizon, we will not drown.  In contrast, we will rest securely in the promise of His presence and His provision, for our daughter and for us.

The God who called us WILL equip us.  No doubt.  I have a feeling.

Would you consider praying for us, too?

Love Big

Yesterday was hard.  So painful and so sacred.  So real and so unrelenting.

An unwanted day occupied with grief and finality.  A day filled with remembering a life and reflecting on its legacy. 

As Matt's friends, many of us have felt smothered by this blanket of sadness.  We cannot imagine.  We do not understand.

But we also cannot fathom how much more his beautiful wife, his young children, and his loving family are struggling to take a breath.  To breathe through the sudden separation and the unexpected loss.

As they face the days, months and years ahead without their hero, we are compelled. 

Compelled to pray.  For peace and comfort.  For grace and strength. 
Compelled to carry.  To carry the loss and the loneliness.  To carry the daily burdens of life.

And without a doubt, we will also be challenged by the testimony of Matt's life.

Matt was a big man with a big heart.  And consequently, he loved big. 

His Savior, Jesus.
His wife, Amy.
His son, Levi.
His daughter, Sydney.
His family.
His friends.
His church.
His children's school.
His Georgia Bulldogs.
And football.

His passionate nature made the expression of his love big.  His service was big.  His devotion was big. 

Nothing small about it.  Nothing at all.

No one had any reservations as to where his affections resided. 

"... Love each other deeply with all your heart."

1 Peter 1:22b (NLT)

Which begs a difficult and challenging question of myself.

Do I love big?

Granted, love is often demonstrated in a million, tiny, unseen actions. 
But it can also be demonstrated in a million, grandiose, boisterous gestures as well.

Do those I love know I love them? 
Do my husband and my daughters see visible, tangible evidence of my love for them? 
Are there any doubts as to the devotions of my heart?

There were no doubts regarding Matt.

He loved big here on earth. 

And now he's loving big there, in heaven, spending forever with the One who loved him big first.

"We love because He first loved us."

1 John 4:19 (NIV)



T-shirt created in honor of Matt & his legacy

A Letter to Chick-fil-A

Dear Chick-fil-A,

Since you've been on my heart (and in my tummy) lately, I thought I'd jot down a few words just for you today.

You're right.  You didn't invent the chicken.  But, you certainly perfected the chicken sandwich.  No contest.  Best out there.  Whatever you do, don't lose the recipe.

Your regular waffle fries are very tasty.  But...I have a small confession to make.  I am still mourning the loss of your even tastier sweet potato fries.  Maybe, just maybe, you'll consider bringing them back in the future, especially for us Southerners who can't seem to get enough of those orange taters.

The cow calendar you put out each year totally rocks.  The detachable coupons at the bottom of each month are wonderful.  And what's even more wonderful is that expiration dates really don't exist in your world.  Some of us just naturally run late.  In all things.  In all times.  Especially in redeeming our coupons.

How sweet is the option of exchanging the toy or book in the kids' meal for ice cream!  Options are great and even necessary to have in life.  Thank you for giving them to us and our kiddos.

Your character days are a blast.  No other fast-food restaurant I know welcomes its customers in costume and even rewards them with free food.  Brilliant marketing, people.  Just brilliant.

Love the fact that humble service is key in your company.  You teach, train and model that people are always more important than things.  We see it.  We appreciate it.

Keeping my fingers crossed you'll have a couple of openings in 8-10 years.  You see, I have two adorable girls who have their hearts set on working for your company when they join the ranks of the employed.  Keep up the good work, because their little eyes are taking it all in right now, even from the slide in the indoor play area.

Last, it seems you've hit a bit of scrutiny lately.  Seems some people were poised and ready to pounce on you.  And now they have.  Just because you expressed a belief, an opinion.  Last time I checked it was okay to do that in the land of the red, white and blue.  Just keep being you, Chick-fil-A.  Just keep doing what you do.  It's good stuff.  All of it. 

So, I leave you with these words.  The words of Jesus.  You know Him.  I know you do. 

For without Him, you wouldn't have your deliciously famous chicken sandwich, Him being the inventor of the first chicken and all. 

Anyway.  As I was saying,

"Count yourself blessed every time someone cuts you down or throws you out, every time someone smears or blackens your name to discredit me.

What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and that that person is uncomfortable.

You can be glad when that happens—skip like a lamb, if you like!—for even though they don't like it, I do

 . . . and all heaven applauds.

And know that you are in good company;

my preachers and witnesses have always been treated like this." 

Luke 6:22-23 (The Message)

Thank you, Chick-fil-A, for many things.  So many more than I've even touched in this brief, unofficial letter here. 

You purposefully end each of our conversations with, "My pleasure".

The reality is that in being your frequent patron, the pleasure is all mine.

~M

The Blessing of Cows

Today I've been thinking about cows.

Not because of Chick-fil-A's national Cow Appreciation Day as one around here might assume. 
Not because so many of my friends have dressed up like cows and earned themselves free chicken as we've done in the past. 
Not because I couldn't quite conjure up the cow couture and "herd" my family out the door to do the same today. 

No.  I've been thinking about cows for an entirely different reason.

(But before I continue and for the sake of reminiscing, here are a couple of pictures showing our appreciation to those beautiful bovines in summers past):

My thoughts of cows stem from this verse: 

"For all the animals of the forest are mine,

and I own the cattle on a thousand hills."

Psalm 50:10 (NLT)

As you know, we are adopting a little girl from India.  And just like I've written about in the past, one of the major hurdles in an inter-country adoption is raising the funds to carry you through the entire adoption process.

Earlier this year, when I first learned the estimated cost of this journey, my initial reaction was, "What the what?!?"

Since then, I've come to a place of complete trust and belief that our Heavenly Father, who has always taken care of our every need, will do no less in this situation.  

Scratch "no less."

 

He actually takes great pleasure in doing much more for His children as I am coming to find out each day.

You see, one of my older, wiser, mentoring sisters in the faith reminded me of Psalm 50:10 months ago when she first heard our news...and my concerns.  More or less, her words of reassurance went something like this: 

"He owns it all.  Every cow.  On every hill.  It's all His.  He knows every need of every one of His children.  Don't worry.  Sometimes I just pray, 'Lord, would you sell a cow or two on those hills You own to help us out?'  And when He does, you'll have exactly what you need."



Sell a cow?  Or two? 

Well, in our situation it would appear He's done just that.

In less than five months, through fundraisers we've organized, fundraisers our friends and family have organized, and through GENEROUS monetary donations from our loved ones, we have three-fourths of what we need. 

You might want to go back and reread that last sentence.  Three-fourths, people.  How awesome is that? 

I guess the going rate for cows is pretty high these days.

So what do we do with this blessing? 

Because we have been blessed, we get the chance to bless others. 

In her book, One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp writes, "This is what will determine a fulfilling, meaningful life, a life that behind all the facades, every one of us longs to live: gratitude for the blessings that expresses itself by becoming a blessing."

With enormous gratitude and open hands, we receive His gifts and then, in turn, will extend those same open hands to give to others. 

So many of you have given us your unparalleled support, your joyful encouragement, your heart-felt prayers, your helping hands, your creative minds, and your monetary donations.  May God extravagantly bless you because you've blessed us!

And as we pray and work toward accomplishing the rest of our financial goals, don't be surprised if another cow turns up missing in the fields.  It might be that the Owner decided it was high time to sell another blessing.

I Have to Do This

For the last two months, we have been knee-deep in checking off items on our adoption agency's home study checklist.

By home study, we mean the first official stage of the adoption process involving a heap of paperwork required by both Georgia and the United States.

For those curious ones, here is a sample of our checklist:

*Autobiographies for Each Prospective Parent (four pages)                                       

            *Reading agreement (read 5 or more books about adoption)

 *Medical Reports for All Adults and Children Living in the Home (physicals, as well as, TB tests)

 *Residential History

 *Consent and Request for Criminal Background Check for Each Applicant and Adult in the Home (Both GBI and FBI fingerprinting done)

 *Child Abuse Clearances for Each Applicant and Adult in the Home

 *HIPPA Release Form for Sex Offender Registry

  *Photographs

 *Birth Certificates for You and Your Children

 *Marriage Certificate

 *Most Recent Income Tax Return

 *Copy of health insurance card

 *Statement of Net Worth

 *Verification of Employment

 *Four Letters of Reference

 *Septic Tank Letter & Well Water Test (had to have our septic tank pumped)

Working down our list, my husband and I dutifully made appointments to have physicals done for our medical reports last month.  Following the routine checkup, each of us had to have a tuberculosis test as well. 

Our girls were in the room watching as the nurse inserted the small needle into each of our arms and then pulled it out.  They saw us grimace and they saw the little amount of blood on our skin afterwards.

Naturally, they asked, “Do we have to do that, too?”

Fast forward to this past week.  It was our daughters' turn.  Time for their scheduled doctor’s appointments.  

We told them they were getting a check-up (which they were). 

We told them it was for the adoption (which it was). 

We told them we had to do this so we could bring their new sister home from India (which we do).  
But we purposely failed to relay the whole truth to them beforehand.  The truth that both of them would also have to get a TB test, just like us.

As we patiently waited for the doctor to come in, our youngest just happened to ask, “Do we have to get a shot today?”

My response, “No…not a shot, really.”

“What then?” she rebounded.

“Just a little poke.  Nothing to it.”  I replied nonchalantly.

Now any parent who has or has ever had young children, especially those terrified of needles, can guess what happened next inside that quiet room.

Just as the doorknob turned and the nurses took a step inside, my youngest and normally bravest daughter, began wailing at the top of her lungs, “NO-O-O-O-O!!!  I don’t want to be poked!  I don’t want to!  I don’t want to I tell you!  I’m not doing it!  I’m not!  Do you hear me?!?”

My husband scooped her up and tried to console her.  We both tried to reason with our five year old and help her accept the facts.  She was going to be poked, whether she liked it or not.

In the midst of all the commotion, I looked over at my oldest still quietly sitting on the table.  She had her head down, arms out and ready, tears silently streaming down her cheeks.

 
As I made my way to her I knew exactly what she was feeling in her small eight year old body.  I remember all too well, wrestling with her at her toddler and preschool doctor appointments, holding her legs down so the nurses could give the necessary vaccinations. 

I knew what turmoil she and I have faced together because of her stark, intense fear of pain (see previous post here.)  So my mother’s heart knew just how difficult it was for her to say these words when she looked up at me through her tears.

 “I want to get Pearl, Mommy.  So…I have to do this.”

I have to confess I have had many, many proud moments as a mother.  But few can compare to hearing my daughter say what she said, at the moment she said it.

She got it. 

Despite the momentary pain and the minor wound it would cause her, she would do it for someone else.  Someone she has yet to meet.  Someone she already loves.

And then I got it. 

We have One who did the same exact thing for us.  One who would have rather avoided the pain, the wounds, the blood. 

But through tears, He looked up at His Father and said,

"I want them to be free.  I want them to be with me. 

I want them in my family.  So...I have to do this."

And He did.  He carried our sorrows.  He endured the suffering.  He was pierced for our transgressions.  And by His wounds we are healed.

Throughout every stage of this adoption journey I see the gospel more clearly than I ever have in my life.  This journey will require sacrifice and suffering.  Not just for us, but for the daughter we've yet to meet.

"But if you suffer for doing good and you endure it, 
this is commendable before God." 1 Peter 2:20b

Thankful for the reminder, I tell myself, no matter how painful, no matter how difficult the task, "I have to do this."

Beautiful Things Out of the Dust

I opened the book and began to read some basic facts about the infamous volcano to my girls.

Washington state.  1980.  Eruption.  Mount St. Helens.

If the pictures of the mountain before the catastrophic event were worth a thousand words, then the comparison photographs after the explosion were worth two thousand.

Complete and utter devastation. 

Fifty-seven lives lost.  Hundreds and hundreds of homes, bridges, and miles of highway destroyed.  Wildlife obliterated.  Left in its aftermath was an enormous hole in the side of the mountain, hardened lava and layers upon layers of dust and ash.

Pristine rivers.  Gone.  Lush plants.  Gone.  Wild animals.  Gone.  Towering forests.  Gone. 

My girls and I were stunned by the stark difference in the mountain's appearance before the explosion and its appearance afterwards. We were quieted by the power of the event and its effect on the land.

Then...we turned the page in the book.

The image we saw in the very next photograph caught our attention. Budding forth from its resilient shell was a tiny green sprout, stretching toward the sunlight, unhindered by the hardness and dust enveloping it.

Where death and destruction once reigned, life now returned.

My eight year old made a pretty profound statement.  A truth she'd gleaned from church.

Looking at the book she said, "Mommy, that's a picture of hope.  Believing something good can come out of something bad."

Who would've thought any kind of growth, any kind of life, any kind of hope could come after such an explosive event? 
Who would've guessed wild animals would return to roam the mountainside? 
Who would've thought plants could grow and thrive in the midst of those conditions? 
Who would've thought any good could come out of something so bad?

Meet my beautiful friend, Misty. 

Having lunch @ the Cheesecake Factory - Spring 2012

Misty and I met at Shorter College almost nineteen years ago during my freshman year.  She and I hit it off right away.  We spent most of our time laughing in class and soon became fast friends.  When I pledged the same sorority she was already a member of, she chose me as her little sister. 

Shorter College White Rose Formal - Winter 1994

Not only did we spend our college days living the good life, but we were there for each other when the circumstances of life were not so good.  We encouraged each other's walk in the Lord and truly became sisters in the faith.

We served as bridesmaids in each other's weddings. We supported each other as we both entered the realm of motherhood and we did our best to stay in touch despite living states away from one another.

One of Misty's visits back to Georgia - Spring 2009

Then one cold January day in 2010, I got a heart wrenching phone call from my friend.

The Day family the summer before Misty's diagnosis - July 2009

She desperately needed prayer.  She was experiencing severe yet numbing pain in her lower back and had no definitive answers for the cause.  In the months that followed, multiple tests were run on her body and her blood.  At times, she was bound to a wheelchair, completely unable to walk or move without excruciating pain. 

The comfortable, content, care-free world she'd known erupted around her when she was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a form of bone marrow cancer.

In the last two and a half years, Misty has had to endure some of the most horrific tests, surgeries, and treatments out there for cancer patients.  She has fought with intense bravery.  She has fought with perseverance.  She has fought with Divine power.  And she has waited patiently while her Healer has fought for her. 

Earlier this year, she was told she was in partial remission.  Things were going well, but because the type of cancer she had was slow-growing, it was unfortunately also slow-dying.  She returned to the cancer institute at the beginning of this month for more tests and more treatments, fully expecting to resume the battle for another year or possibly more.

Then four days ago, she posted a picture which caused me to stop completely in my tracks.  The news caused me to jump up and down and bust out my very own happy dance!

Complete remission = CANCER FREE!

Following a devastating explosion in her life, a trail of destruction spread out for miles, and a hardened blanket of ash upon her, hope bursts forth from the dust!

The war she has waged for far too long is over.  Healing has won.  Hope has won.  Life has won.

The page has been turned.  And all things are being made new.

Hope - believing something good CAN (and WILL) come out of something bad

Thank You so much, Lord. 

In Your sovereignty, sometimes You heal; sometimes You do not. 
Thank You for choosing to heal my friend. 
Thank You for letting all of us "bring her to You" through prayer.

You are our Healer, our Hope and our Life. 
Thank You for making beautiful things out of the dust.

(There is a song called, "Beautiful Things" which makes me think of my beautiful friend and our beautiful Savior.  We just happened to sing it at church the Sunday after we read the book about Mount St. Helens here at home and a couple of days after my lunch date with Misty.)

Click here to hear the song. 

Raising My White Flag

Job is a hard book to read.  Of all the books in the Bible, it’s the one I most often try to avoid.

Why?  Because Job is a hard-to-understand account of a man (a mighty, mighty good man I might add) who experiences unexplainable and unfathomable loss.  A man and his suffering.

Similar to the childhood game, “Mother, may I?” in which the player asks a question and waits for permission to be granted before acting, our accuser enters the presence of God, with just one question:  “God, may I?”  God’s response:  “Yes, you may.”

And in a flash, all that Job has ever known or ever possessed is gone. 

His children.  His possessions.  His health.  His position in the community.  His reputation. 

Job was stripped of everything.  Everything except his wife and his life.

Stripped.  All he had was taken from him.  All of this happened to him.  And God allowed it. 

As soon I come up for a breath from reciting this prayer, “Lord, please don’t allow all I have and all I know to be stripped away from me”, another word, a very different word, comes to mind. 

Surrender.

Surrendering is something I do, not something done to me.  Willingly, I choose to give something over to Someone else.  It’s not just a single action, but a posture in life.  It’s raising my white flag high above my head with the declaration, “I give up.  I hand it over it to You.  You win.”

But surrendering is hard.  For some reason, I think by hanging on to my “thing”, I am more capable of handling it or protecting it or making it more prosperous. 

In clenched fists, I hold on when God is telling me to let go.  To trust Him.  To surrender.

Just like last Christmas when an opportunity arose for our family to help some refugees from Bhutan, a tiny country north of India.

We were asked to collect blankets, winter clothing and coats to give these men, women, and children who had literally just stepped off the plane in cold Atlanta only wearing sandals and the clothes on their back.  My husband and I gathered what we were willing to give and asked others to do the same. 

The very Sunday we were to travel to Atlanta to take these items to the refugees and others already here from India, I got dressed for church, put on my brand-new coat I had only purchased days before, and walked out the door.

While donning my very new, very nice, very perfect coat, I got into the car while my husband loaded up the bags of old, worn coats into the trunk.  Without warning, I sensed these words in my spirit, “Oh, and don’t forget to give the coat off your back, too.”

“What?  Seriously, Lord?  Not my new coat.  Please.  How about I go inside and find another older coat to give?”

But even as I tried to wrestle with God over a silly coat, I knew what He was really asking.  It wasn’t even about the coat.  It was about my heart being willing to let go.  Would I give Him my best?  Would I think of others more than I think of myself?  Would I surrender to Him?

I wore my new coat to church for the first and the last time that day.  And then later in the afternoon, I carried it into the tiny apartment in Atlanta and laid it on the sofa as an offering.  Not to the refugees taking up residence there.  Not to the woman who would later wear it because she desperately needed it.  But to my God.  To the One who willingly laid down His life for me. 

Then I walked away.  Not dwelling on what I’d given up.  But thinking about what I would gain.  A more generous, giving heart.  Something I’d been praying to have.

“No matter what we give up, we are given so much more.”

~ Margaret Feinberg, The Sacred Echo

I wish I could say from that moment on, I continue to surrender my best, my all, with open hands.  But the truth is, I look down and find them closed and clenched far more often than I should.  It’s a daily surrender.  A daily death to myself.  A daily offering to Him.

At my church, we sing a song by worship leader, Chris Tomlin, entitled “White Flag”.

The lyrics are so incredibly powerful.  Read them below or click on the link to hear the song.

"White Flag" by Chris Tomlin

We raise our white flag.  We surrender all to You.  It’s all to You.

We raise our white flag.  The war is over.  Love has come.  Your love has won.

What could we lose by surrendering everything we have to Christ?  Better yet, what could we gain?

Then he told them what they could expect for themselves: "Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You're not in the driver's seat—I am. Don't run from suffering; embrace it. Follow me and I'll show you how. Self-help is no help at all. Self-sacrifice is the way, my way, to finding yourself, your true self. What good would it do to get everything you want and lose you, the real you?” Luke 9:23-25 (The Message)

(Since the first of this year, I've been reading through the Bible with an amazing group of ladies--the Shine girls, led by an even more amazing friend, Jill. We've been camped out in the book of Job for weeks now. Jill asked me if I would consider writing for Shine's blog.  I wrote this piece and it posted today. Click here to read the post and also to see what God has been doing and how He is using Jill and a multitude of others to shine for Him.) :)