It was not going to be a good day today.
We woke up to a downpour.
Baseball games were cancelled. This is the equivalent of Santa Claus skipping our house at Christmas.
Better Half and I decided this would be a good day to give the house some attention. It's been sadly neglected for Way. Too. Long.
We made the colossal mistake of enlisting the four young people who live here to help us.
We tried to soften them up ahead of time with a lovely breakfast of homemade French toast, eggs, bacon, and fruit.
That was, as my oldest daughter would say, an epic fail. Breakfast was twenty minutes of great food--Better Half makes AMAZING French toast (which I didn't eat because it isn't Paleo), and irritable company.
Since then, I've lost count of how many times I've heard "shut up" "stupid" "jeez" "why do I have to (insert any number of things here)?".
Tension is high.
Patience is low.
Liquor stores are still closed in Kansas on Sundays.
I have a confession to make. Although I fiercely love and adore the five other people who live in this house with me...
Today, I don't like any of them.
And I promise you. None of them are too fond of me, either.
How soon is too soon to call this day quits, crawl into bed, and pray that tomorrow will be better?
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
A Lesson in Miracles
mir·a·cle
noun
1.
an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.
2.
such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God.
3.
a wonder; marvel.
4.
a wonderful or surpassing example of some quality.
Better Half and I have these dear friends--friends who have been trying for thirteen years to have children.
Thirteen. Years.
I don't think I've ever waited thirteen years for anything I've wanted in my entire life.
I've heard it said that all children are "miracles," and I suppose, in some sense, they are. Certainly they are a gift--something to be treasured.
But I think about how my own children came to inhabit planet Earth, and even though their pregnancies and births are sentimentally special to Better Half and me, we did not do anything out of the ordinary or unusual to get them here.
We conceived them (several with little or no planning on our part), I carried them for a little over nine months, we went to the hospital where I had four very routine deliveries. Four babies were placed in my arms. That natural, hormonal, mother-instinct kicked in as soon as I held each of them and smelled them for the first time, and after the doctors concluded that they were healthy enough to survive living with us, we were sent home with them.
And again, although each of my children's journey here is special to me and to Better Half, I can't call it miraculous. I just can't.
Because recently, it's been my great privilege to witness a miracle.
It started when after thirteen long years, a stranger chose my dear friends to be the parents of the child she was carrying.
It continued as these three people bonded emotionally--tied by the love that they all had for a person none of them had met yet, and as the three of them walked a road with no guarantees built on instantaneous trust and faith.
And it culminated when an incredibly strong and courageous woman handed this beautiful baby over to my friends and they instantly and fiercely became parents.
The maternal instinct is strong. The biological connection to offspring is instinctive. And in the natural realm, animals have to be "tricked" into adopting young that isn't biologically theirs.
Adoption surpasses natural powers.
There are what? Six billion people on the planet? And yet circumstances were such that one person would voice her hopes for the child she carried to the person who knew the person who knew my friends. And after she met them, she was convinced they were the couple she'd been looking for. They were convinced this was the baby they'd been praying for. Little details were not missed--right down to bureaucratic paperwork being completed early (which NEVER happens) and the attorney already involved being the one my friends liked best of all out of all the ones they've retained over the years.
Adoption is a work of God.
During the heartache of the last thirteen years, my friends did not allow disappointment and infertility to divide them. They did not let it make them bitter. They prayed and sought God's guidance. They listened when he said, "No" and patiently waited for "Yes." And now, they are a family of three. Their hearts and arms and lives are full to overflowing. Watching the three of them together makes my heart break with happiness.
Adoption is marvelous.
So many of you have been a part of this miraculous process in your own lives. Many of you as adoptive parents. Some of you as children chosen by adoption. And some of you still as biological mothers making the ultimate sacrifice.
I have had the privilege of hearing many of your stories firsthand. As I recall them now, it brings a tear to my eye and a smile to my face.
Adoption is a wonderful and surpassing example of sacrifice and love.
Monday, March 12, 2012
And Now, A Word From Our Sponsors
This Lenten Paleo Journey is successfully brought to you today by:
Choc-full of fabulous recipes that even my family love!
Complete with grocery lists AND workouts in the back so I might
actually be able to look like she does someday,
This cookbook makes my mouth happy!
Exotic flavors and dishes abound!
My current favorite--"The Best Chicken You've Ever Had"
with "Moroccan Dipping Sauce."
And by weekend trysts in Kansas City with my "lover,"
Mr. Trader Joe.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
In the Desert
I'm reading this book.
I could probably start 99.9999 (repeating)% of my blog posts with that sentence. :o)
Anyway, it is called In the Sanctuary of Women: A Companion for Reflection and Prayer by Jan L. Richardson.
It is a good read, but it's not a "knock it off in an afternoon" kind of book. It's one of those where I read a few pages, and then go back and read them again. It's full of green highlighter and lots of notes in the margins.
It's a combination of history, theological reflection, and storytelling. And peppered throughout the book are Ms. Richardson's poems and prayers.
Maybe that's what makes it hard to read. The poetry.
I'm a prose kind of girl.
Unless it's Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, most poetry is over my head.
But I came across this one when I was reading yesterday. As I read, I thought, "This woman has a hidden camera trained on my life."
Because this is exactly how I feel these days.
Dreaming in the Desert
It must be at least
eighty degrees already this morning.
Spring has barely begun,
which bodes ill
for the summer to come.
I can already feel my energy leaking out into the heat;
air conditioning barely stems
the lethargy that steals in and
pins me to my bed
most of the morning,
lulls me into reading
the next page of a book,
and the next
and the next
as I linger over breakfast
and then,
shortly after,
lunch.
I have read the desert mothers
and fathers
and so I know this is what
they called acedia:
weariness, listlessness,
lack of care.
Abba Evagrius called it
the noonday demon.
Amma Synclectica said
it was a sprit that must be cast out
mainly with prayer and psalmody.
And so I keep to my psalms
morning and night,
a thread in the fabric
of my fluid days,
though it will feel,
as summer oozes forward,
more and more like trying to stitch water together.
What would they have done,
I wonder,
thosoe ammas and abbas
blazing in the desert,
if they had known of
mint juleps and
wraparound porches,
ice cream and
swimming pools?
What would they have made
of ceiling fans
while cool jazz plays,
of Southern tea,
of chocolate shakes?
If the desert folk
had dreamed these things,
as I do
in these draining days,
would they
have uttered exorcisms,
chanted prayers for deliverance,
or
with the wisdom burned into them
by sun and desert sand,
would they have
for a moment
licked their lips,
closed their eyes,
and breathed
on low and longing
sigh?
Blessing
In the desert,
in the draining days
as wearying nights,
may delight find its way to you.
I could probably start 99.9999 (repeating)% of my blog posts with that sentence. :o)
Anyway, it is called In the Sanctuary of Women: A Companion for Reflection and Prayer by Jan L. Richardson.
It is a good read, but it's not a "knock it off in an afternoon" kind of book. It's one of those where I read a few pages, and then go back and read them again. It's full of green highlighter and lots of notes in the margins.
It's a combination of history, theological reflection, and storytelling. And peppered throughout the book are Ms. Richardson's poems and prayers.
Maybe that's what makes it hard to read. The poetry.
I'm a prose kind of girl.
Unless it's Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, most poetry is over my head.
But I came across this one when I was reading yesterday. As I read, I thought, "This woman has a hidden camera trained on my life."
Because this is exactly how I feel these days.
Dreaming in the Desert
It must be at least
eighty degrees already this morning.
Spring has barely begun,
which bodes ill
for the summer to come.
I can already feel my energy leaking out into the heat;
air conditioning barely stems
the lethargy that steals in and
pins me to my bed
most of the morning,
lulls me into reading
the next page of a book,
and the next
and the next
as I linger over breakfast
and then,
shortly after,
lunch.
I have read the desert mothers
and fathers
and so I know this is what
they called acedia:
weariness, listlessness,
lack of care.
Abba Evagrius called it
the noonday demon.
Amma Synclectica said
it was a sprit that must be cast out
mainly with prayer and psalmody.
And so I keep to my psalms
morning and night,
a thread in the fabric
of my fluid days,
though it will feel,
as summer oozes forward,
more and more like trying to stitch water together.
What would they have done,
I wonder,
thosoe ammas and abbas
blazing in the desert,
if they had known of
mint juleps and
wraparound porches,
ice cream and
swimming pools?
What would they have made
of ceiling fans
while cool jazz plays,
of Southern tea,
of chocolate shakes?
If the desert folk
had dreamed these things,
as I do
in these draining days,
would they
have uttered exorcisms,
chanted prayers for deliverance,
or
with the wisdom burned into them
by sun and desert sand,
would they have
for a moment
licked their lips,
closed their eyes,
and breathed
on low and longing
sigh?
Blessing
In the desert,
in the draining days
as wearying nights,
may delight find its way to you.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Happy Birthday
Dear Amazing Oldest Daughter,
I cannot believe it. Today we celebrated your seventeenth birthday. Seventeen! In 365 short days, you will begin your road through adulthood. And on this, your last "childhood" birthday, I've thought many times about that day--so long and so short--ago. And where we are today.
In no particular order--
Seventeen years ago, I was finishing my last semester of college. Today, I watch the college mail pile up on your desk and I listen to you as you share your college plans with people. I can hear the excitement in your voice as you talk about it.
Seventeen years ago, I was sucking ice chips and panting through contractions Today, we sipped lattes, sung to the radio, laughed, and had fun with friends.
Seventeen years ago, everyone in the hospital immediately commented on your amazing eyes. Today people are still taken with your beautiful kaleidoscope eyes.
Seventeen years ago, your length was measured three times to make sure 24 1/4 inches was indeed correct. I knew it was--I'd felt your feet under my ribs for three months! Today, I know that you were using those beautiful dancing feet of yours even in utero.
Seventeen years ago, family and dear friends were anxiously awaiting your long overdue arrival. Today, these same people who sat for hours in the waiting room so they could be among the first people to welcome you to Earth are among your biggest fans and your most ardent supporters.
Seventeen years ago, I had no idea what I was doing when they handed you to me. I had never been a mother before. Today, I still have no idea what I'm doing. I'm a first-time mom with everything you do. And you have been amazingly understanding about it.
Seventeen years ago, I held you in my arms and I was sure it would be an eternity before you'd even be old enough to go to kindergarten. Today, I wonder how time got away from me and how on earth you grew up so fast and if I could have done something to slow it down some.
Seventeen years ago, I was awed by the tiny person you were. I wondered what your life would be like...the kind of personality you'd have, what your talents and gifts would be. Today, I am still constantly amazed by the child you were, the young lady you are, and the woman you are becoming. And I know it isn't always easy. Hang in there.
Seventeen years ago, you and I went through quite a physical ordeal to bring us to the place where you call me "mother" and I call you "daughter." Today, we navigate through the end of your teenage years to bring us to a place where hopefully, we will call each other "friend."
Seventeen years ago, a nurse placed you in my arms for the first time. I looked at you and I remember thinking, I have never in my life seen anyone so beautiful And I have never in my life been so completely in love like this. Tonight, as I gave you one last hug and told you "happy birthday" one last time, I thought: I have never in my life seen anyone so beautiful. And I have never in my life been so completely in love like this.
Happy, happy seventeenth, my dear! And here's to the next three hundred sixty five days!
Love,
Mom
I cannot believe it. Today we celebrated your seventeenth birthday. Seventeen! In 365 short days, you will begin your road through adulthood. And on this, your last "childhood" birthday, I've thought many times about that day--so long and so short--ago. And where we are today.
In no particular order--
Seventeen years ago, I was finishing my last semester of college. Today, I watch the college mail pile up on your desk and I listen to you as you share your college plans with people. I can hear the excitement in your voice as you talk about it.
Seventeen years ago, I was sucking ice chips and panting through contractions Today, we sipped lattes, sung to the radio, laughed, and had fun with friends.
Seventeen years ago, everyone in the hospital immediately commented on your amazing eyes. Today people are still taken with your beautiful kaleidoscope eyes.
Seventeen years ago, your length was measured three times to make sure 24 1/4 inches was indeed correct. I knew it was--I'd felt your feet under my ribs for three months! Today, I know that you were using those beautiful dancing feet of yours even in utero.
Seventeen years ago, family and dear friends were anxiously awaiting your long overdue arrival. Today, these same people who sat for hours in the waiting room so they could be among the first people to welcome you to Earth are among your biggest fans and your most ardent supporters.
Seventeen years ago, I had no idea what I was doing when they handed you to me. I had never been a mother before. Today, I still have no idea what I'm doing. I'm a first-time mom with everything you do. And you have been amazingly understanding about it.
Seventeen years ago, I held you in my arms and I was sure it would be an eternity before you'd even be old enough to go to kindergarten. Today, I wonder how time got away from me and how on earth you grew up so fast and if I could have done something to slow it down some.
Seventeen years ago, I was awed by the tiny person you were. I wondered what your life would be like...the kind of personality you'd have, what your talents and gifts would be. Today, I am still constantly amazed by the child you were, the young lady you are, and the woman you are becoming. And I know it isn't always easy. Hang in there.
Seventeen years ago, you and I went through quite a physical ordeal to bring us to the place where you call me "mother" and I call you "daughter." Today, we navigate through the end of your teenage years to bring us to a place where hopefully, we will call each other "friend."
Seventeen years ago, a nurse placed you in my arms for the first time. I looked at you and I remember thinking, I have never in my life seen anyone so beautiful And I have never in my life been so completely in love like this. Tonight, as I gave you one last hug and told you "happy birthday" one last time, I thought: I have never in my life seen anyone so beautiful. And I have never in my life been so completely in love like this.
Happy, happy seventeenth, my dear! And here's to the next three hundred sixty five days!
Love,
Mom
Friday, March 2, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Apology Letter
Dear Wonderful Dance Teachers,
Words cannot express how sorry I am that tornadoes were spotted in your area at the same time my ten-year-old daughter was taking class at you studio.
I apologize that I failed to warn you of her lilapsophobia. But in my defense, I didn't think it was something I needed to bring up yet. It's the end of February. For. The. Love.
I can only imagine the freak-out that ensued from my child as other parents came to pick up their children, you stopped class, and planned to trek across the alley to the fire station to hunker down in the nearest tornado shelter.
I am, however, very grateful that my older daughter was there as well to keep the kid from going completely crazy.
Thank you for letting her call home. I'm glad her dad arrived when he did and you didn't have todrug her and sling her over your shoulder try to calmly get her to the fire station by yourselves.
Because forewarned is forearmed, I do feel that I need to prepare you for next Tuesday.
You will hear "I'm scared" and "I'm worried there's going to be a tornado," more times than you ever thought possible in a two and a half hour time period.
You are welcome to tell her that she may only ask you if you think there will be a tornado before and after class.
If I were you, I would answer "No, I'm sorry, I don't, Sweetie" when she asks if you have a weather.com app on your smartphone.
And no, she may not check weather.com on her iTouch during your class.
And if all else fails, my cell phone number is at the front desk.
Best of luck to you~
Casey
Words cannot express how sorry I am that tornadoes were spotted in your area at the same time my ten-year-old daughter was taking class at you studio.
I apologize that I failed to warn you of her lilapsophobia. But in my defense, I didn't think it was something I needed to bring up yet. It's the end of February. For. The. Love.
I can only imagine the freak-out that ensued from my child as other parents came to pick up their children, you stopped class, and planned to trek across the alley to the fire station to hunker down in the nearest tornado shelter.
I am, however, very grateful that my older daughter was there as well to keep the kid from going completely crazy.
Thank you for letting her call home. I'm glad her dad arrived when he did and you didn't have to
Because forewarned is forearmed, I do feel that I need to prepare you for next Tuesday.
You will hear "I'm scared" and "I'm worried there's going to be a tornado," more times than you ever thought possible in a two and a half hour time period.
You are welcome to tell her that she may only ask you if you think there will be a tornado before and after class.
If I were you, I would answer "No, I'm sorry, I don't, Sweetie" when she asks if you have a weather.com app on your smartphone.
And no, she may not check weather.com on her iTouch during your class.
And if all else fails, my cell phone number is at the front desk.
Best of luck to you~
Casey
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