Day Two: Reunions, Tips and a Toddler Takes Notes

Welcome to Day 2.

Based on the 7,100+ hits on yesterday's post (which you can find here if you are  a deadbeat  just joining in) I think it's fair to assume that some of you reading this are strangers. There is a fairly good chance that at least 83% of those hits are my mother... but even so, I don't know that many people, so it's safe to assume that at least some of you do not know who I am.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Lara and I miiiiight be a bit of an over-sharer. #shockingiknow 

I live with my family in New York. (Upstate, not the cool NY.) My husband and I have five children. We are a colorful, adoptive family, so some of my babes came to me via adoption, and some are biological. My husband, Tom, borders on sainthood at all times, so you may find me playfully abusing him a little bit, because you simply cannot have two saints in one marriage. That'd just be obnoxious. We just moved to a new house a week and a half ago, so life is a little hectic, always, but especially while we don't have laundry hook-ups yet, and all seven of us are still living out of boxes. I am going to need all of you to set your expectations of me to a nice, low standard, and let's just go ahead and accept that my not harming any of the children during this crazy season will likely be my greatest act of kindness. 

Now that I have introduced myself and crushed any lofty expectations... let's talk Day 2.

I had a few ideas up my sleeve for today, but I settled on a surprise reunion between my two older girls (Annalee -11 and Marlie -10) and their favorite teachers from their former school. When we moved, we left some really fantastic teachers behind and I wanted to bring the girls by to say hello and that we miss and appreciate them.

Both of my parents were public educators and at one point or another, so were both of my sisters, my brother-in-law, my step-sister and step-brother and step-mom. It goes without saying that I have a healthy respect for what teachers have to do on a daily basis. Teaching is often a thankless job, and I gave some of my teachers a serious run for their money. 

In 8th grade, I refused to take notes in Earth Science because I believed myself to have a somewhat remarkable auditory memory. However, note taking was required and my teacher refused to change the overhead slides until everyone had taken thorough notes. I acquiesced, however, I did so in the most irritating way possible. I did take notes. With my left hand. It took me approximately one thousand minutes to write a barely legible sentence. I remember, quite clearly, realizing that I could technically obey, but still punish him for making me do the thing I did not want to do. So, I took my sweet time, writing like an enormous toddler.

And my teacher did not hit me with a bat.

If I could go back in time and hit that passive-aggressive version of myself with a bat, I would. Since that is not an option, I have resolved to work very hard to build good relationships with my children's teachers, since I sort of owe it to public educators for my generally bad behavior.

We had grand plans to show up with coffee and donuts, but we found out that they had an assembly scheduled so we had to high tail it over there sans treats in order to see them. Still, the teachers and students that we saw agreed that bringing my two sweet girls for a visit was treat enough.

After popping in to see the teachers, Marlie and I left for our Double Digit Getaway. This is a tradition I started in order to force myself to have my Claire Huxtable mom moment with each of my girls.

(Tom can do the guy thing, and I don't want to know anything about any of it, Because, no. Because, gross.) But for the girls, the tradition goes like this: I give each girl an invitation on the exact birthminute of their tenth birthday. This is the moment they hit the double digits, going from 9 to 10. We schedule a weekend away to discuss all the things that are about to go down in the double digits. It is a lot to cover, ya know... everything that happens between ages 10 and 99. So, we talk body stuff, we talk birds and bees stuff, we talk modesty stuff, we talk boy stuff, we talk Jesus-and-daddy-are-the-only-men-you-really-need kind of stuff. I am pretty terrible at it because I am a middle school boy at heart and anatomically correct verbiage either grosses me out or makes me giggle uncontrollably. It's a problem, Still, it is a great kindness to give a child one-on-one time when they have four other siblings vying for my attention.

Even if you make them learn about periods.

We were at least able to give the waitress a generous tip when we got Marlie some hot cocoa. (Chocolate is a big part of a girl surviving the Double Digits, so this felt like it tied in nicely.)

And for my final #AdamsActs for Day 2. I would like to publicly apologize to all my teachers and coaches for being a giant pain much of the time, but specifically to my 8th grade Earth Science teacher.

Mr. Holwerda, I am so sorry. I think you and I both know that I am not left-handed. I am sorry for my behavior and I thank you very much for never hitting me with a bat. 

So, that's that, Day two. I cannot thank you all enough for joining my family and so many others who are sprinkling kindness confetti around the globe in memory of my brother Adam. He was a phenomenal student and, incidentally, could actually write very nicely with both his right and left hands. I often grapple with this feeling of survivor's guilt, like if Adam had lived he would have done so many more important and astounding things than I have done with my life. But, as I see the impact his legacy of kindness is making here in the US, but also in India, Ghana, Japan, France, Australia, Germany, etc. I can't help but be overcome with gratitude. For though Adam's life was cut short, you all have helped me to do something important and astounding. Nothing can bring him back, but for those that loved and knew my brother... this sure does make it feel like a part of him never left. 

The Hardest Story I Never Told

Deep breath.

Day 1. 

Four years ago, a few friends and I decided to change the way we did life in October. I want to explain why I needed to change my Octobers, but if I had to rewrite this story for the fourth time, I would just bag the whole thing altogether. Still, each year we have new followers, and new participants, who deserve to know the whole story.  So, I will start at the beginning. There is something very heartbreaking about the beginning. The fact that each year that I do this, the story is always the exact same. That despite all that we have done to change October for us, and for so many people, this story never gets a new ending. It just is. 

So instead of trying to change it or rewrite it with a fresh twist, I will take you back to the first time I had the guts to tell my brother's story so publicly, and I will trust my former self to know what she was doing.  

Last October, I asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. Please share the links to your Facebook pages, and why not tag everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. I truly believe that the things we do this month would be acts of kindness that Adam would have spent a lifetime doing. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. 

Thank you for allowing me the privilege to share my family's story with you. 

----

I am going to tell you a story. 

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly.  But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well.  So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game.  He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid. I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship.  And he's free.  He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow.  I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did.  He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free. He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble. So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice. 

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth.  And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single blast through the closed front door. 

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated.  But only one life was ended.  My only brother, my parents' only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble.  He was gone. 

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready. 

So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 34 years old... Not only have I outlived my big brother, but I have now, officially, had twice as much time on this Earth as he did.  I need to do something. I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression.  So, I accepted a challenge, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people. 31 days of kindness toward others.

I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done to the glory of God if his life had not been cut short. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 34 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

For Day One, I am sharing this story. I am rallying the people around me to participate, and I am bossing you into participating too. 

Your welcome. 

I wish that for day one I could adequately describe what most of you are missing by not having had the privilege to know my big brother. He was something. Although the story of Adam's death does not change with each year that passes, the way his life inspires me to live mine... well, that can certainly change a lot of things. And over the next 31 days, I will do my best to continue his legacy of kindness. And I hope you will too. 

 In loving memory of my buddy. 

Romance and Real Estate - The One.

If you missed my post yesterday, you can get caught up here. Okay, now that you have some backstory (and have been made aware of how melodramatic I can make things) I offer you, part two of this saga.

After the crushing breakup I endured (and described in absurdly romantic detail in yesterday's post) I went back to my old ways. I felt I had no choice but to obsessively check out the typical real estate dating scene. I shopped around to see what eligible houses were on the market. I even did the online thing for a while. But, there was just one problem.

I was already in a serious commitment with another mortgage. Constantly nagging in the back of my mind was this question of how and when to end my current relationship. Do I break up with this house banking on finding the perfect match for me just in the nick of time? Do I wait to find the perfect match, and then quickly try to break my first commitment? What if no suitor came for the old house, could we afford to juggle two relationships at once? Would we have anything left to give the new house, if all of our time and energy was tied up with our old love interest? Would that really be fair to either house? But, above all, would I be willing to risk losing the perfect house because I was still tethered to the one that didn't really have my heart?

It took a lot of soul-searching (and by that I mean our realtor told us what to do.) So, we decided that we would finally end the 9 year relationship we have poured so much into, and just have faith that the right thing would come along at the right time. This began what they call the "staging" phase of the breakup.

For those of you who haven't been in the game for a while "staging" is when you hide all your previous relationship baggage to make your  self  house look more appealing. This is all but impossible when you have five kids. (Jay, at age two and a half, is particularly unhelpful during this phase. He would literally unpack every box that I packed. In real time.) We were storing furniture and toys and off-season clothes in our friends' attics and garages... like we needed to involve casual relationships with even more houses, it was just getting sleazy.

And right when I declared that I could not possibly hide or discard or miraculously evaporate one more thing, our friend Joe casually solved all of our problems. He let us know that some of our friends from church were looking to rent a house. People we know, and love, and trust, could potentially rent our house! No more staging. No more partial-packing. No more selling and then not knowing and hoping something would be available. It was going to be good for us, good for our friends, and we felt like instead of just walking out on the house that has treated us so well over the years, we were able to find a suitable partner for our house. It was like the most perfect arranged marriage in real estate history.

And since we have  zero  extensive experience as landlord and landlady, we feel  foolish and terrified confident we know precisely what we are getting ourselves into. Seriously though, there isn't even enough room to go into all the details of how God orchestrated such a perfect, enchanting match with our tenants, Peter and Emily Gavenda. Once we were comfortable with the blossoming romance between them and our house, we felt like we could finally move on.

With the conclusion of the staging phase, came what must be the real estate equivalent of speed dating. Countless disappointments, several false alarms, and the dreaded open houses (singles mixers?) and just when I almost swear off hunting for the perfect mate altogether... we find, The One.

It was love at first sight.

When we pulled onto the street Tom said "I don't want to live in this neighborhood... I will just always be jealous of whoever lives in that awesome white house."

And then we realized that our date was WITH that awesome white house.

And then we met and fell in instalove with that awesome white house.

And we just knew. We knew we would make an offer. And so we confessed our love and made an official proposal that night. I know, I know... it's not always a good idea to rush things this early in the courtship. But, the house had only been single for three days, and another floozy was already on his tail. And though another suitor was interested in making an offer, the awesome white house - already a faithful companion -  would not be seduced by the empty promises of another. This house, my house, is different from all the other fickle, triflin' shacks out there. This house chose us... accepted us... loved us back so instantaneously, the other offer was dismissed before it even arrived. (That does not happen. Unless your love is already so magical that it transcends the very laws of real estate.)

It's everything we hoped it would be, and more. It makes me look back at those old French doors, throw my head back, and laugh maniacally. Because, I snagged the better house. The perfect house. It's not insecure like other houses - with the flashy updated kitchens and bathrooms. My house is comfortable in it's original subway tile and drop ceilings. (Sure, the drop ceiling has to go, but... houses can change right? I can change  him  the carpet.) My house doesn't need all the bells and whistles, because just like the perfect guy, it's got character, strength, integrity, and crown molding throughout. My house wasn't so full of himself that he was over priced or all gussied up, he wasn't out to score a quick sale either. He was just solid, sturdy and maaaan... is he built.

So, that's that. The beginning of a beautiful life together. The engagement is official, and the wedding should be very soon. We are just waiting to get the 'Save the Date' notice, and then we are taking the leap! We would love for you to  help us pull up old carpet and move  join us in the celebration of our beloved union.

My soul mate, my true love, my best friend. 

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Romance and Real Estate - The Ex

I don't generally like to re-post old blogs. I prefer to wow my readers with fresh crazy each and every time I sit down to write something. However, in this case, I don't feel like I can invite you to really look forward with me until we take a look back. A really embarrassing, pathetic look back.

The following was something I wrote nearly four years ago when we first began our search for a new home. We currently have a beautiful home that we have loved well. But when we first moved in, we only had two little girls and were used to living in a small, two bedroom walk-up outside of Philly. We have  an unreasonable number of children  expanded a bit since then and as those two little girls are now nearing their teenage years, mama needs another half bath up in here.

We have exciting news about moving forward to the next chapter of our lives, the magical 1 1/2 bathroom chapter. But, that post (coming tomorrow) can only be appreciated in the fullest sense if you see how  absolutely crazy  patient, yet excited I have been to finally find the house we plan to stay in for(maybe)ever.

So, come along on the roller coaster ride of my precarious stability, and take a moment to feel bad for my husband while you're at it.

--
I don't think I have ever really gotten dumped.  Until now.

I can't say for sure, but I am pretty sure that this is how it feels to get good and dumped. Ya see, we put in an offer on a beautiful home that really seemed like it was the best possible home for us. This house was just like the perfect guy: sensible, stable, good-looking, (without trying to impress anyone), met all my earthly needs, had a lot of character, and even a little bit of a sense of humor, humble from the outside, but was really something special on the inside... where it counts. Oh, and like all perfect guys, he had a walk-in butler's pantry.

In fairness, I know it isn't exactly the same as a breakup with an actual human... but, all the major factors are the same. It all started out like young love. There was the awkward anticipation of the introduction, trying to get to know the house while everyone is watching and wondering if we'll hit it off. There's that feeling of being totally head over heels, but trying to play it cool, knowing you need to take things slow, and really try to see things realistically. All to no avail, because there simply are no flaws!

Then, it starts to unravel.

I want to make a commitment, but my Facebook status indicates that I am already a relationship with another house, or worse yet... that "it's complicated" because I need to sell by owner so I don't lose all my equity. All of this is just too much for the dream-guy-house, because he's totally ready to settle down, and he's a real catch, and he knows what he is looking for and if you don't snatch him up... some other unattached babe is gonna snag 'em with an offer that isn't contingent on breaking up with her other house first.

And this leads to the ultimate demise. Suddenly there I am, making these empty promises that I swear I'll break it off with this other house, that this other house means nothing to me... that the house I currently own was just there for me when I needed a place to stay... it isn't love! I just need a little time to let that house down gently!  Please, I beg, I just need a little time!

I am acting a desperate fool, and he just moves on like our time together meant nothing to him.

In keeping with the common denominators of a heart wrenching breakup:  I cried for an embarrassingly disproportionate amount of time, I had trouble sleeping, woke up clinically depressed and without any desire to eat or hope for future happiness. I emailed his buddies (aka the realtor) and asked to convince him to give me another chance. (Sorry tom, that is actually true.) I, impressively, was able to change every subject of every conversation back to the house, I spent most of the day looking at pictures of the house online, then "went to the post office" which is PATHETIC for "I really drove past the house just to see if the house was home." I have pouted like a betrayed dumpee, and spent every spare second looking online for a house to rebound with. I just want to hurt him the way he hurt me. I want him to realize what he is missing. And when he sees me pull my U-haul down a DOUBLE-wide driveway, he will look at his puny single-wide and wish that he never let me slip through his beautiful pocket-doors.

With leaded glass.

--

On Second Thought, I AM a Saint.

I have spent countless hours parenting my daughters. We have three of them, and they all vascillate from quite pleasant and low-maintenance to "buckle up she's coming!" depending on the moment. They are girls. And they are MY girls. So, there is really no way of knowing who is gonna be doing/saying/feeling what from one moment to the next.

I have spent countless hours grooming them... the bathing, the clipping, the ballet-bunning! I have carted them from one activity to another. I spent long nights nursing and rocking and re-tucking all three of my precious angel baby heads. I have snuggled, and disciplined, and taught and trained, and blown it a time or  two. Or maybe more.

I have sat in waiting rooms during ballet classes, and tap, and hip-hop and contact improv, and doctor's appointments and pre-school evaluations. These girls have had stitches (okay, just London) and blood transfusions (wait, just London) and one maaaaybe fell in a fire that one time. (you guessed it, #London.) 

Diapers. Wiping. Accidents. Nightmares. Boo boos. Mean girls. The TALK. It's been a lot of exhausting time and labor-intensive grunt work. I mean, applying the sunscreen alone! 

Do you know how many times I have been called a saint for parenting my biological girls?

Zero.

Well, that's a lie. I make Tom call me a saint at least once daily. But unsolicited!? Not a single time have I been praised to the point of sainthood for being a "regular mom" and doing regular mom things.

I have done all of those same things for my boys. Just replace ballet buns with coconut oil and corn rows, replace dance classes with football (and putting back removed hearing aids, which is Jay's preferred extra-curricular activity to date) and replace the roller coaster of emotions with... wait, no, let's leave those in.

You get the picture. Lots of work, lots of good, lots of hard, lots of hair, lots of normal mom stuff. 

Do it for my girls? Nothing. Just normal.

For my boys? Instasaint.

Let's clear up one thing... I am not a saint. (Okay, theologically speaking, God calls his children saints because of his unbelievable grace. In that grace and mercy, he has chosen to see ME - total non-saint - through a pure, holy, and sanctified lens because he sees Jesus when he sees me.) Wow right? And also... huh? But that's not really what I'm talking about. I am not talking about biblical sainthood, I'm talking about the fact that people only view normal momming as saintly when done for a child who did not come out of my birth canal.

And I know the right position to take here, I am supposed to say that I am not a saint, and that it's a privilege and a joy to take care of ALL my children and I don't want to be praised and nominated for sainthood just because some of my kids came to me via adoption. I am supposed to say it's no different, and if I'm not a saint for momming my bio kids, then I'm not a saint for momming my boys.

I know that's the right answer. But guess what, I'm not gonna say that answer. I am not going to sit here and be outraged that people view what I do for my boys as saintly. Instead, I'm gonna go ahead and hop on the other side of this argument.

 

What I wanna know is this, why ISN'T anyone calling me a saint for momming my girls!? 

Have you even attempted to do a perfect crispy ballet bun? I don't wanna trash talk, but I don't know if Mother Teresa had the stuff to get it done. I am just saying. 

I know what I should say. Humble church lady mom would say "I'm not doing anything for my boys that I don't do for my girls, it doesn't matter that they are adopted. Please, don't call me a saint." 

Well, I'm not saying all that. Instead, please DO call me a saint. I love it. Every time I manhandle Tom into showering me with praise, it feels great. I agree with humble church lady about one thing, I am not a saint for properly caring for my adopted children. I want saintly props for properly caring for all my children. Less humble, less church lady... but, c'mon, people call foster and adoptive parents "saints" because people do truly recognize how hard it is to care for kids (especially those who are hurting) and adoption and fostering highlights the fact that they are doing all that loving and caring by choice. 

It's always a choice though. All parents have to choose to respond patiently or not. All parents have to choose to show up emotionally or to check out. All parents have to consiously choose to be gentle and soft or to blow a gasket. 

It's always a choice. With adoption the choice may appear more obvious, but real, active, engaged, conscientious parenting day in and day out IS a choice. So, go ahead old white lady in the waiting area, I AM a saint for sitting at my son's six and a half hour neuro appointment. 

But not because he was adopted. He's my kid, and I would do it for any of my kids. So would any good parent. 

It's just what saints do. 

There is No Quota.

You know how we all believe things that are irrational? C'mon, don't lie. You know what I am talking about. We all have things that are completely unreasonable, perhaps unbiblical, that we still believe. Maybe these aren't things that we believe consciously or intellectually, but based on the way we live our lives, they are deeply held beliefs that we have yet to uproot.

Maybe  I  you have some sort of lucky rain boots you insist on wearing when you speak publicly. Or maybe you are paranoid that if you playfully try out somebody's crutches, then you will end up needing crutches for realz, because you "jinxed" yourself.  (Dan Mann)  (You know who you are.) Or maybe you are one of the dozen people who, in a haze of disillusionment, suffer from the hopeful belief that this will be the year that the Buffalo Bills  stop being terrible at football  go all the way. Don't be too embarrassed, we all believe in something that is absurd.

Wanna know mine?

I recently discovered that I believe in what I have named The Law of the Quota. And here is how it all went down...

I grew up with some baggage - losses and pains and wounds that I wouldn't wish on anyone  except for maybe the person who invented those hotel curtains that block out every shred of light except that last sliver right at the center where the two curtains meet. Really? You couldn't take it a quarter inch further?  So, clearly, I have problems. But for the most part, I am functioning, by the grace of God, and I mean that literally... it is by His miraculous grace alone that I can even complete a sentence, let alone be a wife and a mom and a  terribly inconsistent  wildly hilarious blogger. So fast forward to January of 2013, when we brought home our son, Jay. He had a long and challenging road of health struggles that we did not see coming. Simultaneously, I sort of lost my best friend. Then, my husband, sort of lost his job. Then we spent the better part of the next year learning how to navigate his hearing loss, learning sign language, doing speech therapy and physical therapy, and a million other specialists for Jay, all while job hunting and in the midst of terribly expensive legal hiccups while finalizing the adoption (during a time, remember, when we had zero income) and learning how to navigate an open-adoption for the first time, and just so much weeping and gnashing of teeth. It has been a hard couple of years. It feels like at every turn, there has been a new challenge.

In the midst of all of this, our son Harper continued to display more and more signs of Reactive Attachment Disorder. We were a touch overwhelmed and did our best with all the needs piled on top of needs that we were facing, but each time we felt we were getting steady on our feet, life would cobra kai us right in the throat. And mama just can't take it any more.

But, remember that part about how there is always more? Yep. More happened.

We discovered a large lump on the back of Jay's neck. The one lump was the size of a grape, and doctor's discovered an additional chain of nodes coming down his neck and along his collar bone, as well as "numerous solid masses" in an ultrasound.

There is no quota. 

You can keep having things. Things can keep happening and there is no Law of the Quota that says that one family will max out, and only have to endure so much in a single year, or even in a lifetime. There is no tragedy vaccine.

You can just keep. on. having. things. happen. And I hate it and I want that law to be a real thing.

I haven't been able to sit down and write about all this with Jay because I also discovered another fake thing I believe is that if I talk about or pray about my worst nightmare coming to pass, that I am somehow giving God permission to take my baby away from me. I discovered that I am afraid to pray during a tragedy because I am afraid that any expression of faith makes me a willing accomplice if everything goes terribly wrong. And I am not willing, I am unwilling and I will go down kicking and screaming. So, I keep this (illusion of) control, and I refuse to speak to God for fear that He will mistake my desperate plea to Him as an expression of FAITH, and therefore a green light to take everything I love away from me as a test to see if that faith cannot be shaken. I don't want to pray for His will to be done, because I want MY will to be done. I don't want God up there thinking "okay, you prayed to me, now you better be ready to accept whatever it is that I see fit to dish out."

Wow. What kind of heinous misinterpretation of the scripture is that!?

Jay has a surgical biopsy scheduled for April 14th, but we have seen a significant improvement in the swelling of that lymph node as well as reduced swelling in the other nodes, and we are hoping to hold off on having surgery/putting him under anesthesia unless it is absolutely necessary. At this point, the doctors (and we) are cautiously optimistic that these are reactive lymph nodes, rather than the nightmare scenarios that I still lack the faith to say out loud.

Here is the truth. There is no Law of the Quota. To believe that I have exceeded the hardship limit is silly, and entitled, and offensive to those who have endured so much more hardship than I have. It is an affront to the mom who does not get to hold off on the decision to have her child's lymph node biopsied, because it is an emergency surgery with no sign of improvement. It is an affront to the man who lost his job when my husband did, and still hasn't found one. It is like spitting in the face of Christ, who carried his cross on this Good Friday so that we might lay down our sins and pleas and our nightmare scenarios because He has each of them covered in his blood and in his love and in his grace.

There is no quota. There is not a limit on how much we might suffer, but there is also no limit to how much that Jesus has already suffered by choice, in our place, for our sins. I am learning to pray that his will be done, and I am learning to make a plea to him in faith and not in an attempt to control a God who cannot be bound by my fears nor my folly. I am learning to ignore the ignorant and unbiblical fortune cookie theology that says God won't give me anything that I cannot handle. I am learning to be content knowing that He has allowed more than I can handle, that I might learn to remain on my knees, relying on him. There is no quota, no limit, to what we might endure on this side of heaven. But even if our lives take a beating as bad as the one the Buffalo Bills will undoubtedly continue to take until the end times, we can know that God is still faithful, even when our bodies are sick or broken, or in the unspeakable event that our baby's bodies are sick or broken.

Easter is a time to reflect on the miracle of Christ's resurrection. Some of you think that believing in THAT is the absurd thing. And it is pretty crazy, I'm not gonna lie. But, I can promise you this, when I stare down the road ahead - a lawless wild west of limitless loss and tragedy... I will take a crazy, counter-cultural faith in His limitless love every. single. time. The alternatives simply hold no hope.

God will either give us what we ask for in prayer or give us what we would have asked for if we knew everything he knows. - Tim Keller

An Honest Conversation

This week I misspelled the word "fundraiser" in a text message and autocorrect changed it to "fun drainer."

Yes, I thought.

That.

Exactly that.

Nothing drains the fun  and the sense of being a grown up  quite like fundraising.  

Here is how it all went down...Our talented and amazing friends, Brandi and Danny Ebersole took Tom and I out to a restaurant over Christmas break and said  nothing close to this, but this is all I heard  basically this, word for word, "Why don't we video tape you ugly crying while you spill your deepest family guts and we will put it on the world wide web for all to see!?"

It took a platter of really disgusting steamed buns and an obscene serving of bread pudding to stuff all my feelings about this proposal. If anyone else on planet earth had asked to make a video of us sharing such a deeply personal experience, I would have punched them in the throat. But, it wasn't just anyone. It was Brandi. Brandi! If anyone could be trusted to delicately handle our baggage with care, it would be her and her sensitive and gifted photographer/documentary making husband, Danny. As fellow adoptive parents, I knew they would know and convey our heart for Harper. And as an adoptee, I knew Brandi would understand the possible implications for Harper, if this were not handled with the utmost care. So, we hesitantly accepted this challenge to initiate a conversation about children with attachment disorders and other special needs that affect a child's ability to make healthy attachments. We all understood that these conversations are frequently silenced because of shame and fear. We knew that our own shame and fear would surface, and would threaten to keep us silent as well.

In fact, there were several occasions where I panic-begged Brandi and Danny to abandon ship, and destroy all footage. But, they believed in our family, and they believed in the power of telling your truth, and they believed in all of you. They believe that you would want to know our story and be a part of a creating a bigger story for our family, one of healing. So, we went forward in good faith that God would use our family's story to bring awareness and hope to someone who needed it, as well as resources and support for our family to be healed. As hard as the public ugly crying was, the fundraiser element is even harder for Tom and me.

It makes me feel like a little girl sitting at a lemonade stand waiting for customers. As an adult, I know that nobody really wants to waste even a dime on the watered down lemonade (that was undoubtedly prepared without any concern for what is sanitary) but we buy it anyways and we dump it out our car windows as soon as we turn the corner. Why do we do this? Because we want to support the little entrepreneur's willingness to be vulnerable and to put themselves out there. I feel like that little girl right now, but with the adult awareness that nobody really wants to waste a single dime on my  problems  lemonade. I feel like that little girl sitting there, with all her ugly hurts and failures exposed before the world, saying do you like my lemonade? 

It is terrifying, and it feels pathetic and humiliating and I keep returning to those moments of panic-begging Brandi and Danny to pretend we never agreed to this project, just to be spared from such feelings of raw transparency. But Brandi's ever-encouraging voice keeps reminding me of a few truths... 

Yes, we have a long and expensive road ahead of us... and yes, we could really use a community of people who are willing to generously walk that road and carry the financial burden along with us. Still her voice gets drowned out by the loud and faithful fear/shame combo that cranks itself up on a regular basis reminding me that "adults don't need money from other people because they should be able to manage on their own!" And ya know what, that is also true. We can manage. If nobody had any desire to partner with us, we would still make every possible sacrifice necessary to get Harper, and our family, the help he needs. But, there is something beautiful about the fact that many of you do desire to partner with us, and some already have.

We are overwhelmed by how many of you have taken the time to comment or share our video. We are overwhelmed by those of you who have generously given financial gifts, as well as gifts of prayer and encouragement. We are overwhelmed that anyone would be willing to pass their words, their dimes and their dollars on to us, so that we can get Harper the best care possible and be relieved of carrying the heavy financial and emotional price tag alone. It is that humbling sense of gratitude that makes me feel a little less like I'm selling refreshments, and a little more like I am the one that is being refreshed.

To view the video, or if you feel led to participate in this mission to bring healing and wholeness to a remarkable boy, our sweet friends have organized this "fun drainer" which we invite you to share with anyone who could benefit from hearing our story. 

http://www.gofundme.com/Capuanosupport

My Child is Not Struggling Because...

Over the past few years, the following things have been offered to us as possible causes for what we are experiencing with Harper. Most of the time the suggestions have been made in love purely out of concern, and occasionally they have been "casually" dropped into a conversation in correction or judgement. Some are shoved down our throats via Facebook articles and blogs. So let's take a look at the disordered attachment cause d'jour. 

We are going through this...

- because we didn't spank him.

- because we spanked him too much.

- because he doesn't have enough structure.

- because we are too rigid with him.

- because he needs tough love.

- because we musn't love him as much as our biological kids.

- because he's the only black/adopted child. (Before Jay.)

- because Jay's adoption is open. (After Jay.)

- because it's genetic.

- because we don't have a nurturing environment.

- because we aren't consistent enough.

- because we are too firm.

- because we were too open with him about his adoption.

- because we weren't open enough with him about his adoption.

- because white couples shouldn't have black children.

- because you shouldn't "mix" adopted and biological children in the same family.

- because he needs to learn self-discipline/self-control.

- because he needs a physical outlet.

- because he doesn't get enough attention.

- because we've let him be the center of attention.

- because we don't follow through.

- because we don't show enough grace.

- because we have let him get away with things.

- because we never let him get away with anything.

- because he needs medication.

- because he needs play therapy.

- because he didn't get enough skin-to-skin contact.

- because we aren't on the same page as parents.

- because we didn't do the family bed. 

- because I didn't wear him in a sling enough.

- because I wore him too much and he got spoiled.

- because I used "separation" tools like strollers, bouncy seats, etc.

- because I didn't nurse him.

- because I did nurse him, and that's unnatural.

- because I let him cry it out.

- because I answered his cries too readily.

- because I am too uptight about what he eats and drinks.

- because I am too loosey goosey and don't have him on a specialized diet. 

- because we don't have a strong enough marriage.

- because we don't pray enough.

- because we've neglected the spiritual element of child-rearing.

- because we over-spiritualize everything.

- because we haven't trained him biblically.

- because I am too distracted.

- because he is too distracted (attention deficit).

- because we have too many kids.

- because we over-analyze.

- because we haven't analyzed enough.

- because we are making the adoption piece too big of a deal/love is enough.

- because we aren't giving the adoption piece enough weight.

- because we followed BabyWise.

- because we didn't follow BabyWise.

- because we eat healthy/he doesn't get enough treats and affection.

- because not local/paleo/organic/free-range/no red dyes/gluten-free/annato-free/preservative-free/dairy-free enough.

- because we aren't conscientious parents.

- because we are helicopter parents.

- because he wasn't taught responsibility.

- because he was given too much responsibility.

- because it's spiritual.

- because it's psychological.

- because it's emotional.

- because it's medicinal.

- because it's chemical. 

- because it's developmental.

- because it's neurological.

- because it's physiological.

- because he should spend more time outside.

- because I don't homeschool.

- because he rode the bus to school.

- because I pulled him out of school.

- because he's not in private school.

- because we aren't in a good school district.

- because our school district is too diverse/other black children are a bad example.

- because our school district isn't diverse enough.

- because we don't have enough black friends.

- because our black friends aren't playing a large enough role.

- because he needs a mentor.

- because he doesn't know enough adoptees.

- because he is too aware of his adoption story.

- because he doesn't know his whole adoption story.

- because he has a learning disability.

- because he's too smart for his own good.

- because he's bored.

- because he has anxiety.

- because we should ignore his behavior.

- because we should put him in a group home.

- because we weren't prepared for adoption.

- because we didn't know what to look for.

- because the adoption industry is crooked.

- because immunizations.

- because food allergies.

- because microwaved plastic.

- because he'll outgrow it.

- because boys will be boys.

- because hormones.

- because high-energy.

- because wheat.

- because....

- because...

- because...

Because, no. Because, shut up. Because... none of this. Or because, all of this. Because, I don't know yet... and because, neither do you. 

But what I do know this... attachment is attachment, sensory is sensory, fetal alcohol is fetal alcohol, autism is autism,  attention deficit is attention deficit. They are not all caused or treated the same way, and many cannot be prevented. Many present co-morbidly (at the same time as another) and so it is hard to distinguish between the two, or three, or four things going on at once. What might look like a parenting problem, may in fact be a neuropsychological disorder. 

There is no fast solve, and I know that is uncomfortable. There is no Facebook timeline article that can shame a mother into solving disorders or dysfunctions like these. There is not a vitamin for autism or  insecure attachment, nor a something-free/something-rich diet that repairs brain-damage caused in-utero. Being shamed into a pro- or anti-something parenting position is not going to be what heals my child.

"If one is sick and desires healing, it is of prime importance that the true cause of the sickness be discovered. This is always the first step toward recovery. If the particular cause is not recognized, and attention is directed to subordinate causes, or to supposed but not real causes, healing is out of the question." 

- David H. Kim (The Lord's Prayer Devotional)

I believe that Harper will be healed. But it will not be quickly, it will not be unexplained or mysterious, and it certainly will not be because I went wheat-free. Perhaps I am wrong, and I do believe that God can and does perform miracles, and perhaps He will choose not to perform an instant miracle healing solely because of my lack of faith here... But I really just believe that God is going to heal him over time. The miracle will be that we all still love each other on the other side of the process. 

Out of the Attachment Closet

I miss writing.

I don't know how to write what I refer to as "secondary content." I am just no good at that. I am a "primary content" kind of girl. I write about what is actually happening to me, right now. And if I write about something from the past, it is because it is what I am dealing with, right now. 

I almost feel dishonest if I write secondary content, it feels like I am skirting the real issue or something, and what is the point of sharing my life if I am just gonna skirt the real stuff.

But, I am in a hard place. My family is in a hard place, and I don't know yet how to share the primary content of our lives with the world in a way that makes the most sense for everyone involved. 

But I miss it. I miss splaying all my baggage out for the perusal of friends and strangers alike, in hopes that one of us gains a little insight, encouragement or, at the very least, the sense the we are not all doing this life alone. I miss writing because I process my life through writing, and right now... I have a lot to process.

So, in relatively vague terms, I am going to share and process the primary content of my life. But it is not just my life in crisis, but the lives of Tom and my children as well. So, please know that I am not trying to be mysterious and string anyone along for the sake of drama... It's truly out of the desire to honor my family.

My oldest son is struggling. He has always struggled, which probably comes as a surprise to anyone who knows him. He, more than any of my kids, is social and charming and engaging and is so loved by people it's like he is the mayor of a small town and everyone knows him and loves him. Everywhere we go, people remember his big, beautiful eyes and charming manners. He has always drawn people in. 

The other side of that is what we have learned is a heartbreaking sense of insecurity in his ability to attach. While he can superficially engage anyone he meets, he has never been able to make and keep deep, authentic attachments. Even to me.

Because of the circumstances of his pre-birth, birth and adoption, Harper has always struggled with attachment. It has always been a very challenging road for him, and for our family... But in the past few months, the effects of Reactive Attachment Disorder have escalated significantly.

We were asked to do an interview about this disorder, to bring awareness and hopefully support to families who are experiencing the exhausting battles we are facing. We agreed and to be quite honest, neither Tom or I remember anything we said. Still, I will soon share the video and I hope that it will reach the mom who has relentlessly loved and pursued her child, only to be violently attacked in return. I hope it reaches the sister who grew up hearing her sibling threaten to kill his mother, or himself, just to make her upset. I hope it reaches the child who spent a lifetime pushing away love, out of fear and self-protection. I hope that it reaches potential adoptive couples, that they would learn the signs to look for early on and be able to intervene at a much younger age than we have. I hope it reaches school social workers and child psychologists who have blown off parents saying "boys will be boys" or "all kids have tantrums" or "have you tried a reward chart?" I hope it reaches my readers and you all know that I have not intentionally kept you all in the dark out of pride or a desire to seem like we have the perfect life or family, but instead, I have had a deep sense of responsibility to protect the sacred story that belongs only to my son.

But now, we are in crisis. And we need support. And it has gotten so bad that there is no longer secondary content, this battle, this primary content, has taken over everything else and has become our exclusive content. So, it's time. I have come to a point where I believe that being isolated and keeping this season of our lives a secret would not protect or honor Harper, but would only isolate our family and ultimately, make him sicker.

So, here we are. Broken and in despair, fighting for our son's precious life, just as he fights against me... believing he too is fighting for his life. I will be blogging throughout this journey, but I don't know what it will look like or how much I will feel free to share. My prayer is that we are able to love Harper into the wholest and healthiest possible version of himself and since we believe in a God who does that very thing, we trust that it is possible. 

Anything You Can Do, I Can (Still) Do Better.

If you missed the previous post where my friend Melissa schools us on all things Ebola and American entitlement, then please read that here before you move on.  I love having Sierra Leone in my mind when I am making decisions about my stuff. Not just my physical stuff (outgrown toys and clothes, absurd amounts of holiday-themed pencils with no tips, and the like), but also my emotional stuff. I tend to be a wanderer. I have struggled with wanderlust for as long as I can remember. I have always had a deep sense that there is something out there that I must pursue in order to find true happiness. I have spent many embarrassing years moving toward this force, this unknown, unnamed, unidentified thing... this mysterious solution.

I have wasted many good years gravitating toward one "solution" after another. Chasing the high of change was something that I was guilty of for so long it's pathetic. A new relationship, moving to a new apartment, setting some goal to work toward, acquiring some item that guaranteed a life of fulfillment and comfort, achieving some sort of success, gaining someone's approval, concealing my flaws, being fit, trim and never gaining weight, gaining so much weight that I would finally have the curves of an actual adult woman... all of these pointless and vain pursuits are actual examples of "fixes" I am guilty of chasing. (Most, if not all, proved to be an exercise in futility, except for acquiring those bodacious curves which, obviously, was a wildly successful endeavor  when I was nine months pregnant and not a moment after. )

So, yes, I have a long history of vanity and self-obsession. Surprise! I have struggled with comparing myself to others for about.... hmmmm a lifetime or so. Minimizing this month has made me aware of how far I have come in some ways (I no longer believe that there is some "fix" but I know there to be an actual solution to my discontentment, something  - or rather someone worth pursuing. I have learned that knowing Jesus and being covered by His perfect work on the cross, and knowing that His grace is enough for me has allowed me to be just a tiny bit less absurd as a person. Now, when I do catch myself wandering in my mind to the illusion of greener grass, or lusting after some thing that promises to solve all my problems, I can at least stop myself and know that I am believing a lie.

In other ways, I know that I have made very little progress. Below is a post I wrote more than THREE YEARS AGO. I get into the nitty gritty of how sick of a woman I really was and sadly, still am. Re-reading it has revealed that while I am purging all this "stuff" I no longer need, I have not made much progress in uprooting the the deeply embedded cause of my desire to have more: jealousy and comparison.

Here is an (unfortunately still-relevant) assessment of the damage that this comparison trap has had in my life, called Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better, which I wrote back in the summer of 2011. Beware, this was written when I didn't have the energy to capitalize sentences. 

--

i might have a seriously major problem.  comparing myself to others has been a lifelong infection of mine.  i intentionally choose the word infection because that is what it is.  infection is defined as being tainted or contaminated with something that affects quality, character, or condition unfavorably. 

comparing myself to others is something that affects life's quality, my personal character and the condition of my heart unfavorably.  i am a sick, sick woman.

i think that this infection (for me) started at childbirth.  i was born 18 short months after my organized and athletically gifted sister, who could do almost anything better than me.  she was a more disciplined student, a much better athlete, and she always had her uniforms washed by game day.  comparatively, i was a bright, but distracted student who rarely "applied herself."  i was mediocre at sports, and had to sneak out of school during my lunch hour to go home and wash my uniform on game day.  and i usually washed the home jersey for away games, and vice versa.  my antics irritated my sister, and almost anyone in a position of authority.

don't get me wrong, i wasn't a complete idiot.  i'm just a little more free-spirited than your average apply-oneself-er.  it's not that i got bad grades, they just didn't reflect my potential.  one semester in college, i decided that i would actually try to get a 4.0.  i had 18 credit hours that semester, so it was the perfect time to see if i really had what it takes to ace a challenging course load.  i got a 4.0.  i didn't tell anyone at the time, and i never tried to apply myself so thoroughly ever again.

while i may not have told anyone, i kept track of that achievement in my mind.  if someone out-performed me in school... i could always say "well, if i had applied myself, i would have done just as well."  (comparison: victory for me.)  it is really out of self-preservation that i needed a secret comparison victory like this, because i spent the other 99% of my life feeling bad about the losses in most comparisons:  "wow, that girls has incredibly thick hair, but not frizzy-thick, her hair is smooth, shiny, pantene-commerical-thick. my hair isn't so much thick, as it is big.  not pantene-big, but 80's-big."  (comparison: loss for me.)  "her kids know all their state capitols??  and they recite the old testament in its entirety out loud before dinner?  and they eat the egg whites?  unsalted!?  she is super mom.  i'm the worst."  (comparison: loss for me.)  "but, her kids don't understand dry humor."  (comparison: victory.)

do you see what i mean?  i'm totally sick and infected.  it's like the circular argument i am constantly having in my head:  i am the worst-----> at least i'm not as bad as that guy-------> i am a total fool-------> she acted dumber than i did--------> i wish i could be her-----------> i could probably beat her up in a survival situation-----------> i would never act like that!----------> i can't believe i acted like that----------> i'm the worst----------> i can't believe that i am seriously the best.

sick. twisted. infected.

i hate comparing myself to others.  i usually lose out to some busty broad who fills out her dress like a proper adult... and to make myself feel better, i try to find a comparison victory to make myself feel better.  so, i search and i come up with something like, at least i know not to wear the sock/sandal combination that lady is rockin'.  it's horrible, and it doesn't make me feel better.  it makes me feel like a huge jerk.  which leads to "well, at least i'm not as big of a jerk as...."

if all of you egg my house tonight, i will understand why.  i just egged it for saying this stuff out loud.

so, i have been contemplating the comparison trap.  i have realized that it leads (in my mind) to some perceived loss or victory.  the losses, obviously, make me feel horrible.  and the victories make me feel a little better for a hot second, but ultimately make me feel horrible.  the trap is this: "victories" lead to pride (sickening), or "losses" lead to self-loathing (sickening.)  either way, comparing myself to others makes me more and more self-focused and sickening by the second.  so, i quit.

i am giving up comparisons.  i am choosing to believe that i am fearfully and wonderfully made, and so is everyone else.  no better, no worse.  we are all made in the image of a good and perfect God who is neither impressed by my "victories", nor disgusted at my "losses."  so, i am choosing to agree with God on who i am, and who others are.  i am going to stop measuring myself against other women, and start measuring myself against who i know God created me to be.

this is going to be really hard because it all happens in my head where there is zero accountability.  so, if you see me deep in thought, just slap me right across the face as hard as you can because i am, undoubtedly, comparing myself to someone else.  i will gladly do the same for all my sisters out there who are stuck in this same sick trap of comparing ourselves, and our families, and our gifts, and our faults, and so on...

i'll even bet i can slap harder than you can slap.

--

So, I have decided that since I have clearly not grown up at all in the past three years, I am going to use the comparison trap to my advantage. I WILL compare myself to others, but I will strive to compare my current state of affairs not to that of the average American woman, but to the women of Sierra Leone. This comparison can not possibly lead to one of those ugly "victories or losses" but I am finding that this comparison leads to the acknowledgement that I am sitting on a life that overflows with an embarrassment of riches. Knowing this leads to an overwhelming need to be more generous and more grateful, and I believe that generosity and gratitude are the antidote to a life of discontentment, excess or wanderlust. And if I cannot solve the myriad of crises in Sierra Leone, I can, at the very least, be aware, and my hope is that I could honor their struggle by living a life in response to, and in light of, that awareness.

Minimize with Meaning - Week One

Hi again... Did you enjoy my week of silence as much as I did? Well, don't get used to it because I am back with loads of thoughts and opinions and shenanigans to share. For example, I have committed myself to a little project for the month of November that I am calling #theminimalistproject. I have been doing a lot of  mindless websurfing  research about becoming a minimalist and since I love swinging from one extreme idea to another, I thought "Yes, let's!" To be clear, I am not getting too technical with the term "minimalism," I am more interested in purging whatever is unnecessarily in my life and home, as well as raging against excess, and an entitled American mindset. So, for the month of November I am attempting to become (my version of) a "minimalist." The challenge is quite simple, on Day 1, you get rid of 1 item. On day 2, 2 items. Day 3, 3 items. (If you need me to keep walking you through the rest of the month, I invite you to never read my blog again, because, no.)

Days 1-8 have been, quite honestly, very simple for me because I am - by nature - a purger. I do not like to hold on to things, for the most part. I will share embarrassing proof of my de-cluttering... but, for now you will have to take my word for it, because I wanted to kick off this project with a little perspective, which my friend Melissa  was manhandled into giving  happily agreed to offer. I will let her tell you her story, but here is what you need to know about Melissa:

1. She's the best.
2. She's smarter than you.
3. Don't worry, you aren't alone, she's smarter than all of us. Maybe combined.
4. She is humble and generous and amazing.
5. She might look like she hated posing for this engagement-style photo of the two of us, but she actually has it in an 8x10 above her mantle. 

Without further ado... I give you, Sweet Melissa.

--

Greetings from Freetown, Sierra Leone.  It is perfectly fair to say that baby Jaylen’s arrival was the catalyst to my friendship with Lara, but as a childhood friend of Tom I knew of Lara’s blog and was an admirer of her writings for years - so it’s cool to be able to say a few things on here as a little contributor and not simply be known as the girl who hates kindness.

**warning  - this post is gonna get a little intense. But I know you can handle it.**

I send you well wishes from this vibrant country where the only things more beautiful than the landscape are the people. I was shocked at how gorgeous this place is with its rainbow of scenery --  a dance for the eyes.  Red clay roads along white beaches hugging sapphire pacific waves with green palm-covered hills jetting out the sandy coastline. There isn’t a single window with a bad view.  Also Sierra Leoneans are ridiculously attractive. I told my friends I’m surprised there aren’t modeling scouts here on a regular basis because wow. And almost every night I stand on my hotel balcony, and pray, and watch the sun go down because this happens

and this happens    

                                                                                         

Although this place could be paradise – it is not paradise.  Sierra Leone has suffered through years of war, exploitation, corruption, and disease. Only 35% of the people can read. There is limited access to healthcare. Education is meager. Jobs are scarce. And the people are poor – very poor.

…and now…Ebola. 

Although good work is being done here the infection numbers are still on the rise because these people were already so vulnerable and the region so challenged. I told Lara a couple weeks ago that she should use her powers for good and tell America to stop freaking out over Ebola. It was infuriating to see what I see here, to hear what I hear here, and then turn on BBC and watch another story about the Ebola panic machine taking over the United States. That unjustified terror was affecting aid relief here in West Africa and even now is rippling with unfortunate consequences. So let me simply and lovingly say that I’ve been here for a month and I don’t have Ebola - and you won’t get it either. 

Ok scolding moment over.

I’m here in Freetown working with the U.S. Embassy in their public affairs/communications office.  Yesterday we conducted a program for the sowie population about Ebola and how to prevent transmission. Sowies are women tribal leaders who are influential in their communities and are often sought after during times of illness or death. Seventy percent of Ebola transmission cases here are due to unsafe burial practices so we had to educate the sowies on how to care for their community without performing traditional burial duties. 

Sowies are lively and colorful and are generally older members of society. But I noticed a lot of younger women and made a remark to my colleague about one in particular, “Marilyn, did you see that one? She was so young. She looked like she was 12.”

“Did you see she wasn’t wearing shoes?”

“No.” I said.

“She doesn’t have any shoes.”

And that’s all I could think about for the rest of the day. 

I just kept repeating that over and over in my head.  “She doesn’t have any shoes.”

Ok - I live in New York City and sadly am no stranger to poverty or passing a neighbor who lives on my street….literally….on the street.

But I was so consumed by the Ebola prevention training that I didn’t even notice she wasn’t wearing shoes.

People. I’m only here in Sierra Leone for about a month. And I brought 9 pairs of shoes with me.  Three pairs of heels, three flats, one pair of rugged hiking shoes, one pair of sneakers, and one pair of flip flops. 

“She didn’t have any shoes.”

Even writing that now makes my stomach clench and my chest tight and my eyes water and yet I still have 9 pairs of shoes strewn about the floor of my hotel room. 

There was a similar moment a few weeks ago that sent me into that same soul spin which I wrangled Lara into when I sent her this picture

Lara asked if they were playing and I said no, “they’re collecting drinking water from the ground.  Look closely.”

“I was afraid of that,” she said.

I couldn’t get those little ones out of my head. I told Lara that I stood on the balcony of my nice hotel that night and sobbed like an infant because I felt like such an ass. Here I am, up here with my ocean view - and there you are, little ones, with your puddles of drinking water.

That image also had an effect on our faithful blogger because the following day Lara sent me this message, “Our texting was very convicting to me last night. Which is what I needed. I am in that mode where I am exhausted, and drained emotionally, and just feeling done. And it makes me want to go to Jamaica.  And I really mean that. I believe I NEED to go on a vacation. REALITY CHECK: I need clean water. Check.”

I know the next segment of posts from Lara will focus on the “stuff” in our lives. And knowing Lara I’m sure she will touch on all the different layers of stuff that we pile up. There’s the stuff that clutters up our homes and makes us reluctant to let guests in. And there’s the stuff that clutters up the deepest recesses of our hearts that makes us VERY reluctant to let Jesus in.

But maybe if Jesus had access to those deepest darkest mustiest places in our hearts -- maybe we wouldn’t be so unnecessarily fearful (about Ebola in the U.S. or life in general), maybe we wouldn’t be so obsessively, and often times unknowingly, materialistic (about shoes or life in general),

maybe we would have wisdom to know how to be good stewards of what we’ve been given in this world (so babies don’t have to drink rainwater off the street), maybe we could be more like some of the people I met here in Sierra Leone. They would give you the shirt off their back, and for some of them it would be their only shirt. 

Matthew 25:34-36 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me."

  

Ok that was a really heavy post so I’m gonna conclude with this picture because a woman with a head full of maxi pads is awesome and needs to be shared with the world.

Day 31 - Part 2: Looking Up

My favorite act for Day 31, was to bless my sweet friend Chrissy (or Crispy as London says). In August, Chrissy unexpectedly lost her 28 year old husband, who drowned in the Genesee River.  Her husband, Jake, was such a full of life, compassionate, adventurous, fun loving, jump-off-the-roof kind of guy that it seemed nearly impossible to believe that he was no longer full of life, let alone gone. My friend, Mike West (recipient of Day 1) was with Jake when he went in the water. My father-in-law met with Jake on a weekly basis and was a sort of second dad/mentor to Jake. My mother-in-law continues to do that for Chrissy each week. My in-laws consider Jake and Chrissy their other kids. So, we have come to think of Jake and Chrissy as extended family, and losing Jake was a shocking blow to us and to everyone who knew and loved him.

Jake devoted his life to living and ministering to his urban community. He and Chrissy are missionaries in the city of Rochester, where they live in community with others who share a passion for reaching out and loving this city. Jake and Chrissy have three young children, two little girls and a newborn son, just a few weeks old when Jake passed away. For the funeral, Chrissy allowed me the honor of using Jake's favorite shirt and tie to make boutonnieres, headbands and corsages for Jake's family members. 

Jake - pictured here in his favorite shirt and tie - with wife Chrissy, and children Ruthie, Nadia and Chase. This was taken within days of Jake's passing. Below are the memorial keepsakes I made for Chrissy, their children and family members.

 Miniature necktie for Chase, just like his Daddy.

Although I made these keepsakes for the day of the funeral, I held onto the remaining pieces of the fabric, knowing that the things our loved ones leave behind can feel sacred... and I did not want any of it to go to waste. So... for Day 31 I used the remaining pieces of fabric and I created two mirrors for Ruthie and Nadia, on each one, I wrote "Daddy's princess." I wanted the girls to have a reminder every time they looked in the mirror, to view themselves through the lens of their Father's love. They will not have Jake telling them every morning before school how beautiful they are, so I wanted to give them something that reminded them that they now have two Fathers in heaven who adore them. I like using old fabric for that very reason, because it is a beautiful reminder to me of what God does with us... he takes what the world has rejected - the out of style, the useless, the old, the ugly, the discarded - and He makes it beautiful, useful, worthy. So, my prayer is that Ruthie and Nadia will look in these mirrors and know that it doesn't matter what this world tells them about their appearance, or their bodies, or their worth. The only thing that matters is how their Heavely Daddies see them: as perfect.

For baby Chase, I made him a bowtie that I can cut and resize so that he can wear it for as many years as he likes. And I added a couple of leaves to a pair of baby slippers, to remind him that he is not walking in this life alone, but that he too has a Father guiding his steps.

And finally for Chrissy... I gave her a spa gift card for a one hour massage, foot scrub, and something to do with magical hot stones or something. I don't exactly know what all is involved... but I know that in the past two months, Chrissy has lived a lifetime's worth of pain. From searching for her husband in a boat on the river the night he was swept away, to telling her girls that Daddy is never coming home, and all this after just giving birth. If somebody deserves to have something magical happen to her back for an hour, it's her.

Just two weeks after Jake passed away, my sister-in-law, Shannon, lost her father in a similar way. Shannon's dad, John Tull, was out in Californina visiting Shannon's sister, Kristin, and her family. They spent the day at the ocean, and were all together as John decided to do some bodysurfing... letting one wave carry him, he went under and he just never came up again. Kristin and her husband and their two little girls watched as this beloved man, living in the adventure of the moment, simply vanished before their eyes.

First responders tirelessly searching for Shannon's dad.

I cannot imagine the trauma of watching someone so dear to me literally be swept out of my life. Shannon (and Tom's brother Brandon) flew out immediately to join Kristin and their family as they walked the beach day in and day out, searching for some sign of their dad's life, or sadly, his death. They walked and waited and searched, then ultimately had to say goodbye and create that closure they had hoped to have by finding his physical body. But, with a beautiful rose ceremony and tribute to their dad, they had the unbelievable peace that comes with knowing that this life, and all its pain, is temporary. And while they will miss their dad so terribly, they have assurance of his faith and, with that, the knowledge that the eternity they get to spend with him will be anything but temporary. 

 Waiting, searching, then saying goodbye.

 "The ocean may have my dad, but heaven has his soul." - Kristin Rogers

So, for my last #AdamsActs of 2014, I wanted to honor these two beloved daddies, Jacob Bradley Baxter and John Tull (and their legacy of living a life of both faith, and adventure). I chose to honor them by making a donation to an organization that is near and dear to my heart. The Great Lakes Beach and Pier Safety Task Force is an organization associated with the Beach Survival Challenge, which is an event held every year in my hometown of Grand Haven, Michigan, created by the family of Andrew Burton Fox after his tragic death in 2003. Andy was the adored younger brother of our high school friends, Jaime and Ryan Fox, who drowned after being caught in a rip current when he, like my Adam, was just 17. He did not have the knowledge about these currents to enable him to escape, and his family has courageously devoted themselves to the mission of spreading beach and pier safety awareness to prevent senseless deaths.

I remember at Andy's funeral, his Young Life leader shared a story of Andy's response during an early morning Bible Study he attended, when he was asked who he related to in the story of Peter stepping out of the boat, and walking out to Jesus on the water. To most 17 year old kids, the options are either Peter, or the guys still in the boat. But, Andy wasn't like other 17 year old kids. He and my brother were similar in this way, I think they saw this world differently, and Andy showed that in his answer. He did not say he could identify with any of the obvious characters in that Bible story, instead, he said he would be most like a fish, down in the water, observing. 

As I wrote the check to an organization that was born out of death, I thought about that story. I thought about Andy and Adam, our boys, both forever seventeen. And I thought about how Andy, Jake and John, these three guys that never knew one another, shared a faith in the same God, possessed the same zest for life, and were all taken by the underestimated, yet extremely powerful force of water.  And I can't help but think that in their last heartbreakingly beautiful moments, as their eyes were closing under the water for the last time, that they - like Andy's fish - were looking up, at Jesus.

--

If you are interested in helping Chrissy during this unimaginable time, a relief/college fund has been set up. Please consider donating here: http://www.gofundme.com/Untimely-Loss

If you are interested in supporting the mission of the Beach Survival Challenge, learn more and please consider donating here: http://www.respectthepower.org/

Special thanks to whoever anonymously mailed me money, your #AdamsActs donation helped treat Chrissy to some much needed relaxation, and made it possible to give to toward life-saving education of beach-goers. 

--

To Adam,

I write about you, but I have never written to you. Tonight, I don't care who else is reading this... I just want to say this to you. You are my hero. No, not were, are. You ARE my hero. I know that while you were still alive, I would say that Norm Green was my hero, but that was just because he was so good at basketball and was seriously the tallest person I had ever seen. But, I change my mind, is that okay?  Because it's you. It was always you, but you were just so much shorter than Norm Green, and plus I was so little, so I didn't know at the time that you were going to be the best person I ever met.

Thank you.  Thank you for everything you taught me. Thank you for letting me sit and talk to you in the bathroom and watch you do your hair, which took forever for how short your hair was. Thank you for telling me the truth. Thank you for letting me follow you around like a puppy, for teaching me to dance, how to be funny enough to get out of trouble, how to forgive.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I went skiing on your last birthday. I am sorry that I went trick-or-treating instead of watching the last soccer game you would ever play. I am sorry that I cannot remember your hands. Or your voice. I am sorry for hiding your sugar-free candies from you. I am sorry that you ate those disgtusting candies to begin with. I am sorry that you don't get to know my children, they are so amazing Adam, I know you would love them.

I wish. I wish we could make fun of mom together, you wouldn't even believe how much material you have missed out on. She can't remember anything, you would love it. I wish I could call you, and we could talk on the phone late at night, and we could be grownups together. I am so much cooler now, I swear, and I think you would like me as a full size person. I wish you were at my wedding, and at my graduations, and not in the room at my births, but at the hospital when I had my babies. I wish you could have gone through these adoptions with us, you would have loved every minute of it. I wish I still had you.

I could write all night all the thank you's and I'm sorry's and I wish's... but, you probably already know them. I cannot wait to see you again, and have it be forever.

Love,

Your Baby Sister

In Loving Memory of Adam H.Provencal, my real hero

Day 31 of #AdamsActs - Part One

**Alright people...I was up until 2:00am completing the grandest grand finale blog post I could. Then, I deleted it. I am not going to lie, when I realized that I could not recover the FOUR hours it took me to write everything, upload pictures, add in links, etc... I wept like a toddler.

This is how my toddler weeps when there is no more cake.

You won't even believe this, but this picture was not taken last night. It was actually a different low point for me as an adult, and was taken before Jay's picture above. I was not reenacting Jay's tantrum, I was hungry and had no groceries and I gave up and laid down and (without my knowledge or permission, my  horrible  friend Lexi took this picture, because she likes to photo-document me at my most pathetic. I think she is saving up pictures to make a coffee table book of my most embarrassing moments.)

So, I was able to recover an early draft of the blog, and it is below, as Day 31 - Part 1. I will post part 2 tonight or tomorrow at the absolute latest. I guess for those of you who said you didn't want me to be done blogging, your prayers were answered. Thanks  but no thanks  a lot for shot-blocking my prayers for an earlier bed time. 

Day 31.

It is with such a heavy heart that I sit down to write my final #AdamsActs for 2014. Before we get into all that, my first act of kindness will be to bless you with photographic evidence of the following:

1. How clearly I overcompensate for grief while making Halloween costumes.
2. How unabashedly foolish I am willing to be in public.
3. How much superhuman neck strength I have.

You ready for all that?

The family theme this year was Super Mario. Now before you judge me for doing a family theme... let's revisit last year when we had two brides, one groom, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Spiderman and a chili pepper. What a disaster, not cohesive at all.

So we tightened it up this year and went for the family theme.

Actual Mario

Harper as Mario

(After party Mario)

Actual Luigi

London as Luigi 

Believe it or not, that wasn't the after party version. This is...

Actual Princess Peach 

Marlie as Princess Peach

Actual Toadette

Annalee as Toadette

Actual Toad

Jay as Toad

Jay and I as Toad and Toadette

That is a full size bean ban on a bicycle helmet.

Actual Awesome Gamer Costume

Tom as lamer Gamer

(Not pictured because Tom forgot the holster of nerdy gaming remotes he was going to wear with his Nintendo shirt.)

The gang's all here!!

Okay, now let's get down to the business of  weeoping  kindness.

To kick off Day 31, I chased the garbage truck down my road because they whizzed past my house at 100 miles per hour and I wanted to give them a little something. I was hot on their trail when I realized that they were going so fast because they need to go down a different street first to turn around and come back in the other direction to get all the garbage on my side of the road. So, for my first act of the day, I entertained my neighbors by running like a mental patient down the street in my pajamas and socks, with my hair Mustang Sallying behind me in all it's wild glory. Maybe it's a stretch to consider this a kindness, but just like there are a few duds in every fireworks finale, I am throwing anything and everything possible into my fireworks finale-o-kindness.  

Eventually, the garbage truck pulled up to my bin and I went out with a little more dignity, but still the same outfit, and handed them a thank you note and a Starbucks gift card.  They seemed completely  afraid of my appearance  unphased by the gift and threw it in the cab of the truck and continued on their way. I don't know how often they are acknowledged for their services, but I can't imagine it's happening frequently. So, I'd like to believe that it made a small impact at least. Like, they probably both ugly cried and sang some hymns a cappella at the end of their shift. I'm just guessing, but that's probably definitely what happened.

Garbage truck...

That is all for now, sadly. Prepare yourself emotionally though, because Day 31 was a bit on the heavy side. So, until then, enjoy my absurdity.

Day 30: Peaches, and Pits

Can you guys even believe that tomorrow is the last day of October? I can't help but feel the crippling self-doubt that tries to creep in at the end of this kind of project. It's so easy to harass myself with criticism and accusations that I didn't do enough, or that I wasn't as consistent as I wanted to be, or that I offended someone on accident, or that even if I did do some good things, I didn't always have that cheerful heart I had hoped to have by now. On the other hand, I feel absolutely exhausted. I feel physically and emotionally drained... so the pride side of me spits back its own ugly accusations, that I have done plenty, too much in fact, and I shall never be kind again, and I need a vacation, nay I deserve a vacation. And then I realize what a sick, sick woman I am, and that's when I decide to stop all the  maniacal  internal dialogue and just show you a picture of this peach.

This was Day 30. I delivered this enormous peach to my daughter's fifth grade teacher, who's adorable baby girl is named Georgia, and is lovingly referred to as "The Peach." So, after searching high and low for an infant size peach costume, he was desperate. And since we are in the business of making frivolous, fruit-related dreams come true... we stepped in and made this adorable little Georgia peach. I painted some upholstery fabric so that it would not only look like a peach, but feel like one too. (Okay, it was a crusty-fuzz after all the paint, but be quiet and just love my peach.)

Then we made a little stem-blossom headband.

Look at all that gorgeous fuzz!

I will post pictures on my business FB page (Piccadilly Rose) once there is a baby stuffed in that thing, because you will throw up on yourself when you see how adorable she looks in it. 

So, delivering that bad mamma jamma was one part, but the second part of #AdamsActs has been in the making since the end of September. I have been trying to organize a team of people to serve my friend's mom who lost her husband of 35 years, suddenly and tragically, just 6 months ago. 

She and her husband lived in their dream house (that he built for her) and together they raised two children who would grow up to devote their lives to full-time ministry. And although this sweet woman, and her children, have had their lives turned upside down by the loss of such a wonderful man, their grief has not taken everything from them. Even in the midst of despair and anguish, their grief has not won. They have a hope in something beyond this life, and they know that one day, they will see and touch and hold this man once again, but when that times comes, he will be in his perfect form, because he has been seen and touched and held by his Healing Father.

And as this woman waits for the moment of that reunion, she is bravely facing this new chapter of her life with such grace. She is beginning this new adventure in a new home, in a new town. That is a lot of new! And while she is looking forward to being closer to her beautiful grandchildren, she is undoubtedly overwhelmed at the task of making this new house feel like home, especially when her husband was a gifted craftsman who built and created such beauty in their home. So, I have been putting together a small group of people to go to her new house on Saturday to help make this feel less like a space more like a home. We plan to paint a couple of rooms, and do whatever jobs she finds us fit to do.  

That won't officially happen until November 1st, but since the planning is half the battle, I am using it for half of Day 30. I painted a peach, and then I am going to paint some rooms. One is frivolous and fun and quite adorable if I do say so myself, and the other act (I hope) brightens up more than a house, but my prayer is that this act of love and service will brighten up this new season of life for her.