An Open Letter to the Honking Lady & Other Ineffective Adult Bystanders

If a video of a wild-eyed homeless woman breaking up a gang fight surfaces in your newsfeed... tag me in it. Because I am that woman.

Okay, I am not actually a homeless woman. I just looked homeless in the video (or videos depending on how many of those punk kids that were recording me decide to publish it). I looked homeless because I had my oversized painting clothes on and enormously frizzy hair for which I have only poor grooming as an excuse.

Here's how it began... I was doing my usual afternoon routine of picking up my kids in embarrassing outfits. They are currently attending three different schools, so I was driving from school #1 to school #2 with my three youngest kids in the car. School #2 is attached to the high school (that will be school #4 eventually, but thank the good Lord we are not dealing with all that just yet.) As I was approaching, l saw a large group of high school kids gathered in the lawn of a neighboring property. There was, maybe, a dozen or so teens with their cell phones held high, surrounding two buff boys who were about to throw down. I knew it was coming because they were doing that whole turf war thing that boys who are about to fight do. Ya know, how they circle each other without their shirts on and act like they aren't about to wet themselves with fear, all the while saying "come on bro" a lot, except they pronounce it like "bra" which... you would think would be funny and would cut the tension... but apparently kids these days do NOT find undergarments hilarious. Bras = not funny. In 2016, thems fightin' words.

There was one adult (a grown man mind you!) standing in the yard watching all this unfold, and there were countless parents driving by this scene and just moving right along to pick up their children. I have decided to write an open letter to the adults in this situation, mostly because open letters - while generally useless - are often hilarious. Also, because I was so very assertive during this little episode, I feel obligated to communicate in the preferred language of the lady who wouldn’t stop honking: passive-aggression. I now present to you:

An Open Letter to the Honking Lady and Other Ineffective Adult Bystanders:

Hey guys, what's up? Hope you're having a great week! I'd like to start off by apologizing for my part in this whole mess, because I feel like any healthy confrontation should start with the accuser taking any and all responsibility for their own failings first, before they move on to address any perceived offenses. So, first of all, my appearance. It was a humid day and I was doing a root treatment on my hair because I just feel like I've lost some of that shine and volume lately, ya know? Anyways, Honking Lady, if you were merely protesting the size and positioning of my crooked, messy bun, then all is forgiven. I should have just stuffed it all under the biggest top hat in human history, but I had that assigned as Friday's embarrassing pick-up outfit. Still, I apologize if my disheveled clothing and tumbleweed hair was offensive to you.

I'd also like to apologize for stopping my car in the middle of the road. I realize that this caused you to be 1 minute and 45 seconds later to pick up your child than you had planned. I know it is excruciatingly inconvenient to have to carefully drive around another car, and even more challenging to just sit inside a car and honk while I help the youth of our nation with basic conflict-management skills. In fact, the hard work of sitting there may have exhausted you so much that you just passed right out, and maybe you weren't honking at me intentionally at all. Maybe your poor exhausted head just flopped onto the horn for two minutes straight. If that is the case, I do apologize for this misunderstanding and please simply disregard the rest of this letter.

But here's the thing... when I see two children who are behaving like really large, muscular toddlers about to tear each other's faces off, I feel obligated to intercede.

Because I am an adult.

I know, I know. there were other options. I could have stood in the lawn and said nothing like Mr. Grown-n-Silent over there. I could have called 911 while I drove by and merely gawked at the time-sensitive and preventable disaster unfolding three feet in front my adult face. I could have, like you, honked excessively. You're right, those were all options. But, obviously you didn't have Miss Bishop for social studies in middle school. I know that for a fact because if you had, you woulda been right out there with me... pushing past the great cloud of frizz to help a sister break up that fight.

You see, I remember exactly how I felt when Miss Bishop explained mob mentality to our class for the first time. I remember her words so clearly, and I will share them with you now because someday… there won’t be a paint-encrusted cavewoman there to shove her way into a crowd and pull two boys apart and talk some sense into them. And it will be your turn to be the grown up. So let’s review shall we?

In the words of Miss Bishop, “the more people there are witnessing a crime actively being committed, the less likely people are to do something about it.” She read an article to us about a woman who was brutally stabbed to death in front of countless witnesses, none of whom even attempted to help the victim. Sure, 911 was called multiple times, but by the time “first” responders arrived on the scene, it was too late. She explained how there were plenty of good samaritans who bravely stepped in to rescue people in various situations of need, but typically only when there was nobody else there to help. When people are the sole witness, it triggers a sense of personal responsibility to get involved. She compared those stories to the statistics which prove time and again that the more people there are who could help, the less likely any one individual is to actually help. This proves a sad truth that a call to many is, almost always, a call to none. She went as far as explaining how an entire group of otherwise non-violent individuals can collectively commit heinous acts of violence because there is a mentality of anonymity and brazenness that comes with being a part of a crowd all doing something nightmarish together.

Welcome to the mob Honking Lady.

I remember having a visceral reaction to Miss Bishop’s lesson that day, and making a personal declaration that I would never, ever be Mr. Grown-n-Silent, I would never be a passive observer, I would not silently watch a victim and do nothing. It goes without saying that I wouldn’t go ballistic on the car horn either. This declaration to always go in, to always do something, has become a proverbial load-bearing wall in my life and is one that I refuse to knock down in me. Yes, it’s safer to just drive by. Yes, it’s easier to call the police. Yes, I was scared. Yes, I probably looked crazy. Yes, those toddlers were bigger and stronger than me. But, as God is my witness, if I was ever injured or killed stepping out of a silent, useless mob to do what I know in my soul is the right thing to do… I die with zero regrets.

Okay, maybe one regret - not breaking your car horn first.

Look, I get it, okay? We live in a world that says “if you see something, say something.” And a lot of times, just saying something is the right thing to do. But, there are just as many times where saying something isn’t even close to enough. A lot of times, adults have to actually do something. (And honking at me never counts as doing something, just so we’re clear.) It is no wonder that the crowd of kids standing around weren’t helpful or concerned as their peers were about to decimate one another… Of course they wanted to record it. They are being raised by a mob of silent adults who watch it unfold and do nothing. Honking Lady, you are teaching your children to be irritated and inconvenienced by other people’s suffering. When they encounter an opportunity to help a victim in life, they will honk. Mr. Grown-n-Silent you are teaching your children to simply observe another’s pain, to be entertained by it, heck… to record it for future viewing pleasure.

So, I’m sorry sir. I’m sorry that I said you ought to be ashamed of yourself for behaving no better than the punk kids who were recording the whole fiasco. I’m sorry ma’am, for panic-swatting the hood of your car and chastising you about how sometimes grown ups have to get involved when kids are in trouble. And I’m sorry for calling all those kids punks and telling them to be better than that, to be better than someone who films kids fighting for entertainment… and I am only sorry for that last one because it isn’t their fault.

It’s yours.

They learned it from you.

Come on, bra. Do better.

How I Met the President of the United States

When I told London, my six year old, that we would be meeting President Obama, she desperately begged us to bring her along. When I told her that would not be possible, she desperately asked that at the very least could I please, please, please cut off just a little bit of his hair and bring it back for her. If you think that is odd and creepy, just wait.

Because it gets worse.

When I inquired as to why on earth she would need some of the President of the United State's hair, she replied condescendingly, "ummm, so I can put it in a baggie to compare it to Donald Trump's when I get some of his." She said this with the full confidence of someone who has been diligently harvesting politicians' hair for comparison for years, and has no intention of letting me or anyone else prevent her from doing her life’s work.

I am not known to have the best filter, so I am not exaggerating when I admit that NOT telling President Obama this story was possibly the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Still, I didn't want to be escorted out of the United Nations because I was a perceived threat to Obama’s sideburns, so I kept that wonderfully strange 6 year old's request for presidential trimmings, all to myself.

Here's what did happen though.  

My friend, Melissa, works for the State Department in Manhattan and does really important and official government things. I could go into detail about her job, because I totally understand what she does for a living. I'm not being evasive because I don't understand, that would be ridiculous and super embarrassing. It's more that I'm afraid that others won't understand because of all the big words that I would have to use, and I don't want to exhaust my readers with my deep and impressive knowledge of the inner-workings of our government offices.

Okay fine, I have no idea what she actually does. I think maybe she's a spy?

But she's more than your run of the mill spy friend. She's also a super thoughtful, generous and wonderful friend... so she snagged tickets for my husband, Tom, and I to join her at a St.Lucia concert. The concert was Tuesday, but we were able to arrange for my mother-in-law and my friend Lexi (two other super thoughtful, generous and wonderful, non-spy, women in my life) to tag-team watching our five kids so we could visit with our favorite spy for a few days. Before we left, we had this text exchange:

--

Melissa: Hey I threw you on the guest list to meet Obama, so I need you guys to pack one professional outfit for your visit.

Tom: Ok, I'm already panicking.

Me: It's hilarious that you think I own professional wear.

This is how we found out that we were going to be meeting POTUS.

--

So Monday afternoon we were going to meet the president. Tom and I spent Monday morning very close to the epicenter of the bomb that went off on Saturday night, so navigating that part of the city was much slower and a bit more high-intensity than we have experienced during previous visits. There were heavily armed law enforcement all around the active crime scene, as well as throughout the city because Obama and all the other important people were in Manhattan for the UN General Assembly.

Tom and I had to sit in our car for an hour and a half waiting to move it in case the street sweeper came through, and we passed that time watching The Blacklist on my phone.

My friend Julie got us completely hooked on the show because she thinks my husband Tom looks like the character from the show, who is also named Tom. We have been binge-watching it on Julie’s recommendation ever since. So, there we are, sitting in our car watching this intense crime-thriller about an FBI profiler who is working with a notorious fugitive as covert operatives for a secret counter-terrorism unit. And we are basically in the middle of a live episode unfolding around us, complete with an active bombing site and snipers on the roof above us. The only thing missing was Agent Navabi kicking some terrorist tail.

Agent Navabi at your service.

By the time we were in the clear to leave our car parked on the street, we got ready to meet the President. We were both excited and a little nervous that I would mention London's strange request. I kept replaying my conversation with her, especially the ending when she panic-added one final plea, "Come on, I'll even take a little pit hair if you can get it!" (How does this child expect that I might happen upon a pit hair sample?) But I digress... the point is that we were already nervous that I would get arrested by secret service for saying/doing something foolish. On top of that, we were just generally amped up about meeting Obama. Then, our anxieties were heightened because there was a terrorist at large who was responsible for planting multiple bombs in the area. And finally, we were binge watching a TV show that depicted all of our worst nightmares coming true. Let's just say we were all on high alert.

Okay, maybe Melissa wasn't on high alert, but Tom and I were losing our heads. 

So, you can imagine my concern for Tom's growing paranoia as we are in a room in the US Mission to the UN, waiting to hear the President speak, when he is suddenly sure he sees Agent Navabi. Except he wasn't being paranoid at all. AGENT NAVABI WAS ACTUALLY THERE.

At this point I don't know what's TV and what's reality because as far as I can tell, I am about to hang out with Barack Obama and Agent Navabi. It was very disorienting. But I pulled it together and went to speak with the beautiful Mozhan Marnò (aka Agent Navabi), who is even more fabulous in person than she is on the show. I chatted with her for a few brief minutes - just to confirm that I was not having a hallucination - and the guy with her took a picture of us with my phone. It was blurry, so we chastised him playfully and realized that us two, tall, gangly women have arms that are basically like selfie sticks, and we took our own pictures. Ya know, how old friends (like Mozhan and I) do.

Shortly after this surreal moment, John Kerry and Samantha Power came in with THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Barack Obama. I don’t care what anyone’s political views are, you have to admit that it’s pretty cool to be in the same room as the leader of the free world.

I definitely got caught up in the moment, because as Obama was thanking all the spies and other important government people like Melissa and Agent Navabi and their colleagues, I forgot that I was there as a guest just “thrown” on the list, willy nilly, at the last minute. I forgot that I don’t actually work for the government. In that moment, I believed President Obama when he thanked us all for a job well done and told us that our hard work mattered and was noticed and appreciated. When I came out of my fog, I realized he was probably talking to Melissa for, ya know, doing stuff like going to Sierra Leone on the Ebola Crisis Response Team. Twice. So when I came to and realized that he maybe wasn’t talking about all the laundry I do, I felt a little deflated. Still, when he said to give ourselves a round of applause, I let myself participate because it seemed unpatriotic not to feel just a little appreciated by the President. Besides, I do a butt-ton of laundry for this country.

After his little speech, he kissed babies and shook hands and then there, right in front of me, was my opportunity.

So I shoved my hand out to Obama and proceeded to tell him (a little too loudly) the only interesting anecdote about him that I had - that didn’t involve me procuring a sample of his pit fibers. I told him that my son, Harper, used to believe that President Obama and Whitney Houston were his birthparents.

I want to assure you that Harper has joyfully given me permission to share this story with you all because he finds it as amusing and adorable as we do. It’s actually quite common for children who were adopted to fantasize about who their birthparents might be. And for Harper, no fantasy was more impressive than being the love child of Whitney and Barack. Obama joked that Michelle might be irritated to discover this and that he and Harper could at least be buddies. He was a good sport, and basically made all of Harper’s dreams come true by initiating the start of their friendship.

I’d say that although our exchange was brief, conveying to the first black president in our nation’s history that my black son admires him to the point of wishing for his paternity, it was pretty memorable.

Maaaaybe not as memorable as if I had then snagged a hair sample for DNA testing… but, we can’t have it all.

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Saying Goodbye - Piece by Piece

Yesterday, our friend and pastor stood up on stage and taught our church for the very last time. Every week for the past five years, I have listened to this man teach and challenge and correct me. Even during the really dark months with Harper when he and I could not attend church with the rest of the family, I would watch the sermons online and his words would help me get through another long week. God has used David to soften the soil of my heart more than I could ever explain.

He is the best teacher I have ever had. 

But, that isn't what I will miss the most. I will miss going to David and Sue's house every Wednesday and just doing life with them. I will miss Sue's sheepish giggle when I say something out loud that she would never, ever say... but is gracious enough to still find amusing. I will miss the banter with David. The jabs, the jokes, the back and forth attempt to rile each other up. I will miss the last-minute can-you-find-a-sitter dinners out because someone "has a gift card." I will miss seeing them parent, hearing them laugh, hearing them pray, and eating their homemade cookies. I will even miss the hot flashes. (David's, obviously.) 

You see, I don't feel like my pastor has resigned. Because it's more than that, they feel like my family. And, that might not seem like a really big deal to a lot of people at my church. But when you have gone your whole life terrified that when people discover who you really are, deep down, they will learn that you are not a good girl, that you're maybe too rough around the edges, that pieces of you are missing or broken, that you don't fit the mold... Being loved and accepted by people like David and Sue, is a really big deal. It's that healing kind of love. 

During a time in my life when I had no father in the picture and was living away from my brothers-in-law, David was a spiritual and emotional father and brother to me. This was a healing kind of love.

During a time in my life when I processed through so much hurt and junk from my past, and questioned my worth and the ability to be used by God in any way, Sue empathized with me. She gently encouraged me, and lived out the kind of grace and faithfulness I wanted to emulate. And she loved me in my ugly process. And this was a healing kind of love.

Here's the thing though. They have never been those people that you end up worshiping the ground they walk on because they're so amazing. They are amazing. Maybe the most amazing ever, but you can't fall in love with them without falling more in love with their God. And every second of my time spent doing life with them only pressed me harder and harder after Jesus than ever. 

I have never known anyone in a position of such significant notoriety that I still had this much respect for. Thousands of people have been fortunate enough to listen to the words of David's sermons every week for the past 15 years. But most have not had the privilege of watching him and his family diligently LIVE OUT those sermon words day in and day out. I have so, so loved watching them and learning from them and annoying them along the way. I have loved it, and it has been a healing kind of love.

A while ago, I saw

this YouTube video

of Kelly Clarkson working out all her daddy issues during a live performance of her song Piece by Piece. I could relate so much to her because I also have a pretty strong track record of spilling my baggage at inappropriate times and nobody knows that better than David and Sue! But the song is beautiful, in it she talks about how healing it was to be loved by her husband  who taught her to rethink what a man could be like. When I heard the song (and literally every time I have listened to it since) I cried like a newborn baby. I cried because I thought of the men I have known who have been a healing presence in my life. I thought of Tom, primarily, because watching him be a daddy has taught me so much about how a father loves his children. I thought of my brother-in-law, Joe, who was my dad and my brother right after I had lost both, and he taught me how a man can love a girl that wasn't his own. And then I thought of David. I 

thought of how he and Sue have taught me how my Heavenly Father loves me as his daughter. 

Years ago, when one of my little girls was scared in the middle of the night, I prayed with her and reassured her that she didn't have to be afraid because Jesus is real and he is always with her. She said that she knows that Jesus is real but that she just wants "somebody with skin on" to stay with her.

See, I knew that my Heavenly Father loved me, and I knew that I was his daughter. But, sometimes the little girl in you feels alone, and scared, and you just need someone with skin on to show you what that really means. 

David and Sue, thank you for being Jesus with skin on when I was alone and when I was scared and when I was lost. Thank you for staying with me. And thank you for a gospel-centered life filled with truth, grace and above all, love. The kind of love that shines so brightly that it reaches the darkest and most broken places in me. 

Giving Purpose to the Past

I broke my rib.

It all happened a couple weeks ago when I fell down the stairs eating a rice crispy treat. 

You might think those two things are unrelated... You may think, "so you happened to be eating a rice crispy treat when you fell, but you didn't fall because of the rice crispy treat." But, you'd be wrong in assuming that. I think I might actually have fallen in response to the rice crispy treat. It was good. Like, seriously good. And I guess when I took that first bite (unfortunately on the top step) it was as if nothing else really mattered anymore. 

Including walking.

So, I fell. And apparently my rib has zero street cred because it experienced one tiny, dessert-related tumble down a flight of wooden stairs and now it's all... just, giving up on life.

The worst part was that I landed ON the rice crispy treat and when I came to, it was stuck to my back, like a jerk.

Peeling dessert off one's broken self is a special kind of low point. But that first break wasn't the worst part. 

It's the constant reinjury.

This past week I had the opportunity to be the keynote speaker at a five day conference for college students. It was an amazing time of learning and worship and shenanigans. I was able to bring my husband and our five kids, which was a lot of hard work but also really fun. Most of you think we are already insane for having five kids, let alone bringing them places... and most people would voluntarily break all their ribs rather than attempt to wrangle that many humans in a new environment. 

I hear that, and it's a toss up honestly. 

But the horse-to-child ratio there was really strong, so that helped. #notevenalittle But they did have a great time, which is good because doing what I did this past week is pretty much my dream job. My mom told me that ever since I was a little girl I would say that I wanted to be a "motivational speaker" when I grew up... so I am thrilled that my family is supportive and looking forward to (hopefully) being dragged to many more events to come. 

Followers of Christ talk a lot about giving, and that is such a good thing. We talk about giving our time (to serve others, to volunteer at church and in various ways within our communities), giving our money (to support the local church, missions, and to extend generosity to those in need), and the giving of our talents (using your voice to lead worship, use tech skills in production, or organizational strengths to assist on the administrative end of ministry.) These are all good and Biblical ways to give, and they are things that I have spent my life doing. (Well, not the leading worship part, because my singing voice makes people throw things.) 

But as I laid in bed this weekend, in tears, over my poor broken rib that had just been freshly kicked by my son on accident, I sensed that God is asking me to give more than my time, my money and my talent... He wants me to give those hidden pieces of myself that He has redeemed, and washed clean. Those broken bits that God has bound back together. Those messages and those wounds that are ugly and sometimes still unhealed, sometimes perpetually being reinjured. He used the image of that broken rib getting kicked to remind me of these spiritual and emotional wounds that we all have... those things that get rewounded by this life, and inadvertently kicked by people - even those who mean well and truly love us. I can attest to the fact that just like a hug can cause pain to a broken rib, even love and kindness can hurt if you have an unhealed emotional wound.

I was reminded of the importance of letting the God of the universe heal those wounds. Not just so we can have relief from the constant pain, but so we can give and receive love in healthy ways, and so we share our stories of hope with others. I was reminded of the importance of giving of my self. And that includes my ugly past. My baggage. My fears and insecurities. All my broken places. God's desire and willingness to make all these ugly things in me become new and beautiful is the overriding theme of my life. This weekend, I wasn't stingy about sharing that message. I didn't hold back from sharing the stories of redemption in my own life. 

Sure, It's hard to give away our money. It's sometimes even harder to give away our time and talent. But, what if, what God wants us to be most generous with, is our story of how Jesus has and is changing us? 

It hurts to have old wounds or splinters bumped. It is scary to draw close to a group of people, and trust them to be gentle with your wound story. But, I think I am all done protecting those broken places, because when we keep nursing our old wounds, we miss out on the privilege of God using our stories to trigger healing for someone else. 

I have always loved to tell stories. Whether that is through writing or speaking, it is definitely how God wired me. Sometimes I wonder if God has allowed me to experience a lot of trauma, grief, and tragedy because he has designed me with an irrational willingness to be utterly transparent. I don't want to waste my baggage, my trials, my insecurities. I don't want to hold so tightly to my life "stuff " that I waste an opportunity to share those stories of His triumph in my life. Because I gotta be honest, it feels like more than a fair share of struggle sometimes. #thereisnoquota 

So, I am resolving to pursue this thing as a communicator. I will write and I will speak, if and when God puts opportunities in front of me. I am begging him to heal those wounds from my past that tell me I don't have anything to give. I am walking away from the pride and self-obsessive insecurity that keeps me too embarrassed to finally launch the website I bought and have been ignoring, eh hem... "working on" for TWO YEARS. I am putting myself out there. I am offering myself and my stories up for His use, however He sees fit.

So there ya go. I am officially available for hire. I will speak at camps, retreats, conferences, small gatherings... shoot, I will do children's parties as long as I don't have to dress like a clown. Because, gross. And because, well, I am not a child-predator. 

I won't have the website going for a while, but in the meantime I will continue to blog here. And I will keep sharing stories and I will keep being vulnerable. And when I start to feel that crippling self-doubt... I will remember that it is fair to doubt myself, after all, I say things like "child-predator" in a blog about Jesus. But my hope isn't in me. My hope is in a God so capable of redeeming, He is even willing to use someone like me. 

 

Rest for a Weary Soul

Just about a year ago we made the very difficult decision to fight a private and sensitive battle, publicly. With the help of our talented and supportive friends, Brandi and Danny Ebersole, we created a video to shed light on how our family was facing the challenging diagnosis of Reactive Attachment Disorder.



This video explains what we were embarking on, and why, but we did not discuss the HOW.

Since we opened our hearts and our family up to the world on this matter, I would say that I have received an average of 2-3 messages per week asking for the HOW.  I have not answered that question publicly because I am not an attachment therapist nor am I qualified to diagnose or prescribe treatment to a child. However, I have spent numerous hours discussing symptoms and strategies with strangers who are simply desperate parents who, like me, have found themselves (unofficially) diagnosing their own children out of complete desperation to get them the appropriate support and treatment.

Since we are only a year into what will likely be a life long process, I do not feel that I have enough "victory" under my belt to say definitively what works and what does not, especially for others. However, through insatiable research, brilliant attachment therapy, sound Biblical counseling and good, old fashioned common sense... I feel adequately qualified to confidently prescribe one component of our therapeutic approach across the board to all families who are navigating the war against disordered attachment:

Respite.

res·pite

ˈrespət,rēˈspīt/

noun

1. 1.

   a short period of rest or relief from something difficult or unpleasant.

   "the refugee encampments will provide some respite from the suffering"

   synonyms:

   rest, break, breathing space, interval, intermission, interlude, recess, lull, pause, time out

verb

rare

1. 1.

   postpone (a sentence, obligation, etc.).

   "the execution was only respited a few months"

Yes, to all of this.

Yes to a short period of rest or relief. Yes to a break in what is difficult and unpleasant. Yes to breathing. To space, an interval, a pause. 

Yes. Yes, please.

I literally ugly cry when I read the definition of respite. The thought of respite for my body, my mind, my soul is like seeing a mirage of a spring in a desert.

I have not had a significant time of respite in over a year. I committed to going away for a time of refreshing before starting this intensive therapeutic approach with Harper last year between Christmas and New Year's. I spent that time sleeping and eating and researching the best approach to take. I tried to fatten up and rest up because I was going into battle for my son. Upon returning home, I very quickly lost the weight and strength I had gained during that time. I was weak, underweight, exhausted and extremely lonely.

My friendships have suffered, some have all but disappeared. I stopped attending church, book club, Bible study, and most family or social functions. I did this partly because the process required my constant presence, and partly because it felt like there was simply nothing left of me. I have been very dry and nearly empty.

But, that was 2015. This is a new year. We have made some significant progress, and though we still have a daunting number of obstacles to overcome... I am a little fatter, and little stronger, and a little fuller. I have recommitted to feeding myself - like actually eating food, but feeding myself spiritually, socially, and emotionally. I am no good to Harper when I am a shell. I am no good to my family. I cannot be used by God to the same capacity if I am not growing.

So, 2016 is looking a little different. I am slowly, but surely replacing my personal belongings that have been destroyed during the past year. I am going to the gym every morning to pump  so little  iron. I am making time every day to be with my main squeezes (Jesus, and Tom) and I am being more intentional about spending individual time with each of the kids - who have started to feel a little like collateral damage over this past year. 

And after fighting through exorbitant amounts of guilt, I am taking respite. Sweet, sweet respite.

I was  verbally abused  encouraged by my friends and family to accept a once in a lifetime opportunity to take a free trip to the Bahamas with my friend Sweet Melissa. I know, right? Who needs to be talked into that kind of opportunity??  

Because of the generosity of my dear friend who works for Jet Blue, I am able to fly to the Bahamas using a buddy pass and will be staying for free with Melissa's friend Neda who happens to live in the Bahamas. Did you know people live in the Bahamas? It's true, and it's happening. You know what else is happening? Melissa force-feeding me lobsters. 

It is all happening because I am surrounded by people who love me and want to take care of me and support me in any way that they can. And so God is choosing to meet one of my greatest earthly needs at this time through people with plane tickets and island homes and a violent desire to fatten me up. 

So, tomorrow morning I will get on a plane and fly to the islands. I will breath, I will drink coffee while it is still hot. I will laugh with my head thrown back, and I will attempt to tame what happens to my hair in humid climates. I will let my weary soul find rest, and I will come back with a fresh resolve to do do whatever it takes to love my hurting boy with a healing and unconditional love. 

What the World has Discarded.

I have this little business where I take old, discarded fabric and I upcycle it into fancy things that people wear. My business is called Piccadilly Rose (which was a nickname I had for my first daughter when she was just a precious little baby flower who needed absurd nicknames), and the little motto or tag line or whatever it is called in business terms is this:

Unique. Recycled. Lovely.

A year ago, I was a vendor at a women's Christian conference where Jill Kelly (wife of that famous football guy, but proverbial rock star in her own right) was the keynote speaker. At this year's conference, in addition to selling my wares, I was invited to lead a breakout session and incorporate a crafting demonstration.

This

, is easy. I mean, the whole concept of my business is taking garbage and making it into something unique, repurposed and lovely... it's all about taking what has been discarded and giving it new life, making it useful, restoring it's inherent beauty and worth. This notion is not just the concept of my business, it's the concept of my whole life.

When I hold someone's wedding gown in my hands, and I see the dirty smudges at the hemline I can imagine the blushing bride accidentally getting stepped on by her eager, well-wishing wedding guests. I know that the gown tells a story of a day filled with hope and expectation... but I know how that story ended. I know that the reason that gown is no longer being preserved in hopes of handing it down to the little girl is because that happy day and those high expectations ended with an affair and heartache and disappointed hopes.

 And the dress has been discarded.

When a young widow parts with the shirt and tie of her lost husband, knowing she will never see him dressed up in them again, I know the story of pain and parting that are held in those fibers. 

And the shirt has been released.

When I pull apart an old, tattered tutu, I know that once upon a time there was nothing that made some little girl feel more divine than twirling in all that fluffy tulle. Eventually that little girl outgrew her tutu, and maybe even outgrew twirling. And more than likely, somewhere along the line she stopped, altogether, feeling divine. 

And the tutu is forgotten.

What I do is nothing special. I take that wedding gown and I cut and twist and singe and sew until something new emerges, something beautiful enough for a new bride.

 I take the Daddy's shirt and tie, and I cut and twist and singe and sew until a pretty flower emerges for his little girls, and a teeny neck tie replica of that big guy's tie appears.

 I pull apart that useless tutu and I cut and twist and singe and sew it into something divine for the next little twirler. 

It does not make me a lot of money. It does not take much skill, in fact my demonstration at the conference will prove that it is something literally anyone can do. And it is not an original idea. I create these things in response to my God who is the ultimate creator. He is also in the business of taking what the world says is garbage and making it into something beautiful. 

This is the concept behind the business, yes, but how much more has this been true in my life. I think of my own wedding dress, which was the size of a moderately large tent because when I walked down the aisle, I was 8 months pregnant, and not exactly feeling like the pure and beautiful bride. I think of the shirts I have that belonged to the one I loved and lost. I remember the tutus and dresses I twirled in, and I think of the invisible scars that were left on that little girl that made me stop twirling, and I think of when I stopped believing I was beautiful.

We all have these things though, don't we? We have all been told at one point or another that we are not enough, or that we are too much, that we don't have what it takes, that we are ugly, or stupid, or weak, that we are not worth protecting, that we are not worth fighting for. The world discards us, telling us that we cannot be used for good. We are not special, unique or lovely. There is nothing left. 

And then there is this God.

There is this God who adores us. Who pursues us as we are, who begs us for all of it - the past, the sins, the pregnancy out of wedlock, the shame, the divorce, the broken relationship, the lies, the loss, the grief, the insecurity, the affair, the fear, the crippling self-doubt, the secrets, the abandonment, the rejection, the failure... He wants every bit of it.

And he doesn't want it like the world wants it. The world wants it to consume, to devour and feed off like gossip for entertainment or to shame us

, but He wants it for one. pure. motive: 

To redeem it. To redeem 

us.

He wants to take it, not to be consumed or used against us... But to be cut and twisted and singed and sewed into something much bigger and more beautiful than we could ever have imagined.

He wants to make all things new. He wants to make 

us

 new. 

What if we actually let him? 

--

If you have a story of how God redeemed something ugly from your past into something beautiful that you would allow me to share during my session at the conference, please share in the comments below or in response to the link on Facebook. Or if you would like your story shared anonymously, you may email me at lara.capuano@gmail.com

Day 31: The Next Goodbye

Day 31.

Can you even believe it? When I went into this month, I was experiencing equal parts enthusiasm and dread. I was excited because the three previous years of kindnessing had been very healing and productive, so I felt healthy and energized in a way that I hadn't in years past. I also knew that we just moved at the end of September, we had a wedding to prepare for and #AdamsActs and the blogging on top of it felt like a lot to take on. So, part of me was very afraid!

Now that the month is over, I can honestly say that God sustained me in a way that I needed, and he did a lot of it through you guys. One of you sent me an anonymous card for every single day of October. One of you brought me a meal. One of you sent me flowers. One of you gave me a sweater that made me look trapped inside a sharpened pencil. 

I could not have done this month without those tender mercies along the way. Every like, every share, every post, every act of kindness, every gesture of support provided a sort of balm to my weary, aching heart. I felt encouraged by your participation and connected to a community of people longing to love other people through acts of kindness.

For Day 31, my girls and a neighbor friend went to deliver all the blankets from the blanket drive to Marvin and Denise Robinson, who are dear family friends of ours, and also missionaries to the City of Rochester. 

We had so many blankets that I literally had to stop them from pouring out of our van. With my leg. 

Marlie and London were my little helpers... 

We brought a friend for back up.

Although Annalee didn't seem to need it...

Marvin and Denise Robinson with their kids and grandkids (some of our nearest and dearest friends... Including my beautiful goddaughter Macey on the right.)

Marvin has a bread ministry, where he delivers bread to families in need, and they will regularly deliver holiday meals and school supplies, as well. He and Denise have been in ministry for over 20 years and have devoted their lives to loving and serving the people in the city of Rochester.

If you are looking for final #AdamsActs  for day 31, donating to their ministry efforts wouldn't be a bad way to end the month. You can learn more and/or donate here: 

http://www.missionsdoor.org/missionary/robinson-marvin-and-denise/

After delivering the blankets, we hosted friends and family for dinner and trick-or-treating. If our Seven Dwarves costumes weren't your favorite act of kindness than I am concerned about your ability to enjoy things. Because. Come on.

I mean, Grumpy alone... 

With the hairy chin strap? 

And if Weirdy was one of the dwarves, this would make a lot more sense... 

I am counting all this costume-making as #AdamsActs because it is a family tradition that my brother would have approved of. I enter into evidence

Exhibit A)

Adam as a mummy/shaving cream monster? 

And Exhibit B)

Kristin as the least terrifying cat ever, and Adam as the only clown in history that was adorable and didn't make me throw up in my mouth. 

His precious little body, that was somehow as wide as it was tall in this picture, all dressed up, just touches my heart in a way that I couldn't begin to describe. I don't remember Adam like this because I wasn't born yet. Adam the little boy...

This is the Adam I remember...

The big boy I looked up to. 

The goof. (Seriously, all the time with those socks...)

Then the athlete.

The champ.

The handsome stud/never had a girlfriend/just grew out of his skinny legs.

The young man.

Now that I am a mom though, I can look at those pictures of Adam as a little boy and a whole world of pain will fall upon my chest. Not because I remember Adam as a baby, or as a toddler, or as a little boy... but because I know that there are ones who do. There are aunts and uncles and teachers and, mostly, a mom and a dad who knew him for 17 whole entire years. And they lost him. They lost the baby, the toddler, the little boy, the stud, the champ, and the young man about to make his mark on the world. 

They lost all of it with one stranger's choice. And I look at those pictures of him as a little boy and I see the teeth and knees and legs of my nephews. I see my mother's mouth set in my dad's jaw. I see my daughter and my niece in that squatty little clown, and when I look at these haunting eyes, I see my own.

I don't know how to describe the pain and relief I feel when October passes. I am relieved that I have stopped simply surviving my way through it, and I am happy that I am able to thrive. I am relieved that the burden of sharing daily is lifted. Still, I find that I am also very sad. When October ends, it almost feels like we say goodbye to him again. Over and over, we have to let him go. November 1st is always my saddest day, because I remember so clearly that was the first day without him. 

I remember when they came home and told us "we lost him," and in that moment watching my mom motion to my brother-in-law, Joe, to put away Adam's wresting singlet and warm-ups. They were strewn on the living room floor because I had just dressed up as Adam for Halloween the night before. Even in the midst of her greatest loss, her instinct was to keep mothering, to protect. She didn't want us to see Adam's things in that moment. But I saw it. I saw his things and knew he'd never wear them again. And it was the first goodbye. 

So, as we wrap up the fourth year of these acts of kindness in honor of the first boy I ever loved... it feels like yet another goodbye. Thank you for allowing my family's story to impact so many people through your willingness to pass it along. Thank you for being kind on earth, when he cannot. Thank you for sitting with me while I say the next goodbye. 

Day 30: Baggage, Lunch & Dinner

After the emotional roller coaster I have been on the past few days, I evened out a bit for Day 30, which was nice because I had activities and kindnesses from morning till night. 

I finished most of the children's beards. (Simply being able to read that sentence is a kindness to you, is it not?) I delivered the beards and costumes to school along with a special lunch for Harper's teacher. We have had a lot of struggles with this little guy, and having our family in her class her first year of teaching, is quite an undertaking. She is doing a phenomenal job with him and I have complete trust and confidence in her ability to handle his unique situation while he is at school.

Scarcely is my concern for Harper not front and center in my mind, so having it in the back of my mind for a few hours while he is in her care is an unbelievable relief to me. This gift is something that only a parent of a child with a severe emotional disability could fully appreciate. So, she gets her favorite lunch. 

 And one priceless selfie with Dopey.

As you can see, I arrived at school dressed in full costume, which I consider an act of kindness to all the other mothers since my looking like a total idiot exponentially increases the cool factor for anyone in my immediate vicinity. I brought apples for London's class and volunteered to help with their costume parade. 

 For my final #AdamsActs for Day 30, we delivered more lifesaver/thank you cards for the NICU nurses and also made dinner for Pat and Megan who spend such long days at the NICU with their girls that they should not have to worry about mundane details, like making dinner.

I forgot to take a picture of my dinner, but this is basically what it looked like. 

I want to thank any and all of you who have inquired about and prayed for these two little warrior girls in the NICU. They are doing awesome in so many ways, and have recently joined the four pound club! Being born at 27 weeks around two pounds a piece means this is a huge victory for them. It also shows how far they still have to go, so I beg you all to continue praying for their growth, strength and development. And for Pat and Megan's endurance and peace during this time. Also, maybe pray that you can be friends with them someday, because they are that great, and you're missing out. 

We ended Day 30 with one of our favorite families who came over for dinner, which was a kindness to myself really. One of the things I shared last night with my friend Courtney, is the shift that has taken place for me in October as a result of #AdamsActs. I used to go into October with a private grief, and blogging through it and doing acts of kindness helped me to externalize my grief in a more productive, life-giving way. What I did not expect, was how this would free others to share their private grief with me. 

Over the past four years, countless people have shared with me their deep, personal losses and griefs. I have heard from so many of you about the stages of grief from losing a parent, a sibling, or worse... a child. Many have shared their private grief over the struggle to conceive a child. I have opened message after message about miscarriage and baby loss, and divorce and death and long battles with Alzheimer's or cancer or ALS. Some have shared their childhood memories of a life in foster care, some of you have shared their experience parenting a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder/Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder, and a few of you have shred your stories of having these disorders.

In an effort to no longer carry my own grief privately and alone, I found myself with the holy burden of helping some of you carry some of yours. I do not take this privilege lightly. And I thank you for the honor of doing life with you in this one, small way. 

My sister's bff, Karen, recently shared an article about how dismissive it is to say to someone hurting that "everything happens for a reason." 

In the article it said

"Losing a child cannot be fixed. Being diagnosed with a debilitating illness cannot be fixed. Facing the betrayal of your closest confidante cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

For the past four years, all of you have helped me carry my pain. And in an unexpected turn of events, I have had the intimate and devastating honor of carrying yours. 

Day 29: Random Acts of I'll Pay Ya Back

I celebrated Day 29 with obscenely puffy eyes and a vulnerability hangover from publicly spilling all my saddest guys in last night's post. I seriously cried like an absolutely hysterical baby while I wrote, and then intermittently afterwards, and then every time I was alone today, which was twice for about 3 seconds each. 

My #AdamsActs was a day spent with my friend Lexi. When people ask me "how do you manage five kids and your business and a move and..." The answer is, well, Lexi. She helps me with the kids, she helps me stain my floors, she moves furniture with me, she will go buy puffy paint in an emergency... Seriously, the girl is willing to do anything to help my family. She is such a servant and a faithful friend. And we never hang out without the kids, so we haven't finished a conversation since nineteen ninety never.

She was the wind beneath my wings the week of the wedding, and girlfriend deserved a day-o-girly-fun as a handsome reward.

Except everything went awry. I won't get into all the details of my hellacious morning, but suffice it to say that according to London, "the smell of a rhino cage" was involved. After handling the rhino, I resisted the urge to hide in the basement in a fetal position, and I got the children to school (even Harper, although an hour and a half late). 

I picked up Lexi and treated her to coffee and a massage and an amazing lunch. Oh wait, that is not how it happened at all. 

1) I forgot my wallet.

2) I realized that right before we ordered coffee.

3) She had to buy the coffee.

4) And lunch.

At least I did find two crumpled dollars in my coat pocket, which I used to "treat" us each to three minutes in one of those very aggressive massage chairs at the mall. There is video evidence of how horrifying this experience was for me, but let's just say that I felt quite violated. 

After all these fails, we ended our day of girly fun with absolute chaos. Kids needed to get picked up from school, diapers were removed (and contents explored/spread) during nap, Halloween costumes were being made, plus dinner and open house at school and my rage-filled destruction of Jay's pack-n-play (or poop-n-play as it has been renamed.) 

Have you ever seen this garbage man lose his head over the garbage that won't come out? This is precisely what I looked like when I destroyed and disposed of my pack-n-play after nap. 

http://youtu.be/sByVwTHYkCE

Poor Lexi.

There were some successes for Day 29 though... the blanket drive is yielding ridiculous heaps of blankets for the homeless! 

And as a kindness to my family, I have been hard at work making our family's Halloween costumes. Technically it is only a kindness to the girls because Jay doesn't care and Harper hates our family themed costumes. He just wants to be Spiderman every year like all the other 8 year old boys on planet Earth. But that's not how we roll. We roll as a family of Santas, or as brides and grooms, or something else absurd. And this year, we will be The Seven Dorves. (London gets pronunciation cred on that one.) Harper is not thrilled. Which is fine, that just makes assigning Grumpy quite easy. 

But the Dorf costumes are almost complete and I only had the one mental breakdown today, so I am counting that as my final kindness for Day 29.

Day 28: There was a brother.

There are moments, usually when I least expect them, that I am blindsided by the fact that my brother is gone. It can be something so small, like tonight, one of my kids pointed out that I am the tallest one in my family. 

"You are the youngest kid in your family," she noticed, "how are you taller than your parents and your sisters." 

Yes. I am. 

I am the tallest one in my family. 

Now. 

It's those small things that hit me with big realities. 

One remark like that and my mind is instantly filled with fresh, heartbreaking awareness...

How tall was Adam?

I can't remember how tall my brother was.

He was only 17 and still growing, how tall would he have become?

How can I not remember how tall he was!? 

I am losing the details of him.

I miss him.

I want one conversation with him as I am now.

I want to go back and be able to say goodbye.

I didn't want him to go.

I don't want to be the tallest one in my family.

She mentioned my parents, and my sisters. She forgets there was a boy.

I wish she knew to add a brother. 

I wish there was a brother.

Watching the news clip yesterday brought back such a flood of memories and emotions. Yesterday, the news remembered that there was a boy, a brother, and they told his story. And today, I just feel sad. I am so proud of this movement of kindness, and if Adam can't be here on earth living out these kindnesses himself, then I am certainly glad that all of us are doing so on his behalf. It's the next best thing to having him be right here. But that's just it, it's not even close to having him right here. And sometimes, little things trigger that very big, sad reality.

I know that it is normal to lose the details of a person, but we are always gaining new details. Sure, you forget how your childhood friend cut her hair in middle school, but that's because you can't stop picturing her as she is now. But, time and grief and loss are tricky that way. Time robs you of the details of your memories and loss robs you of new ones. And what's left is a sort of hazy dream of a person, something you can't quite entirely capture in your mind.

So Day 28 was about noticing and acknowledging small details. The internet guy came to our house today (in a cold, torrential downpour) and he spent a long time going in and out of the house, downstairs to the basement and back upstairs and then back outside, all to put a black, blinking thingy on the shelf. 

For #AdamsActs, I forced him to accept a hot cup of coffee, and after he left, I called the company to give a very specific list of everything he did super well. The rep I spoke with said that she was so happy that someone called with positive feedback and would personally call his boss to let him know my specific compliments. 

It wasn't anything major, but I think if a small thing can trigger big grief, than perhaps a small thing also has the potential to trigger big good. And I am for good. I need good. 

So I said nice things about Mr. Jeff the internet guy, because he matters too. He is someone's son, someone's daddy, someone's childhood friend, someone's boy, someone's brother. And the details of him matter. Noticing the details of a person is a kindness, and a privilege I long to have back. Until I get to see with my own eyes the glorious details of my brother, made completely new in heaven, I will have to settle for the details of Mr. Jeff and all the other earthly brothers and sisters that God puts in my path to notice, and care for, and love. 

Day 27: Haters Gon Hate Them Filthy Dates

Day 27 was a big day for #AdamsActs.

Our computer is having a panic attack, and by that I mean it is still "loading" since I tried to blog last night, so I'm pretty sure it's "retiring" to a nice computer farm out in the country, where there is plenty of room to run and play with other useless computers... but that means that from now on I have to blog from my phone which is the worst, and also means that I can't embed this link, but you should still click on it.

http://fox17online.com/2015/10/27/little-acts-big-purpose-adamsacts-encourages-kindness/

You. Guys. 

First of all, these people are calling #AdamsActs an initiative! Ha! I am so proud of all of you who have read and participated and shared the posts and hash tagged your little hearts out. I wish all of you could have been interviewed instead of me (partly because I had 20 minutes to prep for that interview - and by "prep" I mean... wash my hair in the kitchen sink to create the illusion that I showered today.) 

Okay, so in addition to the little debut on Fox News, our blanket drive was a wild success today. 

The bin runneth over. 

I will keep the sign and the bin (and those tiny pumpkins) out for the whole week so Rochester peeps can send me a private message for the address if needed. 

For Day 27, I had a cool run in at the grocery store. A young mom and her two little kids were eating spoiled dates, it was terrible. She was waiting near the check out because the cashier had to  ring me up before she went back in to return the rancid dates. I grand finale-ed  my grocery order with a candy bar for the cashier. I didn't plan to have an audience for that moment, but spoiled-date-lady had to wait there with her kids, who were getting crankier and louder by the minute.

I know that feeling. It's the worst. There is nothing more panic-inducing than watching your child slowly reach their boiling point and you KNOW it's about to get real, and there is nothing you can do except sweat, and pray and maybe whisper yell a little. You may beg for them to please just ignore their hunger and exhaustion and their need to urinate, and please just mindlessly remain silent. It's a terrible feeling. And it is always compounded by the judgey stares of onlookers.

This. Right here. Is why I will never buy dates. Also because they're disgusting.

So, after she got her dates returned and she started to leave, I just stopped her quickly to let her know that she is doing a great job, and that her kids are both so young and they are both at a really, really challenging, dependant age and that it will get easier.

No one ever became a better mom because someone shame-stared them down at the grocery store. 

She seemed really, truly uplifted and thanked me. As I made my way through the parking lot, I paid the quarter deposit for a few people's grocery carts (yes, I shop where you have to rent your cart). 

The spoiled-date-lady saw me doing this and finally said "Okay, really!? Are you always this nice because I have caught you three times now!" So, I went and explained #AdamsActs and how I am in the home stretch of this month of kindness, but that it does really change how you live all year long. She promised to find me on social media, and I really hope she does! And I hope she's reading this right now, and I hope she knows that I meant every word about her as a mom. 

And I hope she forgives me for calling her spoiled-date-lady.

Day 26: Making a Blanket Statement

Last year, my oldest daughter, Annalee, did an exhibition project about the epidemic of homelessness in New York State. She and her group of classmates focused specifically on the bulldozing of Tent City here in Rochester, which displaced countless homeless people from the only safe haven they knew at the time.

Annalee (age 10 at the time) and her group came up with the idea of collecting blankets for the displaced homeless population. The blankets were then donated to an organization that was temporarily housing those whose tents were bulldozed by the city of Rochester. The whole thing was handled terribly and the treatment of the residents of Tent City was deplorable in my opinion. The small box of blankets was one fifth grader's way of showing compassion.

For Day 26, I am inspired by my daughter's efforts and have continued them with our own neighborhood blanket drive. I posted the information on our neighborhood Facebook page and will keep this obnoxious sign and a bin in my front yard for the next week. 

All blankets and/or sleeping bags will be donated to local missions and shelters who provide services for the homeless men, women and children in our community. If you live in the Rochester area and would like to donate, send me a private message and if I determine that you are not a creepy pervert, I will give you my address to collect your donation. 

Most of us have more than we need, just in general, but blankets and sleeping bags are some of those things that mean nothing to us when they are stored away in a linen closet - but could literally save someone's life in the harsh, record-breaking, farmer's-almanac-cursing, Rochester winter we will undoubtedly have for the zillionth year in a row. 

Day 25: Tom and Jesus Save a Wretch

I do not believe that you can give something that you do not have. If one does not feel loved, it's nearly impossible to give love. At least in a healthy way. And it is hard to give hope to another, if you yourself are hopeless. Spreading kindness to others through #AdamsActs would be impossible, if I had not first experienced the greatest kindness - the wild, unbridled love of my Jesus and the enduring, life-ending kindness done on my behalf: His death, in place of my own, that I might spend forever with him, the ultimate act of love and selflessness. The truest act of love was done, just for me. 

And for you.

I share that because it is not possible for me to continue sharing about these #AdamsActs without explaining the reality  that every single act of selflessness or kindness or grace or love is purely a response to having first been loved by Jesus. I am helpless to do good apart from Him and I am certainly not capable of being kind for 31 days straight. I am simply not that well-behaved.

In fact, if you Google the direct Hebrew-to-English translation for the word wretch, my Facebook page will actually come up in the search results. I could have been the poster child for sins and mistakes and selfish ickyness. Yet, I see my face on the front page of a (albeit a very small) newspaper as some sort of poster child for kindness, and so I feel I must explain. 

 

The good you saw in my brother Adam, and any good you might be fooled into seeing in me, and the good that so many of you are spreading through your acts of kindness are a ripple effect from the first act of true love Adam and I ever knew. The love of a kind God shown through his kind son, because he longed for his beloved to remain his own for eternity. We get to be that beloved. I, the definition of a sinful wretch, get to partake in that offering of grace and love.

The result is that I have, and therefore am able to really give. 

Some of my favorite kindnesses are those where I can return kindness that was shown to us. Because on top of the ultimate lovingkindness, I have been blessed beyond measure by a community of people who choose to shower our family with love and kindness way more than anyone should be. We are truly spoiled with love from others. Many of you included. 

As my friend Lexi once put it "I don't know what it is, but PEOPLE LOVE YOU!" I wasn't offended by her shock and confusion in my lovability, although super rude, because I know what she meant, she meant that people love on us such an irrational amount that it is perplexing. 

Today, for Day 25, we wanted to repay a kindness from a neighbor. She brought us cookies to welcome us to the neighborhood a couple weeks ago, even though her brother had just unexpectedly passed away. Kindness in the midst of grief is the hardest to muster, but probably the most healing. So, we wanted to thank her for exerting the effort to make homemade cookies for us during her hard time. In part because they were some of the best sugar cookies I've ever had and I want her to bring them to us on a regular basis, (see, total selfish wretch) but also because we wanted to offer help during a time of grief and sadness (see, also redeemed!) 

We wrote a little card...

We wished for us to be "frens" and offered some raking...

Thanked her for those amazing cookies just to remind her that they are gone and may need refilling soon...

And we went to rake...

And then I couldn't breath because whatever chest cold I have is allergic to raking and other forms of hard work...

So Tom saved the day...

Again. 

Day 24: Tom Comes Clean

Day 24 was a bit of a fail seeing how I barely left my house and am a bit of a sick zombie at the moment. Tom and I both sent encouraging emails to different teachers, so that's something. I also took a little time to respond to some Facebook messages about #AdamsActs that I have neglected. A few were even from recipients of #AdamsActs! Thank you all, by the way, for the messages! They do mean so much to me, it just takes me longer than I would like to respond, and for that I apologize.

I tried to force Tom to guest blog as an act of kindness to me, but the man don't like his hand forced. So, instead we attempted a video blog. Here is the first (and only) take. I thought the world would want to see his big secret revealed.

You're welcome.