Day 7: Picture Perfect Challenge

One week down y'all! #AdamsActs has been a crazy success this year with over 14,000 hits on the blog, 10,000 of them being unique viewers! (If you don't know what a unique viewer is, don't feel bad because I just found out. In fact, I was a little offended because I like to think of all my viewers as unique.) What it really means is that about 10,000 people read the blog for the first time ever. I don't know 10,000 people so that means that the hashtag is working, the shares are working, and all the #AdamsActs you are doing in your communities ARE WORKING! 

People are catching the kindness in India, Scotland, France, Canada, Germany, UK, Brazil, Zambia, Portugal and the Netherlands! We even have one reader from Bahrain. Which... I had to Google. 

I am so thankful for each and every like, share, comment, post and act of kindness. I know a lot of you feel like it's wrong to share what you are doing to be kind, but I want to push back on that for a second. Trust me, I don't recommend shouting from the roof top every time you do something kind all year long... but, when we share what we are doing and why, it really does become a movement. So maybe consider shouting it from the roof top, just for the next few weeks and see who else you can inspire to be more kind, more generous, more charitable, more thoughtful and more intentionally focused on loving and serving others.

For Day #7 I helped out with school picture day at Harper and London's school. When I was London's age, my mom was subbing in my school building on picture day. The result of this once in a lifetime picture day opportunity is this fantastic photo of me, hovering over my mother's shoulder. Like a ghost. With puffy sleeves.

Me and Hurricane Sandi, circa 1986? Or was it '87? I don't know. Circa whenever this amazing plaid scarfbow was hot. 

Unfortunately, I was not permitted to do a mother-daughter session at school picture day today... but so as not to disappoint any unique viewers, I decided to pull out as many old studio pictures as I could. For some reason, I don't have a single school pic of my sister BethAnn, which is a shame because she was probably the most photogenic of any of us children. But, I did find one sister photo that features her shining Dorothy Hamill bow cut in a way that I believe will make her feel as honored as the rest of us.

Let's start with my oldest sister Kristin.

She still wears this dress to this very day. 

And the piece de resistance... 

This looks like her son Eli, with pearls and eyeshadow. At least all the feathering never goes out of style. 

My brother Adam, as sweet-faced as they come, was not exempt from bad hairstyles either.  

Just comb it straight into the eye bud, just keep combing. 

Does it get any cuter?  

Just love.

Again, I don't have individual school pictures of my sister BethAnn, so these will have to suffice. 

I coveted Kristin's cow suit for my entire childhood. And now you are. Doesn't feel good does it?  

Have you ever seen such a stark contrast in the amount of time spent on two children in the same photograph. Dorothy Hamill over there with her perfectly curled bowl... And me, on the left, apparently just finished up a successful round of dumpster diving. I'll have you know, I gave myself that haircut. Apparently Hurricane never saw fit to touch it up.  

And now it's only fair to reveal some of my school pics.  

Flat brim trucker hat, high waisted paints. All before they were cool. #settingtrends  

The above picture was taken shortly after Adam convinced me I needed to let him "shave my sideburns." The term "sideburns," as it turns out, was code for any hair  that didn't get tucked behind your ear, no matter how long it was.

By this time, I let my sideburns grow out. I was still cutting my own hair, but I had gotten better at it.  

So there you go. Some awkward school photos in honor of volunteering at school picture day! I challenge all of you to share your own awkward school/sports/dance photo in the comments, because sometimes being able to laugh at yourself and let other laugh with you, is the best kindness to give. And as always don't forget to #Adamscts!  

P.S. In case anyone reading this feels sorry for BethAnn for not having school pics, I offer you one final photograph to prove that I was, in fact, the most neglected in the group. Please note my fuzzy, middle-parted rat mullet, the curly turtle neck/suspender combo, double chin and a black eye for good measure.

Day 6: A Little Motivation To Work Out

Earlier this week I shared that I recently retired from my little accessory business. The one thing that I am going to miss is that moment when I get to respond to someone who says to me "oh these are really cute, but I couldn't pull it off."

Well not with that attitude.

That's when I get to show them all the ways to wear a headband that look supes adorbsies. Then I get to say things like "supes adorbsies" out loud, and in a context that begs for such expressions. And I get to make people feel beautiful. And I'm really gonna miss that. I mean, I know that shifting over to a speaking and writing career ensures that I will still get to say plenty of obnoxious things out loud, but I will miss teaching an insecure 12 year old girl how to pull her own hair up and make it look pretty and effortless. Not because I think young girls need to value their appearance more but because I think that feeling pretty should be effortless, especially when you're twelve. I like to help people realize that they are more beautiful, more powerful, more brave and more capable than they ever dared hope. And I like to convince them that they are those things RIGHT NOW. Not "I used to be..." or "someday I will be..." but that we possess immeasurable value right this very minute. 

It's easy to look at a picture of ourselves from back in the day and think, "man, I wish I was as cute as I was back then." The problem is that we didn't think we were cute back then either. I am definitely guilty of this photo dysmorphia phenomenon. Tom once called me out on it. He said "Lara, you can look at a picture of yourself from a half hour ago and still think you used to look better."

Ugh. I'm so sick of my husband being a mentally stable, wise old sage of a man. 

I believe in both diligently pursuing growth, and also learning self-acceptance in the process. God himself created man and said we were "very good." He never said a darn thing about how we used to be cute. He just adored us as he made us. BUT, he doesn't let us stay where we are, either. If we think about God as the perfect parent, then this is very easy to grasp. Whether you are a parent or not, you have most likely experienced that pure, uninhibited love for a new baby. You just LOVE them. Based on nothing. They have zero accomplishments apart from coming out of a uterus, and they can hardly take credit for that achievement. We love them before they DO anything, because we love what they are. We just love that they are.

But, that doesn't mean we don't teach them to do things, or to become things. When you love a baby, you equip them and empower them and challenge them to strive for the next milestone. And we love children whether they meet the milestone or not, but we are always holding their hands and encouraging that next step.

This is how God sees you. And me. We are just a bunch of big, useless babies trying to stumble around and get some things right. God loves us just as we are, just because we are. But, he also grabs hold of our sticky little hands and guides us sweetly toward the next step of faith.

My #AdamsActs for Day 6 is one of my favorite kindnesses from previous years, and is one I look forward to every year! Leaving little notes of encouragement in the locker room at the gym is perfect for this phenomenon because, to me,  the gym is such a tangible and physical example of this spiritual truth... of both accepting ourselves (and even appreciating ourselves) in our current state, but also, not settling in and staying stagnant where we are. My sister, Kristin recently sent me this quote:

Day 6 - notes at the gym to encourage all the masterpieces who are working out their progress.

Unless you are naturally thin and weak like me, then embrace that too! Your motto can be something like "clavicles are the new curves!" 

It doesn't matter if a few people don't like one of VanGogh's paintings... anything he paints is extremely valuable, just because it bears the artists name.  As an image-bearer of God, it really doesn't matter where you are at in your process, you are a masterpiece because you were created by a master. Bearing his name is what gives you value.

Day 5: Craigslist Kindness

Day 5 needs no intro. The following exchange is so good, that half of my #AdamsActs for today is simply sharing the hilarity with you all. The other half, is a little Nutella to soothe an aching heart. My friend Nan came over today and brought me some amazing little Nutella rolls.

They were the bomb diggities, and for realz, I ate no substantial food today. Just slammed roll after delicious roll.

I had the healing powers of Nutella on my mind already, when Tom discovered this Craiglist Ad:

Can you believe this chick Sara would break up with someone like this guy? I, for one, cannot. So, Tom responds:

We will keep you posted as this Nutella/Wii/Sara saga unfolds, but I think that this guy is going to find what he's looking for. This has to be, by far, my most RANDOM, random act of kindness. 

Day 4: To Give of Yourself

Today’s #AdamsActs were so enjoyable they felt almost selfish really. To start the day, I took some friends out for breakfast. This is the first time in about 13 years that I have only one child home with me, so I actually have a little bit of freedom and flexibility during the day. So, going out while the sun is out with other adults is a luxury that I forgot even existed for some people, and it felt nearly indulgent to do such a thing. I treated two amazing women to a breakfast that was so good, that I could hardly call it a sacrifice.

First, the company. My friend Lexi has been an unbelievable support to me. During some very hard seasons in the past 7 years, this girl has stood my side so faithfully. She is always encouraging me, serving our family in a hundred different ways, and perpetually nagging me into being productive. For all those years of friendship, she gets rewarded with a breakfast sandwich.

Lexi and I drove out to pick up our friend Karolin, and I don’t even know where to begin with that one. This girl is one of the strongest people I know. She’s one of those people who is loved by everyone who has the privilege of knowing her. She has a great sense of humor (a major pre-requisite to be one of my favorites), a passion for teaching, and a heart for under-funded city schools, a gift with children, a steadfastness in Christ that I have rarely seen lived out in all different seasons of life… the seasons of abundance and comfort, as well as the trials.

And trust me when I tell you that Karolin’s faith has been put to the test though trial after trial. I have watched her in awe as she has navigated some unfathomable hardships with a quiet strength that I am certain I will never possess in this lifetime. Her unwavering faith has been an example to me for many years, but particularly these past three and a half years as she has battled multiple bouts of Leukemia.

She recently found out that the cancer returned (the first relapse since receiving her bone marrow transplant) making this time around particularly discouraging. Still. Karolin spends her time reassuring others. Her relentless peace and trust in God in the face of much adversity continues to make an impression on all who come into contact with her, and I am so fortunate that I get to be one of those people.

An act of kindness for me would be for all of you to offer up all the prayers you can muster for this remarkable friend of mine who has been fighting leukemia like a boss for far too long. I’d also challenge those of you who are not yet registered to be a bone marrow donor, to do so. It is a very simple process and all the information can be found at bethematch.org

I remember, when I was only ten years old, my brother asked me to sign as the witness for his application to become an organ donor. I remember thinking it was so odd that a 16 year old kid would take the initiative to think through that decision and feel strongly enough about being an organ donor that he would fill out an application and have his kid sister sign it for him. Just one year later at the age of 17, saving and improving the lives of others through organ donation was Adam’s final act of kindness. Register to be an organ donor to let life come out of death, register to be a bone marrow donor to help warriors like Karolin beat this ugly disease, donate blood, donate money to a cause or a local church, donate your time by volunteering… these are all really tangible ways for us to, literally and figuratively, give of ourselves

My last two acts of kindness were simply giving an extra generous tip to our server, and buying a hot tea for Kayla, a college student with whom I had a meeting this afternoon. She and I have a big challenge ahead of us, so we are collaborating to solve all the world’s problems - by next week. It’s a big undertaking, I’m not gonna lie. I won’t get into all the nitty gritty of it just now, but let me just say that if we all served others the way my friend Lexi does, and if we all bravely faced our fears and loved others without discrimination the way my friend Karolin does, and if we all had the foresight and intentionality to be kind, even in our death, like my brother Adam did… then I have a feeling Kayla and I wouldn’t have such a big job ahead of us.

Day 3: 20 random acts of kindness to try this month

Before we get into Day 3, we need to make sure that everyone is caught up. If you are just joining us, you really must go back to Day 1 to have some context here. If you skip Day 2, I'm okay with that because I basically just vomited my fear of rejection onto all of the unsuspecting readers, but the first day is a non-negotiable. 

Okay, did you do it? Are you all caught up?? Great, welcome to Day 3!

As we go into this month, I know it can be intimidating to come up with new ideas every day. (I'm the one who has to blog about these things though, so I don't feel that bad for you.) But here's the thing... you can do the EXACT SAME THING EVERY DAY and it will still be amazing. This is how I know... if someone gave me a candy bar, every day, I wouldn't be like "umm excuse me, you were kind in this way yesterday, could you please change it up??" Nobody is going to say that, unless they are jerks. And if they are jerks, they probably need the repetitive kindness more than anyone. Still, I do understand that coming up with fresh kindnesses can feel daunting! So, part of Day 3 will be a helpful list of kindnesses to choose from.

I call this... 

A CORNUCOPIA OF KINDNESS! (I am not good with technology, but picture those words brightly colored and slowly getting bigger on the screen while Bob Barker says it in his best Price is Right game show voice.) Or at least imagine that the font is bigger. Either way.

Where was I? Oh yes, my very helpful list!

A CORNUCOPIA OF KINDNESS

1. Tape coupons to items in the store for a surprise discount. 
2. Send an encouraging note in the mail to someone you haven't connected with in a while.
3. Apologize for that thing you still feel bad about.
4. Pay for someone's gas, meal, groceries.
5. Tip generously.
6. Order and pay for a dessert for another table at a restaurant.
7. Keep granola bars in your car or purse to hand out to homeless people.
8. Organize a blanket drive and donate them to a shelter.
9. Never think a compliment. If you think something positive, say it out loud.
10. Write thank you notes for people who are often overlooked - custodial staff at your office, garbage man, night shift workers, gas station attendants, security guards, etc.
11. Offer an elderly neighbor on hour of your time to help change light bulbs, put up decorations, get something down from the attic, etc.
12. Leave a treat for mail carrier in your mail box.
13. Scrape someone's windshield/shovel walkway/rake leaves/share an umbrella.
14. Leave a heartfelt voicemail for someone who is lonely.
15. Check in on somebody going through a hard time.
16. Offer to babysit for a mom with young kids.
17. Surprise a friend at work with coffee or a treat.
18. Help single parent with chores or errands.
19. Call someone who is going through a divorce, just to listen and encourage them.
20. Make me homemade jam.

For more ideas, check out the #AdamsActs section of the website, where you will find hundreds of ideas! These really don't have to be big things. If some small irritation can make our day harder, then a small kindness can make our day better as well. Here's the thing, the way my brother lived his life was a series of small kindnesses. He wasn't some baller spending tons of money buying everyone round after round of chicken wings on him. Rather, he danced with the shy girl in the hallway after the Junior High school dance. Just so she knew that he saw her. He stood up for kids who were getting picked on in school. Just so they didn't feel alone. He let me, his pesty little sister, tag along with him after his soccer games. Just so I would feel special. (Orrrrr because the girls in his class thought I was cute. Okay... so maybe this one in particular wasn't purely for my sake.) But you get the idea. It doesn't take much to make someone feel noticed, appreciated, loved. Small things, guys, small things. 

For my Day 3, I brought a meal to a family who is currently undergoing a huge life transition. Even good transition brings a lot of stress and disruption to a family, so I offered to take this one thing off their mind for a night. I had Tom take this very candid photo of me and my meal I just whipped right up.

Okay fine, that's not me, that's Rachel Ray. But my meal did look that good. Okay fine, it was a run of the mill pot roast. Or "pot grosst" as my kids call it. It was hot, comfort food though so that's good enough. Remember, small things people! A big shout out to my second-in-command, my three year old son, Jay. He was super helpful. And by helpful I mean that he stood on a stool and smelled the potatoes for about 30 seconds straight, loudly proclaimed that they were "still fresh!" and sprinted away wearing nothing but a pajama top and his underwear. Both on backwards.

Day 2: An Embarrassment of Confessions and Kindness

Guys, mama’s got some emotional baggage to unpack. I know what you’re thinking, yesterday was heavy enough, right? Can’t we just get to the funny stuff? Trust me, nobody would like for me to be mentally stable more than me. (Except maybe my husband, Tom.) Just be patient, because I accidentally stabbed my friend today, so we will get to the humor in a minute. But, first… I have a secret that I have to get off my chest.

I struggle big time with shame.

I’m not talking your run of the mill mom-guilt. I’m not talking about sincere and appropriate remorse when I do something wrong. I am talking about disproportionate and painful humiliation for things that I have no control over. Quick example… I shared Day One to Facebook yesterday and while it was re-posted over 100  times and elicited an overwhelmingly positive response and a couple thousand people took the time to go to the website to read the blog, my post and any shared posts were somehow deleted from Facebook. This happens right? Someone marks something as spam, maybe on accident, maybe on purpose. Someone doesn’t want to be tagged in something, so they report it as offensive, intentionally or not. It could have been an honest mistake, or someone could have genuinely found the content to be offensive. I mean, kindness is pretty scandalous and controversial.

However it happened isn’t the point, it was my reaction to what happened. I felt a deep, searing sense of mortification. Not that my post disappeared. Not that there was a little hiccup on day one.

I was mortified about who I am.

This is terribly embarrassing to admit, but if I don’t do anything else of significance this month, I will at the very least tell you the truth. And this is the ugly truth… When things go south, my first instinct is to sort of hate myself. I immediately launch into some inner dialogue about how bad I am, or how stupid it was to think this was a good idea, or how embarrassing it is to be vulnerable about my personal life, and, and, and…

I realize how dramatic this sounds. It is ridiculously dramatic. I feel like a needy and insecure middle school girl even admitting this, which is probably what I am on the inside half the time. It’s not only pathetic in and of itself, it’s also really selfish. It’s selfish because I am surrounded with as much love and support as any one person possibly could be. It’s selfish because it is an entirely self-focused reaction to life’s circumstances. It’s selfish because believing that I am trash is like spitting in the face of the God who created me.

I am a work in progress. And I want to be honest about that process because that’s what this blog, and my whole life really, is all about. I believe that God redeems, that he longs to make all things new. Including our baggage. Including our selfishness. Including my temporary insanity, and my misplaced sense of identity. Including me, and you, in our current, broken, messy state.

For Day Two, I wanted to celebrate the sentiment of newness. I recently retired from my little business called Piccadilly Rose, where I would take old, discarded fabrics and make them into one of a kind accessories. More than I loved creating headbands, I loved the idea of taking something that has been rejected or abandoned and making it into something beautiful. I have decided to stop the business so that I can solely focus on the growing opportunity to do writing and speaking full time. So, while I will no longer be making trash into treasure, that is the very work that God does in me every day, and it continues to be the undercurrent of this new endeavor of writing and speaking.

Our church recently hired a new pastor. He and his wife have an adorable little two year old peanut who always has her hair done up in some sort of bow or headband. Since I am retiring from the headband business, I thought I would spread a little accessory love from my dwindling inventory to welcome the new pastor’s family. (True confession: I didn’t think I would like the new guy, because I loved the old guy so much. But, what can ya do. They’re great. So they get headbands.) Speaking of being mortified about who I am as a person, as I was delivering the headbands to OUR NEW PASTOR, I accidentally said the phrase “feminine hygiene products.” You see what I’m working with here? How can I NOT struggle with shame? #nofilter

I am also bringing some baby headbands to another little sweetie from our church. (I will not mention sanitary napkins this time, I swear. Except I probably will. Ugh, I can’t be stopped.)  Anyhow, we have an incredible Director of Outreach and he and his wife inspire me on a daily basis with their incredible heart for foster care, adoption, racial and social justice. So, the newest addition to their family will also get some baby swag from the going-out-of-business event.

So today, I honor my brother’s life by telling a hard truth, by letting God love me and heal me into a better version of myself, and celebrating what is new. New families, new beginnings, new friendships, new life. It is the business of God to make all things new. I know I have said it a million times, but until I am so secure in that truth that I no longer spiral into a selfish fit of insecurity… I will keep preaching it from the rooftops, to you and to myself.

Oh, yes, the humor! I almost forgot!!

I stabbed my friend Ben today.

This photo was for reenactment purposes only, no Bens were harmed during the taking of this picture. He was only harmed the first time, when I actually stabbed him.  

Day 1: The Hardest Story I Never Told

The night my brother died has a sort of gravitational pull in my life that I find difficult to explain. I don’t know if it was the violent nature of his death, or its suddenness, or if this is simply how survivors keep time. I am not sure, but I know that it is how I remember things, how I orient every memory. Everything that has happened in my life is somehow filed in my brain as either before, or after.

And so, though I always feel a little self-conscious about the redundancy of posting this same story, word for word, each year, I feel that I must. Because it is the beginning. It is how I have kept time for so long, and it is the moment that held such gravity for my family that all the other moments in my life have oriented themselves around it all on their own. It marks the end of my childhood and the beginning of my faith. It marks the start and finish of so many things that nothing I write this month would make a lick of sense if I didn’t start there. Again.

At Day 1. 

----

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 35 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 this 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... 35 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. You're welcome. This is the fifth October, I have asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. Please like and share these blog posts 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. 

Each year #AdamsActs has grown exponentially and last year I was amazed at the impact it had on communities all over the world. My sincere prayer is that each small act of generosity, encouragement, compassion, thoughtfulness, and kindness will plant seeds of hope, love and healing in a world that could use a lot more of those things. Thank you for allowing me to share my family's story with you. If I can't spend my days watching my brother live out all the remarkable kindness that was in his heart, the next best thing is watching all of you do it in his memory.

In memory of my favorite person in heaven, my big brother, and the super hero of his little sister's heart.

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