I Come Empty Handed

Historically, I have not handled criticism terribly well. Anyone remember this mental breakdown from last year? Perhaps one of my finest public shame spirals, if I may be so bold. I have learned and grown a lot in the past year, so I decided that since more than 5,000 people have already read Day 1, this year I am going to get ahead of some of the most common questions and critiques. This time, not because of my insecurity, but because I want to convince you that we are doing good work together, and you should definitely consider getting involved. Let’s take a look at question/comment #1...

Q: For starters, shouldn’t we all just perform acts of kindness anyways? And shouldn’t we do it anonymously? Isn’t it really self-serving to post kind acts so publicly?

A: I can appreciate this question because, at first glance, I would probably tend to find a public bragfest to be quite off-putting. However, I do not believe that people are doing this to “brag about being kind.” I have been doing this for seven years now and I have had the honor and pleasure of watching this idea grow into an initiative and then develop even further, into a movement. It has caused people to move.

I have seen angry, bitter, hurting people move toward softness, toward healing. I have seen people who are fearful and guarded, move toward openness and vulnerability. I have seen people who are trudging through the same heavy, thick grief move toward peace and freedom, toward levity. Kindness moves people to become more kind. Kindness had the redemptive and restorative power to heal people, to invite them in to something bigger and more meaningful than themselves. I have seen this month of kindness give people purpose. We can be privately kind for 11 months out of the year, but for one month… let’s be out loud and in your face about the impact kindness can have. Because, that is what moves people. That is what makes it contagious.

Q: Aren’t you just trying to get attention? Shouldn’t you be over this by now?

A: Eh nope! Okay admittedly, I haven’t received this particular question (to my face) since high school. However, as my brother’s story is being circulated by strangers multiple times over, its reach gets further and further removed from me. That is exactly the goal! What tends to happen though, is that people feel freer to make potentially hurtful remarks like “get over it by now.” To that question I would say a few things: 1) You, sir, are lucky that I am stable enough in this moment that I will not hunt you down and throat punch you for your insensitivity. 2) You, sir, are quite fortunate that you do not understand the depths of timeless grief because that means that you have never lost someone who you loved so much that you can’t “get over it,” 3) You will someday, and you will want to apologize for what you said, 4) I already forgive you. But also 5) Shut up so much.

When Adam was killed so suddenly, I was still just a girl. For a child to navigate an ocean of grief without the maturity and capacity of an adult, the grieving process is delayed. While I do not think we should compare our grieving process to another person’s process, I think it is understandable to do so. What is even more misguided, would be comparing an adult’s grief to a child’s. I am not saying either is harder or easier… but I am saying that a child will need to first become an adult in order to fully and effectively grieve. So, that is what I have done. I started this process seven years ago. And now it feels like Adam died 7 years ago. In reality, Adam was killed in 1993. But my process started many years after that. So, see #5 above and have a blessed day.

Finally, my favorite frequently asked question:

Q: What if I forget to post? What if I run out of ideas? What if my acts of kindness are just very small?

IT’S ALL OKAY. Trust me, after you read what I did for Day #2, you are going to feel a lot less worried or pressured to do something epic. I LOVE the creative ideas that people are already coming up with! Here’s the thing though, we aren’t all in that space. I have five children people… there were years where I counted the absence of an outburst in my home an act of kindness. There are times that I have done nothing at all, so instead I made a terrible video explaining myself. There have been times, like today, where I totally failed at my kindness altogether!

You will forget. It’s okay to double up, or to give yourself a pass. If you run out of ideas, type #AdamsActs into Google, Twitter, Instagram or Facebook and you will find a butt ton of ideas. If you are sick or tired or feeling particularly lazy - SHARE MY POSTS! Liking, commenting, reposting… all these easy actions are a kindness to me, and they put this kindness campaign in front of more eyes. It helps us connect with more people who could use a little kindness in their lives. If you are consistent, but feeling as if your kindnesses are “small” then I want to challenge you to try this exercise:

Think of three of the kindest people you know. Now think of something nice each of them said or did. Were they all huge, life-changing things? Or were they smaller, consistent efforts to encourage you? In the same way that small things can trigger big feelings of grief, small acts of kindness can make a big impact on someone’s day. One compliment, one encouraging message, one extra moment to make a human connection… these are the things that, if done consistently over time, have the potential to change someone’s life. Remember that our cumulative efforts are what make the biggest difference.

Now, without further ado, my Day #2. I made a very sizable donation to a fundraiser that my sweet friend Anna is involved with to raise money for her High School’s production of Pride and Prejudice - which is one of my all time favorite books and I also love the movie. In related news,  I think that the BBC version was well done in regards to character development (many thanks to Pete Nesbitt for that astute observation), but I don’t care what anyone says Keira Nightly is a better Lizzie. Okay, I know that was a really self-indulgent moment but this technically is still my blog and you can see #5 above if you have any further questions. Back to my sizable donation. By “sizable donation” I mean that I bought a five dollar raffle ticket, And by “bought” I mean I forgot to pay for it. So, for Day #2, I stole. From a child.

Here is the ticket I stole:

Oh wait, that’s just an empty hand. Because after stealing the ticket, I lost the ticket.

See? Bar set super low! Now, go, and be as kind as you possibly can be. Give joyfully! Steal accidentally! I mean, pay people back and stuff, but don’t beat yourself up about it! And it’s okay to tell the world. It’s also okay to keep it private. Whatever would stretch you the most, then do that thing. At the end of the day it won’t be the recipients of our kindness/theft that will be most impacted, it will be us.

Day 1: The Hardest Story I never Told. #AdamsActs

Several years ago I was challenged by some friends to participate in a 31 day kindness challenge. These friends knew that I struggled through the month of October with loads of unresolved grief from my childhood. My little girl self had a world of grief that I had never processed as an adult. So, I accepted the challenge and forced myself to unpack said baggage in a super public and vulnerable way! Hooray for having zero boundaries! The story I share below is that original post, virtually word for word. I only make minor edits each year because I like the raw vulnerability of it, and because frankly… the story of what happened that night does not change. My brother’s fate will never change. The only thing that I have the power to change about this story, is my reaction to it.

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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. 

I started doing these acts of kindness because I had to do something. I had to be productive and focus outward or I would implode with this seasonal grief and cyclical depression. I wanted 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. This is why we call them #AdamsActs, because these are the types of things Adam would have spent his life doing. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 37 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

I cannot change the outcome of Adam’s story. So, this is how I am choosing to respond to the greatest loss of my life. If I can’t change Adam’s story, I might as well try to change the world. One act of kindness at a time.

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 seventh October that I have asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. The greatest kindness you can do for me and my family is to like and share these blog posts to your social media, and why not challenge everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please use the hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. Each year we gain thousands of new readers and I believe that this year is going to blow our minds. I want you to be a part of it.

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 loving memory of my buddy and hero, Adam H. Provencal.

For pointing me toward God's restorative kindness.

Love, your baby sister

#AdoptionIsLove & All the Other Things

“Did my birthmom give me up because my head is shaped like an oval?”

My son Harper was only six years old when he asked me that. I was shocked for so many reasons. First of all, because his head is perfect. Second, and more importantly, he was using language we hadn’t ever used. We never once said that she “gave him up.” We always said that she “placed him in our family” or that she was “not able to parent him.” Our careful word choice was not enough to change how he felt and how he felt was rejected, declined, discarded…

given up.

Four years ago on this day, we finalized Jay’s adoption. It took 19 long months of tedious paperwork, home visits from our case worker and jumping through legal hoops before this day became a reality. When I look back at the photos from that day in court, there is so much beauty and joy captured there.

I remember the peace the kids felt when they knew that Jay’s place in our family was sealed and solidified. That his sonship was sure. There was a palpable sense of reassurance knowing that this little boy was ours forever. As our friends and family gathered with us in that courtroom, our hearts took a collective sigh of relief. We have an open adoption, and a great relationship with Jay’s first mama, so it was not as if there was some crazy custody battle. Quite to the contrary, The Lovely Miss N. - as we affectionately call her in the blog - was walking through this part of our journey with us. She too rejoiced when the adoption was finalized, because she also wanted Jay’s place in our home and family to be permanent and sure.

The fact that nobody was contesting either of our boys’ adoptions technically made things “easier” for us. Yet, as I continue to listen to and learn from the powerful voices of adult adoptees in my life and community, I can’t help but anticipate the dismay that my sons will likely experience as a result of knowing that nobody contested their adoptions. Nobody tried to stop it. Nobody fought us for them. The set of circumstances that created relatively obstacle-free finalizations are the same dismal circumstances that will cause our boys to process feelings of rejection and abandonment for the rest of their lives. Whether they were “lovingly placed” or “given up” almost doesn’t matter if their little souls question their worth and their place in the world.

I happen to know for sure, with 100% certainty that my sons were (are) both fiercely loved by their first moms. Because we have the luxury of an open-adoption with Jay’s birthparents, we have it on pretty good authority to say that they are absolutely wild about him. Due to situations that are not mine to disclose, my boys’ first moms made an impossible decision. Their choices were made out of anything but rejection or indifference. Still, we cannot possibly know how a child will interpret the actions or inactions of the adults in their lives.

And while we are entirely committed to facilitating healthy relationships between our boys and their birthfamilies, we know that there will be times of strain and hurt no matter how hard we try to prevent it. We know that there will come a time when they will confront the harsh awareness that they were “free to be adopted.” And knowing that their heartbreak is inevitable, I find these photos and memories equal parts joyful and disconcerting. The more I learn about the adoptee’s experience, the harder it is to celebrate these moments without also acknowledging the layered grief and loss involved in a day like this coming to fruition.

#AdoptionIsLove is a popular hashtag in the adoption community. And it is so true. From every side there is this imperfect, but unending love for a child. Adoption IS love. But a less popular truth is that adoption is also loss. It isn’t as trendy a hashtag and it isn’t as pleasant a view of adoption - but it is just as real, just as true.

Adoption is love. Adoption is loss. Adoption is wondering if there is something inherently wrong with you. It’s looking in the mirror, wondering who you look like, and thinking maybe your head is just too oval to be loved. Adoption is feeling given up, even when you were lovingly placed. As I tucked my boys in to bed tonight, I asked Harper if I could share this story from when he was a little boy with all of you. I said that I think it’s important to tell the truth about the good things and the sad things about adoption so that people can understand all of it a little better.

He gave me his permission. And then he added this,

“You can tell them that I said that when I was a little boy, but it’s okay to tell the things I worry about now. Like... I don’t think it’s because of my head anymore, but I still think it’s because of something. I just don’t know what it is yet. Maybe knowing that I still wonder will help people to understand the sad parts.”

I am thankful, beyond thankful, that I have the joy and responsibility of raising these two little crazies. I am thankful for the days that the states of New York and New Jersey said that they could be ours forever. I am thankful that I know - even when they don’t - that their first mothers would die for them in an instant. I am thankful and overjoyed, to be sure, I just don’t know if all the other feelings we have about adoption will ever quite fit into a hashtag.

What Lies Ahead

I have been home with my kids for nearly fifteen years and I have loved every, single minute of it. I have remained patient and full of the holy spirit for the entirety of the past decade and a half, and I would never - under any circumstances - drive past my house and go around the block multiple times just so I can finish an audiobook in glorious, uninterrupted peace. Also, I have no flaws, so...

Okay, fine. I am a liar. And the past 15 years have been just slightly more nuanced than that. Maybe I do have flaws. Like, if I had to ballpark… I’d say maybe 5-7 flaws come to mind?

Okay, fine. I’m a liar. Again. I barely survived the past 15 years. My flaws are infinite, and they are just scattered haphazardly all over the floor with the other rando debris in my home. But, while it’s true that I have loved being home all these years, I hate when people say they loved “every minute” of something, as if that’s even possible. Clearly it’s a gross exaggeration and if there is one thing I won’t stand for it’s a gross exaggeration.

Okay, look, I am just going to be lying on and off, basically this whole post. The truth is, my favorite kind of exaggerations are the gross ones. Still, I do despise an overly tidy sum-up of something as complex and layered as 15 years of parenting! Or a lifetime of devotion to a particular profession, or 60 years of marriage, or 25 years of serving our country. Any experience that could be compared to Sisyphus pushing that boulder up a hill over and over cannot possibly be enjoyed 100% of the time.

Still, I really have loved being home all these years. And if I could go back and do it all over again, I would make the same decision to be home. I loved being there for every first - first taste of every food, first steps, first words, first time covering their entire room with sidewalk chalk, or oil paints, or human feces. I rarely ever missed a first anything. And that I loved. I have loved being the room parent and chaperoning all the field trips. I loved being able to bring my kids their stuff when they forgot it at home. I also loved not bringing them their stuff sometimes, so that they would learn the lesson of being more prepared. I loved that I had the choice.

But, there were also a lot of things that I hated. I hated when people would say I was lucky that I could afford to stay home - as if we haven’t made huge financial sacrifices by living below the poverty line for a hundred years. I hated not showering for more days in a row than I care to admit, because I WAS NEVER ALONE. I hated having no sick days, and I hated the moments that I wish I could do over. I have a lot of moments that I regret. Moments of selfishness, impatience, and straight up ugliness. I regret not savoring each day that I had my babies home. I regret the times when I wished away the hard days and longed for this season to come - the season when all my kids would be in school full-time.

Now that time is nearly upon me. On September the sixth, in the year Two Thousand and Eighteen, I will be alone for the first time in 15 years. People ask me what I will do with myself. Here is what I plan to do with myself, in alphabetical order:

• Be alone.

• Blog more frequently.

• Complete tasks. Observe/record what it is like when the task is not immediately UNdone by another, smaller person.

• Eat pieces of candy without risk of what I call “the seagull effect.”

• Finish writing my book.

• Go to a doctor for adults.

• Have conversations with adults.

• Hire new booking agent.

• Increase the number of speaking engagements from what I was previously able to do.

• Maintain flexibility in schedule so I can still be room parent/chaperone all the things.

• Paint fingernails.

• Shower daily, during regular daylight hours.

• Submit book proposal to publishing company.

• Work during daylight hours.

• Work without noise-cancelling headphones.

This might seem too ambitious, or maybe not ambitious enough. I honestly have no way of gauging what is realistic to accomplish during a school day. I had my first child in college, like a sinner, so I have no idea what it will be like to have five school-aged children and a whole day to accomplish things.

Here’s what I do know. I am at peace with it all. Not because I loved every single second of how it was, or because I have no regrets or because I was so awesome at being a stay-at-home mom 100% of the time. I am at peace with it because it’s what is happening. It will be like everything else… some of it will go too fast, and some of it will feel like it’s dragging on. Parts of this coming season will be easier, and I will probably be dismayed to discover that some parts will be harder. Some days will feel free, and some will be a grind. It’s going to be whatever it’s going to be, and I am at peace with all the unknowns and the certain bittersweetness of it all. While I am embracing the change, I am also operating under the total assumption that there will be a minimum of 84 mental breakdowns during that first week of school.

Until that day (where I can be found at home in a ball, eating candy, with a youtube video of seagulls attacking a sandwich playing in the background) I am preparing my heart for whatever God puts in front of me this year. In anticipation of what’s to come, I am so excited to announce that the amazing Jonathan Capuano - digital arts/graphic design extraordinaire - has completely revamped my website! While you’re here, please take a look around at how profesh he is making me look! My favorite new feature is that you can now send a request to book a speaking engagement directly through the site or, as always, connect with me through the contact page. I would love to speak at your next event - youth, church, college, women, corporate… I have had the opportunity to keynote so many incredible events in the past couple of years and I have loved every single second of it.

(Still, with the lying. smh)

Okay, fine… I maybe haven’t loved EVERY second, but if there is one thing I have learned in the past fifteen years, it’s that you don’t have to love every single second of something to know that you were made to do it. I was made to be a mom. But I was also made to be a fun and compassionate speaker who isn’t afraid to ask the hard questions, or to tell the hard truths or to lie comedically via gross exaggeration. So, I can’t wait for this next season of life, because I get to do all of the things that I love so much - writing, speaking, momming, eating pieces of candy. Even if there are a few seconds here and there that aren’t my favorite, I get to be what God created me to be, and I am still wrapping my mind around what a glorious and wonderful gift that is.

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Lara is now booking events for 2018/19, click HERE to invite her to speak at your next event.

A Sense of (Mis)Adventure

We used to take these really long road trips when the kids were little. Our first trip, nearly a month long, took place when our youngest (we only had four children at the time) was just 6 months old. We zig-zagged across the country from New York to Washington state and then down the coast of Oregon and California, then zig-zagged back. All 6 of us slept in a tent each night, and we scheduled one night at a hotel each week. There, we would shower and do laundry and use a toilet that flushed. After weeks living outside, indoor plumbing is truly a marvel. We did three big trips like that. (You can go back and read about the Capuano Tour De USA parts one, two and three.) It was hard work and a lot of preparation, but those trips go down in our family history as some of our very best memories.

People thought we were nuts. Maybe people were right, but I really didn’t care.

I wanted my kids to have a sense of adventure.

After taking those three trips, life changed for us a lot. We adopted our son Jay, so all of our money was tied up in adoption expenses. Jay was born healthy, but there were some complications within 24 hours of his birth that led to him receiving very high levels of antibiotics in the NICU for 12 days. This caused damage to his brain and permanent hearing loss.

Almost immediately after we brought Jay home, we began therapies and interventions to address his various delays. Oh, and bonus, Tom got laid off from his job of ten years! Around this time, our other son was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder and our life was consumed with intensive attachment therapy, weeping and gnashing of teeth.

I think it goes without saying that family camping trips to “nurture a sense of adventure” took a serious backseat to survival. Adventure felt like pure frivolity in comparison to preserving whatever shred of sanity we could. Still, in some small way Tom and I grieved these times we had. We felt a sense of simplicity and freedom on those trips, and even though almost every possible thing went wrong, we made some hilarious and wild memories. And for years we have missed taking these trips.

We have made some very noteworthy progress in our home in the past few months. After ten years of hard and intentional work, our son appears to be securely attached. He is thriving, he is loving, he is connected. We still have challenges but this summer felt different. It felt like adventure might be possible again. So, we started to plan a trip. This time, just a week. Start slow, work our way up.

In the weeks leading up to the trip I started feeling this longing for adventure once again. But, this time… it wasn’t about the places our family would go, this adventure, felt more like the people we were supposed to be.

For years Tom and I have considered whether or not we were in a place where we could be considered a stable family for a child in the US Foster Care System. During these past several chaotic years, the answer has been a resounding “awww he!!-to-the-no!” Yet, during these past few months we have been closer to “normalcy” and stability than we have been in the past 5 years. And I can feel the question creep back into my heart again.

As Tom and I were processing this possibility, we included the kids in some of these conversations about what life might look like if/when we ever did become a foster family. There was this unbelievable moment when I was listing some of the sacrifices we would have to make as a family. I told my oldest daughter, Annalee, that she would need to share her bedroom with her little sister, London. This may not seem like a big deal but Annalee is 14 years old and we are JUST NOW finishing her bedroom in the attic. The kid has been waiting over a decade to have her own bedroom, and what was her response?

“Having your own bedroom is a luxury. Having a family, should not be.”

Going into this trip, I no longer felt grieved for all the years we lost to chaos and suffering. I no longer feared that my kids would not have a sense of adventure. In that one pure moment with my daughter it was unequivocally apparent that our children are ready for adventure. If and when our family is ready to become a foster family, I can be confident that they will have what it takes to endure with a sense of true adventure. Not the frivolous kind that comes from seeing Mt. Rushmore or from using a vault toilet in the mountains.Their sense of adventure is of a much grander scope. To them adventure means sacrifice. It means being a family to a child who needs one. It means abandoning frivolity and taking the harder path. To them, adventure no longer means exploring the world.

It means changing it.

Contentment Over Comparison

Guys, I have a confession. I am a total and complete phony. While I have a surprisingly convincing ability to fake enough confidence to get myself into all sorts of situations, I rarely posses enough real confidence for any of them. And - bonus - I also don't have the credentials or skill set that I have somehow created the illusion of possessing! On more than one occasion, people have confessed to feeling intimidated around me, which I find absolutely hysterical. In these laughable conversations, people have said that when they first met me they assumed I was very confident. I then explain the elaborate magic trick I like to call "overcompensating for insecurity!" and then we all throw our heads back in laughter and become fast friends. It's true, I have a big (read obnoxious) personality. But, that is often mistaken for being self-assured. In reality, I am just an extrovert who desperately wants to be liked. So basically, I'm a puppy.

 I spent most of my adult life in an almost constant state of self-doubt. Or more realistically, vacillating between self-loathing and absurd pride. Pan over to this embarrassing sample of my inner-dialogue:

Moment #1: I can't do anything right because I am the worst. End of story, nothin's gonna change my mind.

Moment #2: Sure! I can do that! There's nothing I can't do because I am basically amerrrzerrrng. (With "Nothin's Gonna Stop Us Now" playing in the background while an industrial fan inexplicably blows my hair around like Beyonce.)

Moment #3: Why? Why? Why would I agree to that? I am not capable, I know nothing and I am a total phony. Everything I do is horrible because I am a garbage person.

Moment #4: Did that guy just say I couldn't do something? Excuse me very much... we'll see about that mister. God has been equipping me for this my entire life! I am capable! Somebody, BRING ME MY HAIR FAN! 

Moment #5: He's right. I basically belong in prison. Because of definitely being a full-time, Grade-A, maximum strength, free-range garbage person.

Guys. It's sick. It's a really gross cycle of pride and comparison and insecurity and overcompensating. It made me super critical of myself, and then I felt small. And when people feel small they are intimidated and resentful of people who seem free and confident. And when people are intimidated, insecure and self-critical, they tend to be hyper-critical of other people. This would make me feel bad about myself, and then I would lather, rinse and repeat this destructive cycle all over again. 

The problem is that every time I tried to break out of this cycle, there seemed to be someone waiting in the wings with just enough criticism to make me feel like my growing sense of healthy, appropriate, God-given, God-driven confidence was premature, or worse, that it wasn't secure confidence at all, but was an unhealthy arrogance. It was as though any progress was immediately set back by one critical remark. 

I am not going to pretend that I am entirely through with this whole insecurity and comparison trap thing. That would be a lie. But here's what I do know: The more intimately acquainted I become with the character of God, and my worth in his estimation, the less I care what people think. I have found that God is much easier to please than people are. The closer I draw to Jesus' wholesale acceptance of me, the less concerned I am about the approval of man. I still have plenty of vulnerable moments where I am blindsided by rejection or criticism, but more and more I am letting God's love encourage in me a healthy self-acceptance. And not one that comes from some delusion that I am great, but from a much deeper security in who God made me to be. I am no longer (as) afraid to say that yes, I have gifts.

It took me 36 years to feel like I have gifts. 

Maybe it sounds prideful to say that I have gifts. But, I don't think it is. For me, it is profoundly healing. For the first time in my life, I feel as if I am working toward something resembling a confidence that comes from my identity and value being so securely rooted in the God who sees me (flaws, fears, strengths and all) and has still decided to allow me the privilege of doing ministry in spite of those things. Or maybe even because of those things. Scripture is filled with so many dirtbags that God chose to love, equip and use for his glory. I am not the first garbage person with gifts that God has chosen to use. And I won't be the last. But I AM all done denying my value. It's just plain offensive to the one in whom I find my worth.

As many of you know, just last month I had the privilege of speaking - alongside two other wise women from my church - about this topic of comparison, envy, jealousy and contentment. Despite the fact that I had been studying these topics for over two years, I was honestly terrified. The weeks leading up to it, I battled to mute every voice from my past that told me I had no business being a speaker. I had to filter out those that said I don't know enough, or I'm not churchy enough, or that I'm too silly or that I just want to make it about me. Those that said I was too outspoken or stubborn or rough around the edges. I had to lean in to God's word more than ever, and I had to trust that he chose me to be a part of this mission to help others be free from the bondage of comparison. Are there more gifted women at our church? Certainly. Are there professionals with more experience and bigger name? Of course. But that's not what God did. He allowed Nancy, Julie and I up there instead. Who am I to question him? Who am I to doubt what he is capable of doing - even through the likes of me? Who am I to figuratively spit in the face of my creator by saying he made me without any gifts? 

Perhaps you can relate. Maybe you feel like a total phony when your colleagues seem to know what they are doing, while you feel totally lost. Maybe you tend to be the critical one. Maybe you have a history of being so harsh with yourself that being harsh with others is an unintended, yet ugly, side effect. Even if you are a much better behaved person than I, you still have a little garbage person in there somewhere and I believe all of us can relate to the struggle of uprooting jealousy, envy, pride and insecurity in order to be more content and secure. A number of you have asked if the event was livestreamed and recorded. It was, and all three parts have since been put up on the Equip page of our church website! I generally would shy away from putting up a video from a speaking event because I hate to watch myself speak. But, I really think the content that these women and I worked so hard to present is valuable. I think we are valuable. And I think you are valuable. So this is worth sharing. If you have ever had enough pride that you fantasized about having a hair fan, you should check it out. If you live in terror that your incompetence will be discovered at any moment... you should check it out. And if it is as hard for you to recognize that you have gifts and worth as it has been for me, you should check it out. We discussed this topic in three parts, within the context of faith and the Bible, but there was still plenty of practical wisdom for just about anyone... even my fellow garbage people. 

Enjoy. 

Love, Marriage & A Side of Grief

Apart from the occasional humorous anecdote or good-natured jab at his expense, I don’t often write about my husband. Sure, I write a lot about life and family in general, but I don’t think I have ever written about marriage or romance. Since I debuted as guest-blogger here for the first time ON Valentine’s Day, it felt like maybe I should write about my husband, Tom, once and for all. As I sat down, I discovered that I just couldn’t do it.

First, allow me to explain why I don’t usually write about him. You see, I grew up with a bad-to-the-bone single mom who raised the junk out of us four kids. She taught us all the important things: like how to be kind and compassionate, how to curl and feather our bangs to perfection and how to make homemade donuts. Basically, life essentials. And she did all of this alone. She did this in the wake of a divorce and then the death of my 17-year-old brother just shortly after. She is incredibly strong, and she did a pretty great job with us. But still, it was not easy.

So, every time I feel compelled to tell the world about what an incredible man my husband is, I think of the women who are raising the junk out of some awesome little kids, and are maybe doing it alone. I think about the people who have marriages in crisis or marriages that are just okay. I think of those that are still grieving the death of their spouse, or all the peeps who are single-n-lookin-to-mingle. OR the zillions of people who are happily-single-and-just-sorta-sick-of-hearing-about-other-peoples-marriages. And I panic. It starts to feel all weird and braggy, and I get in my head about it all. I tend to be hyper-sensitive to other people’s feelings and situations. It’s the blessing and the curse of being an empath, and sometimes it prevents me from publicly celebrating certain victories or gifts in my life. Including my husband. I just don’t want my joy to bump up against someone else’s grief.

In the past year and half, however, I have spent a lot of time studying pride, jealousy and envy in the Bible. These are three things that I have struggled with immensely for the past couple of 36 years. (Alright look, basically from conception on I have been a pretty gross person ok?) I have sooooooo far to go in this journey of uprooting pride, sinful jealousy and envy from my heart, but the one area that I have felt pretty strong is coming along side of those who are grieving or struggling. This is very natural for me. What is less natural and requires more of an effort, is the celebration piece. Celebrating others, and feeling the freedom to celebrate in my own life.

In the spirit of Valentine’s day, that is what I am committing to do. I am going to celebrate all things love and marriage. And while I am still quite afraid of bumping into a wound or two, I am giving myself permission to publicly celebrate a man who is long overdue for me to gush over him a bit. Guys, if you take the beloved Jack from the hit TV show This is Us (hold the drinking problem and 70’s mustache - replace it with mild-to-moderate anxiety and lumberjack stubble) you have my husband Tom. He is dependable, thoughtful, conscientious, protective, hilarious, steadfast and strong. Unlike Jack, he would never die in a fire to save our dog, but that’s seriously his one and only flaw.

In the past 15 years together, we have faced some really dark times. We have had some big wins and some pretty major losses. We have had moments where we felt like total failures as parents, we have been passive-aggressive and cranky (me), hangry (him) at times, but also really devoted and self-sacrificing. He lives more like Jesus than any man I’ve ever known. All the good in our marriage has been him. So I celebrate him today. And I celebrate marriage and love and things that are going right. And for those with wounds - whether fresh or long held - there is plenty of room for this empath to give a reverent nod toward grief today too.

Deck the Halls with All my Baggage Fa Lalalala

There’s nothing quite like the holidays to bring out all your bitterness and deep-rooted sin problems. I know, I know… nobody but Scrooge McDuck wants to read something that shatters the illusion of the jolly holidays which is why I waited until after Christmas to punch pinterest in the face. I have taken a long sabbatical from blogging and household chores and really all my responsibilities and it just felt wrong not posting one last time before the new year. Perhaps posting this little truth bomb here will help me leave my cranky pants in 2017. Alright, here’s how it’s all going to go down. I am going to be really honest. If my honesty in previous posts tends to make you gasp and cover your mouth with a gloved churchlady hand, then it’s okay to not read this blog ever again particular post. It won’t hurt my feelings yes it will but I’m aware that I’m sort of like dark chocolate. A tad bitter for some people. Although, I don’t really even love dark chocolate myself, because it’s a little too pretentious and classy and definitely should be sweeter. Maybe I’m more like Pop Rocks, delightfully youthful and somewhat unexpected, but definitely not for everyone. If you love my zany Pop Rocks ways and you find my honesty refreshing, relatable and supes adorbs, then I cordially invite you to kick back with a packet of really odd candy and enjoy the fireworks.

Ok, I have mixed so many metaphors at this point that I am not even sure what’s happening.

Ahh yes, all my baggage.

I have to say going into this that I have come a verrrrrry long way since this post in 2012 where I explained Why I am Done Pretending to Like Christmas. In fact, the past two years have been full of deep, genuine, joyful anticipation of Christmas. Still, there was this nagging sense that somewhere around the edges of the holiday season, there is a dark, looming fog that threatens to consume the progress I have made.

I notice the cloud creeping in from the edges every time I see the picture perfect images that people post about their own holidays. You know what I am talking about… Those Facebook posts that are basically a list of ways people are being awesome. Like, literally people are posting accomplishment checklist. Still not sure what I am talking about? Allow me:

“Chores all done: check! Kids all reading (above grade-level) in their tidy and quiet bedrooms: check! Free-range, organic dinner in the crockpot (smells amazing btw): check! Errands run, house cleaned, diy decorations up, rose gold mason jars polished, marriage on fleek, personal sin problems resolved: check, check and check! All by 10:00 am! #blessed #adulting”

How ‘bout hashtag gag me.

I know, I know… I sound jealous and petty and bitter. Yes, that’s fair. Guilty as charged, I am a dash of each of those things when I read those perfect Pinterest posts. But, I also feel sorry for the person posting it. And I feel sorry for me. And for America. Because doesn’t our country have enough problems without people gushing over these braggy checklists?

I just don’t buy it. Unless people out there are living in an entirely different universe than me, I really cannot conceive of this kind of day. Now, it is entirely possible that there are only four of you out there that can relate to me on this – and I am just a hot mess while the rest of you are fanning yourselves with tiny DIY pallet wood fans. But I have to believe that I am not the only one who had to wash tomato soup off their puppy this holiday season. I can’t be the only one who didn’t have time to arrange my vintage, heirloom ornaments on my Etsy tree skirt to post a magical instapic while I was taking my tree down. Because I am a sinner, and I put my Christmas ornaments away like everyone else – in a panic, right before a party, wrapping everything in tissue paper from the 1700’s. My process is not photoworthy. Not even the low-fi filter can make my Rubbermaid bins look idyllic.

I just started liking Christmas guys. And now that I finally like Christmas, I scroll through social media and find out that I am bad at Christmas. And at life.

But, deep down, I know that it’s all an illusion. This world has told us that we have to hide away our reality in order to present a more palatable version of our lives. We value “being authentic” as long as everyone accepts that “authenticity” on Instagram means “I wear quirky hats.”  

So, I thought that I would kick the Pinterest illusion in the nuts this year by capturing my true Christmas. I also took an exorbitant amount of time to also try to capture the really idyllic images as well, just to remind us all that spending 45 minutes to crop/filter dust and clutter out of a pretty picture doesn’t change reality. Before I share my pictures, I just want to say that I celebrate Christmas because I believe that the Creator God conjured up a wild redemption plan that included a cast of unlikely characters (eh hem, an unmarried teenage girl) to bring forth a savior who chose to leave paradise to come to earth through a lowly birth in a stable. He did all this to set the world free - free from our sin problems, free from comparison, free from fear of man, free from the world's expectations for us to keep up. But, he also came to set us free to enjoy things as he intended them to be enjoyed. So, there is nothing but freedom to wear that fedora while you handcraft a micro-wreath made from salvaged driftwood. Just make sure you are doing it because you really love driftwood, not because Instagram makes you feel like the wreath you have isn't good enough. 

My front door:

What's lurking just behind my front door:

Let's take a closer look...

Yes, that is one cheetah print fake nail. 

My elegant and regal puppy:

Drinking the tree water...

covered in tomato soup...

and licking the broken candlestick (the shards of which I was vacuuming during the tomato soup incident of 2017)

1,000 hours spent cleaning and decorating to achieve these next pictures, plus a bonus of banishing the children outside and spazzing out every time they walk in the door.

And what it looked like for five days before those above pics:

Puppy in ugly Christmas sweater:

Which she wore for 30 seconds and then reverse-birthed herself out of.

Hand-dipped and decorated chocolate covered Oreos and gift cards for teacher gifts:

Not Pictured: A long string of texts between one particular teacher and myself in which I had to apologize for violently threatening a bystander, and for my child going through her purse. #Mombarrassment 

Fancy Christmas hairstyles:

Actual Christmas hairstyles (plus zero ability to keep eyes open in a photograph)

Note below - London's blue teeth (I believe from a candy cane eaten the previous day), Harper's egg-shaped hair about 3 months past due for a shape-up, Jay all weapon-ready with his war-face on, and Tom's mustache so thick that when I kiss him it feels like I am getting smacked in the face with a Christmas tree branch.

Attempting to take a nice picture of London, and she gives me a 90's rap album cover:

And our family Christmas picture. We were so close to getting that perfect image and I thought we got it, until I zoomed in on Jay doing the Michael Jackson scream from the Black or White video. 

This is Christmas. And life really. It's beautiful, and messy, and hilarious and slightly disturbing. A least that's how my Christmas - my life - has always been. Maybe yours is tidier than mine. But don't go feeling bad about yourself if it's not. Jesus came into this mess of a world for our freedom. May your 2018 be filled with joy and mess and enough freedom to find the beauty in the chaos, whether it's handcrafted or not. 

Day 31 Part 2: Before The Storm

Before a storm, there is often this slightly ominous change in the atmosphere. There is a sudden calm, quiet stillness as pressure builds into a storm. You can't see the pressure building as much as you can feel it. This is very much what October feels like for me. Throughout the month there is a slow build, an atmospheric shift within me. November 1st is usually when the storm hits and finally all that building tension is released.

There are a number of factors involved in this phenomenon, I'm certain. The pressure I put on myself to close the month out with something meaningful, moving and poignant as well as exhaustion from a month of spilling my guts and the subsequent vulnerability hangovers... on top of my normal life with five kids and a literal mountain of laundry to do at all times. This year, however, the pressure built earlier in the month than it has before. The storm came fast and furious last week.

There has not been any violence in my home for almost two years. This probably doesn't sound like much of a victory to the typical person, but in the world of Reactive Attachment Disorder and adoption trauma a two year stretch is a massive deal. We went from daily rages, violent outbursts and extremely disturbing behaviors to two years free of violence. Sure there have been close calls and some damage to clothing and property... but no physical harm. 

Until last week. 

I have been at a pretty low place the past several days. It is discouraging to feel like I am being pummeled by life and grief and once again, by my kid. It reminds me that the grief/trauma recovery process is more cyclical than it is linear. As much as I expect myself to be further along in my process, I always seem to find myself feeling all the same things over and over. As much as I expect my son to be further along in his process, I find him struggling with the same behaviors and feelings over and over again. I don't expect myself to "relapse" back into stages of anger or unforgiveness, but it happens. I don't expect my son to regress back to violence and aggression, but it happens. We cycle back into old patterns and long-held coping strategies of self-protection, shame, control, anger and denial. 

I have cycled through these things myself so many times that nothing seems to surprise me anymore. Yet, this past week I found that I was surprised. I was blindsided in fact. Much in the same way that my son regressed back into physical aggression, I found myself back to being a young girl trying to comprehend the gravity of Adam's death. This happened when the Grand Haven Tribune (my old hometown newspaper) published some photos of Adam from his last day on this earth, photos I had never before seen.

First of all, I have to say what an unmatched treasure it is to discover something new. When somebody dies, there is very rarely anything new. Whatever time you had, whatever memories, the jokes, the moments, the photos... whatever you had is all you'll ever have. There is no more. Only rarely, if you're very fortunate, will you discover something new. Someone will share a memory or a story you hadn't heard before. Or someone unearths photos you've never before seen. That is what Matt Deyoung of the Grand Haven Tribune did for my family. And it was truly a gift.

But, even gifts can trigger that old cyclical grief. And that is what happened when I saw these old pictures for the first time. Without warning I had regressed to that eleven year old girl who could not comprehend this loss. There was one picture in particular that wrecked me. 

I still don't fully understand it myself, but my response was so peculiar and irrational, as if my brain is trying to solve Adam's death or make sense of something so senseless. I can't explain it but when I saw this picture of Adam sort of coughing in the background, I had a brief unbridled moment of hope. I gasped and thought "Maybe he's just sick!" Seeing Adam doing something so physical and bodily as coughing - for one brief moment - allowed my brain to file Adam's absence as temporary and explainable. Not gone forever, just somewhere else getting better. The foolishness of this lapse is almost embarrassing to me. But there was something about seeing my poor sweet brother - my hero, my buddy - so alive and still present in his physical body that allowed my unguarded mind to dream of a boy who was not gone afterall.

It was only a moment that I regressed to that childlike way of thinking. Like my own son backsliding after two years of progress, it was a fleeting, irrational moment. But there was a world of pain that rushed in after his folly and mine. I simply cannot look at that picture of Adam coughing without being absolutely wrecked. 

My son and I are a lot alike. We have both been through hard things, experienced some trauma, learned some unhealthy coping mechanisms. We are both afraid of love, because we are afraid of loss. He has Tom and I - who have adored him since the moment he joined our family and we have met every single need since then. I spend the majority of my time each day chasing him down with that love trying to prove that he can trust me, that I will never leave him. And here I am, with a perfect heavenly Father who chases me down with his perfect love and restorative kindness, proving time and time again that he will provide for my every need and he will never leave me. He asks me to trust him, to love him back, to draw near to him. 

And still I pull back. I always pull back.

Like my son, I'd rather maintain some illusion that I am in control. I push back on God's perfect plan just as my son pushes back on my good plan for his life - a life of privileges and responsibility and blessings. Just as my son will push me away, but superficially bond with anyone and everyone he meets... I reject God's perfect and fulfilling love in favor of some cheap, artificial, temporary comfort. 

This month has torn my heart wide open for a bunch of different reasons. The unexpected criticisms, the setback in my son's therapeutic process, this moment of irrational hopefulness upon seeing my brother cough... these were all painful moments that contributed to the building pressure before the storm. But as I sit here and contemplate closing out #AdamsActs for the year it occurs to me that maybe it wasn't my traumatized 11-year-old brain that gave me that moment of hope. Perhaps it was that perfect heavenly father of mine, reminding me that Adam isn't gone forever. He IS somewhere else getting better. In fact, he's already better. He's with his father in heaven and is completely and perfectly healed.  

In loving memory of my big brother, Adam H. Provencal. I have wished for you to be here, to meet Tom and my kids... Oh how you would love my kids. I have longed to hear your voice, please forgive me for not remembering the sound of it. I have longed to hold your hand, to see you wrestle, to hear you rap or say "ghostman on third" just one more time. I love you and I miss you and I am so glad you are whole and healed in paradise with the God you loved. I'll see you when I get there, save me a spot.

Day 31 Part 1: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

If I attempted to conclude this month of #AdamsActs in my current state, I assure you that it would be found lacking. I will reflect on this month and everything I learned and grappled with in a final post tomorrow. In the meantime, I thought I would give a quick update from yesterday's post... I did deliver the pecan pie to Mr. Al and he said the words "barca lounger" a record number of times. We chatted for over an hour and was thrilled to have someone sit and stay a while. He also chastised me for not buying stock in Microsoft, because if I had just done that then, well, I would have made enough money in one week to fix my teeth by now. I didn't take the pie back after this remark even though I sort of wanted to. So, I am counting this as a bonus kindness.

I will write more tomorrow but to hold you over, I have included some pictures of our family's Wizard of Oz themed costumes. I make these all myself as a grand overcompensation of grief and baggage! Enjoy!

ON the far left we have Marlie as Glinda the Good Witch. 

Next to her we have Scout as Toto, then me as the Cowardly Lion. 

Tom "Always a Good Sport" Capuano comes in as Scarecrow.

London was Dorothy, Harper the Tin Man and Jay was a Winkie (The Wicked Witch of the West's little helper.) 

Annalee was the Wicked Witch of the West and her friend Paige popped in as a bonus addition of Oz himself (as seen in back middle.)

They had a great time and then came home to work out all their OCD issues right on the living room floor. 

My real post will come tomorrow but for now, I plan to follow the yellow brick road straight to bed.

Day 29 & 30: Loving My Terrible Neighbor & Seeing the Invisible

I used to have this old crotchety neighbor named Mr. Al. He was hands down the second worst neighbor I've ever had. (The only neighbor worse than him was the lady who got drunk and drove up her brand new deck and smashed into her own house in the middle of the night while I had five little girls camping a few years away in my tent for a sleepover birthday party.) That was a little worse than Mr. Al who's just being old and bossy. It's taken me a lot of years to learn this about myself, but I don't like to be bossed. If you tell me to check my email I will not check my email. I will likely throw away my computer and end our friendship. I'm working on this by the way. (Except that I'm not.) The point is that Mr. Al really bumped up against my personal pet peeve of being bossed around. Literally every time I had a conversation with Mr. Al he was always telling me what to do.

He (aggressively) told me who to vote for, he told me how to invest all the money I still don't have, he told me where to put my mulch and also to have an abortion because I was really sick during my pregnancy. He was always so grouchy and bossy and unapologetic that I couldn't take it. Still, I tried really hard to be nice to him. We made a lot of effort to serve him and show him love, kindness and patience... even when I secretly felt violent. Even when we explained why were were okay with "the blacks" moving in. 

We had a breakthrough several years ago with Mr. Al when I brought him a meal and he Disney-frenched me in excitement. That upsetting kiss showed me that even the loneliest and grouchiest among us need a little TLC. And when they get the TLC they might respond with a little PDA. 

We no longer live next to Mr. Al, but since we have been back at our old house repairing damages, he has been on our minds lately. So, we invited him to join us for Grandpa Day. If you aren't familiar with Grandpa Day, allow me to explain. Grandpa Day is a fictitious holiday where we all gather to deep fry various foods in oil, under the guise of celebrating Grandpa. It's not a real thing. It's just something we made up so we can eat donuts. Mr. Al did not come to Grandpa Day. Because he hates joy and fried dough and babies and black people and all the other good things in the world. Still, I brought home a piece of pie to bring to him later. I am counting that and the impending geriatric makeout sesh as my #AdamsActs for Day 29.

For Day 30, I participated in a great opportunity to connect with some of the homeless population in Rochester. My friend Allie heads up a community organization called Supports on the Streets.  What I really appreciate about their vision is that it is all relationship-based with an emphasis on helping without hurting. Sure, we brought some care packages with essentials (see list below for needed items) and some dental hygiene kits, but more than that... we simply connected with people who are often marginalized. The best part of the evening for me was connecting with a man who also considers himself a writer. He told us about his poetry and about a book he is writing. I told him that his story is an inspiration for me to keep writing and he asked if we could exchange our writing sometime. I'm about 99% sure that this guy is a better writer than I will ever be, so I am looking forward to that exchange - not just of our writing but our experiences. 

The homeless population in our country is often invisible. Please consider how you might be able to love on the most under-served people in your community. I hear a lot of Christians talk about "being Jesus" to others. But in scripture Jesus refers to the hungry, thirsty, naked, homeless, sick and imprisoned and says that "whatever you did for the least of these you did for me." Followers of Christ hear this and the takeaway is to "Be Jesus" to those who are marginalized. But I don't think that is what Jesus is saying. He didn't say to be him. He said that how we treat the marginalized is how we treat him. We aren't supposed to "Be Jesus" to the marginalized, we are supposed to treat the marginalized as if they were Jesus. However we would interact with Jesus himself if he was living in a tent off the inner loop is exactly how we should interact with the poet I met tonight. With honor, with humility, with genuine interest. We were never called to be the savior, but to honor the savior by loving those who are most often overlooked.

Here is a revised list that I compiled last year of some things that I have learned over the years about homeless outreach.  

1. Due to the lack of consistent dental hygiene, many people have sore or missing teeth. So, stick to softer foods that are easy to chew - bread, soft cereal bars, pudding, applesauce, bananas, soups, cheese sticks, even pizza. :) Avoid foods like apples. A lot of people cannot eat raw apples. 
2. Keep clean socks in your car. The health of your feet is of utmost importance when you spend your life walking from place to place. Limited access to showers or fresh socks can often lead to foot issues and pain. 
3. Chapstick, disposable toothbrushes, trial size deodorant, travel size packs of baby wipes and other small personal hygiene essentials are very helpful. And don't forget to supply the ladies during that "extra special' time of the month. Can you imagine dealing with all that on the streets? 
4. Some helpful items we may not think about are large, sturdy ziplock bags, a waterproof tarp, hats and gloves, rain poncho, and those rubber shoe cover things that protect shoes from water. 
5. Touch them. Living on the fringe of society often means these people are overlooked. If you are invisible, you are probably not being affectionately cared for. So look into people's eyes, say good morning, ask how they feel, ask if there is anyone you can call for them. Give them a hug, touch their shoulder, hold their hand. Ask what their name is. Ask if they'd like to tell you how they ended up on the street. Ask if they need to go to the hospital. Ask if they are in touch with anyone for services/supports. If you can, sit and eat a meal with them. Treat them like an equal, with value and a little dignity. 
6. Expect to see a lot of mental illness. Contrary to what most people believe, a large majority of homeless people are in that position because of mental health problems. Expect a lot of confusion. Just be compassionate, and let them swear a little because they think you want to steal their cat. (They don't have a cat.) Just tell them you love them and get then get the crap outta there. 
7. Remember that it could be you. I try to remember that with each lost soul I see, that I am not better. I am just as capable of losing my mind. I am just as capable of losing everyone I love in some freak tragedy. I am just as capable of making a terrible choice that leads me down a path of destruction. I am not better. You are not better. We all need Jesus. So don't judge, don't make assumptions, just help without hurting and be grateful for your teeth.  

Day 27 & 28: Wrestling With Pain

Warning: ***The following is a bit graphic, so if you are an enormous babychild you may want to skip this first part.***

Several years ago, after having my second daughter, I had excruciating pain on the right side of my abdomen. I could feel a relatively large mass just below my rib cage and it was not only strange and worrisome, but it seemed to be the source of my discomfort. The pain wasn't constant, but when present, it was often unbearable. At one point, after a long car ride, I was in so much pain I started feeling quite dizzy and nauseated. When Tom finally pulled into the driveway I was so eager to get out of the car that I immediately opened the door the moment the car stopped moving. It was too late though. As soon as my door opened I passed out onto the driveway. I still remember "coming to" and Tom saying, "I don't know what happened, I put the van in park and looked over and you were gone!." It was all very mysterious and a touch dramatic. 

To my frustration, my doctor couldn't find anything abnormal. The ultrasound and CT scan results were totally normal. No mass. Nothing inside me that was out of the ordinary. I was asked a lot of questions that made me feel that doctors believed that these might be psychosomatic symptoms, or postpartum depression. Still, the pain persisted. In waves. It was sometimes there as a dull ache, and sometimes it was sharp and acute. Desperate for answers, I started paying very close attention to the pain. What positions caused me the most pain? What actions or movements were more comfortable, or less. Was my body reacting to something that I wasn't paying attention to? When was the mass there (sometimes visible!) and when was it gone? I would make Tom feel the mass when it was there so he didn't think I was crazy. This went on for close to two years. 

In this process I determined that sitting for any amount of time was the most painful. I went to yet another doctor with my observations and she listened to me and got creative. She did an ultrasound, but instead of just lying there on my back, she had me lay on each side. She had me sit up, she did an ultrasound on my abdomen while standing up and contorting myself in all different directions. 

And ya know what, she found it. Wanna know what that mass was? It was my kidney. Except it was floating around my body instead of staying up where it belongs. When I was laying down it would swim up where it belonged and was, therefore undetectable during a CT or typical ultrasound. She sent me for a kidney function test, and also a sitting and a standing CT and the images were clear - my right kidney was dangling below the protection of my rib cage. When I was sitting, my rib cage would jam into my kidney, restricting blood flow and causing a great deal of pain. My right kidney was functioning at just under 20%. The official diagnosis was Nephroptosis or floating kidney.

I ended up having a surgery called a nephropexy - where they litterally stitched my kidney up to my back muscles. To this day it feels super weird to run or jump on a trampoline or do handstands and cartwheels. Not just because I am 36 or 37 and am probably too old to be participating in these shenanigans, but because I can actually feel my kidney tugging on my back muscles. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much I choose to live an exuberant life, I can always feel the pain tugging inside me.

That is grief. 

I have always lived an exuberant life. I am loud and spazzy and embarrassing. I bust out handstands and loudly sing (incorrect) lyrics in my unfortunate singing voice. When I make people laugh it's like a power-up on a video game for me. Laughter makes me louder and spazzier and more embarrassing. I am like a toddler up past their bedtime. I am not unhappy. I am full of life and I have so much joy and am able to dance with such reckless abandon that it might be my spiritual gift. 

Still. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much I choose to live an exuberant, full life... I can always feel the pain of grief tugging inside me. It doesn't stop me from doing cartwheels. But it's always there.

For Day 27 we were supposed to have Frank over for dinner and a cake presentation. If you don't know who or what I am talking about, you might want to watch this video:

We ordered the cake and I have to give a shout out to my friend and neighbor Maggie for understanding how computers work and for using one to create the bird and milk carton graphic that we put on the cake. 

Sadly, Frank and his family were not able to come. He was under the weather, so we have to reschedule. :( We were very sad that we couldn't present him with his beautiful baptismal cake, but I don't think he'd mind me telling you that when we connected over the phone for the first time he said how touched he was that Tom remembered him and his kind actions so many years later. We look forward to reconnecting with Frank soon. 

For Day 28, we livestreamed (I don't really know what live streaming is, so I might be using it wrong.) our girls' final cross country race.

It was the county championships and Annalee and Marlie did awesome, both breaking personal race times. We haven't yet received the official results for the whole race, but we do know that Annalee (our 8th grader) came in 6th in the county!

This is my blog, and I reserve the right to shamelessly celebrate for a sec because I am beyond proud of my kid that can run a 5:53 mile (and smokes the boys on a regular basis.) ;) Our family in Michigan and Chicago don't get to see the kids' events so using Facebook Live to make a fool of my spazzy, exuberant self while recording their events is a gift to our family. 

We also bought the girls a county race shirt. These shirts are ill-fitting and over priced and parent confession: the girls usually buy their own merchandise if they really want it. They do not ask us to buy stuff. It's a reflection of who they are, and their perspective and understanding of life with lots of kids in the family. We simply have to say no to the extras. Even though they came prepared to purchase their own shirts, we surprised them by buying them. It sounds like a small thing, but $56 bucks for two long sleeve shirts that are way too wide for my little slim babies is a big deal to us.

Watching some sports impacts me more than others. There is something about wrestling and cross country that makes me wistful. Wrestling - in part - because Adam was such a wrestling phenom and I grew up in the gym watching wrestling meets.

But also because wrestling and long distance running take so much discipline. Both sports take a tenacity and endurance that other sports don't seem to require. Yesterday, I watched my girls push through their pain to run their best race. 

That is grief. That is life really. That no matter how much life we live, no matter how much ground we cover... we cannot outrun our pain. It stays with us, and it requires a tenacity and endurance that many of us have no choice but to develop. The pain is a non-negotiable. Running the race well is the choice. The pain isn't going anywhere, but whether or not we press on, and still laugh and eat cake and do cartwheels... that is the decision we must make. 

Day 26: Pep Talks & a Painted Pup

I went to sleep last night feeling drained and down in the dumps, and also like a hideous beast because my eyelids were so puffy I didn't even need a pillow. When I woke up this morning I was bolstered by the love and support (and violent threats against anyone who crosses me) that so many of you expressed. I feel loved today and I am so thankful that you are all my people. (Still working on a group name, still trying really hard not to keep saying kittens.)

The critics were silent today, and probably will be for a while now. But I am not even mad about it. Here's why: for Day 26 my act of kindness was to speak to a group of students at Villa of Hope which is a school that specializes in trauma-informed care for students and families who come from hard places. I shared about #AdamsActs and how kindness is restorative and vulnerability is terrifying, yet healing and empowering. The first question I was asked by a student was whether or not I get haters for being so open. 

And that's why I'm not going to let the harsh or hurtful comments weigh too heavily on my heart... because I will take that criticism and I will use it to empower kids. I was able to tell that girl the truth. I told her that I absolutely have some haters and that, in fact, I had just blogged about it yesterday! I told her that I was just like them and that people hurt my feelings all the time. I also told them that this world thinks that kids from hard places won't succeed. I told them that this world thinks that kids who are abused or experienced trauma can't recover. I told them not to listen to critics or haters, but to rebel against them instead. 

And I told them that I have a few haters it's true, and some people just want me to shut up. But I can't and I won't because I am a rebel. And I will rebel against the negativity every single time. And I told them that they should too. (I actually told them to be ballsy. And then I retroactively asked the social workers for permission to use the word ballsy, and then I regretted everything I ever said or did out loud forever and ever amen.) Permission was granted and we were collectively ballsy. And then I played "We are the Champions" by Queen while doing an interpretive dance.

Ok, that part didn't happen until I was in my car. But it was pretty glorious. 

After that speaking engagement I surprised my friend Lexi with breakfast because she is the world's most helpful manager/lady's maid/respite care provider/friend/supporter and so she gets french toast. While out, I also sneaky-paid for a stranger's breakfast as well. As a kindness to my children, I started working on our family's Halloween costumes. And my final #AdamsAct was not harming my four-year-old son even though he spray painted himself silver.

Along with the puppy. 

He must have heard my speech, because spray painting the puppy was pretty ballsy... just not exactly what I had in mind. 

In memory of another mischievous little boy I knew.

Day 25: Smaller & Worse, But Somehow Good Enough

Well this month, if I am being totally transparent, has not gone the way I had hoped. I was really excited about #AdamsActs this year and I had high hopes for what I would be able to accomplish. I felt like #AdamsActs in 2017 should be bigger and better than the previous years in honor of my brother who is, after all, forever seventeen.

Sadly, I feel like I sort of failed on bringing that dream into fruition. I really poured myself into the devotional (which is still available in the bookstore for all you slackers who haven't gotten it yet) and that left me feeling a bit dry and depleted going into October. Throw in a major home renovation on our old house and the overwhelming pressure to sell it as quickly as possible, add a dash of pneumonia and you've got my start to the month. Needless to say, the month has hardly been the "bigger and better" I dreamed it would be, instead I feel like it's been smaller and worse. In short, I feel like I've failed.

Normally, this realization would spiral me into a really embarrassing shame storm. I would feel all guilty like I have let you guys down, or that I am not doing enough to honor Adam. My survivor's guilt would kick in to high gear and I would revisit old thoughts that it should have been me that died so young and not Adam, because he would have made a beautiful and immeasurable impact on this world for good. And I do struggle with those things still to this day. I often feel guilty because I get an unbelievable number of requests and suggestions for acts of kindness I should do for others, and I feel guilty that I cannot read let alone do all of those things. I get so much encouragement, but I also get some private criticism. I am too Jesus-y for some readers while others are extremely disappointed that I do not share my faith enough saying I have "wasted my platform." Some think that I am "fixated" on Adam's death and that I would be further along in my grief process if I focused on God instead of worldly pain. Some of you think I am trying to become famous or brag about the nice things I am doing for people.

Ya know what though, this time I am not going to spiral into an embarrassing shame storm. (Okay, that's probably a lie. I will most definitely spiral - at least a little.) But here's what I know to be true:

I did not die when I was seventeen. I lived. And now I am here, and I am doing my best. I have zero ambition to become famous and my acts of kindness this year are more pitiable than brag-worthy. But I am here and I am doing my best. And maybe I have let some of you down, but one thing I know to be true is that I'm not really doing this for any of you. I love you all to pieces and #AdamsActs would not have the reach or power or impact that it has without all of you... I need you guys to be in this with me. But I never set out to do this for anyone here. I did it for Adam. And honestly, I did it for me. I did it for the little eleven year old girl standing at the foot of her mother's bed, staring at the deodorant without the cap. I did it for her. Because she stood there alone and afraid in that moment and tried to piece together what sort of emergency would make her mom run out of the house in the middle of the night in such haste she didn't have time to put on a cap. I did it just for me. 

If you are a Christian you might be thinking "see that's your problem, you should have done it for Jesus." Well, guys, I didn't. I didn't do it for Jesus, but just like everything else in my life... I did it because of him. I try to live my life in response to Jesus. Wanting to examine my own grief process and give myself permission to splay my deepest grief before the whole world is because he is in the business of healing and binding up wounds. In response to that, I participated in the process. I am just here, and I am doing my best. And I am thankful that Jesus is easier to please than people. He likes me just as I am, right where I am, and he'll take my best, all he wants is my best. And he knows why I did this, and ya know what, I think he still likes me quite a lot.

Today I sent some encouraging messages to people who get a lot of private criticism. I sent out a few free copies of my devotional and I also rescued a puppy. I left my car running in the street with my door hanging wide open and I chased down a lost puppy that was running around dragging its leash behind him. I got him to a neighbor of the owner who promised she would get the puppy safely home. I did not change the world and I did not magically convert anyone to Christianity via a blog post. But I opened my home to host our community group and I shared vulnerably and honestly in our discussion, and I invited people to explore a deeper faith with me in the devotional. 

I wanted this month to be bigger and better. But I am starting to realize that my part doesn't have to be bigger and better for this thing to grow. #AdamsActs is growing, in spite of me. I am growing, in spite of me. God is constantly redeeming and repurposing the pain of Adam's death and transforming it into something that is beautiful and meaningful. This is all happening in spite of me. And even though there are critics out there who want to tell me that I am doing it all wrong, I know that God is not one of them. The God I serve is willing to fill in the gaps and stand in where I come up short. I don't think I need to push that kind of God on anyone... the appeal of his acceptance speaks for itself. Because he knows that we are here, and we are all just doing our best and he is simply wild about every last one of us.