Day 2 & 3: On Sacred Ground

As October approached this year, I found myself anticipating #AdamsActs and thinking, “Ya know, I really miss just… grieving.” That is certainly not to say that I don’t absolutely love spreading Adam’s legacy of kindness with all of you, because of course I do. Very much. Still, I often feel pressure build as October draws near and sometimes it feels like a lot. Last year, I was very sick and did not realize how serious it was. I had been putting myself on the back burner and ignoring symptoms for about two years, when last October was a breaking point for my body, which I officially ran into the ground. I mean that literally. My kids found me passed out on the actual living room floor. Not a cute look. This means that I am almost one year cancer-free, and it also means that mama is back on the priority list. SO, this year… I am committed to staying healthy and alive, and also to having SO MUCH FUN.

While the grieving part of October isn’t exactly a good time, it’s also not just contained to October. We all know that grief comes in waves at the most unexpected times. On birthdays and anniversaries, sure… but it also comes when you’re at the dentist office and you see a sailboat wallpaper border that looks just like the one in your brother’s childhood bedroom. Grief happens all year long. But #AdamsActs is only here for 31 days, and I intend to enjoy every last one of them. This means that I’m going to do things a bit differently. I will blog, podcast, post photos, stories and videos to Facebook and Instagram. Basically, I’m gonna be all over the place and we will all find out at the same time what I’m going to do next because I ALSO don’t know what on earth I am going to do. (This month - or in life.)

I want to utilize these different platforms so that I can reach a varied audience, but more than that… because it’s super fun, easy and sustainable. And sustainable keeps me off that living room floor.

My first few days of kindness have really been about creating momentum with #AdamsActs and sharing my story, my self with others. I spoke at two different college events - at RIT and MCC - and there I talked about grief and redemption, and how kindness has been a vehicle through which God has brought healing into my life. I did a few small things - I made a smoothie for my daughter, Marlie, who was home sick from school, and spent time painting her nails and talking with her when I really needed to do a million other things. I didn’t burn any of my 6 year-old son’s Pokemon trading cards even though just typing that sentence makes me want to put these nerd badges right down the garbage disposal… because they are everywhere. And they are so dumb. But I didn’t, and I think that’s the part we should all focus on.

Finally, I overcame a big fear and I shared a photo and a piece of my story that I have kept very private. My friend Siobhan is not only an incredibly talented photographer, but she is a voice of grace in my life these days. So when she invited me to participate in a photo campaign to raise awareness for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month, I decided to step outside of myself in hopes that my experience could help someone else. Siobhan asked all her subjects to share what they wish they’d known when they lost their baby. She captured my quote in photo form in a way that I find magical.

"Name them. Our lost babies - no matter how small they were, no matter the circumstances of their life, or death - our babies deserve a name. And we, as mothers, deserve the freedom to say that name out loud. If we have nothing to hold in our hands to remember them by, at least we know they’ve been given a name."

I thought it may be a bit of a stretch to consider this an act of kindness, but that’s only because I was unprepared for the response. Mother after mother saying their baby’s names. Women finally giving their baby a name after 30 years of grieving for their little ones. It was beautiful. My friend Therese described the post and comments as “sacred ground.” That is truly how it feels to hear a mother utter her late child’s name, in some cases for the first time.

So, this post and these first 3 days of #AdamsActs are dedicated to the following beautiful angel babies, whose names are so powerful they make this sacred ground:

Sydney

Chance

Brandon

Steven Ross

Alexander James

Ezra

Evelyn Grace

Jesse, Taylor & Callie

Penelope

Zoe Grace

Caleb

Jersey Sue

Emma Lee

Shae Kristine

Poppyseed & Zoey

Naarya Celeste

Rhuhamah

Faith Ellen

Grace Elayne

Brooke Hope

Tuck & Ted

Jessie

Sunshine

Maylee

Annalyse Hope

Jonathan

Ava Leah, Luca Benedict & Jacob Leonard

Rylie

Quinn James

Justin Caden

Emma Rose

Peanut & Laia Marie

Levi Joshua

Joseph Levias

Shiloh

Julian & Cameron

Tobias Joseph

Laila & Leo

Jordan & Riley

Tinkerbell, Benjamin, Armando & Marisol

Zion Glory

Melva Lucinda

Taidgh

Two tiny boys named Josiah - one was my mother’s, and would have been my brother.

And one was my own, and would have been my son.

Day 1: The Hardest Story I Never Told

Each year, when October rolls around I get stuck. It is almost like my body - my soul -  involuntarily braces itself for trauma. The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful, nostalgic reminders of fall, and also nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready. The grief that October holds for my family has always had a sort of gravitational pull on me. That one fateful night in October is how I mark time. 

There is life before, and then there is after. 

When I was invited to participate in a kindness challenge several Octobers ago, I agreed in hopes that I could use kindness as a way to process through the loads of unresolved grief I had been carrying since my childhood. Never in a million years did I think that thousands of participants would ultimately join in spreading kindness in memory of a boy that very few had the privilege of knowing. So each year, I do this again. I tell the story of the night that changed everything. Each year I edit it a bit, and I try to change things a little… but the sad reality is that although that night changed everything… the story itself does not ever change. I cannot edit a better ending for Adam. It wouldn’t be honest, or real. So, here is that story, virtually word-for-word, as the first time I hesitantly shared it with the world.

—

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 big news worth spreading for our small, West Michigan town. When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home, they passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks and it seemed the perfect time to spread the news. So Adam pulled the car over and began regaling the details of their night, of his team and their victory. 

I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy -  a sweet 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 I imagine 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 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 and unburdened in this one, pure moment.

The whimsical, carefree youth of the moment ended when a homeowner came out and was irate to discover toilet paper in his trees and the saran wrap on his car. Though my brother had not been personally involved in executing these pranks, he had the car and perhaps that made him appear to be the ringleader. This man, carrying a canoe paddle, yelled and threatened to call the police and then took down my brother’s license plate number. 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 home, to apologize for being there: wrong place, wrong time. He planned to clear his name and offer to clean up the yard, and to be certain… he no longer felt young and free. He was likely 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 make good on his threat to 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 a great faith adventure with Jesus, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and how to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble. He was gone. 

His murderer was in and out of jail after only two years. Two years. For a boy's life taken in a rage over a harmless prank. The senselessness of my brother’s death, the injustice, the lack of resolve… these are the things that haunted me each October. As I grew up and became a mother to my five little crazies, I was no longer satisfied to keep all of my little girl grief locked away inside me. I needed 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 he had been given that opportunity. Thousands of readers now participate each October in an initiative we call #AdamsActs, because these are the types of kind acts we believe Adam would have spent his life bestowing upon others had his life not been tragically cut short. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 38 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing.

I cannot change the outcome of Adam’s story. I cannot edit out the pain or the deep grief of such a heartbreaking ending. But I am not powerless, so I get to change the outcome of my own story. I get to choose how to respond to the greatest loss of my life. THAT is a story that I do get to write.

And If I can’t change Adam’s story, I might as well try to change the world. One act of kindness at a time.

My #AdamsAct for Day One is sharing this story with you all. And asking you to share it as well. I am rallying the people around me to participate, and while I am an absolute pleasure… I’m also a little feisty, so I am bossing YOU into participating too. You’re welcome. I will blog and podcast throughout each week of October so be sure to check back here and also check out THIS PODCAST EPISODE if you would like to take a deeper dive into all my baggage and hear more about the night that Adam was killed and some of my journey since.

The greatest kindness you can do for me and my family is to like and share the blog posts and podcasts 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 our beloved brother, buddy and hero.

To hear more about Lara’s journey with grief, trauma, transracial adoption and life with five kids, you can follow her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/lara.capuano or instagram @laracapuano or check out her podcast: Master of Fun

What the World has Discarded.

I used to have my own little business where I took old, discarded fabric and I upcycled it into fancy things that people wear. My business was called Piccadilly Rose (which was a nickname I had for my first daughter, Annalee, when she was just a precious little baby flower who needed absurd nicknames). The motto or tag line for Piccadilly Rose was this:

Unique. Recycled. Lovely.

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

That was going to be easy. I mean, the whole concept of my business was 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. That was easy for me to speak about because that notion was 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’s dress dirty from dancing and 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 with the fabric 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. I adorn a mirror so that for as long as they live they can look at their reflection and remember how their daddy saw them. And I twist and sew until 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. 

That business never made me a lot of money. It does not take much skill, in fact my demonstration at the conference proved that it is something just about anyone can do. And it is not an original idea. I created these things in response to my God who is the ultimate creator. He also happens to be in the business of taking what the world says is garbage and making it into something beautiful. 

This was the concept behind the business, 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? 

—

This post was originally written on January 18, 2016 and has been lightly edited to reflect the passage of time.

New Year, Same Old Me

Yesterday, I went on my last run of 2018. It happened to also be my first run since my surgery as I was only recently cleared to resume running.  My doctors have encouraged me to start working back up to my previous exercise routine to boost my appetite and start rebuilding the muscle mass that I lost over the past few months. Suffice it to say, the run wasn’t pretty. I felt stronger than I expected, but I also threw up over the guardrail as cars slowly drove by. Between the vomit, the sore, aching muscles, and the bitter cold winter air burning deep in my lungs... I finished my run feeling more weak and shaky than triumphant.

Metaphorically, it was a really great summary of 2018. In some ways, this year has brought challenges that have put a big fat magnifying glass over all my weaknesses and sin issues. Still, I have also discovered a courage and strength in me that I didn’t know was there. I have had conversations that made me want to throw up over a guard rail - and some of these high-stakes conversations actually DID cause me to throw up. Nevertheless, I spoke truths that would have been easier to continue hiding away in silence. I opened up places in myself that I have kept shut away since I was just a girl. I’ve allowed a small handful of people the horrible and sacred privilege of seeing into the deepest, darkest parts of my past and my soul for the very first time ever. It’s been excruciating honestly. It has been the hardest, most painful work of my life. Just like my run, I finished 2018 feeling more weak and shaky than triumphant.

In 2018 I narrowly escaped cancer, after having a mass inside of my body for over ten years without knowing it. I didn’t really “beat” cancer. I escaped it. I didn’t battle, I didn’t fight, I didn’t win… I was spared. It was simply discovered and removed. I wish that this were true of all cancer, for all people. And I wish that this were true of the deeply rooted sins in my heart that have been sitting in there - toxic and malignant - for much longer than that tumor. I wish that the selfishness, the fear, the woundedness, the pride, the desires - these cancers to my soul - would be just as easily discovered and removed. I wish they could be escaped.

Yet, that is not how it goes. At least not for me. These things must be fought and battled, these struggles must be overcome with work and study, with confession and forgiveness. I am doing that hard work and I am starting to run again, literally and figuratively.

I have always loved making New Year’s Resolutions. I love a fresh start, a new beginning, a clean slate. I have “all things new” tattooed on my wrist for goodness sake. I crave newness, the chance to be washed clean, redeemed, and begun anew. Still, I have never once kept my resolution through the entire year. Ever. I fail every single time. Yet, I keep trying. Because even if I don’t finish the run - or the year- the way I set out, I accomplish more, learn more and grow in ways that I wouldn’t if I weren’t willing to dare to try again each and every year.

So, this run, this year, is over. I finished. I was weak and shaky, but that’s okay because I made it. I have seen and experienced enough hardship in life to know that we will sometimes cross the finish line empowered and triumphant but perhaps just as often, we will just barely limp across the finish line because of grit and God’s grace alone. The gift that 2018 gave me, though, was the awareness that sometimes I can only cross the finish line at all because there is a small handful of people not simply cheering me on from the sidelines, but ready to throw an arm around my broken heart and atrophied body to prop me up as I stumble across that line. 2018 taught me that even if it takes a team of doctors, a great therapist and a few good friends to drag us over that line, it still counts as finishing the race. It’s a fragile, vulnerable, precarious victory… but it counts as a finish all the same.

Happy New Year my beloved readers - may 2019 bring a family of people who will prop you up, drag you along, and carry you whenever it is needed.

Videoblog: Health Update #2 - God is Good, All the Time

Thank you all for your prayers, love and support while I waited for these results! I am praising God for this report.

Videoblog: Health Update

Many of you have been reaching out for an update on the health concerns that I have been experiencing. Here is a videoblog where I get everyone up to speed. I’d really appreciate your prayers for quick results and peace during the wait. Thanks everyone for your continued love and support!

Sorry, Not Sorry.

I have spent most of my life vacillating between “I’m sorry for who I am as a person” and “c’mon, just admit that I’m your favorite.” Admittedly, the latter is my playful way of overcompensating for wholeheartedly believing the former. In the past couple of months, I have been peeling back a lot of layers in my heart, and have made some surprising discoveries about what lies at the root of my need to self-deprecate and apologize for myself in perpetuity.

I have always felt “too” something. I once dated someone who told me I was too tall, and tried “requiring” that I exclusively wear flats. Those who know me well will likely find it hilarious that someone thought they could force me to do anything really, and that I would comply just to appease their delicate and inflated ego. Yeah, not gonna happen. In reality, my stubborn behind promptly switched to the tallest stilettos I could find because #yourenotthebossofme and also buh-bye, enjoy being single. While I proudly push back on these types of arbitrary expectations and “requirements” that people and society put on women in particular, there is still something in me that readily internalizes that sense of being too something. It has been suggested by various people along the way that I am too: smart for my own good, rough around the edges, stubborn, opinionated, feminist, open, feisty, passionate, talkative, disobedient, outspoken, difficult, complicated, independent, liberal, conservative, skinny, tall, strong, intense, loud, persistent, insecure, and too empathetic for my own good… among other things. This doesn’t even begin to include all the times I was told that I wasn’t something enough.

We all have lists like that, right? We all have those accusatory voices from our past that tell us we are used up, broken, empty, worthless. Some of us are haunted by those voices and experiences from our past. Some of us are haunted by voices that are currently in our life - people who claim to love us that take opportunities even now to remind us that we are defective in some way. That we are too this, and not enough that. And then people wonder why some of us are constantly apologizing for ourselves.

I want to tell you that I became aware of this issue, and that I am diligent in changing this pattern and am having great success. What is more accurate, sadly, is that I am becoming increasingly more aware of this issue, and I am trying to slowly uproot that which is lurking beneath the surface of my insecurity and constant apologies, but it’s not going great. It is going to be a long, arduous process. I figured that if I am going to do the hard work of making changes, I might as well track my progress here in the hopes that it helps someone else out there besides me. So, in the spirit of learning and growing together, here is what I have discovered so far.

1. I’m not actually sorry every time I apologize. A lot of the time, I am apologizing for THEM, not necessarily for me. If I feel like I have frustrated them, annoyed them, burdened them in some way… I will apologize. In actuality, I think that is sometimes more their shortcoming than mine, and in my insecurity I apologize to alleviate whatever feeling they might be having. It’s the emotional equivalent of only wearing flats to make them feel taller. I was disheartened to realize this because it essentially means that many of my apologies are actually disingenuous. A better thing to say than “I’m sorry,” might be something like “Have I upset you?” I want to reserve my apologies for when I am sincerely sorry for doing something wrong.

2. I often apologize when I should express gratitude. I say that I am sorry because I feel guilty for needing anything, when I could just as easily be thankful that a need has been met. Instead of saying “Thank you for helping me out,” I apologize because I feel guilty for needing help. When I should say “Thank you for waiting for me,” I apologize because I feel guilty for making someone wait. When I could just as easily say “Thank you for listening,” I say “I’m sorry I dumped that on you,” because I am convinced that sharing my life with others is too much of a burden - chaotic and stressful. Instead of people in my life feeling appreciated, they feel frustrated and maybe even resentful. When I sense their frustration, I feel worse and apologize more. It’s a super fun pattern!

3. My apologies can be offensive because they are often filled with assumptions. I am assuming that the other person is bothered or burdened by me in some way. This may or may not be true, but I am definitely making an assumption about their feelings and then responding accordingly. I might be totally wrong, and I can easily project messages I have received from others onto someone who may, in fact, think I am the best. Which I am, so that would make a lot of sense. (See how this works, I can swing alllll the way to either extreme. It’s like a choose-your-own adventure book filled with all my baggage!)

4. I apologize to give people an out. I only recently learned this about myself, but I learned it the hard way and at great personal cost. I am always expecting people I love to leave. Sometimes, when I really care, I even push them to leave. It’s very healthy of me. (Jk but I’m working on it or whatever.) So, the more I care, the more I apologize for myself, and I present all of my shortcomings on a platter and what my apologies really say is “See, look how awful and difficult I am. Leave, you know you wanna.” If you offer enough outs, people will take them. Like any dysfunctional self-fulfilling prophecy, their retreat proves me right, and deepens my insecurity and that pattern is further embedded into the way I operate.

Literally everyone loses when I do this. Perhaps nobody more so than I. So, I am committing to tracking my apologies, evaluating them, reframing and rephrasing whenever I catch myself erring on the side of being excessively apologetic. I am still in the observation stage. I am simply observing when I feel the instinct to apologize for who I am. It’s often and it’s not pretty.

Here’s the thing though. I am doing my best to lean into this knowledge that there is a perfect God out there and he is El Roi, which is my favorite name for God in the Bible. It means, the God who sees. He is the creator of the universe, and he not only sees me and KNOWS who I am, he actually made me this way. When I spend time apologizing for who I am, I am subtly accusing God of getting it wrong. I am apologizing for his handiwork. Even at the observation stage of this process I know enough to say that accusing God of failing is probably not the best plan I’ve ever had.

So that’s all. I am inviting you all into this with me. I am in process. I am still learning. I am doing my best. I am observing, tracking progress and I am trying really hard. I want to change, but I also know that I am helpless to do better apart from God. The only one who truly knows me, sees me, and created me, will be faithful to tweak things here and there as he sees fit. I will choose to wait on him, to believe even when I don’t feel it and I will not apologize for who I am, because if everything I claim to believe is actually true…

I am his beloved creation.

17 years, 9 months & 6 Days

It is a formidable task to summarize my October. It was my strangest experience with #AdamsActs thus far, due to a number of personal factors, not to mention that my grief journey has never been easily wrapped up with a tidy little bow. This explains why this attempt at a videoblog yesterday went so horribly wrong:

Wrapping things up with a tidy little bow is simply not how I operate. It’s not really how grief operates either.

I think I am starting to realize that my grief will do her own thing. She can be bossy and invasive, provoked at the smallest remark. It’s silly, but when people are discussing height, my grief awakens - on the wrong side of the bed to be sure. I am 5’ 9” making my amazon-woman-self  stand taller than both my parents and a solid four inches taller than either of my sisters. Grief noses in to remind me that I am not supposed to be the tallest one in my family. Adam was taller than me. He was supposed to be in sibling pictures with Kristin, BethAnn and I, and he was supposed to balance it all out. My grief can interrupt normal conversations about something as arbitrary as height, and sting me with her reminders.

Sometimes, the word “sting” is the understatement of the century. My grief, at times, can be oppressive and consuming. Sometimes, it feels like she is threatening to swallow me whole. The totality of my grief in these moments doesn’t even require a trigger. Without warning, without provocation, this form of grief settles over me like a nebulous fog… blurring and shading even the most joyful moments in my life.

Personifying my grief is helping me understand her a bit better. She is a constant companion, and a fearsome thing to behold and no matter what I do, she will always exist. Rather than trying to shut her away in the attic of my memories, I am learning how to get along with her. I am learning to appreciate her. Because the reality is, that she is actually me. My grief is so much a part of who I am, it is so deeply embedded in my childhood experiences, it has shaped so much of my faith and my character, that this wild and unpredictable thing in me… is me.  

So, I am trying to make peace with her. I am trying to see the beauty in her. And I am becoming so fond of the gift that she has brought into my soul. Because, grief is not all thorns and splinters. Grief does not dim light or joy. It is powerful, but it is not more powerful than redemption. And the redemption story here is that God has allowed my grief to be the thing that does not dim light, but it softens and it disperses light. It makes light gentler, and perhaps more soothing, I think. It is the thing that stops me from ever pushing an agenda, it is the thing that makes me long to connect with others before ever presuming I should correct others. It is the thing that humanizes us all, it connects us all, it equalizes us all. It is the reason I don’t want to judge, it’s why I don’t want to be cold, or distant or harsh. It is what draws me into the stories of other people, it ignites care and concern for every person on the planet. Without the defining and elemental presence of grief, this light and fire in me would go unchecked. When a light is so bright and unbridled, it can be painfully blinding to those in its presence. I like that my grief softens things just a bit. I think it draws people in to it’s warmth, it invites anyone and everyone to sit beside it and just be. A softened light does not require anything of others, it just gives off enough light to help them find their way a little easier.

This is kindness. To soften ourselves and our expectations of others just enough to be a light to them. Not a light that overwhelms or pushes an agenda or causes people to recoil, but a softer, gentler, more tender light with enough restful shade that people aren’t afraid to sit a while and talk.

In only 17 years, 9 months and 6 days on this planet, Adam was able to be that sort of light to any and all people around him. The gentle and inviting light of Christ, his redeemer, shone in my brother in a way that was powerful enough to leave this legacy for thousands of people. Not perfectly, but consistently, he set for me a human example of how to love others the way a perfect God asks us to. With a light that is softened with warmth, compassion and kindness… but is still bright enough to ignite a movement around the world.

I loving memory of Adam H. Provencal,

Love, your baby sister. 

Let Go & Love Your Neighbor

The month is quickly coming to a close, and I have to say… it’s been real weird guys. I have uncharacteristically had to rely on others this month. I have said no to things I would generally say yes to, and I have said yes to things I would typically deprive myself of. It’s been a little disorienting, but also really freeing, growing and challenging.

The other strange thing about #AdamsActs this year is that I feel like I have shared a lot less about my brother. The reality of tragic and unexpected death is that there are no new memories. The stories and experiences that I had with Adam are finite. I do not get to make new memories with my big brother. I will never see him wrestle with my kids when they’re supposed to be getting ready for bed. I will never see him fall in love, have a wedding and maybe children. I won’t get to celebrate his big promotion at work, or make him do one of those really muddy 5k things with me. There is simply no more time with him.

For a lot of years, I held my memories so close to me, unwilling to share what little I had of him with anyone else. Eventually, I allowed myself to put these memories out into the world, and something unimaginable happened. As I began to open my hand and release these pieces of Adam that I had held so tightly, I started getting new pieces of him back. As I wrote about my memories of Adam, others started sharing their memories of him with me. It was as if God whispered right to my heart, “There is more than you know. If you just let go, I will show you.”

Every year since then, I have gotten to know new sides of my brother - attributes and actions that I would never have known about had I not been willing to let go. I learned that a shy girl once had a crush on my brother and she really wanted to dance with him at the school dance. He was dancing with some friends but when she left, disappointed, he went after her into the hallway and there he asked that shy girl to dance. Just the two of them, alone in the hallways slow dancing without any music.

I learned that he intervened when some big, punk kid was picking on a little nerd, my scrawny brother put the bully in a complicated wrestling hold and held him there until an adult arrived. I learned that he spoke up about racial inequity. We lived in white suburbia. IN THE 90’s. And Adam was speaking out about racism? Long before being woke was a thing, my big brother was WOKE. My brother was an advocate for marginalized people. I would not have known this if I hadn’t let go.

This year, I was given the gift of discovering yet another impressive layer to my brother. I will not share all of the details, as they are not mine to tell. Suffice it to say that as a young girl was in a precarious situation where she was unable to protect herself and was vulnerable to an assault, Adam served as her protector. The phrase that stood out to me was this:

“As the vultures were circling, Adam didn’t leave her side.”

I learned this about my brother in the middle of the Ford-Kavanaugh hearing, at the height of the #MeToo movement, when thousands of women were finally choosing to break the silence about their own experiences with rape, abuse and sexual assault.

To me, Adam was just my big brother and my own personal super hero. I knew he would protect me if he could. I knew that he was the second best wrestler in his weight class in the state of Michigan, he was a brilliant mind, an excellent athlete, a bit of a comedian and a leader. I didn’t want to let go of that image of him.

I didn’t want to share those pieces with anyone because part of me felt that it might weaken or cheapen the power of those memories. Releasing that singular perspective of Adam has, on the contrary, allowed me to know who he was in a much fuller way. Now I know him to be all of those things, and also a warrior for social justice, an advocate for women, a protector of the vulnerable.

During a week in which we are being inundated with news stories of hate and violence in our country, I am choosing to, once again, let go. I will not hold so tightly to these memories. I choose to release them and share them with you in hopes that it serves as a reminder that there are good boys out there. Boys who are being raised to love their neighbor - REGARDLESS of who that neighbor is. There are boys and girls in this country who are fearlessly standing in the gap for the sake of defending vulnerable and marginalized people groups. There are people who will see racial and socioeconomic disparity and will refuse to look the other way. There are Christians in our country who take God’s command to love others seriously. They care for the poor, the sick, the oppressed. Some of us even care regardless of your race, religion, sexual orientation or political affiliation. Some of us just plain love our neighbors no matter what, because God told us to.

Letting go of my childish image of Adam has allowed me to gain a picture of the man he was becoming. I believe that he was going to be the kind of man who understood that Jesus gave two primary commands - to love him, and to love others. The more I become acquainted with how my brother operated in the world, the more convinced I am that he understood the true essence of the gospel and the command to love.

For the next two days of October, I want to challenge all of us to be intentional about overtly loving one another. I don’t really care who your neighbors are, just love them. For ten years I lived across the street from an old man who often told me to get an abortion when I was pregnant and more disturbingly, also Disney-frenched me on the mouth once. It was real old and gross guys, but I loved him anyways! I don’t care who your colleagues are, who your in-laws are, who your neighbor plans to vote for in a few days… just love the junk out of them. Love them regardless of their lifestyle choices.

If God didn’t add any qualifying statements to loving others, then why should we?

Days 25 & 26 - Resilience

Perhaps softened by the forced reflection that comes with loss and trauma, I have a particular fondness for people who have come from hard places, or gone through hard things. All my favorite people have heaps of baggage. Today, I got to spend a bit of time with a group of kids who fit that description. I was invited to return to speak with students at The Avalon School which is part of Villa of Hope. The Avalon School is a specialized day school for kids who have a variety of psycho-social, emotional and/or behavioral needs.

Y’all, these are my people.

Strength and resilience don’t come from never having been broken. Strength and resilience come from the slow, healing process after brokenness or trauma. After I spoke, there was a brief question and answer time, which is always my favorite portion of any speaking event. No question is off-limits, and being open to discuss anything gives others an opportunity to share some of their own story. I am always amazed at how transparent people are willing to be with me. It is such a sacred privilege to carry someone else’s story, and I do not take that for granted.

Some kids opened up about their traumas for the first time since being at this school. My heart was overflowing and my mind was blown. What was supposed to be my act of kindness quickly became a gift to me, primarily due to their brave willingness to let me in, and then on top of that, they went and surprised me with a gift and these beautiful flowers.

This is my dream job. I get to connect with hurting people for a living. To offer hope, to share faith, to ask questions, to listen and encourage… what an unbelievable gift.

For yesterday’s #AdamsActs, I treated Jay to a donut after his audiology appointment even though he literally did a terrible job there. Don’t get me wrong, I think he legitimately tried his best. But, man… his best is hovering juuuuust above the worst in history. Hahaha… the child cannot sit still. He cannot be quiet. He cannot stop himself from verbalizing a running commentary of every single thought that pops into his brain. It’s like living with a James Joyce novel playing in fast motion in the background at all times. Except all the words are adorably mispronounced.

At one point, he gives the audiologist a huge grin like this:

Then as soon as she walks out, immediately looks over his shoulder at me, gives me these skeptical “get a load of this lady” side-eyes and says “I don’t think this is very useful. Is she really talking about beef?”

Clearly he couldn’t hear anything she was saying without his hearing aids. He will be getting an FM system at school - which basically means his teacher will wear a microphone that will beam her voice directly into his hearing aids. It will probably help him learn and pay attention, but he is not thrilled. The idea of kids having to pass around a microphone so that he can hear what they are saying, isn’t exactly ideal for a kid who just wants to fit in. JK he doesn’t care about fitting in. All he wants to do is lie under a cardboard box and pretend to rebuild an engine. Without anyone talking directly into his ear canal. This will be something that will require his own form of strength and resilience, and he has to deal with hearing loss for the rest of his life because he was essentially overdosed with antibiotics at birth… sooooo, he gets a donut alright?

After that, some of us on the church staff brought lunch to all the teachers at a local public school. It was a lot of Panera. The teachers were really excited and I think they felt supported, appreciated and recognized for the work they do - which was our goal. While this was technically a part of my job, I added a little personal flare of kindness by loudly and spontaneously complimenting people like someone who has no filter - or basically, like myself.

Thanks to all who have reached out since my last post. (Catch up HERE if you missed it.) From the messages I have been receiving, it appears that some of the feelings I expressed hit a sensitive nerve with a lot of you. Thank you for trusting me with your stories and your feelings. If I could, I would buy each and every single one of you a fancy spider donut.

Even if you did a really bad job today and all you were able to accomplish was lying under a cardboard box.

Days 23 & 24 - Two Innocence Projects

Since many of you lovelies have been reaching out to ask for updates on my health shenanigans, I figured I would post a quick update along with my acts of kindness for the past couple of days. The short update is: I still don’t know. The longer story is that it takes quite a while to get into specialists, and even longer to schedule tests, etc. I have discovered that even if your case is marked as “urgent” many openings are last minute cancellations that you find out about right as you are, let’s say, about to drive into Canada. You know how that goes.

I was finally able to get into my appointment on Monday. I like the doctor quite a lot and she ordered several more tests, the most important being in December. So… that should be a nice, long wait until then. In the meantime I have lost a little over 15 pounds in the past three weeks. No bueno, friends, no bueno. The weight loss, general weakness and malabsorption has me feeling all kinds of exhausted, dizzy and lightheaded. I am eating, but still not absorbing nutrients for some reason that I won’t find out until December. It’ll be like a little Christmas present.

Merry Christmas! You’re malnourished!

Okay, so let all that serve to lower any bar you may have set for my kindness. Low bar, people… mama needs a real low bar. For Day 23 I made a donation to The Innocence Project in honor of my friend Andrew’s birthday. The Innocence Project is a non-profit organization that works to exonerate wrongly convicted people through the use of DNA. They are also committed to reforming the criminal justice system to prevent wrongful conviction in the first place.

As a mom of two black boys, I am aware of the statistics. The reality is that my black children are statistically more likely to be wrongly convicted of a crime than my white children. Minorities are more likely in general to be arrested as juveniles and tend to be handed down harsher and longer penalties for crimes committed as compared to white kids for the same offense. Research has found that white Americans are more likely to misidentify a black suspect in a murder investigation. Maybe there is a part of me that still resents the injustice of my brother’s privileged, white murderer remaining in jail for about a year and a half, while some innocent black children are wrongfully convicted and sentenced to life in prison for crimes they did not commit, and this is due to racial bias.

For Day 24, I said “no” a bunch of times. I know this doesn’t sound very kind. But, guys, I’m not going to lie, I am pretty sick at this point. I have, historically, said yes to virtually everything that is asked of me. When someone calls to talk, I listen. When somebody needs advice, I am the go-to person. If you are hurting, if you and your spouse are fighting, if your kid keeps peeing in the wrong places in the house, if you had another miscarriage, or another negative pregnancy test, whatever it is... I go in. I love going in. It’s one of the few things that I actually really love about myself. I don’t shy away from a mess. I prance right into it with the confidence of someone who believes they can actually make a difference.

Still. I need to not. I needed to say no to a few requests. A couple speaking things, hosting community group every week at my house (which is a bigger undertaking than it sounds when you are too weak and pathetic to push a whole entire vacuum at the moment), and a few other small things. It was a sort of kindness to myself. I have needed to learn to say “no” for a while now, but it is challenging when I so dearly love to say “yes” to my people. But, this year I have been working on loving and accepting myself, and I have striven to possess self-compassion, self-concern, and self-awareness. This process started here, in my tiny closet.

And this is a picture of me.

I was five years old in this picture. At this point in my life, I was not broken. I was not in any sort of bondage - to fear or shame or hurt. I was just small and innocent, still untouched and not yet wounded.

This summer, I decided to hang this little girl in my closet as a reminder of who I once was, and as a reminder that somewhere deep inside of me that little, innocent girl still exists. And someone needs to love her and to protect her. Someone needs to think she is beautiful. Someone needs to exonerate her from the offenses I have accused her of for so many years.  I suppose this was my own version of an innocence project.

So, when I go to my closet each morning to get dressed… I don’t get dressed for other people. I’m not trying to make people think I am attractive. I am not choosing clothes for attention. I get dressed for her. I make choices that make her feel beautiful. I have discovered that she loves dresses and bold patterns, big hair and bright lipstick. My inner-child is totally an 80’s girl, an “absolute queen” as I’ve been told. And I love that about her.

Doing this felt silly at first, but it is also, quite possibly, the first step I have actively taken to love myself. This led to other self-care steps - like finally getting my teeth fixed after horrendous pregnancies with the world’s most selfish fetuses, just sucking the life right out of me and my teeth. I have been less critical of myself, and therefore less critical of others. I have been gentler with myself, and therefore gentler with others. I have been more understanding of myself, and therefore more understanding of others. And today, giving myself permission to say “no” to multiple requests and stepping back from extra responsibilities for a while was one more thing I did to be kind, caring and protective toward myself. I have to believe that, ultimately, this will allow me to continue walking into the mess of other people’s lives, but when I do, I will be stronger, I will be healthier, my hair will be big and fabulous, and I will be able push a vacuum all by myself.

Day 22: Haggard Moms Unite

Recently, I showed up to my friend’s house with two pints of good gelato and a tiny little house plant. It was adorable, with sweet, little, yellow flowers. She had texted me earlier that day in a special kind of panic that is reserved for women who are actively parenting kids with trauma issues. When the door opened, I said, “I brought you something to eat. And also something to kill.” Now, technically this was right before October, so it doesn’t really count as one of my #AdamsActs but I can’t think of a more RANDOM act of kindness than bringing somebody something to kill.

If you are closely acquainted with any foster parents, then this gesture needs no further explanation. If, however, you do not have the good fortune of knowing anyone who is resolutely withstanding the US foster care system in order to love, care for, protect and advocate for children who are separated from their birthfamily… then I shall explain.

Parenting kids with trauma is not for the faint of heart. Whether that trauma happened in utero via drug or alcohol exposure, or was the result of abuse, negligence or neglect, a traumatized child requires a level of care that is simply beyond typical human capacity. The traumatized child will fight against any semblance of love. The traumatized child will use whatever they can to push you away, out of a misguided but understandable attempt at self-protection, they will fight, sabotage and control whatever they can, however they can. They will force themselves to throw up, they will rage, they will destroy your belongings - and sadly, they will destroy their own belongings. They may physically attack, they may put all the bodily fluids in all the places, and then also on your one nice dress. And also probably on your toothbrush. The traumatized child is not a bad child, he is a terrified child.

Kids like this will likely be placed in one foster family after another. People will give up on these kids. The message that these kids are unlovable will be sent and resent over and over until the child turns 18 and ages out of the system. Then these kids are, statistically speaking, very likely to become incarcerated, homeless and/or pregnant before being equipped to parent. They are more likely to abuse drugs and have children who also end up in the system.

These kids deserve better. They deserve parents that will stuff their feelings with gelato and kill a houseplant instead of harming the child. These kids need parents who will not give up, communities who invest in them and offer opportunities and compassion. And these foster parents deserve our support.

It sounds like a no-brainer, right? Who would give up on a child just because they are having a hard time? Well, the answer is a lot of people. When my son was at his lowest point in his battle with attachment disorder and our family in complete crisis, countless people told me that we should put him in a group home or consider “undoing” his adoption. This is when I realized how few people really understand adoption. No matter how long he was in my family, there were still people that failed to understand that he is my SON. Forever. He’s just mine, always. And I was going to fight to the death for him.

For Day 22, I checked in with multiple friends who are fighting for their kids. Sadly, most of these mamas feel like they are fighting WITH their kids, FOR their kids. I spent a couple hours on the phone throughout the day talking with different friends about parenting and attachment strategies, therapeutic approaches that actually work, and practical tips to repair their relationships for when they lose their ever loving minds - like that one time that I threw all the bananas or publicly wrote through this mental breakdown. More than anything, we talked about hope, and faith and about having self-compassion. In a moment when some really vulnerable moms are doing jobs that no one person is capable of doing, it is a kindness to listen, to encourage, to commiserate, and to remind them that there is a God standing beside them that shares burdens and carries our load… a God that happens to be quite fond of the lost, the least and the littlest among us.

Day 20 & 21 - Scared, Imperfect, Vulnerable = Connected.

During the month of October, this strange and beautiful phenomenon occurs. For 31 vulnerable and exhausting days, I open up my heart to all of you. My imperfect, ragged heart is splayed vulnerably before you, and when it is, something quite magical happens.

You open up your hearts right back.

Every time I muster the courage to be speak frankly about deep and personal wounds from my past, my inbox is flooded with stories of your deep and personal wounds. When I release the fear of judgement (however temporarily that may be) and force myself to speak candidly about my insecurities, you speak candidly with me about your insecurities.

When I confess, some of you confess. When I express shame, many of you express shame. When I push past the criticism and the nay-sayers and I choose to behave bravely even when I feel small and weak and exposed… so many of you are there, also being brave, and maybe also feeling small, weak, and a bit exposed.

This is the power of vulnerability, that when I share my tattered and timeworn stories of loss, you respond with your own. Vulnerability creates room for other people to be themselves, to express themselves, to breathe, to be real, to be universal, to exist next to someone else who understands. Vulnerability tells us that none of us, not even one, is really ever alone. We cannot possibly be alone when at the end of the day, we are all the flippin’ same.

For Day 20, Jay and I made a small donation to a hospice home near us called Sunset House. Our neighborhood block party was on Saturday and as a group we continue to raise money for this worthwhile cause. I also made a donation (and by donation I mean I bought myself a candy bar) for my little neighbor’s fundraiser to go to Washington, D.C. It was a huge sacrifice, but I live to serve, so.

Day 21, I made a donation to Foodlink while checking out at the grocery store, and more importantly, I tried to express appreciation and admiration today whenever I felt it. I sincerely thanked my volunteers for all they did at church today, I brought cake (and lots of jokes and banter) to the staff at the movie theater where we rent space to have our church services and I went all the way out to my car because a little girl wanted a something I had already packed up. These were all simple, small things that I would do any day of any month all year long. Still, I think that we underestimate the cumulative impact of simple acts decency.

Extending grace and decency to others in a world that can easily feel hyper-combative and cruel, is another way to remind people that we are all the same. We are all small. We are all weak, frightened and exposed in one way or another. But, we are also all these glorious creatures who are profoundly loved by the one who created us. We are capable, tenacious and brave. I know this because you are all my precious darlings, and when I tell you my deep dark secrets, you tell me yours. You hold me with your words, you comfort me with your encouragement, you honor and humble me with your mirrored vulnerability. And when you share your own scary truths, whispered back to me, however hesitantly, but still so so beautifully... it is a revolutionary act of love.

Days 17 - 19: Catching Up on Kindness!

Well, I am maaaaaad behind on posting and I have been driving all day, so I will keep this brief! I have been toying with the idea of shifting away from blogging and moving toward podcasting and/or video blogging. The jury is out, but I am too haggard to even consider putting my face on camera at the moment. So, let’s consider this a micro-blog for tonight.

I went home to celebrate the life of a family friend, Earl Dean. He was the wonderful father of my friend Heather. As many of you already saw on Facebook Live, I stayed with my mom and interview her about #AdamsActs. She is out of control, so enjoy that little video if you haven’t already checked it out, and here’s a taste of how extra she can be.

I shared that my act of kindness on the trip there was handing out $5 gift cards to Tim Horton’s to the Canadian border patrol. Canadians cannot get enough of Tim Horton’s and their garbage coffee. The American side would not accept my gifts because apparently they cannot get enough of following arbitrary rules that forbid them from enjoying life and kindness.

For Day 18, I wrote out a bunch of cards for Heather and on the envelope I noted specific days that she may open them. When someone passes away - especially someone as involved in 
Heather’s life as her dad was - there will be many moments where she will feel his absence so keenly it can feel unbearable. I tried to anticipate what some of those moments might be, like Father’s Day, or her birthday, or when her dad’s flower garden starts to break through the thawing spring ground. Those will be moments that she needs a reminder that she is loved and thought of, and certainly not alone.

For Day 19, I filled up my mom’s car with gas and I spoke at Fellowship of Christian Athletes for my bro Joe. I was spazzy and unprepared, and I busted in on all my fave coaches/teachers right in the middle of their classes, announcements and observations. Sorry, not sorry! They’ve met me, so they weren’t terribly surprised especially considering I have the exact same maturity level as I did when I was playing volleyball (poorly) in high school.

Me and Tracey Wilson - principal, former coach, friend and #AdamsActs extraordinaire! I was lucky enough to be there when a couple of kids were receiving gift cards for getting caught being kind to others at school! It was such an honor to meet these kind kids and peer pressure them into reading my blog.

After spazzing myself around the high school like a total crazy, my niece treated me to breakfast, which was very sweet seeing that she is a broke college kid. I tried to encourage and affirm her life choices - which are wise and brave - so it was easily done.

After that, I went to the cemetery and left a penny on Adam’s headstone, because it’s a thing some of us do. There is always a penny there. I spent some time sitting in the grass, thinking of Adam and wishing I could talk to him. When I tried, all that came out was “hey buddy.” and then so many projectile tears. I wanted him there, in real life, to talk to me and to be on my team. I need his advice right now, and I need to feel like he understands me and hears me. I want him to be here, standing beside me and holding my hand when I feel scared to make big changes in my life.

I sat by his headstone and thought about the three words that my parents chose to be engraved there forever.

I was particularly focused on peacemaker. I love that it doesn’t say peacekeeper, but peaceMAKER. It is a lot easier to be a keeper of peace - especially false peace - than it is to be brave enough to be honest and work toward creating TRUE peace. To be a peacemaker, you have to identify problems, you have to speak hard truths, and you have to be willing to create something new. This is who I am striving to be. Not a keeper of an illusion of peace, but a maker of true, authentic peace.

I suppose that even though my big brother is not here to hold my hand and give me advice, he is still teaching me and today it felt like he was on my team.