A Successful Journey

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I used to have a small plaque in my bathroom, back in my bachelorette days, that had gold calligraphied  letters on a black background that read, “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28”

What an inspiring verse! God is personally looking out for me! Really, when looking to have someone to work toward your good, God should definitely be at the top of the list. And of course I would let God know what exactly was best for me, and I was happy when He would give it to me.

Except that wasn’t very often.

And over the years, it began to irritate me. It seemed like God wasn’t listening to me, or even to my friends and loved ones. I had an extended illness and was laid off at work. A friend lost his infant daughter and was paralyzed in an accident not long after. A boy in our dorm was killed in a car collision as he was moving in for the semester. A friend lost a long battle with a chronic illness when he was much too young.

God? How are these things for the best?

C.S. Lewis once said tongue-in-cheek, “We’re not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.” 

Even now, I tell myself that just because we lost our referral, just because there were no twins to adopt, just because adoption through foster care was not what we thought it would be — it’s all because God has other children waiting somewhere else to complete our family.

But what if there aren’t?

Oswald Chambers in My Utmost for His Highest points out that God’s definition of success is not necessarily the same as ours,

“We tend to think that if Jesus Christ compels us to do something and we are obedient to Him, He will lead us to great success. We should never have the thought that our dreams of success are God’s purpose for us. In fact, His purpose may be exactly the opposite.”  

So I have to ask myself: What if He doesn’t have children for us to adopt?  What if this entire process is not about adopting children but about me learning to trust Him with our future family?

“What we see as only the process of reaching a particular end, God sees as the goal itself. What is my vision of God’s purpose for me? Whatever it may be, His purpose is for me to depend on Him and on His power now. If I can stay calm, faithful, and unconfused while in the middle of the turmoil of life, the goal of the purpose of God is being accomplished in me. God is not working toward a particular finish— His purpose is the process itself.”

 Truthfully, I am realizing that the point of our adoption journey is not merely the children who will complete our family. The point of our adoption journey is every bit as much about what God is doing in my heart along the way.

Maybe even what He is doing in your heart as you walk beside us.

Do I believe and hope that there are children at the end of our adoption journey? Absolutely. But even if there are no children at the end of the road, a God-directed journey is still worth every step along the way.

Ms. Grateful

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Last night, Ken and I had the opportunity to spend some time volunteering at a nursing home on the other side of town. It was a unique opportunity to play bingo alongside some of the disabled and elderly residents who live there.

Ken and I were responsible for different tables of residents, so of course we had to make it a competition to see whose table could win the most. He won.

I had the chance to play alongside some really wonderful people. One was actually a familiar friend I know from volunteer work I do at Mercury Courts, a housing development just down the road from Trevecca. I couldn’t believe he was there — and he told me he had just arrived that very day. It was a pleasant surprise for both of us.  Another lovely lady, “Shorty” went to high school with my Mercury Court friend, so they had a nice reunion at our table. Another gentleman at my table could make a joke or a rhyme out of anything. His body may have been failing him, but his mind was sharp as a tack. We laughed together, hard. The lady I spent the most time with was Ms. Grateful. After every Bingo number called, she would shout out, “Thank you,” whether she had the number or not. I would help her watch for the correct numbers, and as I helped her identify them, she thanked me too.

 The social director told me that she was the most grateful resident they had.

Ms. Grateful couldn’t say much else — not that I could understand anyway. Her body was confined to a wheelchair, her gnarled hands had trouble moving the bingo chips, saliva gently dripped down her chin. Her stained shirt was a visible reminder that even basic tasks were a challenge to her.

But she was the most grateful resident that they had. She had a roof over her head, a place to sleep, food to eat. And she had a friend to play Bingo with, and even someone to call the numbers. She even won. Twice.

Isn’t that enough to be grateful for? Sometimes we make gratitude too complicated, withholding a thankful heart until something “big” comes along, when all along there are little blessings sitting all around us just waiting to be acknowledged and appreciated.  Ms. Grateful’s simple approach was this: Rather than looking at the things she didn’t have, she was thankful for everything she did have, right down to the Bingo caller at the front of the room.

When I took Ms. Grateful back to her floor, I thanked her for showing me a wonderful time as I touched her arm gently, and said good-bye to her now tearful face. She took my hand in both of hers, and softly kissed it. “Thank you,” she said one last time.

No, thank you, Ms. Grateful.  Truthfully, I am the one who won.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.” Matthew 5:8, NIV

And Then There Were None

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We received an email tonight from our adoption agency. The 3 year old girl and 6 year old boy we were hoping to adopt have been claimed by another family member who wants to try to raise them there in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Although we’ve not spoken much of them specifically, we really did hope that those were the two children we were to adopt.  We’re happy that they were reunited with family — we were just hoping that family would be ours.

So where does this leave us? Our agency will begin looking for a new referral for us. We still believe that we should adopt more than one child, and our hope is to keep siblings from being split up. Typically, there is no wait for a referral for children over 3 in the Democratic Republic of Congo, so we are hopeful that we will be matched again very soon. Our overall timeline will likely not even change.

But we must face the fact that it is another loss in what seems to be a pretty long string of losses this year.

Adoption is harder than it looks.

The cloak is feeling a little scratchy tonight.

The Changing Cloak

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I had lunch with a dear friend today, and as we chatted, one of the topics that came up was the return to new normalcy after an intense time of grief, which both of us have experienced in the past few months.

To be a joyful person enshrouded by grief is difficult. The cloak of grief placed unwillingly on a happy heart is a difficult and unwelcome experience. The laughter that once was freely flowing seems to offend the garment, to betray that which was lost, to deny the devastation of the heart.

Yet, the garment of grief doesn’t fit right – binding in some areas, saggy in others, always dragging the ground. The burlaped texture of gristly grief chafes my already thin skin. The overwhelming weight is wearisome.

There have been times that I have thought that I was becoming accustomed the shroud, only to realize that its presence was clearly felt on my shoulders again. Getting a new bill in the mail for the adoption that never existed. Being asked by a friend unacquainted with our situation, “How are the twins?” Finding tiny baby items that I tucked away for the future — a future that will never come.  

But I do not have a choice of apparel. The cloak must be worn dutifully, and eventually, worn submissively.

Over time, I have found that the misshapen shroud of grief has transformed. I’ve tucked it in on one side, tied it on the other to better fit my soul. The once-abrasive fibers have softened. My skin has thickened as well. The heaviness is still present, but rather than being oppressive, if I consider it, it is now feels much more like warmth.

Could it be that the shroud of grief has become a cloak of God’s consolation? Could it be that the garment that I once resisted is the very means of grace by which God has chosen to demonstrate the closeness of His comfort?

Perhaps this is what Jesus spoke of in the Beatitudes, when He said, “You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.” Matthew 5:4, The Message

It may not be that the cloak itself has been transformed nearly as much as the cloak has transformed me. Now laughter does not betray comfort. Joy does not deny the embrace of the Almighty. Smiles are an expression of love, not a betrayal of such. Though my life has been forever changed by the donning of the cloak, I’ve come to realize that it is not an instrument of hardship as much as it is a demonstration of love.

Unsafe in His Hands

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Along our adoption journey, we have been asked many questions about our process and about where we are going to go get our children. The Democratic Republic of Congo has just recently opened to international adoption, and in fact, up until May of this year, parents were urged not to go there to get their children, but to have them escorted back to the United States because of safety concerns.

Is traveling to the Democratic Republic of Congo dangerous? Absolutely.  And that’s exactly why we must go. Orphans whom we were called to adopt are there, and it’s an even more dangerous place for them.

The truth is, our adoption journey has not been a safe one even thus far. We have been hurt. We have been robbed. We have been shamed. But we have not lost sight of the fact that every step of our adoption journey has been ordained by God.

Nevertheless, God does not lead us to safe places. David Platt, in his book Radical says,

“[God] is good. He is good even when he calls you and me to places that are dirty and disease ridden. He is good even when we end up possibly sharing in the diseases of the people we go to serve.” The diseases aren’t just AIDS or malaria or hepatitis. The diseases of some along our adoption journey have been lying, deceit, incompetence, and fraud. But that does not mean that the calling was a mistake, that our actions were in error, or that God allowed us to go down a wrong path.

Following God’s will isn’t safe. When you are doing the work of the kingdom as you follow Him, it will certainly lead you to dangerous situations. It wasn’t safe for Jesus. It wasn’t safe for His disciples, or the early Church. Why should it be safe now? David Platt writes, “To everyone wanting a safe, untroubled, comfortable life free from danger, stay away from Jesus. The danger in our lives will always increase to the depth of our relationship with Christ.”

 If we only attempt to do what is possible on our own, are we really following anyone but ourselves?

True followers of Christ attempt to do things that would be impossible without God. And that’s what He has called us to do.

We are to go into dangerous places in the world and seek out waiting orphans who have seen many other children leave the orphanage, wondering when it will be their turn, questioning if they will ever be chosen to be a part of a forever family.

We are adopting children from a different race, language, and culture. This too is dangerous, and we know the risks of developmental difficulties, trouble with bonding, and lack of societal acceptance.

We don’t know how we will pay the costs of the adoption. $28,000 is a lot of money to raise in 6 months, and as much as we plan, it will be impossible without Divine intervention. Adopting two orphans half way around the world is financially dangerous.

But our security is not in our physical safety. Neither is it in our bank accounts, jobs, or material possessions.  Our security is not in what others think of us, or even in a culturally accepted family structure.

David Platt again writes in Radical, “Indeed, God knows every detail of our lives, and when we step out in faith to follow Him, He will show us that our greatest security is not found in the comforts we can manufacture in this world but in the faithful provision of the only one who knows our needs and the only one who is able to meet our needs in every way.”

God has called us to dangerous places, and that’s exactly where our greatest safety is found.

Food Truck Chasers

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One of the adventurous parts of food truck eating is that it is remarkably difficult to FIND the food trucks! But we love the fact that we can get gourmet food on a fast-food budget, even if we have to eat it at a picnic table or in the car. The trucks are a moving target, literally. We follow blogs and Twitter to try to track them down, but their posting is sporadic and often last-minute. It seems like we’re the storm chasers of this Nashville culinary subculture — always waiting for the perfect storm of foodtruckery.

So when we saw Riff’s food truck post on Twitter that they indeed were going to the Urban Flea Market in East Nashville, we were there! Even better? They were serving stuffed French toast.  Not just French toast, but STUFFED French toast! Doesn’t Saturday morning seem like the perfect time for stuffed French toast? ‘

We GPSed our way down to the Urban Flea Market, we spotted Riff’s food truck, but we immediately realized that there was a parking problem. We had to circle around, dodge cars coming down now one-lane streets due to traffic overload before we finally found a place to pull onto the grass on the side of the road.

We made our way through the Urban Flea Market: vintage clothes, handmade jewelry, someone playing guitar. Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. Show me the food truck.

We finally ducked under a tree and stepped up to the parking area where Riffs was parked. Or HAD been parked. In the ten minutes it had taken us to find a parking space, Riffs had packed up and left. WITH the stuffed French toast!

Oh the humanity!

We stood there dazed and confused, wondering where to turn to next. Lacking Divine inspiration, Twitter was our answer.

Mas Tacos Por Favor had just posted their lunch menu. We Googled their location. Even though they started out as a food truck, they now have a brick-and-mortar in East Nashville. Perfect.

We once again GPSed our way over to McFerrin Avenue, but the address we had seemed to be wrong. We only saw a barber shop, and a deli.

Wait. There was a chalkboard on the sidewalk with “Mas Tacos” and an arrow. We were headed in the right direction.

We found a place to park on a neighborhood street, hid our valuables, and prayed that Jesus would protect our car. We walked to where the arrow was pointing. There was a guy with a baby sitting out on a patio area behind the deli, and we asked him, “Pssst. Where is Mas Tacos?”

“Right around the corner,” he whispered, “The sign is just next to the door.”

Sure enough, the place that we had designated as the deli (because of the giant DELI sign on the roof) was indeed Mas Tacos. Bars on the windows. Cars crammed in the parking lot. A paper bag with hours scrawled in pen hung next to the door. We couldn’t see inside.

We entered the restaurant, not knowing for sure if we were going to be encountering a restaurant or a crime scene. The interior looked like a little of both. It was clearly a clandestine culinary operation. No frills. No ambience. Only 82 degrees and packed with customers in food-stuffing silence, even though it was 11:30 on a Saturday morning, which is typically much too early for tastebuds to be awakened by tacos.

This food must be REALLY good. 

We stumbled through our order, like all good rookies do. We were thankful that we didn’t hear an exclamation of “No tacos for you!” as we attempted to order a combination of classics and specials. Ken ordered the breakfast taco and pulled pork taco. I went with the fish taco and the carne molida. To drink was a watermelon aqua fresca for me, and horchata (cinnamon almond milk)  for Ken.

We made our way to the last available table with our drinks while we waited for food. My drink was like drinking pure watermelon: delicious. I realize now that in the past I’ve only had drinks that are watermelon-flavored, which are okay, but this was actual watermelon in my drink! Yummy. I didn’t try Ken’s almond milk because I wanted to live (and have an anaphylactic allergy to almonds), but he agreed that it was cool and delicious too.

When our food arrived, we decided to proceed to a more oxygen-rich environment where we could keep an eye on our car: outside on the patio.

Our tacos were indeed delicious, though a bit on the spicy side. I love spicy heat, but only if the heat compliments the flavor, rather than overpowering it. Still, the meat was tender and delicious, the slaw fresh and crispy, and the double-layered corn tortillas provided a thoughtful way to keep me from dumping the ingredients in my lap.

We were very thankful for our drinks.

All-in-all, the tacos were very good — not necessarily life-changing, but good. We’ll definitely remember the experience, and if we happen to be in the neighborhood of their brick-and-mortar, or their food truck, we’ll find it hard to pass up.

After all, that’s what Food Truck Chasers do!

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Our Oldest Son

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Meet our first “son,” Shimwamana Emmanuel. He’s 10 years old, and lives in Rwanda. We’ve sponsored Shimwamana through Compassion for almost two years now, and have had his picture posted on our refrigerator, where we are reminded to pray for him daily. Today, we were excited to receive a brand new picture of him. Clearly he’s grown, and the baby-faced little boy is now becoming a young man. We’ve enjoyed exchanging letters with Shimwamana, and knowing that he is being nurtured physically, mentally, and spiritually. I can’t wait for his younger brother and sister to meet him someday.

What does $38 a month in the life of a child do? Does and investment of a little over a dollar a day make a difference? I had always wondered, until I watched this video. I know the video is a bit long, but please don’t just skip over it. I promise it’s worth the investment of time. If you are like me, your life will never be the same.

 A word of caution: have some tissues available.

This is what sponsoring a child can do: forever change the course of a child’s life, break the cycle of poverty, and make a difference for eternity. Not everyone is called to adopt as we are, but I do believe that everyone is called to the cause of the fatherless.

Our Pastor asked us several years ago to consider the question, “What are you willing to give up so that an orphan might live?”  That question, coupled with this video, profoundly changed our lives. We believe it has profoundly changed Shimwamana’s life.

And we hope to change the lives of two more children soon! Thank you for being part of our journey!

Overachieverhoodness

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I have a confession. I’m a bit of an overachiever.

And maybe not just “a bit.”

But I’m not an overchiever about everything. In fact, I’m not an overachiever in most things. Housework. Exercise. Crafting. Flossing.

Rather, I choose my obsessions carefully. I set goals. I achieve them, most of the time. I’m just careful not to set goals for something I can’t or won’t achieve.

I’ve been at the top of the academic programs I’ve gone through, but not because I’m super smart. It’s that overachieving workaholic in me whose claws come out when I see a textbook, some notecards, and a lecture outline. Studying 100 hours for a single test was the norm for me. By the time I finished PA school in 2005, I had a stack of flashcards taller than me. That was only from 1/3 of my classes. And I knew them all. Back and front.

Of course, this tendency toward overachieverhoodness leads to a fair amount of ribbing. I still get teased on a regular basis for my perfectionistic tendencies, and my driven approach to my select goals. And that’s okay, because I know that deep down inside, people want their physician assistant and/or professor to be at least a bit of a perfectionist, especially if they enjoy the personal impact of a lower rate of medical errors that accompanies a hefty dose of overachieverhoodness.

My overachieving ways have landed me in an academic setting, which I love. Unfortunately, that same overachieving nature has led me to teaching Medical Physiology each summer, which covers 700 pages of physics as applied to the human body in 12 weeks. And every summer that I have taught this class, I have ended up nearly blind by the end of the summer. The first summer, I thought my prescription had just changed. My second summer, I thought it was eye strain. This is my third summer, and sure enough, by the first few weeks of class, I was struggling to see.

My vision always gradually returns to normal in the fall, but during those summer times in which I have to cover 80 pages of text in a week, having a visual problem is very disturbing.

So when I scheduled my annual appointment with my optometrist this year, I told him about what was going on. We talked about typical eye strain issues — proper lighting, computer positioning, reference material placement, but I had tried all these and they hadn’t helped. (After all, as an overachiever I had figured those things out myself!)

Then he got a quizzical look on his face, and stated that he had an idea. He examined my eyes, and sure enough, he was right.

When my eyes are tested in a clinical setting, they like increasing amounts of correction, even beyond what I need. So I end up with a prescription that is much stronger than needed, and my eyes have trouble accommodating for the extra strength. If we backed off on my prescription, rather than increasing its strength, we might be able to break the cycle of the syndrome.

“Really? That is very interesting. Does the syndrome have a name?” I asked, knowing that I would go home and at least Google it.

“Yes,” he replied. “It’s called Overachiever Syndrome.”

 

Silence.

 

“Is there another name for it?”

Belly Up On a Bare Floor

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Five years ago, we had just moved into our house in Donelson from the dorm at Trevecca. We had two wild-as-bucks lab puppies, I was working in dermatology, and Ken had just finished his Master’s in Business Administration. Everyone had always told us that an MBA was the ticket to a six-figure salary, and that he would never have trouble finding a job — not that he had ever had trouble with that. Until that summer.

I wrote the following in July of 2006 . . .

——————————————————————————————————————–

Just before the puppies came to us, I asked you all for puppy advice.

The Gaffords offered this:

I can’t really think of any particular products to recommend, but one of the best things we did for Allie was to teach her submission. We did this several times a day (especially if she was getting too wild, etc.). All you do is flip the pup over on his/her back (either on the floor/ground or in your lap) and hold him/her down with your hand. The idea is to not let them get up until they’ve relaxed. They learn to trust you this way. This has also come in handy as we’ve needed to trim nails or do ear drops, etc. If you teach it to them when they’re puppies, it will make it a lot easier later on.

It was great advice, and our vet reinforced the same principle. Hold them down, belly up, until they relax. Submission. Trust.

That’s how I’m actually feeling in our life right now. Ken is still looking for a job. When he didn’t get the job we thought was his in February – a dream job coordinating a team to create and write young adult ministry material – we were assured by family and friends, “That’s because God surely has something better planned.”

Yet here we wait. Ken is done as RD. Other dream jobs that we thought were his have come and gone. We are no further along in the job search process than we were a month ago. In fact, we’re further behind.

And maybe God does have some spectacular job waiting around the corner. Perhaps someone will call him tomorrow and offer Ken a job that takes into account his experience and education as well as his talents and social skills.

But for now, I feel like one of the puppies, held down on my back. Learning to trust. Trying to relax.

The truth is, when I turn the puppies over, sometimes I have no reason other than to teach them to trust me. To learn submission. Sometimes it is to give them a belly rub or clean their paws. But I also sometimes just have to hold them down to teach them to rest, even while they are uncomfortable.

I think too often we try to rationalize God’s behavior, demanding that everything work out to make sense –wanting there to be a reason for being forced to wait and hold still. Expecting, almost demanding, for there to be a good reason for the forced submission. We expect that God will always have something better around the corner when He lets us up.

And He very well may. Yet insisting that God answer me in a way that I think makes sense or provide something better means that I’m not really allowing God to be God. Part of allowing God to be God to me is letting Him hold me down, forcing me to wait, forcing me to trust.

Yes, forcing me to submit.

And sometimes for no other reason than for me to recognize that He is God, and I am not.

There may be something wonderful around the corner, or there may be more waiting, or there may be something that isn’t what we had hoped for.

All is not lost. I don’t despair. I can trust that He is good. Whether Ken gets a job of his dreams that now seems out of reach, or stays at home as a full-time puppy wrangler, or stocks shelves, God is still good. I can choose to be angry at God for holding me down, or I can relax in His arms, knowing that whether this time will end the way I hope, or the way I fear, He is still good.

So as I feel like a puppy lying belly up on a bare floor, I’m learning to relax in the hand of the One who is good, no matter what circumstances may come.

__________________________________________________

Indeed, there was more waiting to come. It was an additional year before Ken started his job at our current church, and only at 1/4 time. It wasn’t until 18 months after that when he finally went full-time.  Whether the delay was about understanding submission, realizing God’s goodness in spite of circumstances, or figuring out God’s plans are not about me but about Him, there were lessons to be learned along the way.

Time waiting is never wasted.

Neighbors Who Defy the Norm

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“We make our friends; we make our enemies; but God makes our next door neighbor.” — Gilbert K. Chesterton

When I tried to find an inspiring quote about good neighbors, I was shocked at how many sarcastic and negative quotes exist about neighbors. It is apparent that most people in the world don’t like their neighbors, or at best, just tolerate them. I feel quite the opposite.

We have been blessed to live in a great neighborhood, but even more so to be immediately surrounded by some wonderful neighbors — generous, kind, forgiving, loving neighbors. Neighbors who pray for us, and with us. Neighbors who share extra produce. Neighbors who keep an eye on our dogs if we are out-of-town. Neighbors who read our blog and comment. 🙂 Neighbors who knew our devastating circumstances in the spring, and surrounded us with a hedge of prayer on every side, and a refrigerator full of food.

We are so blessed to have wonderful neighbors. They inspire us, encourage us, and make not only our house, but our neighborhood, a great place to come home to.