Conversations

Ava: *cough cough*
Timmy: Bless you, Ava!
Ava: You don't have to say 'bless you', Tim. I'm coughing, not sneezing.
Timmy: Sorry, Ava.
Ava: *cough cough*
Timmy: Sorry, Ava. Sorry.
Ava: You don't have to say anything, Tim. I'm coughing, not sneezing!
Timmy: You're welcome!

I love, love, love to hear them talking to each other.  It's great.

Manna

Daniel just got back from India. Because he is a structural engineer, and they are building things in India. These trips are never easy on either of us, but this one seemed particularly hard. Hard on him because he was physically exhausted, discouraged, under a lot of pressure, isolated from family. Hard on me because I was dealing with an antibiotic-resistant sinus infection, fatigue, headaches, a cat with a broken leg, sewage overflowing into the basement, two teething and sleepless children, and missing my best friend and favorite companion. We were downright weary.

When Daniel got home, I told him that so often it seemed like I had just enough to make it through, that I was just barely on the edge of my sanity. And then I thought that so often this is how God works. In Exodus, when the Israelites were wandering, he gave them manna to eat, their daily provision. They were forced to trust God daily for their needs. Psalms speaks of God daily bearing us up. Lamentations tells us that his mercies are new every morning. In the Lord's Prayer, Jesus asks for daily bread. Each day, new provision, new mercies, new strength, new grace.

Looking back on Daniel's trip, I see how he provided these things for me--strength to stand and rock the baby at 2 am, friends to help with dinner and kids and rest, people who prayed for us and sent messages of encouragement. He poured out the grace I needed when I was anxious, sad, and lonely. He set my hope in Him every day, reminding me that He is my ultimate need.

Even now that Daniel is back, I am constantly aware of that need. I feel as though I can barely catch my breath. Life is heavy. I feel inadequate all the time. In all this, I know that He is the only reason I'm still standing. Being in need is not fun, and I kick against it. But he provides daily. He is always faithful. 

Dreams

Sometimes it's hard for me to see past the here and now.  It's easy to understand why.  The here and now is kind of overwhelming.  Spit up, dirty diapers, kids tugging at my clothes.  Goodness knows, there are plenty of good things about the here and now too.  Cuddling, giggling, playing, pretending, loving, teaching, praying, hoping.  Our days are full.  And sometimes it's hard to see beyond them.

I fervently believe that my first and primary mission field is my children.  I am sure God has called me to be at home with my little ones, shepherding them in their teachable (and not so teachable) moments.  Motherhood is a kingdom task, though not as flashy as building wells in Africa or combating human trafficking (also both important, mind you).  God has given me a task, and though it is not glamorous, it is important.

Nevertheless, I dream.  I think on the transcendent.  I hope that the story our family would reach beyond these sometimes ordinary, sometimes eternally significant days.  I pray that our family would together be about God's kingdom.  I believe God has given us dreams about who he wants us to be and how he wants to use us.

The first of these dreams is that I want to write. When I think about what I want to do when my littles are not so little, it almost always revolves around writing. I am almost embarrassed to say it, because lots of people want to be writers.  Like every waitress in L.A. wants to be an actress.  When I think about the way God has wired me, though, it becomes clear that writing is a part of my make-up.  It's how I organize my thoughts and make sense of my life.  It's cathartic.

I'm not sure what form this might take.  I've been dabbling in children's book writing.  I've thought about trying to write articles for Boundless.  There's a certain someone with whom I've been dreaming about writing a book for four years or so. (Notice this period of time coincides with the age of my eldest child, which so obviously explains why it hasn't happened yet).  I've been trying to at least keep blogging about how incredibly hard it is to mother, to grow, to believe, to hope.  However and whatever I write, though, I want it to be permeated with the gospel of Jesus Christ.  I want it to give grace to others.  It is a desire I believe God has given me. 


Secondly, we believe that God has called us to adopt.  God has broken my heart (and Daniel's) for the broken-hearted.  I am certain of it.  There a few things I am more passionate about, few things that drive me to tears more quickly than to think of the Lord setting the lonely in families.  It's about mercy, and it's about God.  He has adopted us, he has made us his children.  I believe that he has called our little family to image that in a small way.  We don't know if he has called us to adopt internationally (which is what first pricked my heart for adoption), domestically, or out of foster care.  We know that both the process of adoption and parenting an adopted child is far more complex an  than we can comprehend.  I do trust the God who has implanted a passion for it in our hearts to meet us in the process and give us grace for it. 

These dreams involve real work.  Hard work.  And some days it's hard to get out of bed much less think about filling out reams of paperwork or crafting a sentence worth reading.   I wanted you all who love our family to know, so that you can pray for us and keep us accountable to actually do something.  Because these days, it's far to easy to do nothing besides the immediate. This is the season of life in which, if we are not careful, dreams are swallowed up by the every day.  I want to see that they don't, because I believe that God has put these dreams in our hearts.

And to my Dad,

Dear Dad,

I didn't get your card in the mail in time. So public adoration will have to do.

I have a thousand things to thank you for, and not too much time (as the littles are jumping on the couch in the living room).  So here are just a few things:  thank you for loving Jesus, for loving mom so faithfully, for providing for our family.  Thank you for praying for me, specifically for praying Daniel into my life.  Thank you for loving me unconditionally, for showing me so much grace, for cherishing me, for taking me on dates.  Thank you for talking through deep things, for modeling a desire to learn and grow.  Thank you for being such a tender and fun Poppy to my kids.  Thanks for still calling me "shoog."  I love you, Dad.  God gave me a tremendous gift in you.

Happy Father's Day!

Jilly

To My Love, on Father's Day

Dear Daniel,

There is no one on earth I would rather father my children than you. You are strong, yet tender. Wise, but not aloof. Fun, but not permissive. You pour love and affection and grace onto our kids. You teach their hearts to be in awe of our Father God, to love Jesus, to cling to his grace in their imperfection. You are uncommonly gifted in your ability to show grace in exasperating circumstances.

I love to see you with our kids: wrestling, laughing, reading, praying. They love your energy, your sense of fun, your willingness to be silly with them. They love to spend time alone with you, and I am so happy to think of them growing up in a home where they are cherished. I’m so happy for our girls to grow up knowing what it is to be loved well. I want Genevieve and Ava to marry men who love them like you do, who love Jesus like you do. And our boy(s?)—I am so glad they have an example of godly masculinity in you. I want Timmy to grow up to be like you—to care for his wife, to love his family. And for all of them—I am so glad that they have in you a man who truly loves the gospel, who has been and continues to be transformed by it, and who preaches it to them every day.

Thank you for being such a good Daddy to them. Thank you for loving the gospel so deeply and clinging to it so tightly before us. We are so richly blessed to have you.

Happy Father’s Day—

Jill

Oh, Hey.

I used to blog. Remember me?

I'm the one with the three kids, the crazy life, and the dirty floors.  I'm the one barely able to drag myself out of bed in the morning.

I'm the one thinking but not writing, striving and failing, clinging to grace. 

I'm the one putting band-aids on imaginary owies, trying to keep the refrigerator door closed, trying not to fall asleep playing with tiny disney princesses.

I'm the one trying to love my kids more than I love myself.

I'm the one admiring red curls, big brown eyes, and baby smiles.  And thanking God every day for his good gifts.  

I'm the one washing bubble juice out of my kids' hair, building forts from sheets and couch cushions,  and losing my patience when I'm supposed to be having fun.

I'm the one at the grocery store, pushing a stroller and dragging a cart with two kids in it.  I'm the one constantly being told my hands are full (I know), that I'm brave (I'm not), to grab hold of these tender years (I try).  

I'm the one praying, "Help. Please."

I'm the one telling stories, learning to pretend again.  I'm the one addicted to little giggles.

I'm the one feeling guilty for not cleaning when I'm playing with my kids and about not playing with them when I'm cleaning. 

I'm the one realizing why mercy has to be new every morning.

I'm the one trying to hold it all together, even while reminding myself that Jesus is the one who really does.

Hey.  It's been a while.

Joker

I think because Timothy talks so little, I honestly still treat him like more of a baby than he is.   I am discovering, though, that there is a lot more going on in his little head than I give him credit for.  Today I gave him a haircut that I thought looked pretty good (as home haircuts go, at least).  I told him so, and he pointed to his head, and said, "Hat!" I guess he didn't agree.

A few days ago the kids were running around in their super hero capes that their Aunt Maggie made for them (thanks Maggie!).  Daniel asked Timmy what his super hero power was, and he put fingers in each ear and said, "Ears!"  Super sonic hearing.  I guess he has noticed a difference since his surgery.

I think there's a little joker in there.  I'm anxious to hear more of what he has to say.

Four Months

Sweet little Genevieve,

You are getting big so fast.  I like to think of you as my little peanut, less than seven pounds at birth.  When I really look at you, though, I notice how fast you are growing.  You are long and chubby (in that perfect baby way).  It doesn't seem like it could be true.

It's not just your size that's changing, though.  You are growing out of that sweet cuddly infant stage and starting to notice everything around you.  Last month, you cuddled into me, as if for protection from the world; this month, you want to be out in it.  Until recently, you would still snuggle up and go to sleep on my chest.  In the past few weeks, however, you squeal and shriek and grab my hair instead of going to sleep.  If I try to rock you to sleep, you generally get more and more overstimulated, so I've just been laying you down awake, singing to you, smiling back at you, and letting you suck your thumb until you go to sleep.  You are spirited after all. 

I don't think you are as spirited or independent as your siblings; you are very hard to ruffle, very flexible, much harder to get upset.  But you do have a VOICE.  You only really use it when you are hungry or tired or just in need of some attention, but it's there.  I suppose you'll need it around here.  Your siblings are not shy about demanding the attention of every adult that enters our home. 

You are so sweet, little girl.  You smile almost always.  I love coming to get you in the mornings.  You always look up at me, smile, and wiggle all over.  Lately, when I put you up my shoulder, you try to suck on my cheek or my chin.  It makes me giggle.  It kind of makes you mad.  You do giggle, though, when I tickle or you or sometimes when I surprise you.  It's always somewhat unexpected, and always fills my heart with such joy.  You are a joy.

I love you, little one.  I love seeing who you are becoming.  I'm looking forward to knowing you better in the coming months and years, but I'm enjoying so much the right now.  I'm so glad you are a part of our family.

Mama

Four

My dear, sweet Ava,

In some ways it seems so long ago that I first held you in my arms.  When I look at your little sister, I can scarcely believe that you were ever her size.  How amazing these past four years have been, my love!  How wonderful it's been to get to know your heart and see you becoming who God made you to be. 

In many ways, though, it has gone so fast.  How did you come to be four years old?  These years have flown, as I suppose years do.  They have been filled up to the brim with love and giggles and struggle and weariness and joy.  They have been full of you.  I am so delighted that you are mine. 

You are so beautiful, my love.  I adore your red curls, your dimpled cheeks, your soft hazel eyes, your freckled nose.  Sometimes your daddy and I look at each other and are truly intimidated.  And sometimes we are just scared.  We are going to have to get a big stick.

It's not only your physical beauty that stuns us, though.  Seeing who you are becoming, my dear, who God made you to be, is one of the greatest pleasures in my life.  You're beautiful.  I know he's not done with you yet, but I see His work in you and the ways he has already gifted you, and I'm in awe.  

You love people.  We returned to church after being gone for several weeks and you had to talk to everyone.  I don't think I exaggerate when I say that you talked to at least a hundred people that day.  You make friends wherever you go.  I love that about you.  You are also very creative, and I find you picking berries, making a picnic lunch, riding a train, or a whole host of other make-believe activities.  You love books.  You would let me read to you all day long if I could.  You also love for me to make up stories, which is sad, because I'm truly terrible at it.  I don't think you notice, though.  You are very verbal, and I find myself sending your Daddy text messages of the funny things you say.  I love to listen to you.

A few weeks ago, while you were on a date with your Daddy, you asked him why he was looking at the road.  "I'm driving, Ava," was his response.  "Oh," you said, "I'm looking at all the things God made."  When your daddy reminded you that all created things--the flowers, the sky, the stars--were made to reflect His glory, you said, "When I saw the flowers, I thinked of Jesus."  I pray that you always do, sweet girl.

These hints of how God is beginning to reveal himself to you bring me great joy.  You love bible stories and often ask me to tell them to you at home, in the car, in the doctor's office.  I often hear you telling them to your brother.  You also ask really good (sometimes really hard) questions.  Like when we had a 15-minute conversation about why God would send the Israelites into exile if he loved them and why he allows the people He loves to suffer.  Even so, there is a stubbornness in you that has been driving me to prayer.  Not last week you announced, "I'm hard hearted."  And you are. So am I.  You so often want to go your own way, to do your own thing.  I told your Daddy the other day that it's like your heart is running away from me.  You often ignore me or disregard me.  You think that you can do whatever you want as long as you have what seems, in your four-year-old mind, to be a good reason.  It breaks my heart.

Repentance is hard, but I keep calling you to it.  You don't like to admit that you are wrong.  I don't think you yet see your need for Jesus.  From time to time, you tell us that you will try to do the right things, that you will try to be perfect.  I hope you will see soon that you will fail at that. I pray for that, love, not because I want your heart broken, but because it already is.  I want you to see it, so you see His goodness in spite of your brokenness.  It is only when we see our inability to live up to God's standards that we see His grace as truly amazing.  It is amazing, Ava.  I pray that you would lean into it.  I pray that the weight of your sin and His grace towards you in spite of it would produce in you a deep and abiding love for Him.  In truth, I pray the same thing for myself.

I love you, Ava.  I pray for you constantly.  I pray that God would change your heart, and that I would be faithful to model and preach His great love to you.  I thank God for you always.  You are a gift.

Mama

Intercepted Battle Plan. Operation: Total Chaos

--Breakfast: Turn cereal bowl upside down. Throw on the floor.

--Feign interest in basket of toys. Dump whole basket. Walk away.

--Run around the house carrying a graham cracker, spreading crumbs as you go.

--Take diaper off brother. Sit him on potty with poopy bottom.

--Peel all papers off crayons. Break in half. Tear covers off coloring books. Spread papers all over the floor. Color on walls.

--Sneak upstairs. Pull every dress you own out of closet. Break several hangers in the process.

--Costume change!

--Pull covers and sheets off mommy's bed.

--Try on all mommy's shoes.

--Pull clean sheets and towels out of linen closet. Strew them about the upstairs.

--Dump laundry basket full of clean folded clothes.

--Open bin of hand-me-downs. Pull out clothes and shoes in search of the craziest outfit possible.

--Costume Change!

--Lunch: Throw bowl of spaghettios on the floor.

--Move the couch to the center of the living room. Pull cushions off.

--Pull DVDs out of the cabinet. Remove as many from cases as possible.

--Potty time: Take all clothes off. Throw on floor. Splash water while washing hands. Soak clothing. Unroll entire toilet paper roll.

--Costume change!

--Squeeze toddler toothpaste on counter. Lick clean.

--Pull all the books out of the cabinet. Hide in said cabinet.

--Dump Legos. Walk away nonchalantly.

--Costume change!

--Pull the butter out of the refrigerator. Attempt to butter own bread.

--Scream and demand to be held during dinner prep. Squeeze between mom and stove and pants her while she cooks.

--Potty time: Use potty. Do not flush. Attempt to clean potty with toilet brush. Splash about the bathroom.

--Pull out all dish towels. Spread across floor.

--Dinner. Use fingers to eat spaghetti. Spread through hair. Throw bowl on floor.

--Bathtime: Open baby wash. Submerge.

--Lap the house while Mom chases you with pjs.

--Dump out remainder of toys. Walk away.

--Smile irresistibly, giggle, and say "I love you, Mom." She'll still think it's worth it.