Waiting for Isaac

Semien Mountains National Park, Ethiopia

Our adoption is dragging and dragging and dragging. If it goes the way it has been, it could be another year, or more. Last year, I comforted myself by believing that it would be our last Christmas as a family of six. Ha. Maybe Christmas 2012. Maybe not.

It seems like Satan is having a field day in Ethiopia. He has his crossbow drawn and arrows are flying all over adoption. Every week there seems to be news and none of it is encouraging.

Most days I am okay. Most days I rest in God's sovereignty. Most days when I wonder if we should have chosen another agency, I quickly remember that God sent us to Gladney because our daughter is with Gladney. She's not with another agency. When people ask if we are thinking of switching, that is what I reply.

This is HIS adoption. Not mine. HIS. HERS. Not mine.

A friend of ours from church has a daughter she adopted from China years ago. During her wait, they lost a referral. Through some random mess-up, the pretty little girl that they thought was theirs went to another family. Suzy told me, "But that was okay. Because I wanted Isaac. I did NOT want Ishmael. And if we had to wait longer for Isaac, then we will just wait. Because I wanted Isaac! Not Ishmael!"

She was referring to Genesis chapter 16, a chapter I know very well since I taught it at a retreat in Kansas in April. Sarah, who was barren, wanted a son. God had promised her one, but then he took forever to deliver. Finally she took matters into her own hands and had Abraham sleep with her servant girl Hagar. The plan worked. Disastrously. So badly that if you want to know why the Twin Towers were bombed on 9/11, it has a lot to do with Sarah's clever little plot to hurry up God's will.

Sarah wasn't a terrible woman, she just lost her faith. Or maybe she didn't know God well enough to even have much faith to start with. Maybe she didn't realize how powerful he was, how wonderful he was. Maybe she thought he needed her help. So she did what the world said to do, which was to hook up her husband with her maid and hope she got pregnant. Sounds crazy to us, but it was actually perfectly acceptable, and even expected, around 2000 BC. 

As I pointed out in my lesson, Sarah had excuses. God had not revealed himself to her at all, and only to her husband in rather small doses. It's not like she could go cuddle up with some Psalms when she felt discouraged - because there weren't any Psalms to cuddle up with.

I, however, have no excuse.

For I KNOW who God is.

I know he is good.

I know that he works all things for good.

I know that he is faithful.

I know that his plans are beyond my imagination.

There are some days that I want to stomp my foot at God and tell him to HUR! RY! UP!!!
As this process goes on, I bet those days will increase.

So I will cuddle up with some Psalms. And remind myself who my God is.

He is the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
He is the God of me.
He is the God of a baby girl, somewhere in Ethiopia, named Bethlehem.

He is the God who sets the lonely in families.

He is a mighty warrior who saves. 

He is a mighty warrior who hears my cry and the cry of my daughter, who invites me to take refuge in him.

So ~ I will wait for Isaac.

I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in His word I do hope.
Psalm 130:5

Soup: it's not just for winter anymore

This weekend, I walked into my garage and gasped and wailed at the horrific sight that awaited me: an open freezer door. With pounds upon pounds of thawing meat that I had brought from afar (Kroger) when it was found at a great price because I so Proverbs 31y like that.

Till I leave the door open.
Moving along to Chapter 32.

If you have been reading my blog for way too long, you will recall from the cobwebby corners of your mind that yes, this has happened before back in '08.

After an extended period of locking the deep freeze, I let my guard down. I never thought this would happen again. And when I least expected it...it broke my heart.

I just don't know if I can ever trust it again.
I sure hope I can find that key.

My garage now smells like a packing plant. Or as Maggie said, "Like....animals." The Eau de Blood is only accentuated by the balmy 105 degree Houston weather. But my precious husband did the nasty cleaning job - which was so much more romantic to me than diamonds. Thanks babe. Wink wink.

But now I have a CLEAN freezer packed with six casseroles, plus some extra browned ground meat with taco or chili aspirations. And this is a beautiful thing, because next week I shall go under the knife and my family will have food (Prov. 31:15, thank you very much.) I am having surgery in an attempt to fix the jacked-up back issues caused by gestating 32 pounds + 11 ounces of child during a crazy four year period back in the early to mid 2000s.

Pregnancy, the gift that keeps on giving. For the rest of your life.

Which brings us to gazpacho.

??

You think I'm randomly ramblin now, girlfriend, just wait till I get me a laptop and some Vicodin. Who knooooows the things Missy may choose to share with the world come next week!!

I just found it when going through all my recipes in a desperate attempt to make meat tasty and thought I would share it with y'all. Because it is good, and so healthy, and fat free, and good. I make it every summer. Mmmmm.

Now if you are not a fan of tomato juice, or her slutty sister the Bloody Mary, then you won't like this. I am fond of both sisters so I love it. My kids all love it too. I know that makes them kinda weird but that's okay because they have weird parents so really what did we expect.

GAZPACHO

1 clove garlic, minced (but I always use more. Keeps the mosquitoes away. Eva Rose likes to eat minced garlic out of the jar. Which I intend to strongly encourage for the next ten years. Because garlic breath: better than a chastity belt)
4-6 chopped tomatoes
1/2 chopped green pepper (optional)
2 cucumbers, peeled and diced
1/2 onion, chopped fine (both the girls love raw onions. See above.)
2 T olive oil
1 T wine vinegar or regular vinegar
salt and pepper
1 46 ounce can Campbell's tomato juice

Mix it all together and put in the fridge. Yum!
I do not puree this because I like it chunky. You are welcome to toss it in the food processor if that would make you happy. I want you to be happy.

Now I shall assemble two lasagnas so that my husband shall praise me at the city gates.

Back when I was a good mother

This past weekend Walker went out of town on his annual guys' trek to our friends' parents' beautiful lake house on Lake Travis. He had fun and I let him go with no resentment that he was eating homemade blueberry coffee cake (he keeps talking about that cake Chad) and frolicking in the pool with all his best buds while I was back in Houston in my own personal hell called IKEA.

The girls' room has no place for toy storage, namely Barbie storage.  Now Feminist Missy once swore she would not let her children play with Barbies. A conviction that went south into the miry well-intentioned bog called Fantasy Motherhood, waving on its way down to her conviction to let the kids only watch minimal TV and high fiving the one to never let them eat Ramen noodles.

So I saw these storage thingys at IKEA and as you know I dream of organization, so I have been coveting them for lo these many weeks. And since IKEA is right by church, and Walker was gone, I thought on Sunday we would just pop on over, feed my kids cheap IKEA hot dogs (high five!) then stick leave them in IKEA's 'Smaland', and go get me some storage.

The plan was only sweetened when my friend Karre, whose husband was also frolicking in bluberry coffeecake fields, said that she would join me. Her son Thomas and Shep are buds but her other son William? Ike LOVES and I mean LOVES, LOVES his friend Yilyum, to the point that I think Yilyum has considered filing a restraining order. But for today, Karre and I intended to have mommy talk over IKEA lunch while our kids played happily in Smaland like little happy Swedes.

I harbor a love/hate relationship with IKEA. I like that it is cheap, and if you need a place to store the toys that you swore you'd never buy for your kids, it's awesome. And they have good chocolate. But IKEA has made me never, ever want to go to Sweden. I can't really explain why, but IKEA to me represents everything that is annoying about Europe. Including the word 'Smaland.'

And I am also not quite over the disgusting sample I got that turned out to be salmon. A fish sample. On a toothpick. Like that would ever happen at Costco. God bless America.

The problem with IKEA on this particular Sunday - aside from the nasty fish sample - was that everyone in Houston had the exact same deposit-the-kids-and-shop plan. There was a wait for Smaland.  And we had six hungry children.

So, we stood in line for thirty minutes with desperate looks on our faces like we were hoping to get picked to enter a cheesy Swedish nightclub. Ike was waffling about whether he wanted to go in - which is normal for him. He always hesitates in the beginning and he always ends up having a good time. Especially if Yilyum is there to play with.

Finally  - thirty minutes later - we signed several legal waivers (very American of you IKEA) and all our children were safely deposited in Smaland and it was time to get my Euroganization on. I took my buggy which just so happened to be possessed by the devil in that just one push and it SLIIIIID all the way across the IKEA concrete floors. But I didn't have any kids, so I figured I could handle it. I rode the elevator up, stepped off the elevator, and immediately my Smaland parent buzzer went off.

Great.

I put Beelzebub the Shopping Cart back on the elevator and return to Smaland. There was one of my offspring, looking guilty by the door. Ike. "Did he have and accident?" I asked. "No," the lady replied. "He just wanted to come out."

Confusion.

"Was he crying?"

"No, he's fine, he just said he'd like to leave," she said, as she retrieved his shoes, because you can't wear shoes in Smaland. Which is so irritatingly European.

"Well, he's four, and he looks happy, and I need to shop, so why didn't you just tell him to give it another THIRTY SECOND CHANCE and he might actually enjoy it before you paged me? Because his dad's been out of town since 8am Friday morning and I COULD USE A BREAK? And the thought of dragging children around IKEA while their dad eats homemade blueberry coffee cake in a beautiful lakehouse is REASON ENOUGH TO POINT OUT THE DELIGHTS OF SMALAND TO HIM isn't it?!?!"

That's what I didn't say.  Instead I put Ike in Beelzebub, got back on the elevator, and exited onto the second floor.

At which point my beeper immediately went off again.

Back downstairs. At the Smaland desk. I saw Yilyum sitting down in the distance, crying, and thought maybe they had intended to page Karre. Then I saw/heard Maggie sobbing next to him.

"You're Maggie's mom?"

"Yes....." Maggie? Maggie never has issues in place like this. Maggie?

"Well, Maggie punched a child in the face."

"MAGGIE did?!?"

"Yes. And we can't have violence here. So you have to remove her." From Smaland. That I just put her in three minutes ago. After waiting for thirty.

"MAGGIE?"

"Yes ma'am." The words 'violence' and 'Maggie' have never been used in a sentence before. Shocked, I asked her, "Why did you hit William?"

"Because he wouldn't get out of the shoooooooooeeee." Sobbing uncontrollably. Loudly.

I deposited her in the shopping cart and proceeded to lecture her about violence as I rode the elevator - again. Ike also chastised appropriately, "MaaGEEEE! You hit my FWIEND? MaaaGEEEE!"  More wails of remorse if not repentance. When I told Karre what had happened, she of course went to get her boys, and Shep was on her sign-in card, so I got Eva Rose out as well.

So here I was. After waiting thirty minutes to not have to be in IKEA with four kids, I was in IKEA with four kids. And a shopping cart named Beelzebub.

And I was mad. Really mad. Really mad and knowing that they are just kids and kids do stuff like that blah blah BLAH but I was still m-a-d mad.

While I wanted to stomp back to the car, I needed the Barbie storage and I certainly didn't want to come back here. Especially not when one of my Smals had been blacklisted from Smaland.

Now another thing that I can't stand about IKEA is that I can never find my way out of it. It's a never-ending maze of simple lines and primary colors, and if you are just there for one thing, like Barbie storage, it's incredibly annoying that you have to take a tour of the entire HUGE store to get there. The signs point to shortcuts but go NOWHERE. So I wind and wind around the stupid IKEA never ending stupid showroom with a cart that constantly tries to FLY away in the opposite direction of where I want it to go. And Maggie is still SOBBING. And the other kids are complaining that they've been pulled from Smaland. And Ike is being IKE. And I can't get their DAD to answer his dumb PHONE to find out when he is coming home. AND MY SHOPPING CART IS POSSESSED. I'm MAD and I have SMOKE coming out of my EARS and my kids are CRYING and I don't even CARE and right then I hear a voice go, "Missy?"

I turn.

It's Paula.
Who was a girl I mentored in youth ministry.
One of my favorite, sweetest, most precious girls.
Whom I haven't seen in years.
And for whom I once upon a time tried to be a godly role model.
And she has a friend with her.
And I am so angry at this point - really and truly angry - that I can't even fake not being angry.

I try to explain it all to her over Maggie's wails, but it's hopeless. It's just a bad mommy moment, and there is not a thing I can do about it now except try and find my way up to the stupid BARBIE STORAGE!

I did. I found it. I heaved it into my cart. We all came home. Walker came home and took over. I laid on my bed and stared at the ceiling and pondered what a complete and utter failure I am as a godly role model.

But mostly I just was glad that he was home.
And that my daughters now have a place to put their Barbies.
The Barbies I would have never ever bought, back when I was a good mother.

Pillow talk

Him: Take off your glasses please.

Me (coyly): Why? Because 'boys don't make passes at girls who wear glasses'?

Him: Actually it's 'boys don't make passes at girls who pass gasses'.

Me: {pause} Well then I'm just, like, double jeopardy ---

Him: Just take off your glasses please.

What's the big deal about Caylee Anthony?

I didn't watch too much of the Casey Anthony trial. I caught up on the highlights every couple of days, that's about it. Despite the fact that I am sure she killed her daughter, I speculated she would not be convicted. There just wasn't enough physical evidence.

The 'crimes' that convinced me, and probably you, that Casey Anthony killed her baby girl somehow, someway, just weren't prosecutable under Florida law. It's not illegal to not report your child missing for thirty days. It's not illegal to go out partying while an invisible nanny fails to return her. It's not illegal to post photos of yourself in wet t-shirts on your facebook page while the child you carried in your womb decomposes in a humid swamp.

We all know she did it because we know that normal mothers never lose sight of their children for more than thirty seconds without having panic attacks - possibly not even Casey. So she must have known exactly where she was to be so relaxed. Casey wasn't worried about her daughter because her daughter was already dead.

Since the truth has not been and will probably never be revealed, the reasons as to why Casey did it remain concealed. But we all have our suspicions. Little Caylee was probably murdered because babies are incredibly, incredibly inconvenient.

And this alone is what has shocked the conscious of our nation as a whole: the idea that a mother could dirty dance at a costume party while everyone else who loved Caylee was frantic with worry. The idea that a mother could somehow, some way just get rid of the child that got in the way of her freedom, then carry on like she never existed. Conservative or liberal, right wing, left wing, Christian, atheist: our nation is unified in its mutual disgust.

Except for me.
I'm just confused.

Because if Casey Anthony had decided that a baby was inconvenient to her lifestyle just a couple of years earlier, made an appointment, paid a doctor several hundred dollars to kill her daughter, then gotten up the next night, put on her sexiest outfit, and danced and drank away the night and posted photos of it on facebook, stating that she had 'no regrets', the majority of Americans would not bat an eye. Many, in fact, would applaud her, and call her strong, resilient, an amazing woman.

At age two, Caylee Anthony's death was nothing more than an extremely late-term abortion.

So, I want to ask those in the media, the many vocal celebrities, the average person on the street who express such disdain, why does this bother you so much?

'She didn't want to be a mom at this stage in her life, so she got rid of it.
She's actually a very good problem solver. 
It was a private decision.
I mean, I could never do it myself, but I don't feel like it's my right to force anyone to be a mother if she doesn't feel she's ready.
It's really none of my business.
What other women do with their own bodies - and the bodies of the children they shouldn't be forced to carry - is their personal right.'

Can someone just tell me what's the big deal?

I imagine that they would say it was because Caylee was a human being, and didn't deserve to die like that. Okay, so, tell me what makes a human being so special? Why are we humans more deserving of life than the poor but tasty pig that I had for lunch today?

Christians have an answer for this one: it is because humans, as opposed to other creatures, are made in the image and likeness of God. 

And I think this is one area where all people who consider themselves in any way spiritual agree. Christians call this "imago dei"; many other religions believe that there is a 'divine spark' in all humans. The finer details will differ, but at least we have some sort of common ground on this. So, agreed:

Humans should not be murdered because we believe that God's fingerprints dance all over our very being. Caylee should not have been murdered and subsequently disposed like garbage because she was made in the very image of God.

But how exactly did Caylee reflect God? Is God three feet tall with light brown hair and big brown eyes? Does he even have eyes? Or hair? And if he does, isn't it long and white to match his long white beard?

Question 9 of the catechism that we teach our children answers this for us: No. "God is a spirit and he has not a body like men." Or little girls.

Which means, I have no idea what he looks like, I just know that he doesn't look anything like me, or Caylee, because both of us indeed have - had - a body.

Therefore, if I am a reflection of him, it must not be in my physical arms and legs and belly button and eyebrow form. It must have to do with that spirit side of it. God is a SPIRIT. I am a SPIRIT. I am made in his image SPIRITUALLY, not physically.

Which means my body really has nothing to do with it. I was made in his image when I was an adorable two year old; an awkward twelve year old; a skinny 20 year old; and even now as a saggy 41 year old. If I live to be an even saggier 90 year old, I will still be reflecting his image. 

I was made in his image when I was two weeks old. And two weeks before that. And two months before that. And seven months before that. I was made in his image as an embryo - because it was my spirit that was formed at conception, in addition to my body. My spirit that transcends my body. And my spirit reflects his spirit.

Caylee's spirit reflected God's spirit.

Caylee Anthony reflected the image of God from the moment of her conception. But if her mother had chosen to kill her just a few months before, she would have never, ever been arrested, never been prosecuted, never been tweeted about, never filled the internet, never been on TV, we'd have never have even heard her name.

It doesn't seem logical to me that a different date on the calendar should make such a big difference regarding our ideals of acceptability and justice and maternal love and all that.

So y'all, come on now - what's the big deal??

Confessions of a rookie communion server

To all the children of my congregation to whom I handed yucky wine this morning instead of grape juice: I'm very sorry. Hope you liked it...I mean, didn't like it, or whatever...I'm just sorry.
 
To all the mothers of the children to whom I handed wine this morning instead of grape juice: please forgive me. I can only hope that in some way it helped contribute to a restful Sabbath. 

To the pregnant women to whom I handed wine instead of grape juice: I just assumed you didn't. Lord knows I was grateful for that solitary allowed thimbleful of wine when I felt like a whale and it was 100 degrees by 10am and had just gotten myself, couple of ornery toddlers and my husband looking halfway cute and hauled all of us up to church. None of y'all refused, so I think we're good, but sorry just in case.

To the woman in the orange dress: I am sorry I stared at you. But I was battling a huge impulse to say, "Oh, I LOVE your dress!" and then tell you how I am going through and orange phase now and don't you just love orange? especially with turquoise? and your dress is to die for and so retro but has that waistline that is SO flattering and you look fantastic in it and where'd you get it and what's your name? I'm Missy. Do you go here? HOWEVER. I didn't feel that was appropriate, as I was passing out the symbolic body and blood of our Lord and Savior and it might ruin the sacredness of the moment for you.  So I froze whilst pondering these things during the two seconds you stood before me. That might have freaked you out. Sorry.

To all of you who couldn't understand me when I handed you the cup: I'm sorry, but I had a little stage fright. I wanted to be original, and come up with different things to say, at least try and have a rotation of sayings, but all I could come up with was "the blood of Christ" and I felt stupid saying it over and over so I tried to switch it up a little but then I just ended up getting tongue-tied. Sorry. 

To my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, whose body was broken and whose blood was spilt for me: I'm sorry I'm so shallow, so worldly, so prideful, and so self-focused that even as I participate in this holy sacrament, my mind is on anything and everything but you and your sacrifice on the cross to take away the sins of the world.

Oh, how do you put up with me, Lord??

Have mercy on me.
Amen.

Just a man and his will to plank

Y'all have heard of planking, right? When people lie down, take a picture, and post it online for their 15 milliseconds of fame?

It's sweeping the world, with websites devoted to it. Problem is, it can be dangerous. The planking death toll stands at at least two. Senseless victims of a senseless fad.

Some people think it should be outlawed.
With planking police and planking courts.
Those convicted would have to walk the plank (ba boom cha.)

My husband is known for being way cooler than me. He, of course, told me about planking to begin with.

So I should have known it was just a matter of time before he couldn't resist joining the craze.

Problem is, as you know, we are not 20 anymore, like the majority of other plankers. Walker's almost 40. His reflexes are slower. His balance is less balanced. His bones are creakier. His joints are less flexible. His muscles are, well, um, less muscle-ly.

So naturally my heart skipped a beat tonight, when he cracked his knuckles, smiled an excited, nervous smile, and told me that the time had come.  I worried that my beloved would hurt himself. But support him I must, so reluctantly - against my better judgment - I agreed to be his photographer.

We started out kind of easy, to build up confidence...

After that, he was ready to take it to another level.

I held my breath for the second feat -

but he survived without injury. Grateful exhale.

Now, two successful planks under his belt, he felt cockier than ever. He told me he was ready for The Grande Finale.

My hands shook as I held the camera and halfheartedly joined him in humming Eye of the Tiger.

But first he turned to me, stroked my cheek, and whispered what I hoped were not his last words to me, You're the Adrienne to my Rocky, babe...and then he planked The Plank To End All Planks:

That's my man.

He's still got it.

A Restaurant to Ban Kids Under 6

My brother-in-law sent me this link this morning. What do y'all think?

 A Restaurant to Ban Kids Under 6 -- Older Customers Complained About Rowdiness

Restaurant Bans Young Kids

"It hasn't been a banner year for the under-6 set.

Starting July 16, McDain's, a Pittsburgh-area restaurant, will ban children under the age of 6 from its dining area. Restaurant owner Mike Vuick said the policy came in response to complaints he'd received from older customers about kids causing a ruckus. In an email to his clientele, Vuick wrote, "We feel that McDain's is a not a place for young children … and many, many times they have disturbed other customers."

Read the rest of the article here.

Have you ever had a horrible kid experience in a restaurant - either your own or other people's?

Tawk amongst yourselves.

 ******

Okay, now that y'all have weighed in I'll tell you my opinion :)

I think it's completely the restaurant's right, of course. I assume they had some horrible situations that caused them to do this. If they didn't, then they are just crotchety, and the restaurants of crotchety restaurants usually fail pretty quickly.

We try to go to kid-friendly places when we have the kids. Here in the burbs, this is not a problem.

I can say I have only had one bad experience that comes to mind with bratty kids in a restaurant, and it was actually bratty parents. 

You know how toddlers go through that high pitched screaming phase that will call all the dogs in the neighborhood. Most of them do, and when they do, they MUST be disciplined for the sake of all our sanity. Usually holding their little chin rather firmly in my hand, looking directly into their eyes with my meanest Mommy face and saying "NO. SCREAM." did the trick. If that did not, a spanking would.

We were at 59 Diner - anyone who knows me knows that I believe this to be about the worst restaurant in Houston so I was already a little grumpy at being outvoted and being forced to eat there by extended family. We had about 4-6 very small children in our group. And at another table, there was a toddler who was doing The Scream, over and over and over and over, and the parents would do nothing.

Now, let me tell you right now - if you do not discipline your children in public, I will be happy to discipline them for you. I was a teacher. Fussing at strange children is nothing to me. I even enjoy it a little. (Frieda has a 'teacher face' that could stop a trucker dead. I learned from The Master.)

Had they been closer, I would have looked at this baby and said NO. SCREAM.

But they weren't. They were across the restaurant, and too far away to look at my mom. Every time the baby screamed I would literally jump. I was so aggravated - but at the parents, not the child. Because the parents completely ignored something that could not have been viewed cute by anyone with eardrums.

Perhaps they were deaf? I had not considered that. I don't know how else they could have resisted stabbing their eyeballs with their forks since the screams were directly in their ears.

Nah, they weren't. They were just really, really rude. 

But those experiences are the exception, not the rule, at least in my town.

Rules like this don't determine where I eat. Good service and good food do. And sandboxes. Because we drive a long way for a restaurant with a sandbox, where everyone there expects dirty loud children and we never fail to disappoint.

Boys will be psychopaths boys

Shep at 3 with one of his many manufactured guns

Long ago, back when I knew everything, I was a teacher and not a mother.  There was a little boy in my pre-kindergarten class who used to draw many scenes of various warriors attacking each other with swords and knives and guns. Blood the color of red crayons spilled onto the construction paper from their dismembered bodies.

I was quite concerned. Surely his anger over his parents' very tense divorce was being manifested in his artwork. I fretted. I prayed. I worried he was a budding psychopath. I recommended his parents take him to a child psychologist.

I grew up, got married, and gave birth to a boy. And another.

My first son, Shepherd, had beautiful blue eyes and blond hair that shone like a halo above his angelic face.  When there was a baby doll near him, sometimes he would cradle it, rock it, perhaps even sing a sweet lullaby, as had been modeled to him by both myself and his father.

But much more often he'd pick it up, look into its sweet baby doll face, then hold it by the feet as he bashed its sweet baby doll head against the floor. Repeatedly. As hard as he could.

Which had never been modeled to him by I nor his father. Ever. Not once.

As soon as his little fine motor skills could handle it, he made guns. Guns from Pop-Onz. Guns from bristle blocks. Guns from peanut butter sandwiches.

Should I call a child psychologist? Was he a psychopath?

No. He was just a boy.

Eventually I learned to respond by rolling my eyes, and marveling at the difference between the sexes.

My angelic son is almost eight years old now, still blond, and obsessed with war in general, WWII specifically. Recently, when asked what his hobbies were, the child of two rather pacifist parents replied, "I'm really into violence." He peppers me with questions as I drive him to soccer practice.

"What's your favorite gun, Mom?"

I wince at these repeated inquisitions. For I've never, ever had a favorite gun. I've never had any slight fondness for any weapon of any kind whatsoever. Nor a favorite battleship, nor fighter jet, nor battlefield, nor battle, nor general, nor...
 
"Um...a machine gun."

"Oh, good choice Mom! Machine guns are awesome. What kind of machine gun is your favorite?"

"Um...a black one?"

He sighs at me pathetically, and in the rear view mirror I see him roll his eyes.

Later he asks me if we can look together on YouTube for videos of Hitler's bunker so he can remake it with his Legos. "I admire the Germans...not for what they did. Killing the Jews and all. That was really evil. But they did have a lot of discipline...and they did have the best weapons..."

Should I call a child psychologist? Is he a psychopath?

No, I've learned, he is just a boy.
I roll my eyes.

This afternoon, his exhausted younger brother is placated on the couch with cartoons. Soon one of my giggling daughters hands me a piece of paper with her latest artwork. I expect to see one of her unicorns, or maybe a spotted pup frolicking in a field of flowers - the usual. Instead I see this:
 

"Oh my word, Sissy! That's awful! Why did you draw such a thing?!?"

Should I call a child psychologist? Is my daughter a psychopath?

She giggles some more. "Shep told me to draw it! He said draw Deadly Dora killing Boots! So I did!" She giggles some more at the absurdity of it all.

I exhale.

She's not psychotic. She was just, temporarily, a boy.

Relieved, I roll my eyes.

Why He came

It's been exactly one year. Please pray for Mitzi and Glen and Michael. Please pray that the Lord would bless them with another child.

"My son died."

That's what Mitzi said when I called her back. Just like that. "My son died."

Before I could pull into the parking lot I began to sob that deep, soul coughing sob that I've only done a couple of other times in my life. Which frightened my children. But my cell phone had died, so if I stepped outside the car, I would be unattached from the umbilical cord that connected it to the life of the cigarette lighter. The children began to cry too. We all cried, all of us questioning why, in the parking lot of the Kinkos.

In between sobs, I heard that the baby I had just cooed to days earlier through the layers of cotton and skin that separated me from him had quit kicking her. She went to the hospital on Sunday, and they confirmed it. He was gone. They cut open her womb and removed his body. He was five pounds one ounce. He was beautiful. He looked perfect. And he was gone.

Born still. Born into heaven. Born asleep.

He died.

She has grieved well, my friend. She grieved well from the very beginning. I've never felt so blessed to call another woman friend as I have felt blessed to watch her grieve. She's been prepared for this her entire life. Her God revealed Himself to her long before this and she knows Him. She knows that He is good even in this shadow of this very, very bad. She clings to Him desperately as she wades through this season.

But now the holidays are here, and he is not. He would be four months old, if all had gone as we thought it would. He'd be chubby. Maybe cutting a tooth. He'd be smiling a lot. He'd even be laughing. He'd be dressed in a little red Santa suit and Mitzi would be struggling over what to buy an infant for Christmas. He'd be a joy.

But he's not here. And the grief comes in waves. Tsunamis of sorrow. And the joy is hard to catch. And if it is caught, it only lasts a moment before it slips away again.

Everything reminds her of him. Everywhere she sees baby boys who belong to other mothers.

I stand in church and my husband points to the list of poinsettias. The one I paid for weeks ago says In memory of Christian Graham Wells. Memory. I bury my face in my husband's jacket and cry. Then I erase the smeared mascara with a clean white little boy sock because that's all I can find in my purse as the words of a Christmas carol I've known all my life sound completely new to me:

Mild he lays His glory by

born that we no more may die

born to raise us from the earth

born to give us second birth

THIS is why He came.

He came, as a baby, because babies die.

Babies typically smile at six weeks old. I assume that by the time Mary brought Jesus to the Temple, her Son had just redeemed His first several weeks of sleeplessness by finally smiling at His mother. And at that smile, Mary, who could not believe that she could love Him any more, immediately loved Him more.

Knowing the crippling power of this love myself, I have often wondered how Mary responded when she proudly presented her beautiful Son to Simeon, and he told her, And a sword will pierce your own soul too. I imagine the smile sliding off her face as her heart begins to pound and she questions why.

THIS is why he came.

He came as a Son, because sons die.

And, like Mary, Mitzi is well acquainted with the aches of a soul piercing.

But the Baby who smiled and walked and talked - who did all the things Christian did not do - He also grew into a Man who proclaimed that God was within reach, available to be grasped and clung to and for that, He was crucified. He died.

But after he was murdered and buried, this Son of Man rose again. And He goes to prepare a place for us - He had already prepared a nursery for Christian - He has also prepared a place for Mitzi and for me and for you where we will one day hold the living body of her baby son while we behold the living body of Mary's Son and then, then we will find joy in the complete understanding that THIS IS WHY HE CAME.

Hark, the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn King!

Designer babies, designer God

There's a lottery in England right now to "win a baby."
 And my mom was just telling me about a book she is reading, Sing You Home. The basic plot summary is this: a couple struggle to get pregnant. They create several embryos via IVF. They divorce. Woman becomes a lesbian. Lesbian couple decide they want to use the embryos. Ex-husband objects. Lawsuit ensues. It's not reality yet - but I believe Jodi Picoult is a prophet. (And according to the reviews, the lesbians are portrayed as saints, the Christians as evil. Yawn.)
Seems like a great time to rerun this post from last spring. 


It's been quite a day.

This morning I read this article about a pregnant woman who, upon discovering that one of her twins had Down Syndrome, scheduled an abortion. Only problem was that the doctor aborted the wrong twin. The healthy, wanted baby was killed instead of the undesirable, imperfect baby. Upon discovering the mistake, the mother rectified the situation by aborting the "right" baby. And then there were none.

Then later this afternoon I read how doctors are taking mitochondria from one egg, implanting it in the egg of a woman who carries a genetic defect, and creating an embryo. The baby, therefore, has three parents.

And a ob/gyn named Dr. Frankenstein.

Last summer I sat by a neighbor's pool when a newly pregnant friend of mine revealed that her doctor had offered her the opportunity to take a new blood test that can determine the gender of the baby during the first trimester. My friends gasped at the fun of finding out so early.

My worries exceeded my excitement. "Now, people will abort that much earlier when they don't get the sex they want." My friends called me ridiculous. "No one will do that, Missy. Tsk tsk."

I cocked my head at their ignorance. "Yeah, they will," I nodded, and whispered, "For sure they will." I let it drop. They didn't want to go there.

Many countries already do this regularly. China is facing a fifty million girl shortage due to gendercide that had become the norm. I am sure they will be delighted to abort mere weeks into a pregnancy than to wait until they have felt her kick, or to suffocate her once she is born.

It is believed that 90% of babies diagnosed in the womb with Down are aborted. Many women who choose to implant several embryos during in vitro fertilization routinely "selectively reduce" the babies down to a number that is desirable, a practice I have always found the epitome of irony. And I can guarantee you that children are being aborted in this country because they made the mistake of not developing into the girl or boy that their parents were striving for. We are not morally superior to the Chinese.

Nor are we any less hedonistic than our friends the British, who often abort babies for such simple, correctable abnormalities as club feet (which Olympic champion ice skater Kristi Yamaguchi was born with) and extra fingers and toes. One English father aborted his 20 week old child with a missing hand because he feared the child would not excel at sports.

As the field of genetics and prenatal testing continues, it won't be long before it is routine to abort babies for reasons of eye color or height. "Tsk tsk, Missy," you say. "No one will do that."

To which I will reply: untold millions of babies have been aborted for much lesser reasons.

Tsk, tsk.

Not so long ago, if you wanted a car, you went down to the lot, and you picked one out and drove it home. You didn't custom order everything down to the color of your steering wheel. If you wanted curtains, you drove to Sears, you decided which ones matched best, and you hung them up on your windows. At a restaurant, you had several items to choose from, not a ten page booklet. And they didn't make it your way. They made it their way.

But this is not the world we now live in. I am constantly overwhelmed by my choices. I've literally burst into tears in Lowe's paint department trying to choose between the sixty five different shades of light green before me. And as much as I love online shopping, it drags out a purchase considerably. Decisions to buy a camera or, heaven help me, one of those custom ordered cars, take hours of research and add stress to what should be a delightful purchase.

Because there are so many options, I feel obligated to design every aspect of my life down to the smallest detail.

Is it any wonder that we feel entitled to do this with our offspring? To create a perfect reflection of ourselves and reject the inferior version?

Is it any wonder we feel entitled to do this with our God?

Back in the curtains-from-Sears day, there was also little to no God shopping. The God of the bible was the God you got. You could take Him or leave Him, but you weren't encouraged to redesign Him.

Then God, like cars and cell phones, got marketed.
And marketing appeals to the consumer, not the product.

"Repent for the Kingdom is at hand"? Way too depressing. And, well, judgmental. Let's replace that with "Join the Excitement!"

"Prepare ye the way of the Lord"? We're too busy choosing a new cell phone for that. How about, "Become a Better You"? Now that, I could squeeze into my schedule.

"Rejoice in your sufferings?" Suffer? Why suffer when you could "Live Your Best Life Now"?

"Blessed are the poor"? Pshaw! Joel Osteen says, "God wants us to prosper financially, to have plenty of money."

This Extreme God Makeover is nothing new. Paul spoke of it almost 2,000 years ago in his letter to the Romans: "Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles....They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator..."

None of us probably worship lizards or cats.
But I know a lot of us worship a god of our own creation.

It is a god who wants nothing for us but perfect health. A god who is only interested in our finances to the extent that he increases them. A god who is tolerant of and even encouraging of sin, especially if we claim we can't help it or were born that way. A god who doesn't care if we worship him in a pew or at IHOP. A god who would never, ever send anyone to hell. Well, maybe Hitler. But not our friends, our nice friends.

A god who above all else wants us to be happy, no matter what we have to do or who we have to hurt to achieve satisfaction.

A god who never judges, never condemns, never disciplines. We find ourselves saying, "My god would never do that."

But this god that would never do anything we don't like is a refurbished computer. He was pieced together from different parts, some of them functional, some of them garbage. And the problem with this god is that he frequently crashes.

This designed god offers no explanation when our cancer is diagnosed. This god of wealth's impotence is revealed when our house is foreclosed upon. This god stingily withholds the abundant joy that is found only from turning away from the behaviors and attitudes that are slowly and certainly killing us. This god can make nothing new, especially our hearts.

And this god not only denies us access to eternal life, he can't even give us clear directions on how to get there. This god shrugs his shoulders and suggests that we just try and be as nice as we can be and hope for the best.

The true God, however, reveals himself to us, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully, in one place alone: his Word, which He so graciously wrote to us. The true God offers only one pathway to Himself: his Son, which He so sacrificially gave to us.

The true God sometimes says and does things we don't like. Like the parents of these "designer babies" will very shortly learn, even the best "designed" children will have minds of their own. So does this God.

The true God who sometimes takes away things we love most. The true God who is completely intolerant of sin, not only the sin of a child molester, but the sin of a dishonoring wife or gossiping neighbor. The true God who assures us that indeed, we were all born that way, but that doesn't mean He's okay if we stay that way.

The true God who makes it abundantly clear that being nice is never, ever going to be good enough to go to heaven.

But -
He is the true God who shows us that peace has nothing to do with the storm that surrounds us, but everything to do in trusting in the One who is mightier than the storm. The true God takes the most horrific circumstances of our lives and makes them beautiful. The true God works all things - especially the painful, frightening and confusing things - for the good of those who love him.

The God who planned great works for us before we were ever born - in order that we glorify Him, not ourselves. Because in that, and that alone, we find happiness.

The God who believes a child with a deformity or a difference is not something worthless to be discarded, but a sign of his glory. The God who takes our greatest fear, death, and makes it our greatest blessing.

The God who wants to love us with the strongest, deepest, most unquenchable love, now and forevermore.

He is a God so much better than any that we could ever design for ourselves, who has such a better life for us than that other god could ever imagine.

Which God do you choose?

The one you designed, or the One who designed you?

But if serving the LORD seems undesirable to you, then choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your ancestors served beyond the Euphrates, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD."
Joshua 24:15

Addendum: I was unaware until a commenter pointed out that gender selection is not just an issue in China and other countries, but Canada is experiencing the same phenomenon. Canada - CANADA - is now reporting a shortage of baby girls due to gender selection abortion.
Guess which country's next, friends?

Whatcha readin?

So what is on your summer reading list?





Your God is Too Safe has been rocking my world in a huge way. It's one of those books where I am not even underlining while I read, or else I would be underlining the entire thing. It's deep, so rich, but very easy to read.

I'm in the refiner's fire now, and I know for sure that God sent this book straight to me for this season of my life - especially since I cannot even remember when or where I got it. It just kinda showed up on my nightstand.







I am also trying to get through Dallas Willard's The Divine Conspiracy: Rediscovering Our Hidden Life In God  - again. I love this book so much. Problem is, it makes my head spin, so I can only read it when I am not too tired, which is, um, rarely.

I think I started this book about 10-12 years ago. It's fun to me to see the points I scribbled and circled and put exclamation points next to then - because the things that are blowing my mind now are completely different than back then. It's like I've had some life changes or something - ?








I was never a huge GW fan, I was just neutral. For those of us in Texas, he always just seemed like someone your dad would go golfing with, or in the case of my dad, running with.  But after reading this book, I have actually - Walker is fully aware of this - developed a little bit of a crush on ole GW.

It's a fascinating to get to see the behind-the-scenes of a presidency. And he gives the gospel in a no-holds-barred way, which only makes me more enamored. Tee hee hee hee blush blush.






Walker and I are also watching some awesome TV of late so I will include that. The other night we watched Inception - WOW. I am so glad I had a remote control with a pause button for all the "WHAT?! HUH?! Walker heeelllp I'm so confuuuuused" moments. But it was super fun and you know what, that movie is almost rated PG - no boobage, mild old-fashioned violence, negligible cussing. My kids probably could have watched it. And they probably would have been able to explain it to me because Momma was dizzy.

We are also watching the Sherlock and loving it. Dry British humor ranks up there. And Walker is now beckoning me to come watch another episode of The Pillars of the Earth which is also great. Have y'all read that? It's about the building of a cathedral in the Dark Ages. He's is reading the book on his beloved Kindle but I have committment issues when it comes to 1008 page novels.

So what about y'all?