The Most Wonderful Time of the Year (Except When It Isn't)

What do you do when it's ten days before Christmas, and you're just not feeling it?

It's hard to admit.

Everyone smiles for Facebook. Pictures with Santa. Photos of Christmas lights. Baking cookies, sending holiday cards, lighting candles at church.

But you're not feeling it.

Or maybe I should say, I'm not feeling it.

There are moments of genuine joy. There is laughter. There are excursions downtown and breakfasts with Santa. There are smiles and jokes and gifts and bows striped with red and white.

Our house looks happy. But my heart tells a different story.

My Ethiopian son texted me yesterday and asked how I am. I replied, "I'm trying to be happy." He asked what was wrong, and I didn't have an answer. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. There is money in the bank, food in the refrigerator, children and a husband who love me. We are all healthy.

It's my anxiety. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I hate it. So much. It interferes with my life. I'm embarrassed by it. I try to pray it away. I recite Bible verses. I try to control my disordered brain with my thinking. I talk to a therapist. I take medication. I use essential oils and breathing techniques.

But sometimes, sometimes it's all too much. So I force a smile and I take a pill. I hug my husband and try to let him absorb some of my fears by osmosis. I go to church and pray for relief. I listen to music, and that is often my salvation.

Music reminds me that I am loved, that I'm carried by the Father, that my future is in His control. Lauren Daigle is my current go-to.

(If music helps you, here are a few of my favorites:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gYR0xP1j4PY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IV9-nhOoTw

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0JsU-f0JoU )

Someone told me a year or so ago that I am the strongest person she knows. Gosh I loved that. I think about it all the time. I want to be strong, confident, able to overcome anything life throws my way. To laugh with abandon at the future.

Or at the very least, I would like to be perceived that way. Because our society, our culture...we favor and praise the strong. We pity the weak.

But I know that's not God's way. He delights in helping the weak. He wants to be our Rescuer, and if everything is perfect, what on earth would we need to be rescued from?

Sometimes I imagine God saying, "Blessed are the strong, for they are my favorites. Blessed are the confident, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the healthy, for they shall prosper. Blessed are the moneymakers, for they will rule the world."

But alas, He doesn't. God's kingdom is such an upside-down way of thinking, of living. He says, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, because theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, because they will be comforted. Blessed are the gentle, because they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, because they will be filled..."

Blessed? Blessed to be the meek, the mild, and the mourning? I don't pretend to understand. So I just breathe and receive. Breathe and believe. I choose to believe, even when my brain betrays me and emotions spill out of eyes, my hands shake, and my breaths are shallow.

In Mark Chapter 9, a father asked Jesus to heal his son. He declared to Jesus, "I believe! Help my unbelief!"

That right there is probably the truest, most human words uttered in Scripture. I believe. Help my unbelief. I want to be well, but I know it's in my weakness that He is able to be strong. I want to be free from anxiety, but without it, how would I know the comfort of the Comforter?

So this, this anxiety, is my Achilles heel. The chink in my armor. My area of vulnerability.

Maybe yours is different: lack of confidence, jealousy, depression, financial difficulty, family instability, toxic relationships.

Are you willing to share what it is? And if so, how do you deal with it, especially during the "most wonderful time of the year"?

3 Things That Make Me Happy

1. Christmas cards.
I love checking my mailbox in December. Truth be known, I'm not normally fond of weeding through mail. It tends to pile up on the kitchen counter until I just can't take it anymore, and I spend a couple hours going through it. Usually while watching TV.
But December is different. There is so much mail from family and loved ones. Carefully posed Christmas photos, creatively worded Christmas letters, and thoughtfully chosen Christmas cards. This one, from my cousin, makes me extra happy because ... coffee and cookies. You can never go wrong with that combo.

2. Acknowledgement.
Not everybody is going to think of us as a family of 6. And that's OK. Legally we are a family of 3. At dinnertime there are three plates and three cups on the table. Our minivan only has 3 seats that are typically occupied. And laundry--(let me just say that I pray for all of you with a billion kids living in your home)--is a lot easier as a family unit of 3 rather than a family of 6.
But in our hearts, we are a family of 6. And when that is acknowledged, I smile. It makes the past 7 years feel like it was worth it.

3. And on a lighter note, incorrect test answers. Yes, incorrect test answers make me happy.
My 8-year-old had a test on inventors at school yesterday. He couldn't think of the answer to one of the questions, so he decided to be, well, inventive, and hoped he would get lucky.

Now you may be wondering, as I was, who is Bill Graymon? Jack says he made him up. But why "Bill Graymon"? No reason. Just a name he made up.

I feel like he should have gotten at least 1/2 a point for his creativity!

What has made you happy lately?

I didn't want to go to church yesterday. I was tired from a busy weekend, and I just wanted to relax. Maybe you've felt that way at times. Your "To Do" list is longer than a CVS receipt. Your baby woke you up multiple times in the night. You're not feeling 100 percent. Most of your clothes are in the dirty laundry basket, and the rest are wrinkled.

And yet. I felt the Still Small Voice telling me to go. And I knew from previous experience to listen and obey.

It was the first Sunday of Advent, the day when we light the candle of Hope.

Sometimes hope is hard-fought for, especially if you've experienced profound disappointment. It's hard to  hope again, isn't it? We look forward to a day of healing and wholeness, when Love incarnate will reign. But during the in-between time, we grasp at hope, watch it slip through our fingers, and try desperately to hold on.

I've experienced deep, bottomless disappointment. Grief over dreams not realized. Maybe you have, too. Hoping again means making yourself vulnerable, letting down your guard, knocking down the wall that surrounds and protects your heart. There's a chance your hope won't be realized this side of heaven. That's the reality.

But in that church service yesterday, when the first candle of Advent was lit, I felt the seeds of hope within my weary heart. 

Hope shines brightest in the darkest night of the soul.

An infant in the row behind me was squealing in distress until she found comfort at her mother's breast.  I imagine she sucked greedily, without fear, filling her empty stomach and calming her cries.

Hope.

When the pastor prayed his "pastoral prayer,"  he prayed for a physician in the church who specializes in mental health care, and he prayed for all of us who suffer from mental illness. No stigma, no condemnation, just love and comfort.

Hope.

Our Bible reading was from Matthew Chapter 1, the genealogy of Jesus. Listed among the line of Jesus are cheaters, liars, murderers, prostitutes, the poor, the destitute, the long-forgotten. "The Bible is honest enough to show us the failures of Christ's genealogy," the pastor said.

And there are women. Women weren't normally listed in genealogies. They weren't highly regarded.

But in the family of God, nobody is excluded. 

That gives me hope.

At the end of the service, my friends Heather and Rick were serving communion. When Heather gave me the bread, she said, "Luann, this is Christ's body, sacrificed for you."  I've taken communion hundreds of times, but something about hearing her say my name was startling and refreshing. And I believed what she said.

Hope.

I returned to my seat, and just as I had taken the bread, my 8-year-old slid into the seat next to me. He had been downstairs at children's church, but he told the teacher he wanted to leave early so he could take communion. Disappointed clouded his face when he realized we'd already gone forward to receive the bread and cup...but I had my cup, still full. I looked into his sweet face and let him drink from my cup. He drank greedily, shaking the little cup until he got every last drop. 

Hope.

Today my dear friend starts treatment for liver cancer. I have been fearful of cancer for as long as I can remember. But when I talk to this friend, I see and hear in his voice the graciousness of God. He was scared at first--terrified, but God has ministered to his heart in a way that I can't describe. He speaks of the goodness of God, the presence of God, the comfort of God, and I have hope. For him, as he fights this terrible disease, and for me, as I lay my fears at the altar.

Hope shines brightest in the darkest of nights. Our hope is Emmanuel--God with us. He shall disperse the gloomy clouds of night, and death's dark shadows put to flight. He will come to us and cheer our spirits, comfort our fears, and give us hope in His unfailing love and goodness.

Rejoice. Hope has come.

How's Your Week Going?

Dog-tired from their escapades.

Yesterday morning, our dog Lucy, who is nearly 14 years old, threw up. In my bed.

She ate as much of it as she could before we found it, which was super nice of her except it got stuck in her beard (< Jack hates when I say SHE has a beard, but whatever.) and she smelled like puke all day.

But that was OK, because I had a grooming appointment for both of our dogs in the afternoon.

After the grooming appointment, Coco, our 1.5 year old "puppy," decided to pee on the rug.

The rug that we had just washed the day before. Because she had also peed on it that day.

So the rug went into the wash, along with the puked-on bedding.

Yesterday evening, Coco managed to knock off a coffee cup that was sitting near our couch, that I had failed to put away, and that was still filled with stone-cold half a cup of coffee.

It landed on our couch. And the coffee spilled out.

No big deal. Let me clean the couch, too.

Today, while walking the hellions, I mean dogs, our neighbor's dog bounded out, into the street--narrowly avoiding being hit by a car--and came over to jump on us. Or say hello. Whatever.

I managed to grab the gi-normous German Shepherd mix by the collar, and dragged her, and my two pups, across the street and back to her owner. Of course the leashes got all tangled, I nearly tripped, and meanwhile a line of cars were backed up waiting for me to cross our somewhat-busy street.

Did I mention that I had just showered, so my hair was wet. I had no make up on. I was wearing too-small pants and my husband's over-sized coat, because it was nearest to the door when I left.

My neighbor was extremely grateful to me, and invited me in for coffee. I declined.

So we stood outside and chatted. Unfortunately, she has a lot of ... well, plants I guess you could call them, in her yard. Coco leapt and bounded all over the place, and when I got home, I found sticky burrs in her fur. The fur that had been freshly-washed just yesterday.

Oh, and did I mention that when picking up my dog's poop (I try to be a good neighbor like that), I discovered my bag had a large hole in? Yeah.

So after getting home, I was moving my two laptops (one personal, one work),( because I actually have work to do today in addition to blogging about my Murphy's Law Luck,) and in my haste, I had a freak accident and dropped both computers onto one big toe.

Why does it hurt so dang bad when you drop something on your toe???!!!

Meanwhile, I was thinking about the fact that I have 14 coming for Thanksgiving, and another 15 or so coming on Saturday night. I am super happy to host--I LOVE hosting--and I love being surrounded by family and friends.

I'm also keenly aware that several house projects have not happened in the past year. Walls need to painted. The bathroom sink needs to be replaced, the ceiling has a pressure crack in it. The siding on the house is filthy. Several things have been chewed by bad puppy.

Etc.

So I sent a disclaimer to the friends I am having over Saturday evening. We have been friends for years. Some as far back as the church nursery when we were infants, some since grade school. I love them to pieces, and I love that I can be honest and let them know that there will be Christmas decorations camouflaging said imperfections, as well as low lighting so our nearly-50-year-old eyes will hopefully not notice them.

And you know what one of these friends said to me?  She said, "I have the day off work. Do you want me to come over and paint?"

You guys. These are the friends I have. This friend works like 6 days a week and lives 1/2 hour away. And she offered to come over and paint for me.

And suddenly all the bad luck of the past two days seemed like nothing more than humorous blogging material.

No matter what your week looks like, I hope you have good friends like I have. Because all the money in the world, all the beautifully cared-for homes, all the wealth and money and expensive vacations, will NEVER compare to one good friend. Or 15.

I love you, my friends! Have a blessed week.

And if you have dogs...well...thoughts and prayers.

You Do You

This morning I had a work meeting at Partners for Success, an alternative 6th-12th grade school in DuPage County. We had the opportunity to hear about the amazing work they are doing, interview three of their students, and take a tour of the school.

The three teen students interviewed represented a cross-section of the school: One boy was expelled from his original school for repeated violent fighting; another boy for purchasing a firearm on school property; and the third, a girl, for selling drugs.

All three came from "cream-of-the-crop" school districts in DuPage County. The boy with the firearms comes from a two-parent family; his parents are professionals who work with kids. The girl who sold drugs talked about how she had been consumed with money--wanting it and never feeling like she had enough. She'd go to the school bathroom before her first class, find out what her classmates "needed," and make a quick $20.

The teens took responsibility for their poor choices, but they also talked about how at their original schools they dealt with kids judging them, fakeness, hypocrisy, and peer pressure. They wanted to fit in and be popular...and made bad decisions to achieve that acceptance.

It made me think about a photo I've seen a lot lately on social media. Some people are suggesting this be posted on the wall of every school:

The sign reads:
"Some kids are smarter than you. Some kids have cooler clothes than you. Some kids are better at sports than you. It doesn't matter. You have your thing too. Be the kid who can get along. Be the kid who is generous. Be the kid who is happy for others. Be the kid who does the right thing. Be the nice kid."

I love it! I agree that it should be at every school. It's something that I talk about often with my son--especially the part about being happy for others. Last Saturday he took part in his first pinewood derby race, and his little red car didn't fare too well. He didn't receive any speed awards, nor did he get recognition for the creativity, originality, or "attractiveness" of his car.

One of his good friends got first place for most realistic car--and it was a hard pill for my son to swallow. I talked to him about the concept of "fake it till you make it." Even if you feel jealous in your heart, act happy for the other person and eventually your emotions will catch up.

I thought again of this meme, and I realized most adults need it, too! I especially notice a lot of competition, real or perceived, among moms. I'm an older mom, so I feel like I shouldn't care (quite) as much as others, but I still occasionally get that bad gut feeling when I realize my house will never be as nice as so-and-so's, I will never be as popular as so-and-so, and I will never ever be known as athletic or in shape.

So I came up with my own version of the meme, particularly for women. It focuses on the things we *can* control. I am going to try to preach this to myself any time I feel less than--and remind myself that I am, with God's help, enough.

"Some friends are prettier than you. Some friends have bigger houses than you. Some friends are skinnier than you. It doesn't matter. You have your thing, too. Be the friend who encourages. Be the friend who is generous. Be the friend who is happy for other people. Be the friend who is  trustworthy and kind. BeYOUtiful. It's what's on the inside that counts."

I used to be a writer...until I ran out of words. 

I used to love writing. The little quirky things that happened in a day's time. Deep thoughts and sudden realizations. Updates on what I was doing, where I was traveling.

In fact, it was when I was in the Middle East, blogging about having been baptized in the River Jordan, that Ken and I really first connected. He was a fellow-blogger, and we fell in love with each other's words before falling in love with each other's hearts.

And then, when I became a mother, I wrote about the joys and sorrows of having a child. Of losing my mom just a few weeks before I became pregnant. Of funny little things my son did and said.

But then we attempted an adoption of three siblings from Ethiopia, and all my writing centered around that. Other things were still important, but we lived and breathed that adoption for six years. It was all I could write about. At times, it was all I could think about.

As that dream died a long, slow death, I ran out of words. I lost my identity. I became unsure of all that I had once been so sure about. My faith floundered, replaced by a heart-wrenching grief.

I quit writing.

It all seemed so futile. Everything wise that could be said was already being written by bloggers who were making money off of clicks or promoting their books. Their words were so eloquent, so far above what my pen could put on paper. So I linked to blogs. I retweeted others' tweets. I read and thought, but I didn't write. I occupied myself with being angry at a system that favored the strong and took advantage of the vulnerable. I buried myself in painting and art and Pinteresting DIY's.

...

But I think my words might be coming back. This morning, still in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about writing. But where to start? What to write about? How do you jump back into something you loved and left?

...

So here I am, jumping in.

...

I like to describe forgiveness as a two-step-forward, one-step-back process. Oftentimes I think I've moved past something, that I've truly forgiven, only to have something trigger my anger, my disappointment. Sometimes it takes a long walk or a drive in the car to work through those feelings. Sometimes it's five steps forward...and then ten steps back. Very rarely has forgiveness been a singular act for me. It's more like a continuum.

Grief has proven to be a similar process in my life. Sometimes I feel like I've gotten over something...like the disappointment of a failed adoption. Several weeks ago I told my therapist that I was doing good, that I was content and had reached a place of okay-ness. I was able to communicate with our kids in Ethiopia nearly every day via Facebook messenger, and we even had video chats every once in a while. It wasn't how I imagined our family, but it was sweet in its own way.

But then our 16-year-old, Dawit, got mugged on his way to the market, and they stole his phone. His sole line of communication with us. Thankfully he was not hurt, but since then we've only been able to send quick one-liners every few weeks--when he is able to borrow a phone or go to an Internet cafe.

And I miss him. I miss his updates. I miss the girls. I am angry, again. It's not fair. It's not good. Three orphans living in an overcrowded orphanage with a mom and dad who want them..and the government won't allow it because of their pride and their stupid change in laws.

I didn't realize how angry and unsettled I was until I saw two separate social media posts about parents bringing their adopted children home. Instead of being happy for these families, my stomach clenched, my heart pounded, and I quickly scrolled on.

I realized I still have work to do.

I am constantly telling Jack, our 8-year-old, to be happy for others--even when they have something he doesn't. It's easy to vilify others for no reasons other than jealousy, grief, and unforgiveness. It may even be normal. But it's not healthy.

...

As I write this, I am keenly aware that I am again writing about adoption, the very identify that I became lost in not long ago. Maybe that grief--that disappointment--that journey will always be a part of me. I pray it will make me better, not bitter. I hope that that particular grief has become only part of my story, not my identity.

You won't see me walking in downtown Wheaton with three brown-skinned beauties. I won't be known as the lady who adopted three orphans from Ethiopia.(<<-- That's hard for me to admit, because I wanted to be that person. I wanted to be a difference maker--partly to make a difference and partly, I confess, to be known as a difference-maker.)

So here I am, just me. Mom to Jack, wife to Ken, quasi-mom to three kids in another country. A sometimes-writer who is finding her words again. Giving up the feeling that I have to compete with all the gifted writers I read. Enjoying art and painting and reading and sitting on the couch with the two laziest dogs in the entire world.

Pushing ahead two steps in this process called life, realizing there will be missteps and backtracks, and being okay with that.