Not About COVID-19

I started writing a book about 12 years ago.

I never finished it.

But I thought I'd share part of it today. It has nothing to do with the Coronavirus, so if you're looking for a brain-break from current events, read on. :)

The River Jordan

In the church that I grew up attending, it was tradition to get baptized in the church after you made a decision to follow Christ. So when I was 12 or 13 years old, I donned the customary white gown and went down in the baptistery waters.

I don’t remember much about it, but I’m sure it was a wonderful experience. However, I always thought it was so cool when people told me they’d been baptized in the Holy Land. It’s not that my baptism was in any way inferior to theirs, but let’s be honest: Somehow my childhood church’s seafoam-colored, giant “bathtub” does not quite compare to the River Jordan. (In Jordan they call it the "River Jordan" instead of the "Jordan River," so that's how I refer to it here.) So when I went to the Holy Land in November of 2008, I was determined to get baptized.

As my tour bus approached Bethany by the Jordan, the place of Jesus’ baptism, my excitement began to grow. One of my fellow travelers was an ordained minister, and he agreed to get into the river with me and conduct the baptism.

But as we got closer, the skies turned dark, and it began to drizzle. Every single day of our trip thus far had been sunny, so I was confused as to why God would allow rain on this day of all days!

We got out of the bus and began walking down a path, our tour guide explaining the significance of each stop along the route. The rain started coming down a little harder, and I wondered if I should call it off.

However, I knew this might be my only opportunity to realize my dream of being baptized in the Holy Land, so I stuck to the plan.

The place of the baptism wasn’t anything like what I’d imagined. The river was shallow, and the distance from one side to the other was probably only about 100 feet. And in addition to the sky looking like pea soup and the drizzle dampening my spirit, the waters of the Jordan were downright murky. The river did not appear at all refreshing, clean, or even close to clean. But I pressed on.

With about a hundred Muslim, Christian, and Jewish tourists looking on, I proclaimed my faith in Jesus Christ and was immersed.

To be honest, I didn’t feel a whole lot different as I rose from the waters. Mostly I just felt grimy. But as we walked back to the bus, suddenly the skies parted and these radiant beams of light came flooding down directly upon us.

One of the ladies in our group exclaimed, “It’s like God is shining a spotlight and saying, ‘This is my daughter with whom I am well pleased.’”

I don’t know that God arranged those sunbeams just for me, but I’d like to think so. You see, sometimes the clouds of life threaten to undermine our resolve. We start out focused, set on doing what’s right, resolved to do what God has called us to do. But then the clouds appear, and we begin to wonder if we misheard the voice of God. We question our decisions. A battle begins in our mind: Is there any easier route? A path without drizzling rain, without murky waters, a path that guarantees things won’t get messy?

But we forget that God is in those darkened skies. He rides on the clouds. He makes them His home. The Lord specifically told Moses that He would come in a dense cloud. Pea-soup skies are His domain. And how we respond to dark skies can make the Father pleased or displeased.

Recently I suffered what I thought was a terrible injustice at my job. I was angry, hurt, and shocked at how I had been treated. I wasn’t the only one. My family and close friends expressed their own righteous indignation. I have to admit, I kind of enjoyed the attention. But there came a point when I had to quit talking about it. You see, every time I opened my mouth, I knew I was sinning. My anger was turning into bitterness, and it was neither productive nor pleasing to God.

I reminded myself that God gave us teeth and lips for more than one reason. When used properly, they can serve as a cage to preventive words from rolling off our tongue that are not edifying, not encouraging, and not kind. “But it’s true!” you say. Yes, but just because something is true does not mean it needs to be said.

When I quit running at the mouth and listened to God, He reminded me that He is in the dark, foreboding skies. Although the skies were stormy and threatened to overwhelm me, God was there. He is the just God who also suffered great injustices. He understands, and He is never closer than when we are brokenhearted.

“God is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

West of Eden

My family tree was always generically typical. You know--the kind with nice straight branches that make sense. Grandparents. Parents. Me and my sisters. There weren't really even any divorces or remarriages or steps to speak of.

When my husband and I decided to adopt, I knew our family tree would grow and be a bit more complicated, but for the most part, I believed the tree would continue to be rather straightforward.

Until it wasn't.

I remember this one time I was chatting with a man at the the grocery store and he asked me if I had kids. I said yes, and then he asked how many. We were in the middle of the adoption, but things were starting to go south. I wondered if the man's question was a test. (Of my faith?)

I told him I had 4 kids.

I didn't take the time to explain our situation, but I walked away feeling confused and uncertain.

And it was then I realized our family tree was getting messy.

It was around this time that we learned about an adoption ministry in our community. On all their literature they printed a verse from the Bible.

I loved that concept. I thought of my kids in Ethiopia as little seedlings that we were going to uproot and transplant with great care, being mindful that they put down roots here in our home. I prayed that they would become mighty oaks trees. That they would grow into strong and beautiful adults. That people would look at them and be amazed at what God had done.

I even took that verse of Scripture and made it into a wall hanging in our living room. It served as constant reminder of the journey we were undertaking.

"Bloom where you're planted," that's what they say. My children were going to bloom. My bio son, Jack, was going to bloom, too. We were going to be the most gorgeous and prolific garden west of Eden. God was going to restore the years the locusts had stolen from my Ethiopian children (Joel 2:25). All those years without parents, all those years in an orphanage. God would repay and restore, and it was going to be glorious. A splendor.

But six years later, my three oldest kids are still in an orphanage. They have parents, but not legally. Only in name and in heart--and 7,000 miles away. And sometimes, most days to be honest, the situation doesn't seem that glorious.

As I questioned God, asking him WHY they hadn't been transplanted, He reminded that they were planted. They are a planting of the Lord. They aren't planted where I want them, but where He wants them.

And that's a hard, bitter pill to swallow.

Sometimes I wonder whether God didn't think I could handle four children. Maybe my parenting skills or our financial situation weren't up to snuff.

But how could they be better off in an orphanage than right here with me?

I don't have the answer to that.

I wish I did.

I've thought a lot about the concept of planting, and I remember when I was living in South Florida for several years,and I never really felt rooted or established there. But that's where God planted me those eight years, and I had the choice to wilt or bloom.

Sometimes life feels like a series of transitions. You're waiting to finish school. You're waiting to get married. You're waiting to have kids. You're waiting to move into the bigger house. You're waiting for your career to kick off. And you never really feel planted.

But you are. You are where you are. Maybe it's just for a minute, or maybe it's for a lifetime, but perhaps it's possible to thrive and be strong and reflect the splendor wherever you currently are.

Some places, admittedly, have poorer growing conditions than others. But my kids in Ethiopia? They are a planting of the Lord, right in their orphanage, right in the town of Mekelle, smack dab in the Tigray Region, in the Horn of Africa.

And they are getting stronger every day. I see God's splendor reflected in them. Dawit, with his thoughtful questions and gentle kindness toward others. Meron, with her quiet touch and expressive eyes. And Menalush, with her wide smile and talkative nature.

And if a 17-year-old boy, a 14-year-old girl, and a 12-year-old girl can bloom under those growing conditions, I am confident I can bloom (maybe even thrive?) right where God has placed me.

I might not be partial to the soil. The sun may not shine every day. I may long for a stream of water to alleviate my dry and thirsty soul, but it's enough. He is enough. I am a planting of the Lord. My branches may not be as strong as I would like, and I may not be the most beautiful tree in the neighborhood, but God says I am for the display of His splendor.

And because of that, I.am.enough.

(You are, too.)

In Which I Share the Best and Worst of NYE 2020

This is the NYE I thought I wanted,
not the one that actually happened.

When I was a kid, we always celebrated New Year's Eve the same way. We'd invite too many friends to comfortably fit into our too-small home, and we'd play board games and eat foods that only show up during the holiday season.

A few minutes before midnight, my mom would go into the kitchen and round up all her pots, pans, and big metal spoons. Each kid would take a "noise maker," pull on our boots and coats, and go outside to bang pots and pans. We'd yell, "Happy New Year," toot our car's horn, and wait until our next door neighbors came out to toot their car horn in reply. 

(I'm not sure why pots and pans--maybe because my family couldn't afford noise makers? Maybe just a weird tradition?)

One year, however, we did something different. My childhood church decided to have a New Year's Eve service, and the plan was to "pray our way into the New Year."

I was not impressed.

As I recall, at about 11:55 pm, I whispered to my mom, "Can I go outside and toot the car horn?" 

She said no, and I vowed never to spend another New Year's Eve in church again.

And I kept that promise for at least 35 years.

...

This year, our church announced they would be having a New Year's Eve service. I recoiled. 

No way. No thank you. I'm good.

But a small part of me wanted to go. I've felt disappointed with God the past few years, and yet my faith is the one thing that has sustained me...even when it's been as tiny as a mustard seed. I want to be more faith-filled in the coming year; I want to sense God's presence more in my life.

However, my 8-year-old did not care for the idea of going to church on NYE. And I couldn't blame him, given my own history. So we invited some family friends over, intending to have an early countdown at 10 pm for the sake of the kiddos--and the adults who aren't in their 20s anymore. 

However, the adults got carried away with a board game called Telestrations. It's a hybrid between Pictionary and the classic game of telephone that you probably played as a kid. We laughed till we cried, and oh my gosh it was so fun.

Ten o'clock approached, and we didn't realize the kiddos were vigilantly watching the clock. Jack got out the pots and pans (I had recently told him about the tradition), and the kids went outside to wish the world a Happy New Year. 

I caught the tail end of their rousing celebration, and then everyone started to pack up and leave. I completely forgot about the bubbly drink chilling on the back steps, I didn't have a chance to play "Auld Lang Syne" on Alexa, and there wasn't really a countdown.

There were no "midnight" kisses, no toasts, and no photos of everyone wearing their NYE hats and tiaras. In fact, the only selfie I took of myself with one of my friends was so ugly that I won't post it. (Lighting, people, lighting. Especially when you're starting to get neck wrinkles.)

Meanwhile, other friends were having extravagant celebrations in exotic locations, they were dining in the south of France, walking on the beach, taking gorgeous selfies of their gorgeous selves, and sharing their perfect NYE celebrations on social media.

(Perceptions. I fully realize everyone smiles for Facebook, and a happy photo can hide a thousand words.)

After our friends were gone, I scolded my son for not waiting for the adults. I told him that because he had rushed to celebrate, he and his friends had missed out on music, dancing, toasts, and drinking of the non-alcoholic bubbly.

He had been so happy before I told him what all he missed out on, and then he just felt guilty. And sad. He said, "I ruined everything."

Talk about a bad, bad, bad mom moment. 

We sat in the living room, watching the NYE shenanigans on TV, all of us feeling bad. I wanted my cute photos of our celebration! I mean, if you don't post photo-proof of your experience on social media, does it even count? Did it really happen???

I wanted a re-do. 

And then my husband announced that we were going to church. Hmmm. The service started at 10:45, and it was now nearly 11. I said that Jack would be bored, and that we were all in a bad mood. He said we were going, that it was apparent we all needed a little church. 

And so we went. 

We slipped into the pew, half an hour late. There were probably a hundred or so people gathered, and only a handful of children. They had stations set up in the sanctuary, where you were supposed to do something...to be honest I've already forgotten, but I think it was something about giving your disappointments from the previous year to God.

Whatever. I was still so mad--and I felt incredibly guilty for stealing my son's joy.

In the first 5 minutes that we were there, Jack told me at least three times that he was bored. His attitude wasn't helping my attitude, but I couldn't really blame him. It *was* a little boring for an 8-year-old. So I whispered to Ken, "Let's go."

Ken shook his head no.

Umm...what? My people-pleasing husband was telling me no?

I waited a few minutes. Again, I whispered to Ken. "Let's leave." 

He stood up, and I grabbed my hat and coat, ready to make a quiet exit. But instead of walking out, my husband was walking toward one of the stations.

Well this was awkward. So I followed him, participating but not participating.

The whole church sat in silence for several minutes. And to be honest, the silence was good for my soul. I needed that stillness to reflect. On my year, on my faith, on my disappointment both with God and how our NYE party had ended. On my selfishness, on my stupid idea that making Jack feel bad would somehow make me feel better. On my need for social media affirmation of a good time. On another holiday season with 3 of our children living 7,000 miles away.

And then we sang, in one voice. We sang praises to God. We dedicated the new year to Him. We took communion, we prayed. And with just under a minute left in 2019, we did a countdown. We hugged and we kissed. We wished each other a happy new year.

...

On the way home, Jack said he was glad we went, that although it had started out boring, that he really enjoyed himself--especially the whole church counting down. We went home, watched the ball drop (we had recorded it), and we played Auld Lang Syne on the Alexa. Ken and I danced, and Jack came over and squeezed in between us--as we like to say--like bologna between two slices of white bread.

And in that moment, we were happy. Truly happy. 

It's been a long time since I banged pots and pans on NYE. It's been even longer since I watched a new year arrive while being at church. Sometimes traditions are forgotten, replaced by the new. But sometimes things come full circle, and you can't help but be thankful. 

For your past, for today, and for new beginnings.

Happy 2020, dear friends.