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.

Letting GO: The Tale of Little Leaf

by Luann Elizabeth Doman

[Based on a true story]

In the yard

by the house

on a street

with a hill

grew a tree

with a lovely little leaf.

The lovely little leaf and its little leaf friends gave shade to a lady bug,

a grasshopper,

and a caterpillar.

One sunny day, that spot of shade grew bigger.

The lady bug,

the grasshopper,

and the caterpillar

noticed the sapphire sky give way to shifty, shadowy clouds, and the scent of rain filled the air.

Three little leaves from the tree fluttered to the ground, and

the lady bug,

the grasshopper,

and the caterpillar

dove for cover.

A storm was coming.

Little leaf waved in the wind and danced to the rock and the roll of the thunder. It smiled to itself because it was young and brave and innocent.

But the twiggy branches that held the leaf started to 

bend and bow  

and curtsy and conga 

as hot summer raindrops jumped and splashed.

One by one, leaf after leaf shook and shimmied and surrendered to the now roaring wind. But the lovely little leaf held on, trembling as the wind pushed it to and fro and pulled it here and there.

“OH MY!” said the lovely leaf. “I MUST HOLD ON!”

The lovely leaf waited and waited for the storm to end, because storms always come to an end, even if it takes forever.

As sure as the summer rains fall, the storm came to an end. When the lady bug, the grasshopper, and the inchworm peeked out from their hiding places, they saw the lovely green leaf still perched atop the baby tree.

But it had changed. It didn’t wave or dance. It held on. Tight.

The little leaf said, “I will never let go. Never, no never!”

Even though the wind was no longer blowing.

Autumn came, and the vibrant greens of summer gave way to the russet shades of fall.

The ladybug flew off,

the grasshopper hopped away,

and the caterpillar became a butterfly.

The little leaf turned yellow, then orange, and still, it held on.

The delicious chill of autumn became chillier yet, and the little leaf turned red. Crimson, in fact.

Some say it was bound to happen. Others said it was embarrassed. But little leaf didn’t care. It refused to leave. “I must hold on! I will not let go! Never, no never! it whispered to no one but itself.

“Oh, little red leaf!” called the wind through the tree. “Come and play, dance with me!”
“Never!” replied little leaf.

Winter came, and a flutter and flurry of flakes began to fall. The little leaf shivered. Its edges curled, its crimson faded, and the slow creep of sepia made its way through the veins of tiny leaf.

Before long, powdery snow began to paint it a crystalline blue and white.

And for the first time in a long time, the little leaf began to dream. What else is out there? Is there more to this life than holding on, refusing to let go? Will I die right here, on this branch, never having seen the world?

Off in the distance a flash of red caught little leaf’s attention. It was a cardinal! 

It whistled, and little leaf turned and twisted and strained and sputtered, trying to get a better glimpse of its brilliance.

And that’s when it happened.

Before it had the chance to be brave, or not be brave, or really even think about it, the little leaf that perched atop the tree

in the yard

by the house

on the street

with a hill 

let go.

Just for a second.

The wind swelled up beneath it.  “Come and play! Dance with me!”

Little leaf turned and tangoed and jumped and jived and swayed and swaggered and boogied and bobbed and bowed and curtsied and waltzed through the yard,

around the house,

down the street,

and up the hill.

It flew so fine and frolicked so fast that even Cardinal could not quite keep up.

The leaf had let go—of its fears and worries—and of the twiggy branch that tethered it to the tree and its dreamless existence.

Nothing would ever be the same.

And that was okay, because little leaf was finally living the adventure it was created for.

THE END

Last night, we wrote letters to our children in Ethiopia. Ken wrote personal letters to each of them, and I wrote one letter to all three. I wrote the advice I would give them if they were here, living in our home.

Sometimes when I write I think it's for the benefit of the reader, but really it benefits me the most.

So I re-read my letter this afternoon, trying to believe the things I wrote last night--in light of today's circumstances. 

And as I read, I wondered if some of you could benefit from these reminders as well. So insert your own name, as needed, below.

"My dear children, I love you so much and I think about you every day. I look forward to the day when we can see each other again.

As you go back to school after the rainy season break, I want you to remember how important it is to choose your friends wisely. Stay away from kids who lead you into temptation or pressure you to do bad things. Choose friends who are kind, honest, encouraging, and who have good character. 

Tigray, Ethiopia

Always cherish your special friends. Forgive quickly, and don’t let misunderstandings become arguments or end a friendship. You will make mistakes, but always try to do your best. Treat others the way you want to be treated.

When you experience disappointment or hurt, as we all do, don’t keep thinking about those situations or become bitter. Give them to God, because He can take all those bad things and use them for your good.

 

The road leading to our children's orphanage

M....Our youngest daughter

Remember that God is for you, not against you. He loves you so much, and I am praying that He will be very real in your life. I am asking Him to answer your prayers and speak to you through the Bible and in your dreams.

 

Me with M and M

God is directing every step your feet take. He knows the path you are on, and when the future seems uncertain, remember that He can make a way out of no way.

In the Bible, the Israelites didn’t know how to escape their bad situation with the Egyptians. But God had a plan. They started to journey to the Promised Land, but then they came to the mighty Red Sea, and the Egyptians were chasing them. They had nowhere to go. But God opened up the sea and made a pathway right through it! Nobody knew it was possible, but with God nothing is impossible. Nothing! He can do anything!

God delights in every detail of your life, and your prayers will be answered at just the right time. If you feel lonely, remember that you are never alone. God is with you. And even though we are many miles apart, we are together in heart and in spirit.

M...our oldest daughter

You have a mom and a dad and a little brother who all love you very, very much. And so many people are praying for you in the United States… aunts and uncles, cousins, grandmas and grandpas, friends at church, friends at school, friends in our neighborhood… hundreds of people who know your names and love you and want the very best for you. Someday you will meet them and they will say, “Your mom and dad showed us your photos, and I was praying for you!”

 

D, M, me, and M

Listen closely because God wants you to hear His voice. The Bible says He is a Good Shepherd, and we are His sheep. He is whispering to you and saying: “I made you. I love you. I have a purpose and a plan for your life. You are so special to me, and I am going to do amazing things in your life—things that are so good that you can’t even imagine them! Be patient. Keep believing.” 

D—my handsome, strong son: Hold your head up high. You are a child of God, and you will change the world. I love you, D.

M—my beautiful, sweet oldest daughter: Lift up your head, and listen. Your prayers will be answered. Let love in, and be joyful. I love you, M.

M—my charming, pretty youngest daughter: Guard your heart, for your beauty comes from inside, and keep smiling because your happiness warms the heart of everyone you meet. I love you, M.  

Until next time, close your eyes and remember a hug from me. 

Love, 

Mommy

Letting Go

I noticed I haven't blogged since St. Patrick's Day, and since we're now mid-July, I figured it was time. But I have a good excuse.

I've been preparing to send my son to college.

OK, it's not college. (Not that he isn't brilliant enough to go. But since he's six, he still needs to learn algebra.)

It's summer camp.

A WHOLE.WEEK of summer camp. Gone from me for five days. Me, the maxi-me, separated from my mini-me for five days and nights.

Ok, it does end at 4 pm each day, but he'll be exhausted and going to bed early, so it may as well be overnight.

And if you could peek into my brain, (and clearly you don't want to), you would experience a jumbled mess of emotion and planning, and fear and excitement that would rival any mama sending her baby off to college across the country. Or in another country.

Camp--I mean summer camp--I mean summer day camp--is a lot like that. Granted, it's not across state lines, but we do cross at least two city lines.

And I fear they don't let mommies just drop in to make sure their babies don't need a bandaid or a hug or an extra water bottle or a fingernail-trimming-because-the-dirt-under-the-nail-is-to-embedded-to-removed-by-normal-washing.

And you know, my son has only ever gone to half-day preschool and kindergarten, so we've never done the lunch box thing. And late last night, as I was packing his brand-new Bento lunchbox, I realized I may or may not have ever taught him how to open those pesky containers. You have to get the round corner of the lid lined up with the rounded corner of the container, find the tab, and pull. Really hard. And he's only six. What if he can't get it open and he's too embarrassed to ask for help and so he goes all day without nourishment from the ham and cheese extra mayo on a soft sandwich roll and the extra thin Oreos and squeezable apple sauce and other nutritionally questionable food items I've carefully selected for him?

There's more. Like changing into his swim suit for water activities without mommy inspecting him to make sure it's not backward and everything is tucked into the proper slots. And sunscreen! Will his teenage counselor know how to apply it to his lily-white skin in the "thick and gloppy" way that ensures he isn't crispy by noon? And his new backpack--what if he doesn't recognize it and thinks it got lost?

HE'S ONLY SIX YEARS OLD!  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND RIGHT, WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Letting go is hard you guys.

And then this morning he says, "Mommy, can I ask you something?"

I braced myself, knowing this could be a moment to calm his fears and prevent psychotherapy when he turns 20 and is dealing with abandonment issues.

"Yes, honey, what is it?"

"What does a duck call quick sand?"

Oh my gosh. He has fears of quicksand! Is their sand at the camp? Will he fall in and be swallowed up?

"Quack sand! Get it? QUACK sand!"

Sigh. Big sighs. Deep breaths. We're going to be OK.