Hannah Meeting Stephenie

Having an adopted child has been a blessed, but sometimes crushing experience.  

This little person wrapped up in brown skin with soft curls had laughter that came from her toes. She filled our world with joy previously undreamed of.  

We would actually  miss her after putting her to bed as a nine month old. After waking her up to play with her for just a few minutes, she would happily go back to sleep again. A few years later, that became an absurd memory when we were sleep deprived with two more babies.  But that’s the way it was with Hannah Jean.  Joy.  True, real, and lasting. She was a gift from heaven.

As the reality of what adoption meant sunk into her happy bones, an ache settled along with it.  Being raised by us meant that there were other people out there to whom she was connected.

She began to gaze with longing at “brown people” and wonder where her biological family might be. Questions about them didn’t live on the surface, but pulsed within her, occasionally making their way to the top. She had questions which needed answers and emotions which needed validation.

She had a beautiful heart, this Hannah Jean, filled to the brim with talent.  Maybe the ache inside of her found expression as she  danced, drew,  and sang.  It all flowed out of her naturally.

Each of us have something we are waiting for; Hannah waited to meet Stephanie, her birth mom. 

Love isn’t always easy.  It chooses to trust and believe that it will be okay to take the risk.  To share the name Mom or Dad.  Oh, but love rejoices to see hope fulfilled.

One of the sweetest moments of my life is captured here when Hannah and Stephanie finally met.  It says it all.

On Wearing White

As I stood in the bridal shop dressing room looking at my reflection, I had one of those rubber meets the road moments.  

As a bride “making herself ready” it was time to choose the dress I would wear as I walked down the aisle on the arm of my father.  The internal "Scarlet A" had long since been erased by my Heavenly Father and I was walking in freedom from shame and guilt.  My life had become filled with traveling and singing and I hardly had time to focus on planning my wedding.  Between tours I would go to a place of business armed with my dear father’s credit card and make a decision, knowing that the number I gave secured the appearance of flowers, food, and a photographer on the wedding day.  It was all quite simple.  

But here I was, looking at my reflection in the mirror. There were two dresses to choose from. One was a floor model, on sale for a pittance. It would need cleaning and mending because it had been  tried on and left behind over and over again in the search for something better.  It would have been fine after a bit of attention because it fit well and would be pretty once it was cleaned up.  

The other dress was satin, brand new, and priced quite a bit higher.  It would take a lot of confidence to buy that dress.  It was symbolic of something, fit for a princess.  Clean and white. 

Choosing to believe my earthly dad’s heart for me was where the rubber met the road that day. 

The dress hangs in my closet even now, a reminder that as a forgiven bride, I have value, I have been made whole, I am loved.  

What a beautiful reflection.

Risk

After writing my previous post, opening the door to my sordid past, I experienced something I do not like.  Though it was delayed, it made its way full force to my unsuspecting heart:  vulnerability.  

Life is so much easier when we play it safe.  Insulating ourselves from our own pain, and that of the world, it could be tempting to live a life of sterile numbness.  No pain, no great joy, just safe, monotonous, risk-free living.

There are times when I am on the edge, having said yes to something outside my comfort zone, and I’ll be wondering just before I get up in front of a bunch of people,  how in the heck do I get into these situations??  But the answer is pure and simple.  I don’t just want to live my own life in my own house with my own family in my own comfort for my own pleasure.  Man, it’s tempting to do so because I am mightily blessed with the best.  My husband, my home, and my kids (not to mention my horses) surround me with great joy. 

Before investing in the stock market, one must assess their own tolerance for risk and make sure the stress of potential loss can be handled.  The hope for gain is proportional to the risk taken.  So it is with life, and some things are worth the risk.  Like being known. So every once in a while I open a door that could hopefully bring hope to a mom whose daughter has run away. Or maybe the aloneness of  shame and guilt can find healing in the safe light of camaraderie.  I know few people who have actually experienced some of the things I have walked through, but many have found identification and help from me sharing mine.  There’s value in that. In fact, other than relationships, what value is there, anyway?

I’m so glad Jesus took the ultimate risk.  He saw true worth and laid His life down for something of value:  relationship with you and me.

Yes, He is the example we are to follow…..may we see value when it’s staring us in the face, and go searching for it when it’s not.  

Vulnerability?  You are worth the risk.

My Dad Made A Way

New York City has hard memories for me.  

For most people, thoughts of Times Square include The Ball dropping on New Year’s Eve, images of Broadway shows, Greenwich Village and endless shopping.  The crowded bustling streets and the energy of city life are exciting and fun.  To them, New York City is the epitome of culture and coolness.   

Not for me.  It’s not that there is anything inherently wrong with the city.  It’s just that as a 19 year old I got duped by a pimp.  Yes, you read that right. The word pimp is being used differently by kids these days, but in the seventies it meant: a man who controls prostitutes and arranges clients for them, taking part of their earnings in return.  Only in my case it was all earnings.

Of course, I wasn’t a prostitute when I met the guy.  Who in their right mind would want to become such a thing?  No, I was a post-abortive, seriously depressed, completely empty of hope, hollow shell of a girl who needed male attention like a drug addict desperate for their next fix.  

How could I have needed affirmation so much?  What combination of life events would set in motion the self destructive path I had found myself on?  The one thing I know is that I am responsible for some pretty stupid choices in my life.  But I’m not really telling that story right now.  I want to brag a little bit about my father.

The fact that I ran away to New York City with a pimp at age 19 certainly indicates that I didn’t have a rock solid relationship with my dad, but it didn’t start that way. My earliest little girl memories are of  balancing on his feet so I could dance with him.  He would sing snippets of “Daddy’s Little Girl” along with the recording of his favorite group, the Mills Brothers.  In those early moments with him I felt cherished and special. 

 Once I remember sitting on the closed toilet seat watching him shave.

 “I love you Daddy!”

“I love you, too, dear.”

“I love you MORE!”

“Oh, no you dont….”  he would chuckle.

“Yes I do!”

And the argument would continue for a while.  My children will tell you that to this day I say, “Love you more!”  It all started back there with my daddy as an innocent little pre-schooler.  

It is ingrained in the heart of a child to hold their parents in high esteem.  A blank slate presents itself, and with the utmost of care, parents must be careful what they write there.  

My dad embedded himself deeply into my heart, and I’m so glad.  Life took some hard turns as I grew up, and he came crashing down from that pedestal. Growing up in our family of six, I often felt confused and alone, navigating through emotional land mines not of my making.

The main purpose of this post is to tell you something my father did right.  When I called from a phone booth in New York City, he made a way for me to come home.

Wow.  I suppose any loving father would do it, but I’m talking about me and my father.  I was a lost girl who was breaking his heart.  He knew I was there somewhere and he knew what I was doing.  He must have felt powerless and afraid.  There were no cell phones with the constant communication they now provide.  His daughter was lost amidst the sea of people in Manhattan.

The adrenalin must have surged through him when he heard my trembling voice, knowing that if I hung up it could be forever.  He quickly told me to be at a certain corner at a certain time. It must have been humbling, calling  someone and asking them to go to a street corner to pick up his runaway daughter. “Would you mind taking her to JFK and putting her on a plane home?”  Ya, just a little hard.  But the point here is that he did it.  

On his deathbed I thanked my dad for letting me dance on his feet, and I thanked him for getting me home from the hell I had lived through on the streets of New York.  He never threw any of those weeks in my face.  Sounds like God, doesn’t it?  Not denial, but forgiveness.  It was like it had never happened.   Though coming home wasn’t the end of those bad choices in my life, it was the beginning of the end. 

Thanks for making a way, Dad.   

                      "As a father has compassion on his children, so the LORD.........."

Seasons and Thankfulness

"Good morning world!"   These are words I uttered each day with my little Hannah when she was a baby.  There were some pictures hanging on the wall that we would visit, always in a certain order. Pointing at one I would say, "Good morning little bird! Would you like some breakfast?"  Or  at another, "Grandpa, would you please take me to the circus?"   We had to do this ritual to start the day right.

On this Thanksgiving morning I enter the kitchen.  It looks like a tornado hit it, and I have not yet started today's round of cooking for the anticipated holiday meal.  That would be today.  Hmmm.  I must have been tired when I went to bed, OR, there were large munchkins traipsing around, watching movies, and generally messing up life after I crashed.

May I just say that I love having teenagers and twenty somethings in my house?  There will be other years for perfectly clean kitchens to awaken to, but for now, I'd rather have them taking over the house any day.

My mom and dad moved here about seven years ago around this time of year and my mother promptly had a debilitating stroke.  I mean promptly.  Like within the first hour of their arrival by car from Arizona.

After showing them the apartment I had picked out, piled high with boxes and furniture which had just arrived, we decided to get a bite to eat. Carrying  her food on a tray at Spring Creek Barbecue, she barely made it to the table before declaring that something wasn't right.  It was  her last independent journey - from customer line to table.  Her life changed right then, and so did ours.

Endless months in the hospital, rehab, nursing homes.  My father unpacked their stuff and lived alone in a small "senior" apartment, all of their friends and familiar life back in Phoenix. He felt so alone.  Bittersweet.  Happy to be near me, but such a loss for both of them.

Over the next few years both of my parents died, along with my mother in law, two uncles, an aunt, and a very close friend's mom.  I was present with most of them as they passed into eternity.

Today is a "first" holiday for many people who have lost a loved one, and the pain of it may be taking their breath away. Life will never be the same again.  Maybe a child has moved away, or sickness has invaded every part of every day.

Plain and simple, we all need grace.  We need eyes to see and recognize the blessing of the season we are in.

While taking care of my parents I often reminded myself that with every hour I spent driving back and forth to Tyler, I was hopefully giving myself the gift of no regrets. I want to live that way every day.  Not just in a crisis, but embracing the mundane, recognizing the privilege of loving and being loved.

I'm thankful for all of the seasons of life, though some are hard to let go of.  (I would have loved it if baby Hannah had stayed at 14 months forever.  No child was more longed for or enjoyed.)

During some seasons I was looking for light at the end of the tunnel, hoping to just get through it in one piece.  No matter where we're at, there is always something to be grateful for, people who need our kindness.

Waking up to a messy kitchen?  No problem. That means there is life in my home.

Thank you, Lord.

That Ache Inside

This morning I met a fatherly type of guy.  A 74 year old, happy, sweet, talkative gentleman who was waiting his turn for a chiropractic whack along with a roomful of other waiting customers.   

Curious about my iPad, he struck up a conversation and asked if I would demonstrate it for him.  After showing him a few apps and emphasizing the handiness of having lots of waiting books in there, I left him and took my turn for the whack I was waiting for.

I love older people.  It’s a good thing, I guess, since at age 52 I’m daily getting closer to officially joining their ranks.  With each passing year  I sympathetically relate  to the reality of aching joints and stiff limbs. Just getting into the driver’s seat has been challenging at times, not to mention lowering myself to the floor to play with a dog or cat. (I must say, the chiropractor has helped me a lot!)

At this point in my life, I find that I linger longer over beauty. I savor anything that is able to touch my heart:  changing leaves, a photo, a song, my children.  Talking with my husband is satisfying to my soul!  

With each passing day, I realize with anticipation that I will soon leave this planet and enter REALITY.  Woo hoo!   

As I grow older, hopefully I will offer motherliness to those with an inner ache, just as something in me soaked up the fatherliness of the gentleman I met this morning.

Humans are like a breath of air. Their life span is like a fleeting shadow.

Little Burt Changed My Life

In October of 1986, I gave birth to our firstborn son. Though he died an hour before he entered this world, his life has impacted me forever.

The discovery of this pregnancy had filled me with utter joy.  Newly married, this child represented a new season in my life.  The nursery was eagerly prepared ahead of time, each item hand made with meticulously chosen fabrics.  “Housewife life” was a joy to my hotel weary heart, and daily tasks represented the luxury of no longer traveling and singing. What a privilege it was to have a little nest of my own! 

In the midst of labor, our son's heartbeat disappeared.  I was running a high fever due to infection, and my doctor decided it was necessary to evacuate my womb. Grief hung like a heavy cloud as I labored for another hour. When my husband, Burt, and I were finally able to hold our son's lifeless body, we stroked his perfect little hands and memorized his fragile 1.5 pound frame.  These short moments were the fruit of almost 24 hours of labor. 

There’s nothing anyone can say when a child dies; no platitudes will suffice.  Though we don't willingly choose to suffer, grief will visit all of us at some point. It will change and soften us, silencing our ready-made pat answers.

As a newborn believer, I had gratefully splashed around in the love of God. In all of the "doing for Him" the focus somehow changed to earning His approval.

As I held my tiny little boy, I experienced a love pure and deep, free from all vestiges of performance.  In his incompleteness, I loved him completely, simply because he was mine.

Thank you, Little Burt.  You have forever changed me.

"And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father."

Something This Cat Has

I have a bunch of animals. Too many, in fact.  The gobs and oodles of hair floating throughout my house attest to this fact. This feline fuzz and dog dander presents itself in my baked goods, on my windowsill, and under my couch. It tenaciously clings to the legs of every piece of furniture on my wood floor. I am often embarrassed as I see white clumps clinging to the undersides of my departing guests. (Should I yell, "Wait!  Let me roll your butt real quick, my cats are leaving with you!" or is that too personal?  Someone tell me, please.)

Yes, far too many animals.  

This entry is about Baby.

IS HE NOT GORGEOUS?

Why, you might ask, are you writing about your cat?  Because there is something about him that I want to have.  

Almost every time I get really comfortable, especially in the morning or at night, Baby is right there.  Not a foot or two away, but right THERE.  In my space and on my lap.  His purr resonates like a soft roar, and he makes it clear that being where I am is his priority.  I like that.  Of course, I love all my animals, but Baby simply demands a response.

What if it's like that with the Lord?  I know He loves us all the same.  He says so in His Word.  We oftentimes think of devotional duty and we try hard to pray and maybe even subconsciously are motivated to earn spiritual brownie points.  

I can promise you Baby is not trying to earn brownie points, he just loves being with me, and he demands a response.  

Don't you just want desire for Him to be what motivates you when you come to Him?  

I do.  I believe it is what receives a response.  Yes, just to be with You.

Writing

This whole blog thing could just be a precursor to something I’ve been told I should do on many occasions, but it is oh, so scary.  An amazingly huge task.  This thing?  Write a book. There have been moments when my verbal words are impacting to someone and they will spontaneously tell me that I should write a book.  (As if it’s as simple as making a batch of cookies.  Just pop one out!) Or maybe some aspect of my story as a runaway to New York City is especially riveting, and out it comes again, “You should write a book!”

It is actually a sweet compliment for someone to tell me this, but somehow it reminds me of how overwhelmed I felt as a teenager when faced with the simple prospect of drawing something in detail.  I wasn’t a proven artist, and I still am not, but it wasn’t whether or not I could do it, it was how long it would take that kept me from undertaking it.  It’s kind of like that with writing.  How could I ever organize my thoughts in such a way to have it come out making sense, stay interesting, or be worth the time it takes a person to read it?  We’ve all been bogged down with endless details in someone’s autobiography.  To them, those details were important to write, maybe even therapeutic, but absolutely coma inducing to the reader.  It is highly probable that this could happen!

Anyway, this little blog may be a start.  We shall see!  I suppose, if nothing else, written words are a gift to my children and their children in the years to come.  A peek into the soul of one who has gone on, words to cling to in grief.  Ha!  I am getting ahead of myself here, aren’t I?

Anyway.  Whether you read or not, it’s time to write.  Lord help me!

My first day.

Okay.  So now I have jumped off of the proverbial cliff and have created a blog of my very own.   I have done this partially because I have so enjoyed peeking into the lives of others and have appreciated the smile they have brought to my face.  (Like you, Beth!) 

Reading certain blogs has tapped into a particular longing of my heart or challenged me in some way, and now I am inspired to hopefully do the same. (Actually, I think I really just want to be cool like my daughter, Malorie.)

Anyway, I am thrilled to have a follower on this, my first day of blogging.  I will love you forever for this, dearest Darlene.

True to my nature, I apologize for all grammatical errors and misspellings in advance.  I know you will love me anyway!

Happy Saturday, ya’ll!

Saturday

It's a fall morning.

As a resident of East Texas, saying, "It's a fall morning,"   has great significance. Words loaded with relief.  Long, sweltering, seemingly endless, humid days choking the life and rising breath out of one's throat are now a blessed memory.  

It's a fall morning.

And I am sitting in my chair.

A fall, Saturday morning, with nothing much on the docket for the day, and I am so very grateful.  

From this position in my chair I can see an endless array of golden leaves, clinging to life along with all of the other leaves, some green and some brown.

On this morning, my beautiful daughter, Malorie, will awaken to yet another day in her  life of dance and perform at an annual pre-Christmas event called Mistletoe and Magic.

After reading a dozen of my favorite blogs, with the knowledge that my horses are available to be ridden, various friends could be called and enjoyed, food could be prepared, laundry could be done, I am luxuriating in the fact that I don't have to do any of it.  Sigh.  Not many days like this:  open ended, promising rest and creativity of my choosing.

There are a combination of aches pulsating in me.  

The ache of children I encountered in Africa, living  lives of survival, yet so much like you and me.  Seeing their pictures and reading about the daily life of the people who have moved there to help them, awaken the reality that I want to make a difference, too.  Hopefully I do.

How could my beautiful Hannah be all grown up and living as a married woman far away, and with a new puppy to boot? 

The sweet ache of a second daughter, Abby, possibly having found the love of her life and spending time out of town with him.  (Ah!!  How could this be happening?)  

The knowledge that I could be so much better and do so much more, but grateful to know that I am truly enough.  Thank you, Lord, for that knowledge.

It's a fall morning, and I am grateful and at peace.