Our Story: Would You Like Some Coffee With Your Crazy?

We're crazy.

Nearly everyone thinks so. Most are too polite to say it, but nearly everyone thinks it. It's really hard to hide shock from your eyes.

Scott and I knew that our plan to adopt any color, any disability, any situation, any age, any sibling collection, while he was in seminary and I was working full-time, was crazy. After all, we had only been married for a year when we began the adoption process. Weren't newlyweds supposed to bond with each other before a third person entered the group? Let alone a third person with the possible significant needs that adoption elicits?

In order to accurately present our thinking and our plan, I think we need to go back to our first several dates. As in counseling, once you see the origin of the crazy, the crazy makes more sense.

Scott asked me out for coffee in November, and a few days later (November 9th, to be precise-- seriously, who remembers these things? Oh, that's right, crazy people), we met at Starbucks. As I pulled into the parking lot, I could see Scott, flannel shirt tucked in, knee bouncing up and down, coffee cup tapping on the table. I forgot all my nerves and grinned.

The poor guy was nervous.

I took a deep breath, and prayed that God would help me to focus on serving Scott. First dates are horribly awkward, so I prayed that I would be able to make him feel more at ease. Then I tacked on one little adendum, "Lord, please help me to be really honest. Please don't let me deceive him, or lie in order  to say what he wants to hear. Help me to communicate clearly and honestly."

Most girls re-apply their lipgloss before a date. I had to re-apply honesty. I'm a classic people pleaser. Don't believe me? Just ask anyone who has ever met me. I like making people happy. My past several relationships (barring the one that ended a year before I met Scott) were not entirely truth-filled. I didn't lie to or deceive the guys, I just tried to hard to like what they liked, while ignoring some of my own preferences. This is not all bad... My husband is very happy that I'm attempting to ignore my tolerance of mess and disorder and am faithfully cleaning our house. But when certain things (i.e. the sufficiency of the scripture, godly passions, utilizing gifts/abilities, etc.) are pushed to the side, then you are not serving God better by being with that person. In fact, you're not even serving that person well.

So, as I walked into that date, I had one goal. Be honest. (And help him relax enough to stop twitching his knees.)

God must have known what we both needed, and it's a good thing I put on my honesty, because Scott fired straight and serious from the get-go. We wandered in and out of serious topics so effortlessly, that I was actually surprised (in hindsight) at what we covered. Of course my very clever date wasn't surprised at all. He had an agenda. It was a very carefully hidden, gently approached agenda, but it was an agenda, nonetheless.

On our first date we covered the following: our families, how our parents communicated, finances, life goals, how clean we were, where we saw ourselves in five years, missions, church ministry and priorities, and where we squeezed the tube of toothpaste.

"How do you squeeze the toothpaste?"
Quizzically, "What do you mean? I just pick it up and squeeze it."
He groaned and then grinned, "Well, You're supposed to work from the bottom of the tube up... I guess we'll just have to get separate tubes of toothpaste."

And he moved on.

I still stuck at the fact that he was already thinking of our toothpaste situation... for when we were married.

This was a first date. Holy cow.

But I liked it. He asked (and answered) all the really important, nitty-gritty questions. You know, those crazy ones which everyone wants to know, but no one is ever gutsy enough to ask, especially on a first date. But he did. I found a gutsy one.

Our second date was in the same location.

Curled up in the big leather chairs, sipping tea (he didn't like coffee!) we talked about what we both wanted our future families to be like. He asked me what my dream job was... and (honesty!) I said,

"I know it's not popular, it may be a little gauche, and most guys would run for the hills, but here it is... I want to be a wife and mom. I want to teach my children, write books, and rescue babies from Africa. I want to adopt, I want to have a lot of kids, and I want to stay home with them. That's my dream job."

He just looked at me. Grinned. And said,

"So, how many kids?"

We both had the same life goals, the same family dreams, when we talked about what a marriage and family should portray to the world, we both landed on the same key factors: hospitality, ministry as a lifestyle, adoption, etc.

Our first few dates were not "romantic" in the practical sense of the word, but I got goosebumps and floated on puffy clouds nonetheless. It was wonderful talking, jumping up on mutual soapboxes, and hashing out thoughts and priorities with a godly man.

I wasn't nervous. I didn't try to impress him. And I was falling, head over heals for the most amazing man I had ever met.

Stinky, Slimy Blessings

Grant has a horrible habit. Really awful. As soon as you slap a brand new, crisply dry diaper on his little tushie, and pop a nicely warmed bottle into his mouth, he starts making squishy faces, and his bottom starts making bubbly sounds. He is literally an in-one-end-out-the-other type of kiddie.

Baby Grantlet {1 month}

This morning, as I smeared another batch of Desitin on his little bottom (he's going to love this post when he's thirteen), I couldn't help getting teary eyed. My left shoulder was covered in slimy formula spit-up, my hair had been ripped out at the ends, and I found a tiny baby booger (again) on yet another article of clothing. I haven't slept well in almost 2 months, I clock my time based on bottle feedings, and I have never done so much laundry in my life.

And it is wonderful.

I'm a mommy! There are slimy, slobbery things everywhere, and I'm pretty sure that my house smells (and often looks) like a giant diaper pail, but I really don't care.

3 a.m. feedings, horribly putrid diapers, screaming sessions because he doesn't like his crib... it's all wonderful! I'm a mommy!

There were times in 2012, when I wasn't sure if I was ever going to have this job (which, after being Scott's wife, is the best job in the world). I had many teary devotions, nights in prayer, silent-quick moments of aching, in which I had to ask God, "Do I love YOU enough to be happy without babies?"

And the answer was, "yes." Not always, not constantly, not with great pious devotion, but in the real nitty-gritty, painful, pulling way that I've learned in this long walk. God showed me His daily tangible blessings and gave me such joy. Scott and I had several sober talks about what we would do if our year with the adoption agency ran out and no baby came.

But we didn't have to cross that bridge! God didn't make me fight that battle! I'm sitting, listening to my son grunt (they can tell you it's cooing... it's really grunting) in his little swing next to me. I had to battle for sanctification while I put a baby swing together this morning. I got to change diaper after diaper after diaper produced by my baby.

There are going to be lots of days in the future when I will want to scream and pull my hair out. There will be lunches when I groan and wipe up peanut butter again. There will be battles of the will, bath time breakdowns, embarrassing supermarket moments, and times when my child makes me want to hide in my own closet (which I probably will do).

But each one of those boring, stressful, labor-intensive, mundane days is extraordinary.

God has granted me (no pun intended!) years of stinky-ness, pain, embarrassment, and slimy bodily fluids.

And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Once Upon an Allegory: Mrs. Grundy and Nice Nelly

Once upon a time, on the very edge of an important town, there was a long row of houses. Vine Street was known as the "fashionable street" of the town, but the further Vine Street got from the town, the less fashionable it became. The houses at the beginning of the street were sparkling white, with very prim primroses in their window boxes, and a handyman who attended to the needs of the weeds and plumbing. He was a very remarkable handyman--all the residents agreed. His aptitude for re-shingling roofs was extraordinary, according to Mrs. Potts (head of the neighborhood association), but then again, nearly everything (from discounted eggs to a triple rainbow) was "extraordinary" to the enthusiastic Mrs. Potts. Regardless, the houses were well maintained, and everyone coveted a house at the "good" end of the street.

At the very end (the "bad" end) of this pretentious street, there were two houses. These houses had apparently given up all hope of ever becoming pretentious. They were trying, with all of their beings, just to remain upright. And they were doing a rather shoddy job of that.

"For Sale" signs stood hopefully in their front yards, and for months on end, Vine St. 211 and Vine St. 213 looked for new owners.

On the same day, the same hour, nay, the same minute, the houses were purchased by two, very different, owners. Such coincidences don't just happen in stories. They are just as likely to happen in your life. The problem with coincidences is that we label them as such. In this instance, we should side with the wonderful Mrs. Potts and label such instances "extraordinary." For all great coincidences are wonderfully extraordinary.

A lovely, vivacious lady (barely more than a girl, really) purchased house 211. She bounced her curly locks joyfully, and grinned in eager anticipation of becoming a home owner. (And on Vine Street, nonetheless!) Elenora VanderWitzerburg was the quintessential optimist. Her sunny disposition was legendary. So legendary, in fact, was her bubbly, I-could-care-less personality, that no one called her by the imposing handle of "Ms. VanderWitzerburg." She was known as "Nice Nelly" and her personality supported such a nickname. Nelly was staunchly determined to see the best in herself and in others, most especially in herself. When others would call her clothes "mismatched," Nelly labeled herself "artsy." When reprimanded by her mother for ignoring her grandmother's birthday, Nelly would cheerfully toss her curls, and remind her mother of all the times she had remembered Grandma's birthday. Caught in a lie, Nelly would be the first person to point out that she really rarely told a lie, and (after all), this lie was very creative and very small, and really, actually more clever than the truth. Yes, Nelly was a very happy individual. Very contented. And very sure of everyone's love... And she had reason to be. Nice Nelly, despite all her faults, was easy to love.

Mrs. Grundy, on the other hand, was not easy to love. I don't think that Mrs. Grundy's own mother even really loved Mrs. Grundy. Mrs. Grundy was the type of person who one "loved" out of a sense of duty. No one loved Mrs. Grundy on impulse. Routine was Mrs. Grundy's hobby. She was rigid about completing each task with painful punctuality. 7:13 a.m. every morning, Mrs. Grundy fed her cats. She patted each cat 3 times, and then sat down to read her paper. She always snapped the paper open briskly 3 times, and she never read the comics first. That would have been shear frivolity. Mrs. Grundy believed that in order to be a contributing citizen, one must stay up on one's current events. Mrs. Grundy never told a lie. Mrs. Grundy never mismatched her clothes. Mrs. Grundy kept a birthday calendar so that she never forgot anyone's birthday. To forget someone's birthday was a horrible offense. Every day, at the exact same time, Mrs. Grundy did the exact same thing. If, for any reason, Mrs. Grundy didn't follow her schedule perfectly, she inevitably took to bed for a week out of shock and depression. Her cats still remember the "2 snap" paper incident of 1997. When Mrs. Grundy forgot to snap the paper 3 times, she was bedridden for 13 and 1/2 days.

So these are the new owners of 211 and 213 Vine Street. And never have there been more terrible houses.

Nice Nelly's house had a horrible toilet that spit sewer gas at you, and a garbage disposal that wailed every time you turned it on. Her carpet was peeling up in great chunks, and the mold underneath was almost as fuzzy as the carpet had been. Her front yard was a jungle that most Amazonians would have coveted, and she was too scared to look in the attic. After what she found in the basement (drowned rats, my friends), she had no interest in exploring the attic.


Instead, forever cheerful, she hammered a window box on the front of her house and planted bright red flowers. Nelly's furnace growled each time she  turned it on, but she claimed that it just made her feel like she had a pet wolf, and she had always wanted a pet wolf. The pipes in the ceiling screamed every time she took a bath, so Nice Nelly declared that she liked showers instead. Mrs. Pott's came over and gave Nelly the number for the "Extraordinary Handyman," but Nelly laughed, tossed his number in the garbage and said, "Look at my lovely red flowers! If I could do that by myself, I doubt I need any handyman."

Mrs. Grundy's house was probably even worse. At least, that's the way that Mrs. Grundy saw it.

The linoleum in Mrs. Grundy's laundry room was a sickly shade of green from the constant over-flowing of the washing machine. Her house leaked so much in a rainstorm, that she stayed dryer on the back porch with an umbrella than she did in her bed. She tried to keep petting her cats 3 times a day, but the poor, terrified animals were so scared of the massive snake population that they rarely came out from under the couch.

 She looked at Nice Nelly's house, and sighed, "I'll never manage to clean up my house the way that she cleaned up her house!" But, knowing that she must try, Mrs. Grundy pulled out her hammer. With 3 sharp raps of the hammer, she fashioned a window box and planted some red flowers. Just as she was dropping the last flower into the box, Mrs. Potts came bustling by.

"My dear Mrs. Grundy! I have for you, the most delightful gift. Here's the number of our street's Extraordinary Handyman. He's simply amazing. A dream. A real catch."

Mrs. Grundy didn't even reach out for the card Mrs. Potts was offering. She buried her head in her hands and started sobbing, "Look at my window box! Look at it! It's horrible! It's nowhere near as good as Nelly's, and my house is a hole! No handyman would even want to set foot inside my house. I can't do this, I can't do this!"

And Mrs. Grundy took to her bed.

We must hope that it didn't rain while she was in there, or else the poor woman may have drowned.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now, for the moral of the story. No, don't run away. I know morals are a wee bit like vitamins, but with a story, hopefully I've made this a chewable vitamin with a yummy strawberry.

Are you a Nice Nelly or a Mrs. Grundy?

Both ladies moved onto Vine Street, into the family of God, they are living with Christ now, our "true vine." And this wonderful street is equipped with a Handyman who is really, truly extraordinary  and willing to help them with every improvement. For apart from our Handyman, "[we] can do nothing."

These women moved into equally terrifying houses, their response was quite different, although equally poor. Nice Nelly is what is known as a "happy moralist." Resting in her own abilities to aid in her "renovation" (i.e. Christian growth), she was very confident in the amazingness of her own abilities. After all, her window box was amazing, and who cares if there are bloated rats in the basement that she can't take care of? She refused the help of the "Extraordinary Handyman" because  she can do it on her own. She's pretty good.

Mrs. Grundy, on the other hand, knows that her house should be condemned, but rather than seeking help, she tries to tack on a window box, and then breaks down in tears because she knows that it's not helping her problems. She looks at her neighbor and assumes that she is far, far worse than Nice Nelly. She is known as a "sad moralist." She is also depending on her own strength for growth and change, but she knows that her efforts are failures. Rather than turning to the Handyman, she caves in and wallows in the nasty misery of her horrible house until she has enough energy to try to do it on her own again.

So, if you're a resident on Vine Street, which character would you  play? I'm afraid I'm a wee bit like Mrs. Grundy...

(John 15: 1-8)

Alive... Gloriously, Eternally Alive!

We are like God. He created us in His image. We have a sense of justice, a desire to worship Him, a passion for creating...

But we are also like Him in life. We share the common attribute of living. For in him we live and move and have our being. And if He, the great God that He is, can support and sustain all the energy and life here on this earth, imagine how vibrantly alive our GOD is! "God, who gives life to all things..."

His entire being pulsates with glory, energy, and life.

Have you not known? Have you not heard?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
    his understanding is unsearchable.

He creates, and needs no rest from His creation. He sustains all life, and yet does not grow weary from that strain. He is so vibrantly, actively alive that no state of human consciousness can even approximate the very power of God's life.

Someday, I will stand in the presence of unlimited energy and life, and I will understand, in entirety "the free gift of God [which is] eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

For "He is the true God and eternal life."

Acts 17:28
I Timothy 6:13
Isa. 40:28
Romans 6:23
I John 5:20

Baked Pumpkin Oats

In an attempt to become more versatile (and, yes, in order to meet my weekly quota of blogging that I established for 2013), I will try to post some recipes in order to fill the days in which I have nothing learned or witty to say.

My hubby and I subsist on a grocery budget of $300. Often less. This is without couponing (who has the time!?), and without any bargain hunting. We shop at Aldi. Although it is mildly inconvenient (bring your own bags... or forage for boxes like I do), and sometimes the greatest stressor to my Monday (bag your own groceries... don't go in with a meal plan), it has saved us literally thousands of dollars since getting married, and I'm honestly not entirely sure how non-couponing, Aldi-scorner, grocery-shopping individuals have made it all these years. Walmart is ridiculously expensive, and Target... well, Target is where I'll shop when I'm independently wealthy. (Married to a someday-pastor = not likely to happen.)

But today, as I cuddle up with a mug of my new, favorite breakfast desert, I don't even want to become wealthy... All this yumminess can be found at your near, dear (and possibly ghetto) Aldi store.

Here's what you'll need from your faithful Aldi's store:

Steel cut oats. My fav. If you don't like texture to your oatmeal, you can safely leave these out and double the oatmeal requirement... But goopy oatmeal is one of the reasons I don't like to eat it. This adds a nice nuttiness and coarseness to the blend.



I like to buy my pumpkin from cans marked "100% Pure Pumpkin." You can purchase the "pumpkin pie filling" crap, but then you're getting a lot of additives that you don't know anything about, and you have little to no say in how your final pumpkin product turns out.

 These are the quick/fast cook oats. I usually go with "Old Fashioned Oats." Once again, they just have a better texture and withstand cooking a little longer.









Honey. Need I say more? If I'm on a calorie counting binge, I use some form of artificial sweetener, but honey makes the whole compilation taste much  better.

Ingredients

1/2 cup oatmeal

1/2 cup steel cut oats

1/3 cup canned pumpkin

1 tsp. cinnamon

1/8 tsp allspice

1/8 tsp. nutmeg

3 TBS honey

1 cup milk

Mix the oatmeal, steel cup oats, and spices in a bowl. Add the pumpkin. Stir in honey and milk.

Spray a microwavable dish with cooking spray (I like olive oil, once again, more natural). Transfer oatmeal mixture to a microwavable dish.

Cook in microwave for 2 1/2 to 4 minutes. (Cooking time will vary with microwave and chef's preference.)

If you are NOT watching your figure, put a nice dollop of whipped cream on top of your pumpkin pie desert/breakfast! It is a large portion, so splitting it could save your waistline (taking it from ~600 calories down to ~300), and make you a favorite with your honey.

The texture will be a little grainy/nutty, and the the pumpkin/nutmeg/cinnamon/allspice combo will add a nice punch of warmth and comfort to your morning.

This breakfast is fantastically fast (you don't even need to measure the spices... just eyeball it. But be careful, allspice and nutmeg are intense little devils), and incredibly healthy. One serving packs a whalloping 20+ grams of protein and close to 100% of your daily vitamin A requirements! If anything will hold you over till lunch time, this cup o' goodness will.

A picture? Why, yes, I believe I have one of those...

Okay, what about that doesn't make you want to be a morning person? Enjoy!

Free At Last, Free At Last!

Maternity leave has been a BLAST.

I'm not going to lie.

All you stay-at-home moms out there can chuckle about how it really is a more-than full time job. You can pat me on top of my curly, new-mom head and tell me about the rigors of housewifery and motherhood. And I'll believe you. Don't worry.

But I will also tell you that this is the BEST gig any woman could possibly hope for. And it is far superior to anything that comes attached to a bi-weekly paycheck.

The weeks prior to Christmas were very full for young Grantling and I. We were learning each other, finishing Christmas presents, and trying (vainly) to figure out a "schedule." We had a primarily "homemade" Christmas this year, so that meant lots of hustling and bustling on my end of things, in an attempt to communicate love, despite the lack-luster compilation of gifts. And so, this Christmas compilation of glitter, family time, and love all served to camouflage my heart. But it soon came out. It always comes out.

All this bustling was followed by  spiritual doldrums. (And consequently... wifely doldrums, motherly doldrums, cleanliness doldrums, etc. The doldrums add up!)

Here I was, cuddling a baby, staying at home, making dinner each night--living the dream! And yet I was grumpy, dissatisfied, and a perfect poster for the feminist movement: clearly I was a woman who wasn't satisfied at home.

But it wasn't my home. It wasn't my (amazing) husband. It wasn't my (adorably perfect) baby.

It was me.

I had been handed freedom... Ten hours a day of pure, uninterrupted bliss which otherwise would have been occupied by work.

And my sin had filled those hours.

I became lazy, tired, self-absorbed. I was dissatisfied, cranky, and hard to please. I groaned, cried, and whimpered my way through a precious week of leave, before I realized that I had ignored a vital warning.

"For you were called to freedom, brothers. Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another."*

Paul warned the Galatians... Freedom will entice you towards sin. Freedom provides a vacuum of time, which you will have an opportunity to fill. And your heart will want to fill it with selfishness.

In my week of doldrums, I had focused on me--my happiness, my comfort, my desires. Focus on others, striving to serve, and (most importantly) gleaning glory for my God and Savior, were not my priorities. I wrapped myself up in dank, foul self-absorption, and the light of grace and mercy were shut out. Here I was, hourly holding proof that God had a glorious plan for me, while I was content to shuffle crumbs under my kitchen table and watch Cosby Show reruns.

This is not an attempt to elicit the perfect "June Cleaver/Susie Homemaker Movement." Crumbs under the table, and un-vacuumed steps were not the problem. Productivity with a new baby is hard. That is not the point.


The point is, I was living for myself. My heart was the problem. I had narrowed and shrunk my world to the size of me, and that is always a recipe for disaster. I filled the void of my new-found (albeit temporary) freedom of time, with selfish goals and priorities.

So here I am today: freely acknowledging my selfishness (for selfishness can often be ignored, when it's just you and a wee baby), and turning to the Creator of Freedom. He alone found my wayward heart. He alone inspired contrite confession. And He alone can elicit service of love which my life owes Him.

I'm busting out the vacuum cleaner and cranking up a sermon on God's glory. After all, He may not call me to big things. But He has called me to great things.

Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me!
    O Lord, be my helper!

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
    you have loosed my sackcloth
    and clothed me with gladness,

that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
    O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!**

* Galatians 5:13 

**Ps. 30:10-12