This Has Been A Happy House

Tonight, as my living room fills up with boxes, as I empty another closet, as I pull packing tape across another bubble-wrapped picture frame, my throat is very tight.

We sold our house.

I am so incredibly, unbelievably relieved. As Scott interviews for jobs, and finishes up seminary, we needed to sell our house. We are leaving Lafayette. We don't know for sure where the next job is, but we do know it's not here...

But I'm also incredibly, unbelievably heart-broken. As I dug through the entry-way closet, and pulled yet another picture frame off the wall, I started to cry.

I love this house.

I loved living here with my brother during graduate school. I loved my beginning in young professionalism with my dear roomie, Jessica. I loved the excited exasperation when my hubby moved in, as I made room for all of his things alongside mine. We lost a baby here. We brought a baby home here. We cuddle a little three-year old who was destined never to be ours. We had Christmases, birthdays, and fights about how to do home improvement projects. There have been countless movie nights, dinner parties, early morning accountability meetings, and fire-side chats.

I love this house. But I love it because it is more than a house.

It is my life. These people, my families, this town... this is where I've lived.

And it's never easy to leave a place where you've truly lived. A part of your soul rips when you do. This is not just my house. This is the place where I've been loved and happy. It's a place where I've learned more about my flaws, and been given the safety to grow.

I do love adventure, but all really big adventures start with leaving comfort. Grad school, marriage, adoption... they were all very big adventures. And now, I'm about to embark on another adventure. And the scary thing is, I don't know where I'm going, or what I'm doing... But I guess that's the way it is with all really good adventures. No one ever wrote a book about a heroine who sat at home in the safety of predictability.

But I think that that's what heaven is going to be like... a huge adventure and absolutely no fear. Imagine what you could do if you weren't crippled by heart-breaking nostalgia and over-active homesickness...

I'm getting ready for my next adventure... and dreaming of the thousands of adventures I will enjoy in that delightful place where there is no fear, as I sift through hundreds of happy memories at "Trace Two."

My favorite ladies... "The Cardigans." I'm blessed to have been surrounded all through college with wonderful friends.

I have a weakness, an addiction, really, for Christmas decorations... And if you had this fireplace, wouldn't you?

Mid-bathroom re-model. This was my 23rd birthday present from my hard-working brother, Bax.

PARTY!!! There's no doubt... cram a bunch of people into an under-sized condo, and they're bound to have fun.

Sunset in summer 2010

Patio parties, complete with colorful lighting, of course.

My delightful early morning accountability ladies... 6:00 a.m. isn't early at all--when you have coffee, chit-chat, and tender hearts. 

First anniversary present... an oil painting for the mantle.

Walking through our neighborhood. For whatever reason, I decided to see if I could make my shadow look like Winnie-the-Pooh. It's a little depressing how close I came...

Our first Christmas! (And the beginning of Scott's love for crazy socks.)

Our little "cherished" treasure...  the adoption that never happened. We only had her for three short days. But she still holds a piece of our hearts. 

Bringing Grant home! 

Christmas 2012... Celebrating with my Michigan loves.

Daddy and Grant. Both thoroughly exhausted from the ordeal of bottle feedings.

Yes, this has been a happy house.

Quietly Racing, Fiercely Resting

I fell into the classic "woman trap."

Last night, actually.

It was ten o'clock, the lights were out, and the monsoon-like rainstorm had stilled to a dull roar. I had just had a wonderful text-versation with my brother in NYC, I had eaten a bowl of ice cream for dinner (perks of the honey being gone), and my house was spotless (thanks to a recent showing).

All was right in my world.

And I couldn't sleep.

I lay there, eyes peeled open, staring at the ceiling. Would our house sell? Does this guy want to buy? How soon would he want to move in? We could borrow my dad's trailer... we'd need  a storage unit... what clothes did I want to pack, which do I need... packing the kitchen would be a bear... baby isn't going to like this...

Courtney. For crying out loud, go to sleep.

I flipped to the side, cuddled down in my pillow, and... what if Scott doesn't get a job? What if I'm the reason that he doesn't get a job? Name one other profession where they care what your wife is like... I've never been good at pastor-wifey stuff... I don't like mauve and ladies' teas... what if they want me to do the flower arrangements for the women's bathroom? Is that something that pastor's wives do? I guess I could learn to like mauve...

Courtney. Stop it.

I rolled over. Face down. Would I need to find a new job? I will miss my current patients and coworkers so much... but could we afford to buy a house on Scott's salary? Where would we buy it? Where will we be? We want 7 to 9 children... how many houses can accommodate that kind of lunacy?

I turned over the Scott, "I can't sleep."

"Me either. Stop worrying."

"I'm not worrying. I'm just thinking about lots of different things."

"Honey... that is the very definition of worry."

He was right. The word "worry" in the Greek actually means (roughly) "to divide."

In reality, there was nothing that I needed to do right now. There was nothing that I needed to plan in order to be a good steward of tomorrow. Instead, I was splitting my mind up into a million tiny pieces. I put a little bit of my mind on selling the house, a little on where we will move, a little in Scott's job... and why stop there? Why don't I start thinking about my baby's development, my job, how much laundry there is, whether or not I paid the credit card bill... And my mind gets divided again, and again, and again...

Yes. I was worrying. Don't pretend you haven't.

My perfect worry time is after everything is done for the day, the lights click off, I climb under my fluffy comforter, cuddle down for sleep, and then... BAM. Suddenly, my life is devolving into total disarray and it all requires that I immediately have plans for every possible scenario.

The problem with worry is two-fold. The first is that it is literally like slapping God in the face. You would never dream of saying, "God, I'm sorry, I'm just better at this than you, so I'm going to take over the details and organization of my life. 'Kay, thanks, bye." But when you worry, that is what you're saying.

The second problem with worry is our finite humanness... Unlike the God of the universe (who, incidentally, you just assumed was incompetent by deciding to worry), you do not have limitless brain power and resources to throw at a million different problems. Your energy and emotional capacity are limited. When you burn up all your reserves worrying about things that may never happen, and/or, things that you cannot control, you are robbing yourself of one of your most precious resources.

You have a finite time on this earth. You only have a short number of days in which to live. And when you spend those days, wrapping your mind into knots, and dividing it into a myriad of small, unimportant boxes, you are distracting yourself from what you need to be doing.

Paul writes: Every athlete exercises self-control in all things. They do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable. So I do not run aimlessly; I do not box as one beating the air. But I discipline my body and keep it under control, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified.

Worrying is beating the air. Your mind is out of control when you worry. And you only have a little time to run this race...

In Psalm 37 it says, 

Do not fret—it leads only to evil.
For those who are evil will be destroyed,

    but those who hope in the Lord will inherit the land.

I will not worry... not only is my God in perfect, sovereign control... but I only have a short time here. And if I worry, I lose my effectiveness in many, much more important matters.

Who cares if we don't have a house, or can't sell our current house? What does it matter in eternity if we have no jobs, or are unable to have a future plan? Worse things have happened to Christians, and if that happens when I am seeking to please the Lord, then I can only assume it is for my good and His glory.

But I do care, regardless if I'm homeless, jobless, and plan-less, about sharing the hope that I have in Christ... Because apart from his gracious goodness, my life would be nothing but beating the air.

The Time I Swore... at myself

Right after wee Grantling was born, I was exhausted.

Being an adoptive mama is different than popping out your own "babboo". While I am sure that, physically speaking, being a bio-mom is much more exhausting, in the emotional realm, I'm not sure much compares to being a new mama by birth of paperwork.

I was told for months, upon months, upon months, not to plan, not to hope, not to dream. Because if you do, you become vulnerable, and you go through a massive grief process when the adoption falls through. I agree with this sentiment. It's very wise.

It also makes it hard when you finally get a child.

At the beginning, I felt as though I was babysitting. For a really long time. For a really needy baby.

One day, about 5 weeks into mothering, I looked down at this little baby. My hair was bedraggled, I had spit-up all over my clothes. My baby was screaming, covered in vomit and wiggling in his dirty diaper. The house was a veritable wreck, and I couldn't have found a clean onesie if my life had depended on it. Everything smelled like formula and diapers, and I don't think I had cooked for my husband in over a month.

This wasn't me.

I don't mean that in a "I lost myself" or a "I hadn't figured out my new role" kind of way. I mean that in the sense that this wasn't too much for me to handle. I wasn't struggling to get it all done. I wasn't even trying. I was making absolutely no effort. I had given up.

I had let the emotional storm and the fatigue create some sort of spiritual doldrum.

I looked down at my baby, and it hit me...

I am wimping out on motherhood.*

I was tired. Sure, but when is a mom not tired? I felt overwhelmed. Um, well, welcome to parenting. I had been thrown in the deep end without any preparation. That is called "motherhood."

I had an infant. That's parenting with training wheels. After all, he's only awake maybe 4 hours a day total. And yet, with this very easy level of parenting... I was failing. If I couldn't handle a baby, if I was barely scraping by while my tiny infant was laying in my arms, when did I plan on working at parenting? When he could sit up? When he was walking? When he was talking? When he could reason with me? When he was in junior high? When he was driving? When he finished his college degree?

Mark me down as crazy (and profane), but listen: If I wasn't applying all my energies to presenting the gospel, to growing to be like my Savior, to using every minute to be Christ to my child right now, in training wheel zone--when was I planning on starting?

Me and wee Grant... in the sleepless days.

I'm in the easy zone! I have it made! He's still just a baby (who is unconscious the vast majority of the time), but someday he won't be. I have to exercise those spiritual muscles every chance I get so that when my baby is aware of my choices, he will be in awe of who God is. I want him to grow up in the glow of joy that comes from being a follower of Christ. Because if I don't show my child Christ who will?

This is not hyperbole. Life is war. There are warriors who fight battles we cannot see. There is a legitimate fight over who your child will serve. And your baby will be bombarded, if not at age 2, then at age 12, or 18, or 20, with a culture that will tell him lies. And your baby, your child, your teen, will have a choice.

And his only argument may be, "I would really like to, but because of my mother I know _________."

You cannot win the soul of your child. But I want to stand before Christ someday knowing that I pled daily for my baby. That I modeled Christ's joy. That I shared truth. That I prayed for each step of growth.

And those things won't happen... If you're flaking-out* on motherhood.





*I definitely used stronger language with myself. However, for the sake of blogging and a broader audience, I have reduced my intense language to a more moderate "G" rating. I don't like to swear. It's just the thought that popped into my head... and it hit me like a two-by-four. I wanted to do the same with my audience, but my very wise hubby recommended restraint. :)

Back in the Saddle Again

When I was growing up, we had this obnoxiously wonderful song playing in the background frequently...

That's me.

"Back in the saddle again... toting my old '54..." (Well, not really. I don't think anyone wants me "toting" a gun of any kind. My general disposition does not inspire "gun trust.")

I'm slipping into the patterns of motherhood, slowly but surely. I am constantly amazed of my glaring imperfections at the advent of every new life adventure. When I was 6, I was pretty sure I'd be perfect at age 14. After all, my babysitter was perfect.

14 came and went... no perfection. Then my new "perfection" age was 17. Then 23. Then 27.

I'm 27 now. My next "perfection" age is 30. But my faith is beginning to wain. So, somewhere in my early 20s, I switched to new "perfection" milestones... probably, I'd be perfect when I finished my undergrad. Nope. Maybe after grad school I'd have my life more organized. Nope. Probably, after I got married, some magic maturity pill would be swallowed. I think my husband can attest to the fact that that has not happened.

Motherhood was my next "phase." Well... folks... I'm still me. Still sinful. Still not wanting to match socks. Still leaving coffee cups (half finished) all over the house.

In part, I'm very confused. All the mothers I knew, (especially my own), were practically perfect in every way.

But as I fumble my way through night feedings, packing diaper bags, and scrubbing formula out of baby's soggy onesie, I'm finding myself less and less bothered by my imperfections. Oh, don't get me wrong, I would love to be perfect. Absolutely love it.

But I'm learning that that's not where my happiness lies...

Oops, but that's another blog post.

For now, suffice to say the following... We are busy.

I'm working longer hours at work as we switch to a new system of electronic medical records. Scott is counseling, working, or serving almost every night of the week. And babykins is working hard at wooing every lady who takes care of him... He's very blessed to be able to spend 3 days a week with Oma Blake and 2 days with Miss Whitney.

I hate having our house on the market. Cleaning is no longer fun. We are planning on moving (where? we don't know for sure... but I will keep you apprised) at the end of Scott's seminary degree. His last day of contract at the church is June 30th. (81 days, but who's counting?)

Babykins is growing like a weed. We're shooting for 25% at his doctor's appointment next week. He's currently on super-expensive formula (Nutramigen) and people have be amazing about collecting coupons, and generously gifting us with cases of powdered baby gold. He's rolling over, cooing like crazy, and has started this adorable baby belly laughter that makes me so happy. Grant loves to be read to (please use silly voices), but his favorite activity is "talking." (I'd say he was meant for this family...) He loves looking at someone's face for minutes on end and watching you talk to him. He gets so excited about this that he starts wiggling like an upside-down cockroach. (Not flattering, but true.) He has also recently discovered his fingers. Apparently just one finger isn't enough for him...

Yes, he is wearing Calvin Klein. Designer duds for our stylin' boy.

And with that cuteness, I will leave you.

Rest assured, I will try to blog more frequently in the days ahead. It's very hard to string words together when you're existing on 5 hours of sleep and a 50-60 hour work week...