Hello, 2016, I shake you warmly by the hand

As the title suggests, I'm at probably Willy Wonka levels in my sugar/sweetness/candy intake (note the subtle salute to this great and creepy movie). The holidays got me, and they got me good. Even though everything is "technically" tummy healthy, you can't eat pints of coconut milk ice cream and almond meal chocolate chip cookies for days on end... they always find you.

So, as I stood in the line at the grocery store, debating between roasted nuts and blackberries, I was largely oblivious to the scraggly haired man staring me down.

"So... Pennsylvania Boilermaker, huh?" He was commenting on my sweatshirt, which I had stolen from my husband. It is blazoned, with gold letters: Pennsylvania Boilermaker. I love it. 

"Oh, yes, it's a salute to my alma mater, Purdue University."

"Eh, I'm a unionized contractor/plumber. I know all about boilermakers. But I'm not doing that work any more."

I tilt my head politely and fake smile. You know the one. The smile that says, "I'm so unbelievably gracious, but I have little to no interest in talking to you." Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about.

"Yeah... I had a surgery. Can't be doin' that plumbin' no more. I have a scar..." And he begins to hoist his pant leg.

I back politely away, "Oh, that's too bad." But it's too late, he's hiked his pants up, way past his knees, and he's showing me an eight inch scar up his thigh. Way up his thigh.

He then proceeds to tell me about his 16 year old daughter, his contracting woes, his lawyer's advice (apparently, someone is being sued for the horrible surgery he had to go through).

As I meander slowly down the aisle, occasionally backing away politely, he follows me relentlessly.

I hear about how young he is (the guy looks 60+, but apparently he's in his 40s.), I hear about how finding work is hard, I hear about his views on free handouts (he thinks you should take them even if you don't need them), etc., etc., etc. We probably conversed for 10-15 minutes next to the chips. I don't eat chips. He didn't seem to need chips, but there we stood.

And I started grinning.

Because apparently, God wanted to give me a jump start on my new year's goals.

I love new years. Love them.

I love new notebooks, fresh goals, crisp spreadsheets, and planning. I love dreaming of possibilities, and picturing new successes. I know that most of my counterparts are a little jaded. A little tired. A little weary. New years don't always hold the appeal that they should.

And I'm here to say, "I'm sorry."

It doesn't have to be that way.

In 2015, I entered the year battling massive lies and worries. I made 3 goals. I didn't think I could handle any more. I was right.

My biggest goal was that I would steadfastly cling to the fact that I was "beloved" by God, and that I could peacefully abide in Him. I didn't know what abiding looked like. And I didn't feel very loved.

But I learned something. God likes it when our goals are in pursuit of Him. When it's not a waistline, better life, prosperity goal. He loves it when we picture a deficiency, cry out to Him, and run in truth. Day after day.

You need goals. You need to identify weaknesses. You need to plan to change. Because while the Holy Spirit does tremendous things with our weakness and blind willingness, he can also work so much more powerfully through intentional running, and crying, and clinging, and seeking.

Goals help you do this.

I can say, without the slightest reservation, that God changed my soul this year. My heart is filled with peace, and I am wrapped in the unconditional love of my Savior. I am more aware of what abiding, daily seeking, daily relying on my Savior looks like. I'm not flawless, obviously, but I've grown, and I'm so unbelievably thankful.

Enter 2016.

I started praying two weeks ago about my plan for 2016. And like a typhoon, a lightning bolt, and a tsunami, the truth came crashing in on me. That still small voice whispered in a decimating way, "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near."

I am not gentle. I desperately want to be. But I tend strongly towards sledgehammer, just-do-it, suck-it-up-chump, tendencies. But after a year of experiencing the unconditional grace and love of my Father, I realized that I desperately need to show the same love to others.

Which is probably why God chose to kick off my new year's celebration prep with a lonely, grizzled old(ish) man in a super-market. He needed some grace and gentleness. 

So your new year's party may be a bummer (I don't think I've been to one that wasn't...), but 2016 doesn't have to be. Praying that you find the grace and grit to dig into the new year. I'll be waiting here, ready to listen, because, after all, gentleness does a lot of listening. 

Happy 2016!

When The Most Wonderful Time of The Year... Isn't

I cry in the bathroom almost every Christmas.

Sob.

Quietly. Alone.

Christmas movies and songs with bells in them... they tell me that this is the most wonderful time of the year. And everyone loves that. It's bright, and sparkly, and gift-wrapped. But the truth is, life doesn't go on hold during the month of December.

I cried because I was single. I cried because I was dating. I cried because I was sick. I cried because I didn't feel healthy enough. I cried because I looked ugly in my Christmas outfit. I cried because my grandma wasn't there. I cried because someone else was there. I cried because I had no children. I cried because my child came and was terrifyingly tiny and sick. I cried because I was alone. I cried because there were so many people. I cried because of my sin, because of someone else's sin, because of some unknown longing and gnawing that just wouldn't quit.

Life doesn't pause in December.

And sometimes all the gaiety and merriment just makes your ache that much more profound.

It makes you wonder if this is it. Is this my happiness? Even in the wonderful moments, there's the knowledge, "this won't last forever... crap. I hate packing up ornaments..."

I'm telling you this because my life is idyllic. It's ideal. My family is amazing, my husband is phenomenal, my children are undeserved blessings.

And I still felt this gnawing emptiness.

Let's just be honest. If I have felt it, surrounded by all my earthly peace and blessings... surely I'm not alone.

My kids have several Little People books. The people are fat and chunky, the mountains in the background are flat and a weird color purple. All the buildings and surroundings are symmetrical and pastel colored. While it looks quite cheerful, in reality, it's all a poor, flat representation of life.

That's where we're living. We're chunky Little People. Our surroundings are flat and boring. We don't know any better. This is our world. But someday, we will see true beauty. Just as a person who has only seen purple mountain blobs, would fall down dead in shock at the power of the Rocky Mountains, so will you and I gasp in amazement at the power a beauty of heaven.

This is not the ultimate home coming. This is not the end. All the beautiful decorations, the amazing food, the gifts, the hugs, the family... it's just a cheap, bumbling representation of eternity.

The past several Christmases, I haven't sobbed in the bathroom. Because I know this is only a flat representation of true joy. It's wonderful. But it's not the most wonderful.

When my to do list is too long, when relationships are stressful, when the glitter keeps falling off my Pinterest ornaments and the tape keeps popping off my carefully wrapped presents... I take a deep breath.

"I have calmed and quieted my soul." I breath out David's peace. "I have calmed and quieted my soul." This is not all there is. This is not ultimate happiness. This is not my satisfaction. And I say with the psalmist, "Oh, Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forever more." God, may my hope be in you, in your steadfast love, in your faithfulness to save, in your unchanging goodness. My hope is not in my family, my presents, my traditions, my glitter... It's in my GOD.

So, withdraw to that bathroom. It's okay to feel this way. But take that deep longing, that dissatisfaction, that overwhelmed fatigue, and cry out to God. Ask for a quiet soul. Ask that God would be your hope.

The most wonderful time of the year... isn't actually that wonderful. It's just a sample. Better things are coming. This I can promise you.

Merry Christmas.

He Loved Them To The End

He spent nine months in a uterus.

He grew fingers, toes, a brain, and skin.

He was squeezed through a birth canal.

He sat in poopy diapers.

He learned the walk, talk, run, and play.

The God of the universe who knows chemistry and physics we haven't even discovered.

He had siblings antagonize him.

A faulty father, whose every sin was laid before his Son, was his teacher.

He went to Hebrew school to learn the very Word of God. The Word that He himself had spoken.

He went through puberty.

The God who was, is, and always will be unchanging... had pimples.

He recruited followers. They were blind, stupid, and arrogant. He lived every day with them for three years, and entrusted the spread of the gospel to them despite their ignorance.

He had aching feet.

He got dirty. His hair was greasy.

He experienced damp, uncomfortable clothing, money issues, and lack of food.

The God who perfectly created all food, humans, and animals, joined us in our sin-filled discomfort.

He cast out demons and was accused of being a demon.

He helped people and was driven from their town.

He was abused and hunted down for his willingness to heal.

He was rarely thanked.

He taught constantly. Nobody listened.

He lived perfectly. People still watched for him to fail, laid traps to trick him, and rooted for his down-fall.

He got tired. Bone-wearing, dead-dog, debilitatingly tired.

He was compassionate and gentle to the shy and timid.

He told his followers of the suffering, tragedy, and brutal trial that was coming. He told them again and again. They didn't listen. They just wanted to know which one of them was the most important.

He told them again. They fell asleep, with bellies full of food that he gave them, and he was left alone. With no friends. No prayer warriors. No one listening.

He was blameless. And he was arrested.

In a trial that fell apart because all the witnesses were lying, he alone told the truth. This truth caused the judges to rip their robes and wail and claim that the sham trial was over because he had accused himself. The lie of a trial was over because of the truth. And they claimed it was blasphemy.

He was quiet. People hurled angry, egotistical, jealous accusations.

He was beaten. He had made the muscles and sinews of each arm that beat him. He controlled the life breath of each man who mocked him. He did not stop them.

And then, after all this, he was skewered to beams of wood to die. He who caused trees to grow, who gave men minds to create good things, who designed the human body.

After all this... he was left alone.

The most precious, treasured, nurtured, constant love of his Father. The God he repeatedly withdrew to pray with, who sustained him, who nurtured him, who walked with him through the difficulty and humiliation of being a man and being God... He left.

He was alone. Pierced, throbbing, aching, despised, spit covered, misunderstood, lied about, ignored.

Alone.

"He loved them to the end." (John 13:1) This phrase sprang off the page at me. In the midst of pain, betrayal, discomfort, and sin... Jesus willfully chose to love us. Till the end. The power, the life-saturating force of this love is staggering. That in the moments when he was alone, when his body was ripped wide and throbbing, when his Best Friend and his Father did not look at him: he loved them to the end. When his mind could have filled with self-pity or anger, he chose to plant it firmly in love.

"For His steadfast love endures forever." (Ps. 106:1).

And then with a loud cry, he breathed his last.

"Truly this man was the Son of God!"(Mark 15:39)

Grant Alexander {Happy 3rd Birthday!}

Happy Birthday, Grant!

What a delightful whirlwind this past year has been. You took everyone's shudders and predictions about the "terrible twos" and you toppled them with 12 months of amazing growth, love, and joy. You're our precious gift, and we will never stop thanking God for bringing you into our family. 

Our wonderful first-born. Our precious son. We pray passionate prayers for your salvation, and we delight in seeing your tenderness and sensitivity towards the gospel. We are in awe of the little person that God has created, and we daily lift up the prayer that you will glorify God with the multitude of gifts we already see in your life. Grow strong, little son. Strong in body, strong in mind, but most importantly, strong in love and character. You are our gift. Our defender of the weak. Our Grant Alexander. Happy 3rd Birthday!

Character {at age 3}

Grant continues to amaze us with his willingness to learn and his consistent tenderheartedness. He is incredibly sensitive to the needs of his mother and he enjoys "helping" the kids around him. His playmates are mainly girls, so his awareness of being gentle with "princesses" is growing. He loves to hold doors, wash dishes, and lift heavy loads. He loves to meet needs and delights in fetching and carrying for his little playmates. He has a special place in his heart for weaker people and animals. He carries around the medical toys he got last Christmas and is forever checking people's (and stuffed animals') heart beats and reflexes. 

His strengths include an incredible attention to detail. He notices the tiniest change or alteration. We are very proud of the fact that he has begun to view change as an exciting thing. Fear no longer dominates his detailed observations, and we are incredibly proud of him for his increased flexibility and his new catch phrase/shoulder shrug, "It happens, Mommy."

Grant is consistently peaceful and joyful. His teachers in "school" (the Bible study we go to once a week!) repeatedly remark on his cheerfulness and forever-smiling. 

Milestones {at age 3}

Grant is my super-athlete. He loves running, jumping, climbing, throwing, and pummeling. This past year he's started learning to ride a bike (which he can barely reach the pedals on!), he went through a phase where everything was turned into a basketball hoop, and he loves to push/pull other children around in wagons, tractors, blankets, etc. This boy craves physical activity. We spend a large part of each day outside, and he is in heaven. 

Grant has learned to sing his ABCs and he can identify several letters. He knows his colors, animals, and a surprising number of tractor/construction equipment names. He loves "school," and likes to color, trace, and count (1-12 is solid, after that... the numbers get very creative sounding!). 

Grant is potty trained! Yay! (Sorry, son, if you're reading this as a teenager, but when you have a kid you'll understand.) I'm so thankful for the decrease in diaper spending. Hallelujah.

Favorites {at age 3}

Grant is a very good eater. Recently, he's developed an affinity for salad, and he even tries to filch lettuce from other people's plates when they're not looking. He loves french fries, "sauces" (i.e. salt, pepper, or anything his can sprinkle/dip), crushed ice, cheese sticks, grapes and strawberries. The one food that Grant still doesn't like are eggs. If I disguise them with potatoes, cheese, and veggies, he loves them. But a basic scrambled egg... ah, that he hates. 

Grant loves building things with Duplos, playing outside, and anything artistic. He loves painting, coloring, cutting, and scribbling. He loves playing basketball and football. He enjoys washing dishes, cleaning, and helping "Boo-Boo" (as he calls his little sister). 

His favorite things to watch are "Aristocats," "Mater's Tall Tales" (yes, this infatuation has lasted over a year... **sigh**), and "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood."

His favorite color is orange.

And he likes his bear pajamas. I think this is largely because the bear is brushing his teeth. Grant also really, really, really likes dental hygiene. 

We read for over 30 minutes a day, and we could probably read for several hours. He loves books and analyzing illustrations and "reading" along with Mommy. 

Grant loves his extended family. Videos, pictures, silly stories. He loves it all. We talk about his family often. And he thinks they're just the best people ever.

Grant has begun to learn about adoption. While we have always told him his amazing birth story and we pray almost every night for his birth parents, this past year, he began to understand what it means. He loves the fact that he has an adopted daddy just like Jesus had an adoptive daddy. He understands the concept that he didn't grow in Mommy's tummy, and he is very okay with that. He has even started asking pregnant ladies if they are growing another baby for his mommy! He enjoys the fact that God planned his story such a long time ago. And he loves hearing about how tiny he was, and how he looked like a little tiny raisin, but Mommy still thought he was the most beautiful baby in the world. 

Everyone is so quick to say that adoption exists because the world is broken. But adoption also exists because God brought hope. While walking through this with my son raises many questions for him (and Mommy battles insecurities and fear), I'm delighted in God working in my son's heart, even at this young age, to show him the beauty of his story and the power of true love. Not fluffy feelings-based love... but dying, life-giving, bleeding, forever love.

Dear son, you are our miracle, our blessing, and our joy. We could not be more thrilled at God's writing of your story, and your willingness to listen to it with joy and peace. We pray that you will follow the Savior who died to ransom you. And we pray that the many gifts, passions, strengths, and even weaknesses that God has designed in you would be used to highlight the glory of the God who wrote your story before the foundation of the world. You are our precious gift.

Happy Birthday, Grant! We love you!

Busy Mama, I'm Tired, Too

I'm picking fake pine needles out of my finger nails, and there's something that tried to be pumpkin spice granola congealing on the kitchen counter next to me. The house is decorated. I'm trying to make holiday gift bags, and I've stepped on the same cold lump of sweet potato three times.

This time of year is hard on mamas, ya'll.

Several days ago, after valiantly battling dirt (both figurative and literal) in my children's lives all day, I collapsed. My husband walked in the door, handed me the car keys and a Starbucks gift card, and don't you know, I pealed out of our driveway so fast they could probably hear the tires squealing two towns over.

I was wearing black yoga pants (the stay-at-home mom standard uniform) a brown cashmere sweater (because all my sweatshirts were dirty) and a black and white striped shirt. I was wearing socks with shoes that should never have socks with them. And as I huddled in the corner of Starbucks, I dumped a coconut milk latte down the front of myself as I fumbled for caffeine and my sanity.

Motherhood is hard.

And you know when it gets harder? When you really, really, really try. Anyone can be a mom for a day. Or a week. Or  a month. All it takes is a ready supply of "Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood," animal crackers, and coffee. Honestly, some days of motherhood are a breeze. Plop kids down in front of a TV (or an "iPLad" as it is affectionately known in our house.), then enjoy your third cup of coffee, throw some mac'n'cheese their way at lunch time, and try to get everyone in bed and comatose by 7. No biggie.

But when you try... when you discipline, when you try to review Sunday school lessons and they don't listen. When you try story time, craft time, teaching time, meal time... and you enter each activity with a goal, with a purpose, with a direction (that your kids couldn't care less about). THAT'S when it gets tough.

We hear it over and over and over and over, "Disciple your kids. Teach your kids. Invest in your kids."

Guess what.

That's exhausting. It's hard. It's brutal. It's grueling. It's not a pretty Hallmark Card, it's a failed Jackson Pollock.

We think glowing white Instagram perfection.

We get cold sweet potatoes stuck to the bottoms of our feet.

When we expect kids to sit still, when we require immediate obedience, when we dish out consequences for both good and bad behavior, when we faithfully study our children and design environments and tasks to encourage strengths and bolster weaknesses... that's when it's hard. It's exhausting. It's minute by minute faithfulness. It's discipleship.

So, I'm here, as one tired mama to another, wanting to help. If I could, I would pour you a cup of coffee and we could sob and laugh and celebrate and moan over this tricky road of parenting.

I can't really do that... So, I'm offering this: The Busy Mom's Advent Calendar. Here's the deal: there are only 12 days. If you're like me you will forget some days, so this guarantees there's no irreparable falling behind. You could even (almost!) get through it twice before Christmas! It comes with a little teaching paragraph for each day.

Just go up to the top, right-hand corner of this blog and click "Subscribe," and I'll pop this little advent calendar in your mailbox today. Easy-peasy. (Please be aware, emails may not arrive until around 4 p.m. on the date you request this calendar.)

Just print it double sided, cut along the lines, and you're ready to go. No folding, no glueing, no elaborate set-up. Just a basic little tool to help you with your teaching and discipleship during this sticky-peppermint season with your littles.

I laminated mine (because I'm addicted to laminating. Hard core. In love. LAMINATE-ALL-THE-THINGS!), and we used little clothes pins for kicks and giggles (because hello, Target dollar section, you clearly have my number).

The separate daily pictures come together to make one big picture highlighting multiple aspects of Christ's advent. As a kid I always liked uncovering the whole picture. It's how my mom got me to eat oatmeal: she put it in a bowl with a picture at the bottom.

I still don't like oatmeal. But that bunny bowl was pretty amazing.

I love you, tired mama. And I'm with you. And next time you see a mismatched, bleary-eyed, mascara-crumbling, poorly dressed woman huddled in the corner of your Starbucks... just smile understandingly. And maybe buy her a peppermint latte.

Nope. Scratch that. Definitely buy her a peppermint latte.

Motherhood is hard, ya'll. Let's be faithful soldiers together. Happy Advent!

Fake Thankfulness: A Bridge To Nowhere

I can't fit a single thing in my fridge.

A massive turkey is camped out in front of my milk cartons, and my produce drawers are full of veggies. I can't pop more eggs into their little drawer, because I already have 4 dozen packed in there. Goat cheese has taken over my condiment shelf, and I'm fairly confident that there are some leftovers slowly turning green behind packages of dates and butter.

Thanksgiving is coming!

This is my holiday. I love it.

As I was mulling over Thanksgiving, the rest that comes from gratitude, and the peace of expressing praise, I noticed that many other people were doing the same. The surprising thing is, thanksgiving is not a Christian holiday. People across the board applaud gratefulness and giving thanks.

Of course Thanksgiving was not designed to be a "Christian" holiday... but doesn't it have to be? Just by the very nature of gratefulness, doesn't Thanksgiving compel us to our knees?

Here's my argument: you can't be thankful in a spiritual vacuum. You can't just throw a random compliment of gratitude up into the air at... no one. You don't walk into a beautiful house, packed with food and good company, and then say "thank you for this party!" in an empty upstairs bathroom while ignoring the host. That would be rude. And bordering on lunacy.

Yet, that's what many of us will do this week. We'll go through the ritual of saying "I am thankful for..." But our thoughts will end there.

Healthy gratitude requires a recipient. Just as you would not attend a party and throw your thanks randomly into some closet, so in our lives we can't just shout out a "thank you" without acknowledging who it is we are thanking.

God is good.

Unbelievably good.

Which is why, although you never hear any Christian moaning about "taking away the true meaning of Thanksgiving," you probably should. This holiday was founded on thankfulness to God in the midst of a terrible war.

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God... (Abraham Lincoln, Thanksgiving Proclamation, October 3rd, 1863)

I love Abraham Lincoln. We are "habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God." That's what this day is about. A forced pause to thank God.

Who are we thanking? Who is getting our praise?

I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. (Abraham Lincoln, Thanksgiving Proclamation, October 3rd, 1863)

God was gracious. Even in the midst of a bloody civil war.

God is gracious still.

Gratitude must have an object, or else it is a bridge to nowhere. There is no purpose. There is no fruit. Gratitude was made to be proclaimed back at our Sovereign God. Otherwise, it is not gratitude. It's a meaningless self-help ritual to make you feel better. Will it work? Sure. To a certain extent. But not to its full depth, beauty, and constancy.

So, my prayer is that this week would be full of people shouting praises to the God of the universe. Be conscious and intent in your acknowledgement as God as the giver of all good gifts.

I pray that regardless of family, food, location, situation, trials, or blessings, that God would receive massive amounts of Thanksgiving.

Can you do that? Can I do that? Can we be intentionally, faithfully, whole-heartedly thankful? Right now. About everything?

Stop. Don't rush by this. Am I thankful? Let me break that down, if you ever:
- wake up crabby
- always thank God for the same three things (and only the same three things)
- are upset at the good gifts of others
- get angry easily
- feel the need for coffee, or sleep, or the perfect outfit, or _(fill in the blank)_ to feel satisfied
- struggle with depression
- refuse to pray or get upset when others pray

Then you might not be deeply thankful.

When I was fresh out of grad school, I went through a period of fighting intense bitterness, loneliness, and unfulfilled longings. I will forever and ever recommend Nancy Leigh Demoss' book Choosing Gratitude to all women who are struggling with these battles. Read it. Even if you think you are a thankfulness guru.


Okay, shameless plug over...

I hope you have an amazing Thanksgiving. And I pray that your thanksgiving is directed at the Author of life and the Giver of joy. May your days explode with the beauty and radiance of true gratefulness.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Battle Wisely, Mamas... this is a big war

Several weeks ago, while scrolling through Facebook, I came across a picture of a toddler/young school age child who had clearly just thrown a temper tantrum, or had an icy stand-off, and the mother captioned the picture, "Well... you have to choose your battles."

And something inside of me snapped.

Honestly, I don't remember who this mother was. I don't remember who this child was. All I remember is that I am sick and tired of the "choose your battles" line.

It's complete crap.

Now you, as a mother, as a human, you have a finite energy pool. That's why this lie makes sense. It rises up and bites you when your child throws their 37th temper tantrum of the day, and you know you could make it all go away for an hour if you just gave them a bowl of ice cream and a Netflix stream of "Daniel Tiger." And you think, "eh, pick your battles..."

Don't buy the lie.

Parenting is war. And anyone who tells you different is selling something. (Yes, I just paraphrased "The Princess Bride." All of my cultural references are super-old. Because I'm a mom. And I just don't get out much.)

But parenting is war.

The temptation is to avoid the massive battles. To just fight when you have energy. To shy away from the possibility of a three-hour show-down. To say, "Well, it's not inconveniencing me now..."

But then we completely lose it about stupid stuff: family pictures, how everyone looks on Sunday, nap time being interrupted, childish public behavior (not disobedience, just childish behavior from children), and messes.

Today, Grant pushed a chair over the counter, popped open a Tupperware storage container full of brown sugar, and began glibly shoveling it into his mouth. It made a mess. And he, and everything around him, was sticky. I'm fairly confident I'll be finding brown sugar in the crevices of my kitchen for days to come.

This was not a battle to fight. I told him to stop. He did. He helped me clean up the mess while we talked about how yummy sugar is, but how our bodies can't be healthy and strong if we eat too much of it.

I did not blow a gasket. He did not disobey. We did some teaching and we moved on.

But more often than not, I see mothers (yes, I'm in this category, too!) where little things that aren't sin are elevated above obedient, joyful behavior. I see mothers caving because they're tired, because it's the same battle day after day, because it's exhausting, and thankless, and wearing... and sometimes it's just so much easier to shrug and say, "well, you've got to choose your battles."

Here's the deal, someone is choosing battles. And he's fighting for the next generation. Wake up, Christian mamas! The war for the future of the gospel is real, and intense, and daily... and SMALL. There are very few truly massive battles you will fight in your child's first 10-13 years of life. Instead, it's like a small steady water drip... And drip after exhausting drip, you have to fight the battles.

You have to fight for obedience, joy, self-control, patience, and love. You have to fight to instill these in your children. You have to fight to plant the gospel, to plant faithfulness, to plant the beauty of the truth. There is a war, and we're missing it because it's so small. It's being fought on the daily hills you die on with your child.

Do you die on the hills of mess, inconvenience, and time drains?

Or do you die on the hills of obedience, joy, and kindness?

Because "choosing your battles" is much trickier than we realize. And too often, we choose the wrong ones...

You Don't Need Kids To Be A Mother

You don't need kids to be a mother.

Eloise never got married. I'm fairly confident she never even dated. She had no children. Aside from some distant great-nieces, her family was pretty obsolete. Yet, somehow she wound up with twenty-four grandchildren. She became my grandma. She hosted junior-high girl sleep-overs. She taught us how to make butter-cream mints, snickerdoodles, and sweet pickles. She shared the gospel with countless people in schools and nursing homes, and she brought us with her. She prayed over us every day. Did you read that? Prayed. Every. Day. She took us to the mall, watched us play dress-up in prom dresses, and had quiet talks about priorities and our futures. She was one of the most intensely fierce, dedicated, committed mothers I've ever met.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

I know women who counsel hurting college students. Women who throw baby showers. Women who teach preschool classes. Women who knit blankets. Women who feed hungry new moms. Women who pray every morning over a myriad of hurts. I know women who organize Christmas gift drives, who rock babies in nurseries, who lead Bible studies, and take teenagers on winter retreats.

You don't need kids to be a mother.

We have somehow defined motherhood by a very narrow set of criteria. We have decided that to mother you must give birth, or at least fill out paperwork and pay a lot of money. You need children. Preferably, young ones. No one wants to sign up for motherhood with a full-fledged teenager. You need to have peanut butter always in your pantry and an unending supply of fruit snacks. There will be diapers involved.

But ladies, this is WRONG.

Each one of you, by virtue of being a woman is a mother. You are hardwired for mothering.

Eve, in the garden of Eden, was named Eve "because she was the mother of all living." There were no kids. But she had already been deemed a mother. The name "Eve" sounds like the phrase "life-giver" in Hebrew. By being made a woman, Eve was automatically a life-giver.

We live in a broken world. This is the same world Eve entered immediately after her terrible sin, with the pressure of giving birth, and carrying the (as yet unfulfilled) name "life-giver." Alone. Her job was to give birth to sinful humans. She was given this job without a close walk with God, without a mother, without an idea of what was going to happen. Eve faced painful, brutal mothering hurdles.

It's not much different today.

Today, some women can't have children. Some women won't get married. Some will have far fewer children than they hoped. Some will lose children. Some will watch children walk away from truth. Some will watch children suffer. Some will never hold a new baby. Some will watch that new baby break their hearts.

Motherhood is broken.

But one of the redemptive truths is: you don't have to be a mother to practice motherhood.

You, as a woman, are hardwired to mother. Just as Eve was. Before there was a baby in existence, she was called a mother. A life-giver. By default of being a woman, by default of being created to mimic God's gentle nurturing, you are a mother.

One of the most powerful mothering figures I know is a mom who had two children, and then was given no more. (Of course, if you're going to have just two, these are a pretty awesome duo!) But she went on to mother countless college girls and young moms. She (probably even today!) is sitting in a coffee shop, listening patiently, passing Kleenex, dispelling truth, and pointing to God. She is a mother to hundreds. By the time she's done, those numbers will probably be in the thousands. What a way to enter eternity! The mother of thousands. She is a life-giver.

So, here's my question... Who are you mothering? (Please, don't mention a pet. I mean, pets are amazing, but if they are the sole beneficiaries of your life-giving, you need to re-evaluate.) Where are you giving life? Intentionally. Becoming a mother takes some work when you pop them out biologically or through adoption. The same is true when you become a spiritual mom.

You need to be a mother! The church needs you! There are countless, floundering "babies," that need you. Maybe you should be with the babies in the nursery. Maybe you should be teaching them in elementary Sunday school. Maybe you should learn how to counsel, organize a ministry, or help in a nursing home.

Your children may not be as cute as the mom down the street, who gets to push her little babies in a designer stroller and dress them in matching outfits. But when you enter heaven, it won't make a difference.

You are woman. You are a mother. Find your babies. They need you.

I Didn't Wake Up This Crazy (or why we are pursuing foster care)

It has been a fascinating experience telling people that we're pursuing foster care.

When we announced that we were adopting, we got adulation, encouragement, and horror stories.

When we announced that we were having a baby, we got excitement, big hugs, and horror stories.

But, when we started telling people that we were pursuing foster care, we got horror stories, horror stories, and horror stories.

And then some more horror stories.

And a few more.

In fact, I can count on one hand the number of people that expressed excitement and encouragement. There was a very small number of people who reacted with joy and a pat on the back. Only a very small percentage were thrilled that this was the path we were taking.

I was not one of that small percentage.

This was not my plan.

I have some friends who, even while they were dating, talked about their home being a haven for hundreds of children. They talked about the beauty of foster care, the selfless love, the willingness to spend yourself... and then have a baby ripped away. And they were game. They were ready.

I was not.

I don't like foster care. It's a broken system. I don't like getting in other people's lives. I don't like nurturing a baby and then have it be taken from me. I don't like the idea of countless meetings. I don't like the idea of handing a baby over to someone with sub-par parenting skills. I don't like it.

God pushed me here.

I don't have a naturally selfless heart. I don't have a generous spirit. I don't have bountiful love.

So, God pushed me here.

Adoption was part of my "plan." Natural child-birth was part of my "plan." But foster care? Not part of my plan.

God pushed me here.

Adoption is too expensive. Natural child-birth is too dangerous (for me and my sick body). Suddenly, I was out of options, and standing in the middle of a childless desert, clutching three convictions I knew to be true.

I knew these three things were true. God proclaimed them. I cling to them. And suddenly, He had cut off all other avenues. And He was there, looking down at me, asking, "Do you really believe? Do you really trust me? Do you know that my truth is enough?"

Then He asked a very sobering question, "Are you going to back-up your convictions with actions? Even if these actions are unpleasant and unplanned? Are you willing to sign-up for something you deem "miserable" because you know my commands are marvelous?"

So. Here I am. Getting finger-printed by the FBI, sitting through a sexual education seminar (in which we discussed the "right age" to make a drawer full of condoms available to your children and how to help them masturbate "appropriately"), filling out piles of paperwork, and buying cribs, dressers, and booster seats like they're going out of style. 

Because I believe these three things:

1. Love doesn't care. 

Love doesn't care if you're going to be ripped from our home. Love doesn't care if I dump massive resources into a baby and then the baby is gone. Love doesn't care if it hurts me. Love only cares about you. 

Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends. (John 15:13)

In my head, I always read this verse in the context of martyrdom. Will I be willing to die for Christ? That's not what the verse says (sure, it's what it implies, but stay with me!). Am I willing to give up  my life. My schedule. My safety. My convenience. My money. My heart. My ease. My comfort. My insulation from pain. My life. Am I willing to scrap everything that I hold dear, because of love?

My answer has to be "yes." It's a painful "yes." But if I claim Christ's name, then I must also claim his painful, inconvenient, life-sacrificing love. 

2. Children are a blessing.

We live in a world that doesn't believe this. Oh, we believe children are a rare treasure. You should only have a couple of them. You should lavish them with everything they could possibly ask or imagine. You should let the one or two you have run your home, run your marriage, and run you.

But we don't believe that children are a blessing.

Children are a gift from the LORD; they are a reward from him. (Psalm 127:3)

Notice, there are no caveats on "children." It doesn't say: "healthy children are a gift from the Lord." It doesn't say "emotionally well-adjusted children," "beautiful children," "well-behaved children." It just says "children."

I love kids. Love 'em. And if I am to live as though ALL CHILDREN are a blessing, then I can not pick and choose those I will love based on their history, back-story, or whether or not they are "permanently mine."

3. I must practice what I preach.

This basically ties into the previous two points, and all other un-listed points on life, love, and being like Christ.

Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you. (James 1:27)

I'm supposed to be caring for the "social outcasts." People in their distress. This isn't just about these stranded kids. It's also about their families. I am to care for these women and children in distress. If I am actually practicing "genuine religion." I hate a good hypocrite. I'd also hate to wake up one morning and realize that I am a hypocrite.

So, that's it. I'm falling in love with a crazy form of love. I'm not holy enough and intentional enough to have arrived here on my own. God shoved me into a corner, desperately clutching my beliefs, and then he asked me, "Are you willing to live it out?"

And I gulped.

And said, "yes."

This is crazy, but this is good. This is amazing. This is terrifying. This is where God wants me. And I'm excited. And reluctant. And thrilled. And horrified.

Hello, foster care. It's gonna be a great ride...

2015 Reader Survey... yeah, it's about time I let you say something...

So, I've been trying to figure out what direction this blog needs to take. I want to make sure I'm writing what you want to read. So... I created my 2015 Just Another Wife & Mother Reader Survey.

Take 00:44.75 seconds. Yes. Seconds. And tell me what you want. I want to hear from you. This survey is completely anonymous, so if you absolutely hate something, now is the time to vent. (Or if there's something that you desperately want to see more of, speak now!)

Here it is (just in case you missed the link above): 2015 Just Another Wife & Mother Reader Survey

Thank you!

Also, I get to make a turkey again this November... anyone want to come over and make the pumpkin pie? I can't make pumpkin pie...

Making Eden

This. 

This is peace. 

I'm curled up in "Clifford" our big, red chair, coffee cup cradled in my lap, a candle flickering. Peace. Quiet. Clean. 

I love learning about God, and honestly, I'm one of those people who need quiet in order to meet Him. I think most of us are that way. If we'd really stopped and acknowledged the need. If we cared enough to step away from the noise, the mind-numbing, the crazy. 

One of the things I've been falling in love with is God as my Creative Father. He designed the earth, filled it with goodness, and prepared years of activities and fulfillment. He prepped the ultimate nursery/playroom. Then he put two children in this beautiful newness. Imagine his joy as they stumbled around in new delight and awe. As they began to work and play as he had designed. 

This year, I've struggled and tried and pushed and shoved, trying to buckle my selfish laziness under the saddle of responsible home management. I'll paint a wall in a red-hot second, but dinner dishes? They can sit in slimy water till the next morning. Honestly, housework with toddlers can seem a little futile. Pick-up, get out, pick-up, get out. Scrub, spill, scrub, spill. 

But when I stood in another spot, when I looked at house-wifing from a different vantage point, I saw the creative possibilities and the endless delight that could come from creating Eden. 

So, I've worked really, really, REALLY, EXTREMELY (you got it?) hard at cleaning. And organizing. And purging. And managing. For months. Yes, months. I'm not a quick study. But over the past several weeks, I realized that it has become easier. My house is clean. My kids are cuddled and played with. Laundry is kept up with. Dishes promptly done. I've even had time to tackle several creative projects.

All of this born from a realization that God sees creativity in my juggling of cleaning babies and bathrooms. God encourages invention in the world of husbands and housework. 

And He makes it delightful! By mimicking God's creativity, I'm also allowed a slice of His joy. 

I'm enjoying creating my Eden. It has a lot of weed pulling, and only a smidge of planting and inventing, but I'm learning to love weeding and to "plant" and create more wisely. 

A New Addition

There are formula containers sitting on my kitchen counter.

Two new car seats are in my laundry room.

I've painted a dresser, painted a room, and bought a crib.

Something new is coming to the Allison house...



I have always, one-hundred percent, totally and completely believed that God wants me to be a big-family mother. In my childhood, I had eight dolls. Yes. Eight. And they had a birth order, back-stories, and personalities. I would care for all eight at the same time. Because I wanted eight children. I went through a phase where I wanted 6 boys and 6 girls. I believe this happened when I still thought there was a Wild West to explore, and I couldn't decide on which children's names to cut, so... they all stayed. If "Oregon Trail" taught me anything, it was that probably 3 of them would die on the way to Oregon, so the more, the better. In high school and college, I lobbied for 8 boys. Just boys. The idea of having girls was completely exhausting (and now, as a mom of a little girl, I believe that this assumption was correct. Not the whole picture, of course, but definitely correct).

I married a man who (after 1 month of dating) talked about family size and planning. Which was a little shocking. But okay, because he also wanted lots of children.

We love kids. We love babies. We love children. Teaching, discipling, growing, playing... Love it.

But then our family got off to a rocky start, and then a pricey (totally worth it!) adoption process, and then a nightmare pregnancy (with an adorable outcome). And our picture of a huge family dwindled. We were reminded that God determines how many children we are blessed with. God determines the shape and size of each family.

But each of these separate circumstances were used to grow in us a very specific love. We saw desperate mothers, hurting families, and broken health. We experienced two fragile infants, a NICU stay, and multiple nutrition/feeding specialists. And our hearts were broken. Again. And Again.

I say this because you need to understand: what I'm about to tell you was not in our five year plan. It was not a dream we woke up with or a passion we were born into. God knew we needed some chipping, chiseling, and softening.

We are becoming foster parents.

And it wasn't our plan.

I had a woman tell me, while we were in the process to adopt Grant, "I'm not really sure why you would sign-up to take on someone else's problems." I almost blew a gasket. The woman was an idiot.

But God knew me.

He knew that I had a category of people that I was guilty of viewing that way... Why would we ever sign up for this? The broken families, the traumatized kids, the drugs, alcohol, horrible atrocities, and almost certain separation from a child that you poured your life blood into. Why would you sign up for this? For the emotional exhaustion, the physical demands, the constant up-and-down, the unknowns...

Because it's my job to "take on someone else's problems."

Two thousand years ago a man came. He entered the brokenness, the trauma, the abuse. He gave his life. After a roller coaster of emotions, constant pressure and physical demands, he gave his actual life blood. For a really big mess. For my problems.

"The one who says he abides in Him ought himself to walk in the same manner as He walked." (I John 2:6)

For that reason (as soon as the FBI says that I'm not an escaped criminal), we will throw open our doors to "other people's messes." If God lets us add more "permanent" children to the Allison clan, hallelujah. But our goal is not 8 places around the table... We want to share Christ. And this is the path God has prepared our hearts for. This is the way we're supposed to go. It's going to be a great ride.

We Are Home

My emotions are... special.

A little delayed.

Sometimes eons behind the time.

I like them. I'm very attached to my emotions. But I'm a little oblivious.

For example, it took me weeks to break down after my grandmother died. I'm slow to find embarrassing situations funny. And I have a tendency to say, "I'm fine! I'm fine!" (and firmly believe it) and then completely lose it several weeks later.

Which is why no one should be surprised that one week ago, I finally realized... that I live in Philadelphia.

Yes. We've been here for over two years.

Yup, I've become a registered PA voter. I shop at local institutions, I say "wutter ice," and I completely and totally love cheesesteaks. Love them. I live in Pennsylvania. I love Philadelphia. And, while I'm not in the city-proper, I have grown to love this scrappy, blue-collar town teasingly known as the "City of Brotherly Shove."

But about a week ago it hit me.

THIS. IS. WHERE. I. LIVE.

Falling in love with this place means more than that I enjoy living here. It means I have willingly set my affections on this town.

And it means I'm not going "home." I'm not returning to my mid-west roots. I'm not (unless God moves the earth in massive ways) ever going to live down the street from my mama and exchange Sunday lunch hosting. I won't return to the church that I love. I won't ever do regular, weekly ministry with my brothers and sisters. I have friends that I'll only see once or twice a year. I'll have mentors that I won't regularly meet for coffee.

Also, groceries and houses are really cheap out there...

But I'm making a new "home."

And here's why...

I fell in love with a dark, lonely, hopeless spot.

Our tiny church is a tiny light. It's people are a beautiful gift.

But our neighborhood is a desperate place. It's not the jungle or some deep dark place in Asia. I think I would have been ready for this "cut" with my roots had it been more dramatic. Yes, it's a jungle, but it's concrete and trash instead of trees and snakes. The languages I don't understand are Spanish and Ebonics, not some unknown language.

I could long for a Mid-west removal. Ministry and life are not "easy" anywhere. But there are places where I'd be a little bit less of an odd ball. Sure, a stay-at-home mama who wants to homeschool and adopt 10 children would be weird in Indiana. But it's practically insane in our current neighborhood.

I look out my window and I see homeless men limping by. I drive to the grocery store and watch kids shivering on street corners without coats. I hear angry fights, drunken brawls, and raucous partying. Every night. Every day. I'm surrounded by the pain and emptiness that sin and the absence of God creates.

So, we're not going "home."

Because we love our tired, beat up, worn out, God-less neighborhood. We love our beautiful, loving, tiny church. And we believe that if the two meet... if tired touches hopeful. If church and Christ meet neighborhood. If beauty reaches down into ashes, and kindness touches pain... then light can explode.

And Acts 17:26 takes on new meaning. "And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and boundaries of their dwelling place..."

God determined this period.
He drew the boundaries of our current dwelling place.

So, this is our home.

Because this is where Christ is needed.

Hatred Without Caveats

I hate the Holocaust.

Hate it.

I hate that it happened. I hate that the world stood by and watched. I hate that people were gathered, based on their DNA, into pens, camps, and gas chambers.

Hate it.

If I were to state this sentiment at a cocktail party (what a buzz kill, right?), or to express these thoughts during a history class (probably a more suitable venue), everyone would nod along with me. Everyone would agree. Everyone would join in with their hatred of this atrocity and suggestions of how we could have acted faster.

But let's say everyone didn't join in my indignation.

I shout, "I hate the Holocaust!" And everyone just stared, and then someone patted my arm and said, "Courtney, you can't really hate the Holocaust. I mean, you're only allowed to protest about it if you're also for a Jewish relocation program."

I stare at them blankly.

And the person on my other side said, "I mean, I understand you're upset about the super-intelligent Jews that were killed, but you can't really be anti-Holocaust unless you're also pro-Jewish education."

I blink. Shocked.

It was genocide. It was horrible. It was deplorable. I am allowed to hate it. Without caveats. Men were killing men based on a man-made determination of worth. I. Hate. That.

So, this is what I'm saying...

I HATE ABORTION.

It is genocide.

It is murder.

It is the mutilation of little babies.

Don't tell me I also have to support adoption. Don't tell me that I also have to be pro-woman. Don't tell me that I must caveat my hatred for this despicable, horrible, satanic practice.

Listen to what I am saying: I am a woman. I respect women. We bring something to the world that no man can. I love children. I've adopted one, birthed one, and I've just completed training to become a foster-mommy. Because I love children. And I want to help and heal and serve those who are hurting, overwhelmed, and underprivileged. I love women who work at those clinics. I love women who are driven to desperation. If you've been through an abortion, my heart yearns over you. I want to hold you and let you cry. I want you to find help and healing. (If this is you, please. Please, there are women who want to help you heal... https://www.healinghearts.org/). I love the women who made this painful choice. 

BUT I HATE THE CHOICE.

I love the doctors, the nurses, the heads of these difference agencies. My heart aches for them, because I know that they are hardened or struggling. They are trying to provide truth in a vacuum. I cry for their souls. I shudder at their future.

I HATE ABORTION.

I do not need to provide a list of things I am "pro." I am pro-life because abortion is genocide. No one asks me to caveat my views of the Holocaust. In the wake of Planned Parenthood videos, I see many people stating that I must be "pro" a whole list of other things in order to justify my "anti-abortion" standing. Listen to me. There is no verse in the Bible where I have to support my intense dislike of murder.

I refuse to caveat my hatred of abortion.

These are babies.

Abortion is slaughter.

This is our Holocaust.

You're allowed to hate it.

When The Hard Is Empty

These past four months.

When I didn't blog.

When I quietly disappeared.

They were rough.

I feel as though I talk about this all the time... but I have ulcerative colitis. It is a chronic, intensely painful, and embarrassing disease. And God chose to trust me with it. He chose to believe (and subsequently prove through the power of the Holy Spirit) that I would use this decade-long trial to learn more about him and become conformed to the likeness of Christ.

That doesn't mean I'm thrilled to have ulcerative colitis. I'm not a masochist. I don't enjoy being miserable and in pain. Sign me up for mani/pedis, not self-flagellation.

That being said, I have treasured the things that God has taught me over the past decade. Beautiful, painful lessons.

But I made the mistake of doing some internet research. Public service announcement: DON'T GOOGLE. Several years ago a doctor had told me that ulcerative colitis does not (necessarily) last forever. Many people who are diagnosed in their twenties often recover. So, as I approached the 10th anniversary of my first colonoscopy, I did some more research... Apparently, many people stop having symptoms after a decade.

AND I WAS COMING UP ON A DECADE.

Call me crazy, but I had this little, insane hope that I would blow out the candles on my thirtieth birthday cake, and ulcerative colitis would say, "Gee, Courtney, it's been great, but I've gotta go now." and it would walk out of my life forever.

Guess what.

I blew out the candles.

And nothing changed.

In fact, the exact opposite of "nothing" happened. I suffered a massive, huge, 6-week-long flare that resulted in my being bed/couch ridden for the bulk of almost every day. I was no longer treading water. I was drowning.

But as I entered the craziness, I clung to a hope: God had always been more real, more present, more "involved" during my flares. I knew he would be close by. I knew he would wrap me in truth. I knew he would teach me. Even if it was just a tiny truth, it would become more tangible. I would believe it on a "whole new level."

So, I cooked pots of bone broth, made sure a toilet was always nearby, and waited for my amazing truth to come through.

It didn't.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Silence.

No comforting wave of emotion. No beautiful crystalizing moment of truth. Nope. Just silence. And misery. And pain.

Then, in the midst of all the silence, the lack of emotional comfort, the absence of my traditional wave of peace, I realized what was happening... I had boiled down the presence and teaching of God to a very specific formula. God does not change. He is not bound to formulas. He is not required to give me a feeling. He is the unchangeable, eternal, forever, constant. He is no less faithful and loving just because I don't feel like he's faithful and loving. He hasn't stopped teaching me just because I don't feel like I'm being taught.

So, dear friend, if you are walking through darkness. If you are treading in deep waters. If you are stumbling through a maze... and you don't feel loved or cared for or protected, YOU ARE. Because HE IS.

If your darkness is because of your sin... He has not changed. "For I the LORD do not change; therefore you, O children of Jacob, are not consumed. From the days of your fathers you have turned aside from my statutes and not kept them. Return to me, and I will return to you, says the LORD of hosts." (Malachi 3:6-7)

If your darkness is because of a trial...

Though I walk in the midst of trouble,

    you preserve my life;

you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies,

    and your right hand delivers me.

8 

The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me;

    your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.

    Do not forsake the work of your hands. (Psalm 138:7-8)

Or, if you're like most of humanity, and you're a lovely blend of both sin and trials. (**raising my hand**) Remember that the flawless mediator, the one who speaks to God for you, of him it is written: "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever." (Hebrews 13:8)

He will never stop working.

Even if you don't feel it.

When Peace Is Refining

God, you have brought me to a place of peace. Here, as I listen to the waves crash and the wind ruffles my hair, I am resting and happy.

Thank you.

Too often I acknowledge the angst, the pain, and the fight you've created for me. Frequently, church culture expects me to say, "I am struggling" instead of saying "I am blessed." It's as though we believe that holiness is only refined struggle. That holiness cannot be honed when I am rested.

But right now, I sit in your peace. I rest in your beauty. I bask in your vacation. You created "the change of pace." You brought the good of nature, beauty, and relaxation into my life.

And here my holiness can also explode.

If I look at your face. If I don't demand ease. If I don't grab at satisfaction. If I rest. 

I can see you. 

Battles teach me your sovereignty. Vacations teach me your tranquility.

And so my prayer now is that I would not glorify pain as the only means to you. I want to see you in the quiet. I want to praise you in my peace. Let my face be lifted to yours. Show me beauty in the quiet happiness. Protect me from selfish entitlement. May praise for the God of my Sabbath rise from my heart and lips.


May I join with the ocean. "He is good."

Our Assateague Vacation, or "When We Learned That Wild Horses Are Like Giant Raccoons And Toddlers Don't Sleep In Tents"

So, we went camping.

With toddlers.

On an island.

With wild horses.

Brilliant.

While I am not advocating, nor will I ever be a bill board for, "Camping With Toddlers!" it was much less traumatic than I thought it would be. I just mentally prepared myself for the fact that I would be doing the same job that I do every day, only I would be doing it in dirt, sand, and with sleep-deprived children.

That was pretty much true.

What I was not prepared for was the way in which they loved the outdoors and camping. Bets in particular (total shocker, I know!) loved camping. She loved sleeping in the tent. She loved getting dirty. She loved the sand. She loved the ocean. She loved waves and chasing down baby crabs.

I say all this because in the pictures that follow, Bets does not come off as though she enjoys camping. In fact, she would seem to hate it. And the outdoors. And the ocean. That's because most of those pictures were taken just before she fell asleep for an hour on my lap. Bets never naps in public. This nap on the beach indicates her extreme exhaustion level. There. I feel that I have exonerated my daughter. Someone tell her this when she's sixteen and wondering why I have more pictures of Grant from this trip.

We were also visited by wild horses. Twice. There is no photographic evidence of these visits. Here's why:

Our first visit was at two in the morning. We heard horses. Scott peeked his head out the tent, and started throwing shoes at them, trying to get them to go away. Why? Because they were eating our food. I peeked my head out of the tent, and my reaction was much more violent. It probably had something to do with the massive amount of time and energy and money that I had put into making sure my family ate well on this trip, but for whatever reason, I snapped. I charged out of the tent, grabbed a lawn chair, and went yelling and flailing in the direction of the horses. I, for one, am glad that there's no photographic evidence of that encounter. They left us alone for the rest of the night.

The next day, after a trip to the store to replace our stolen merchandise (seriously, wild horses can open Ziploc containers), we spent the rest of the day on the beach. When we returned to our campsite, the horses were back. This time, they had broken into our Rubbermaid tub, smashed our "bug tent" flipped open the cooler and eaten almost everything. Even my super-expensive organic, tummy-approved snacks. Gone. This time, I snapped a different way. It is an excellent thing that the delinquent park ranger who thought saying, "Stay away from the wild horses" was enough of a warning wasn't in the vicinity. I raked that idiotic man up one side and down the other. I'm not a stupid camper. I pack up all my food. But... NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WERE DEMON, TENT-DESTROYING, COOLER-CRUSHING HORSES ON THE LOOSE! So, obviously, I was too steamed to take pictures of that encounter. If your aspiration is to be a park ranger don't be like bleary-eyed, lazy "Steve" (real name forgotten) at the guard gate. The man was flipping useless.

I wasn't upset or anything...

We ate trail mix and peanut butter out of the jar for dinner that night. And we buried our s'mores rations in the sand so that the horses wouldn't find them.

All that to say... we're probably going again next year. And we've already devised a very rigorous, continually-locked-in-the-car food system.

We found tons of (dead) horseshoe crabs. Props to Daddy for knowing what they were.

Our beach oasis. 

Hunting for baby crabs.

Right before "The Nap."

Ready.

Set.

Go!

If you can't tell, this is his "ohmygoodness-I-love-being-buried" face. No sarcasm. He legitimately loves it.

These are "our" horses. The herd that attacked my $12 bag of granola.

Their leader.

It was seriously amazing. And fun. And exhausting. And sandy. And we realized our first "official" vacation in 3+ years. It was time.