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.