All I want for my birthday... is a miracle.

I've already started asking for my birthday present.

My birthday isn't until July.

It doesn't matter. I'm already asking.

For my birthday, I want.... to start the adoption process again.

I know. I'm crazy. But everyone was right... when you're a mama, holding your baby, you don't care about all the labor pains (or paperwork headaches), and you just revel in the delight of holding a precious bundle. Being a mommy is an incredible blessing. And I would do the roller coaster of waiting, paperwork, and rejection again in a heart beat.

That's not to say I've forgotten. It will be miserable. And scary. And sad. And it will be that way for many, many days in a row. I will be frustrated. I will cry. I will want to curl up in a ball and never fill out another form again in my life.

And when I'm holding that tiny baby (or older child... I'm flexible), I will spend some nights crying, because I missed so much of their life, because I didn't get to feel him kick, or I didn't get to see her grow. She probably won't like me at first. He probably won't come to me. I won't know what they like or don't like. It will feel like long-term baby-sitting for a little while. Some parts of being an adoptive mama are hard...

But I will look at that little face, with skin that is darker than mine (let's be honest, there aren't many with lighter skin), eyes that are green (or brown, or gray), legs that are long, hair that is thick and straight.... and I will know that I could never have made this perfect baby. Other people gave him his genetics. That baby will become so much like me, and yet be so much her own. And I will be so glad that God is letting me have so much preciousness into our family.

 As I cuddled Grant, our wonderful gift, and he gurgled a smile up at me tonight, I was in awe of God's perfect design for our family. We won't look like everyone's family. We won't be "normal." We'll probably come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and abilities. And I am so excited.

On those days when I will want to be "normal," when I will want to "grow" my babies like everyone else,  when I'm tired of adoption paperwork and fees, I'll look down at my little son, and smile...

Because adoption made us a different family. We will always look different. We will always be different. We will always acquire children in a different way. But in our difference, God works a miracle.

And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

So call me crazy, but this birthday... I want another miracle.

Holiness and the Epic Battle of Sin

It is tempting, in the battle against consistent, entrenched sin, to continue I view your sin as a heinous crime--deserving death. It's a horrible act against a holy God.

So often, as the "well-churched" lady that I am, my sins comes out a little more muffled, more socially acceptable, than the sins of my culture. This week, as I earnestly sought to abhor my sins, I stumbled across this idea.

When I come up, again, and again, and again, against the same sin, my conscience is tempted to dull, my mind becomes frustrated, and my heart grows weary. I don't want to struggle for sanctification. I don't want to continue this battle.

And then, I become angry. Why do I have this sin? Haven't I been a "good" person? I've fought long enough. I should be done with this. It should be over. I just want, oh, so desperately, to be perfect! To not struggle. To find rest. I want to enjoy the benefits of a sin-free life.

But that's not what this battle is about. It's not about me. It's not about my perfection (or lack thereof). It never was. Yes, I blew it. All of humanity has blown it. We messed up. But this is not about us. If we had an inferior god, he probably would have swept something as small as eating an piece of fruit under the rug. He probably would only care about the biggies: murder, adultery, grand-theft auto... Surely, this small god wouldn't care about... fudging the truth, eating the extra piece of cake, hitting the snooze button, snapping at your spouse. This small god would let those "good people" foibles slide. After all, they're not really "sin."

Or aren't they?

This battle isn't about me, or my "tiny" sins. This battle is about the constant, unceasing attack on the holiness and reign of a GOD that is bigger than anything I can imagine. He is bigger. He is holier. He is  all-powerful. And this battle is raging at proportions and dimensions beyond my comprehension. When I hit that snooze, when I ate that cake, when I lashed out in anger, I was telling Him, "I don't care about you. I care about me." I'm saying, "You're not enough. I don't care about your glory and holiness."

I am saying that to the GOD of the universe.

It is not MY SIN (or the "size" of it) that should be the focus, but rather HIS HOLINESS.

This was never about me.

Screaming, Bottles, and Irrational Fears

There's a baby in this home.

Just in case you hadn't gleaned that tidbit of information from my infatuated blog posts.

Babies like to eat. A lot. And at 3 a.m. I like to eat at three in the morning, too. Of course, I'm usually craving greasy fries and a cheeseburger, not formula.

Babykins has now been with us 2 months, 1 week, and 1 day. I have given him approximately 196 nighttime bottles. And the ritual is always the same: he starts whimpering, then screaming, I dart out of bed, and pick him up with soothing tones. I mix formula and water, and then pop the bottle in to be warmed. Nothing changes about this routine. Nothing. I always say, "It's okay, sweet little babykins." I always mix the formula. I always prep the bottle. And then.... I always place the bottle in the starving baby's mouth. Nothing changes.

But does wee Babykins stop crying when I pick him up?
No.
Does he stop crying when I speak my rote, soothing comfort?
No.
Does he stop crying when I dump the formula, shake the bottle, or heat it up?
No.
He does not.

From the way that this baby yells, you would think that I make it a consistent habit not to feed him during the night. You would think that I always whip up bottles and then completely forget to give them to him. Or rather, that I prefer to watch him scream and struggle. Maybe, I want that bottle for myself. Ridiculous baby. What silly fears.

But I am no different from my tiny baby.

I spend hours of my life "grown-up screaming." We call this "worry" when we reach adulthood. It makes us sound more mature. In reality, I'm just doing what Grant does. I'm spinning countless scenarios around, and around, and around...

"Maybe God won't give that to me."
"Maybe He's going to make me wait until I pray the right words."
"Maybe He doesn't want me to be happy."
"Maybe what God has planned is for my "good." Ugh... the horrible sanctification "good.""
"Maybe God forgot me."
"Maybe I did something that is keeping God from giving me this."
"Maybe this isn't important enough."

And so, I sit there. I turn my problems over and over and over in my head. I fret, and stew, and worry. I'm quietly screaming at God, "When are you going to give me that bottle? Where is the bottle? Why don't I have the bottle yet?! Did you forget about my bottle? Are you tired of giving me bottles? Doesn't every one else have a bottle!?"

What ridiculous worry.

Right now Scott and I have no plans beyond June. We could be anywhere on July 1st. We could be nowhere. I have absolutely no idea. Not even a little one. When the hubster finishes seminary, we might move across the country, we might stay put. I might keep working. I might stop. We might have to move. We definitely need to sell our house.

This uncertainty can lead to pre-bottle screaming.

What about our house? How far will Grant be from his grandparents? How far will I be from my parents? What will our church be like? Oh dear.... will I be expected to play the piano and lead women's ministries? Is our house going to sell? Will I have to keep working? Could Scott be bi-vocational? Will our family survive ministry? What if there isn't an Aldi nearby... where will I get groceries? Am I going to forget what is in style as soon as I become a full-time mommy/pastor's wife? Can we ever have fun again?

How ridiculous are my fears? Very.

God has already given me all I need for life and godliness. And (one of my staple verses) "No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly." (Psalm 84:11)

God has given me a wonderful family. A masters degree. A job that I love. A hubby I adore. I'm holding my wonderful baby right now. Each one of these things are blessings I did not deserve. Almost all of them are things I was convinced (at one point or another) that God was never going to give me.

My life is literally reeking with blessings. And I find time, in the midst of all that goodness, to throw my head back and howl about my next blessing. Really?

So, I took all that worry, I bundled up all that anxiety...

And I'm reveling in the blessings that I've been given. I'm enjoying my job. I'm cuddling my baby. I'm smooching my hubby... and every day I get down on my knees, and I refuse to get back up until I've praised God for at least five of my current gifts.

Guess what... it works. "And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts... And be thankful." (Colossians 3:15) I don't think it's a coincidence that peace is mentioned in conjunction with thankfulness. The very next verse goes on to give more suggestions for peace: "Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God."

Listen to the richness of that verse: dwelling in the word, teaching with wisdom, singing... with thankfulness!

So. I will pour out my heart in praise, I will dwell in the richness of God's promises, and I will rejoice with thankfulness at His many blessings. 

And after that, my dear friends, is when uncertainty becomes a great adventure!

Vanilla Pudding Day

Look at what you're doing. Right now. Perhaps you're curled up in a comfy pair of pants. Maybe you sat down with a piping mug o' tea. Did you just finish a long day of work, with tired muscles and sleepy eyes?

I'm wearing yoga pants (my favorite), I'm nibbling on a bowl of strawberries, listening to my baby holler in the next room as he steadfastly refuses to take his afternoon nap, and I'm watching my hubby read on the couch.

There was nothing special about today.

Scott teases me about my desire for adventure, and several months ago we went on a "great explore." I now consider occasional Saturday "explores" one of our traditions. They're very easy to complete, and delightfully relaxing and invigorating. We wake up early (don't wince... it's actually fun on a day off!), and bundle up in warm clothes (that will change in July). Then we go on an "explore." They're typically wonderfully, un-planned adventures... to new places, new parks, yummy eating spots.

Today was wee Grantling's first "great explore."

Wee Polar-Grant!

The sun peeped up in rosy splendor, and just as the house-tops were changing from dull gray to golden shingles, we set off on our adventure.

Grantling is clearly thrilled.

Stroller-fixer. Handsome. Perfect hubby.

The neighborhood was silent, and I tucked my hand in my handsome hubby's arm, as we argued about whether or not Grant was really warm enough. Through the neighborhood, out into the "great beyond" we ventured. This jaunt was shorter than most, as our tiny polar-Grant was with us.

They spelled my fake name wrong: "Mattie"

We stopped at Starbucks. We sipped caramelly goodness, we passed baby back and forth, and listened to conversations of people next to us. (It really is amazing how long people can discuss running shoes and trimming walnut trees...) I just enjoyed my hubby and baby.

Blessed.

"Honey, this is why people laugh at your stories..."

In the aching, windy-cold we raced home, whimpering the entire time. (Don't worry, Grantling was in a fuzzy cocoon of warmth. But Scott wouldn't let me climb in with him...)

The tiny polar-bear was exhausted after his great adventure. And his parents were feeling very polar-ish, so we all cuddled down under piles of blankets and snoozed away.

I made a roast.
Scott put away laundry.
We had a laughing match as he slide-tackled me into a pile of sheets.
I dusted.
Scott fed Grant.

Grant was nice enough to save his first "roll over" for when we were both home (three times in a row!). And yes, I'm the mother who checks developmental milestones... for your information, most babies don't roll over until month four. Grant is just two months old. I'm saying he's a genius. Scott is saying that I'm over-reacting. Whatevs.

Now I'm sitting here. With my strawberries. My handsome men. And my yoga pants.

And I'm amazed at the goodness of God. Not the "goodness" in the sense of the good that people whip out every time that they're in pain. Not the goodness that explodes like firecrackers in your face through life-changing blessings. No, this is "vanilla pudding" goodness.

This is God letting the sun shine every day. This is comfy clothes, warm drinks, and cuddly babies. God gave us down-time. God created Saturday mornings. God gave me a husband who folds laundry.

Straight ballin' in some of Daddy's 1980's duds.

This goodness slips into our lives in mellow, forgettable moments. It's like vanilla pudding... yummy, comforting, and... normal. Look at the shear normalcy of your daily comforts, your daily joys. Think about the bubble of joy you get when your kitchen is clean, when you have a matching pair of socks, when you get home in 10 minutes instead of 20. It's not German chocolate cake goodness... No one is gasping in awe at your vanilla pudding days.

But isn't it amazing that they are given to us? God could have chosen to make our lives here on earth complete and utter misery without Him. He could have given us only the things that we ask for, or the things that we remembered to thank Him for. God could have decided that we only receive what we earn: you went to church? You get a cup of coffee on Thursday. You helped the homeless? That should earn you one smooth commute home from work.

But He didn't.

He gives us vanilla pudding days... lots of them... in between the brussel sprout days and the German chocolate cake, God gives countless moments of vanilla pudding.

Goodness in tiny details. Love in every moment. Gently constant in its presence. Unnoticeable in its very permanence. Vanilla pudding happiness.

And you shall rejoice in all the good that the Lord your God has given to you and to your house...

Deuteronomy 26:11a

Absence sharpens love, presence strengthens it.

Someday soon (February 16th, to be precise) Allison blogging will resume.

This mama (that's me! I'm a mama! Crazy...) has been swamped with returning to work and juggling baby, house, and hubby.

But I love it here... Here on my blog, here where I can hash out, create, rant, and idealize. This is my happy place. And I will soon return.

But for now, I'm living an exhausting fairy tale.

Until Saturday!

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

We're crazy.

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

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

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

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

The poor guy was nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he moved on.

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

This was a first date. Holy cow.

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

Our second date was in the same location.

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

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

He just looked at me. Grinned. And said,

"So, how many kids?"

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

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

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

Stinky, Slimy Blessings

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

Baby Grantlet {1 month}

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

And it is wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I wouldn't trade it for the world.