Blogs. I know people read 'em. But do they really care? Random individuals who rant and rave about a subject or life situation that most others have no idea how to respond or whether they should give a rat's behind or not. No real conversation, just the opportunity to speak "at" the general audience lovingly titled "the world."
So here I am. Falling into the pattern of millions of others around the globe. Pitter pattering away on my laptop keyboard knowing no one will read this--it's simply for me. My personal online journal.
The topic of which I will rant: Adoption. Or lack their of. More accurately, a call which is in question.
I begin in the middle, which will more than likely confuse the hay out of anyone that may decide to read this little post. Oh, well. I really don't care...
Note to reader: I will be very sarcastic at times. Read carefully; in no way do I not love and respect the Lord. I'm just a little peeved and when I get that way, inconsiderate and awkward humor can pour forth. You have been warned...
When my heart became convinced (by affirmations received by the Lord) we were to pursue adoption, I couldn't have been more pleased. Afterall, God was finally catching up to me--I had adoption as a good option to expand our family for years and he was just NOW telling me he agreed. About time... or so I thought.
Innocently, 'tis my weakness, or strength, depends on how you roll the dice, I cast my lot in domestic adoption. We have tons of kids here in the USA that need homes. No better place to start. Agency after agency repeated the same phrase, "We aren't accepting any new families, but you're welcome to send in an application and be put on a waiting list." I hate waiting. No thank you. Moving on...
Next, I found a place. No, no I was pretty certain is was the place from where we were to adopt. We begin he process and are about to send in $ when I inadvertently discover the non-profit agency charges differing amounts depending upon the race of the child. What?! Is that even legal? Scratch that place...
Maybe we should look to international adoption. We looked at Ethiopia. Yes! Perfect! We qualified and even found an agency that seemed legit. Great! Here we... What? Ethiopia is significantly decreasing the number of adoptions they will process each year. Ok...what does that mean? We wait? Great. I hate waiting...
China special needs. The program had been brought up more than once, so I proceeded to check it all out to see what it held for us. After working out the fears and finding a little boy with a need that we thought we could handle (our boy was born with the same problem) we were told we didn't qualify financially for the program. Super...
BAM! A door slams in our faces. BAM! BAM-BAM! Three more. I'm starting to become confused. Why do so many others succeed so easily at adoption and here we are, wanting what James 1:27 calls a pure religion, and it's not happening?
Enter reality check.
Over the course of the past 1.5-2 yrs., my husband and I have been on a roller coaster of two miscarriages and many adoption let-downs. Little did I know just how much this all had consumed me. Not until I sat in bed late one night this past week, did I stop to listen. Sad to say, it had been the first time in many days/weeks I had quieted my heart before the Lord. You know what I heard? I heard God whisper, "You've become too focused on the call and have neglected the One who called."
Ouch. Reality bites like a rabid squirrel.
He can't lie. And He's never wrong. Truth is the truth; I had, on further recollection, become so vigilant to adopt and prideful in the way I had told so many we were--how it was God's calling for us--that I had pushed God's heart of love for children aside. And not just that--God's love for all. I feel like one of those psycho women on a TLC made for TV movie who looses her marbles when life doesn't go as she planned.
Oh, Lord! Forgive me! Forgive my pride. Humble me and cleanse my soul from all unrighteousness. I have been sinful. Even in ways not accounted for I have sinned against You and You alone. I love you, Father. And know, without a doubt, You love me. I trust Your will in all things--mainly the addition of children to our quiver. You were, are and always will be, LORD.
Amen.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, March 7, 2011
Mary and Todd...
...Sittin' in a tree.
Huh? No, that's all. What? Oh--I didn't intend to finish. But I can see you... Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of! I know what you were thinking. Right, right. Sure. It's okay if you sensed a strong urge from the child within to finish the song. What? Psh, of course! Even I felt the pull of youthful banter. The tiny tug of a little hand from long ago deep within my soul. Now, the clever rhyme is seared on my brain. And the tiny hand is creeping me out.
We all experience similar sensations at particular moments when jolted to the past by familiar scenes/smells. Like the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Seeing a rope swing lightly off the thick branch of a mighty oak. Watching a newborn kitten, all fluff and no balance, make its first tiny mouse-like squeak for milk. Or finding a fishing rod complete with red and white bobber and Shakespeare spincasting reel filled with 8lb. line. Each evokes a unique blast from the past and thus a unique response.
One of my favorite memories as a child involves my father and fishing. For those of you confused by my name, I am a female and yes, some of my best times were casting a line with my Pop.
My best guess is I had incessantly bothered my father to take me to the local fishing hole. And such is was indeed. A sandpit in the middle of the Great Plains of Nebraska. But a starry eyed little girl who couldn't wait to hang out with her father and catch the monster fabled to live in its depths couldn't be deterred by it's humble appearance.
In those days, Kindergarten ran morning and afternoon sessions. I attended the earlier. Mom and dad must have been in cahoots, for when the noon bell sang clear and long, there stood my father, all 6'3," 250 lbs.--like a massive dream come to life. My mother, a professional homemaker, (she did an awesome job) usually picked me up at the end of my daily educational experience. But not then. With a broad smile and his signature laugh, my father gently took me by the hand after school that day and led me to his pickup.
Rarely did I want to be a princess, or a damsel in distress. Not really, at least. I more desired the position of Robin to Batman. Velma to Fred. Watson to Sherlock. Tanto to the Lone Ranger. More than I wanted to be saved and protected (though each were dire needs deep within), I wanted to be by my dad's side. His mini me. His lil' partner.
A small jump set me firmly on the passenger seat. I buckled in and noticed my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. Giddiness surged. What could be inside? Mommy knew what I liked: a sweetened dehydrated fruit leather, a ham and cheese sandwich, chips and fresh fruit/veggie. Typical American child's noon meal.
"One quick stop at the bank and then on to the fishing spot," said Dad. My father had slowly beat the sticky socio-economic odds so many face. The tenth of thirteen children, he grew up poor but with big dreams and an even bigger heart. He worked hard, yet kept his priorities in line by carving out time for his wife and kids.
Here we go, here we go! The car ride seemed in my mind to match the time it took the Santa Maria to cross the North Atlantic. When we reached the sandpit, a short 20 minutes had passed and I needed to pee. Being a girl of the country, I found a secluded bush, released the build-up and shook. Gross, but true.
Dad revealed my rod from the bed of the truck. There she was--nothing special, but she was mine. A single hook tied down the line at the tip to prevent unwanted snags. My feet flew to the edge of the beach. I unhooked the line and called to my father for bait. He followed close behind with a ball cap on his head and one for me--I'd forgotten how easily my toe-head burned. My dad usually purchased nothing fancy. Only a Styrofoam cup filled with nightcrawlers; the employment of crank baits and plastic minnows did not occur that day. We relied on the simple movement of a live earthworm to attract the young water creature to our grasp.
Cast. Set. Watch the bobber. Simple and sweet.
Per the orders of my father, I set out to find two Y-shaped sticks to prop up our rods. Once each were in place, we unfolded the wooden lawn chairs, ate and talked. Hands-down that was the best. Kickin' back with my old man. Shootin' the breeze. I don't recall our exact exchanges, but I'm sure I learned a lot and he listened a lot. Afterall, I was a 5-year-old girl.
The sun sank low in the warm afternoon sky and after a bit of lunch and the catch of a fish or two, my young body needed a snooze--as did Dad's. Homeward bound. Me with my Pop. What a day.
Childhood. What I wouldn't give to go back to the times of innocence, free-spirit, no responsibility, and complete trust. Yet, can we not have that now? I do believe we can have a healthy, adult-version of each. For "Nothing is impossible with God."
Happy birthday, Dad. I dare say a daughter couldn't love her father more than I love you.
Huh? No, that's all. What? Oh--I didn't intend to finish. But I can see you... Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of! I know what you were thinking. Right, right. Sure. It's okay if you sensed a strong urge from the child within to finish the song. What? Psh, of course! Even I felt the pull of youthful banter. The tiny tug of a little hand from long ago deep within my soul. Now, the clever rhyme is seared on my brain. And the tiny hand is creeping me out.
We all experience similar sensations at particular moments when jolted to the past by familiar scenes/smells. Like the aroma of fresh-baked bread. Seeing a rope swing lightly off the thick branch of a mighty oak. Watching a newborn kitten, all fluff and no balance, make its first tiny mouse-like squeak for milk. Or finding a fishing rod complete with red and white bobber and Shakespeare spincasting reel filled with 8lb. line. Each evokes a unique blast from the past and thus a unique response.
One of my favorite memories as a child involves my father and fishing. For those of you confused by my name, I am a female and yes, some of my best times were casting a line with my Pop.
My best guess is I had incessantly bothered my father to take me to the local fishing hole. And such is was indeed. A sandpit in the middle of the Great Plains of Nebraska. But a starry eyed little girl who couldn't wait to hang out with her father and catch the monster fabled to live in its depths couldn't be deterred by it's humble appearance.
In those days, Kindergarten ran morning and afternoon sessions. I attended the earlier. Mom and dad must have been in cahoots, for when the noon bell sang clear and long, there stood my father, all 6'3," 250 lbs.--like a massive dream come to life. My mother, a professional homemaker, (she did an awesome job) usually picked me up at the end of my daily educational experience. But not then. With a broad smile and his signature laugh, my father gently took me by the hand after school that day and led me to his pickup.
Rarely did I want to be a princess, or a damsel in distress. Not really, at least. I more desired the position of Robin to Batman. Velma to Fred. Watson to Sherlock. Tanto to the Lone Ranger. More than I wanted to be saved and protected (though each were dire needs deep within), I wanted to be by my dad's side. His mini me. His lil' partner.
A small jump set me firmly on the passenger seat. I buckled in and noticed my Strawberry Shortcake lunch box. Giddiness surged. What could be inside? Mommy knew what I liked: a sweetened dehydrated fruit leather, a ham and cheese sandwich, chips and fresh fruit/veggie. Typical American child's noon meal.
"One quick stop at the bank and then on to the fishing spot," said Dad. My father had slowly beat the sticky socio-economic odds so many face. The tenth of thirteen children, he grew up poor but with big dreams and an even bigger heart. He worked hard, yet kept his priorities in line by carving out time for his wife and kids.
Here we go, here we go! The car ride seemed in my mind to match the time it took the Santa Maria to cross the North Atlantic. When we reached the sandpit, a short 20 minutes had passed and I needed to pee. Being a girl of the country, I found a secluded bush, released the build-up and shook. Gross, but true.
Dad revealed my rod from the bed of the truck. There she was--nothing special, but she was mine. A single hook tied down the line at the tip to prevent unwanted snags. My feet flew to the edge of the beach. I unhooked the line and called to my father for bait. He followed close behind with a ball cap on his head and one for me--I'd forgotten how easily my toe-head burned. My dad usually purchased nothing fancy. Only a Styrofoam cup filled with nightcrawlers; the employment of crank baits and plastic minnows did not occur that day. We relied on the simple movement of a live earthworm to attract the young water creature to our grasp.
Cast. Set. Watch the bobber. Simple and sweet.
Per the orders of my father, I set out to find two Y-shaped sticks to prop up our rods. Once each were in place, we unfolded the wooden lawn chairs, ate and talked. Hands-down that was the best. Kickin' back with my old man. Shootin' the breeze. I don't recall our exact exchanges, but I'm sure I learned a lot and he listened a lot. Afterall, I was a 5-year-old girl.
The sun sank low in the warm afternoon sky and after a bit of lunch and the catch of a fish or two, my young body needed a snooze--as did Dad's. Homeward bound. Me with my Pop. What a day.
Childhood. What I wouldn't give to go back to the times of innocence, free-spirit, no responsibility, and complete trust. Yet, can we not have that now? I do believe we can have a healthy, adult-version of each. For "Nothing is impossible with God."
Happy birthday, Dad. I dare say a daughter couldn't love her father more than I love you.
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