Love your neighbor. For the love of God.

" 'Teacher what shall I do to inherit eternal life?' [Jesus] said to him, 'What is written in the Law? How do you read it?' And he answered 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself.' And he said to him, 'You have answered correctly; do this and you will live.'  But he, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, ' And who is my neighbor?' " Luke 10:25-29 (ESV)

Last night I woke up in the wee hours and checked my phone (I have terrible sleep habits, I know.). There was a message from a former neighbor in Arizona with a question about our house there and the alarm code. He needed to help the current owners. It was good to hear from James and as I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, I thought about his sweet family and how our little girls learned to ride their bikes on that cul-de-sac.

My girls and I have spent some of our time during this stay-at-home season running the neighborhood behind our house. Although we are still newcomers here, I feel like we have gained some insight into our neighbors. We know, for instance, who has seniors graduating this month from the signs in the yards. We know who has dogs and how many. We know who is working on landscaping projects, pool builds, and who has the cutest pillows on their front porch. And if these new neighbors have looked out their windows at all, they know exactly how many times I can pass their home before my legs slow to barely a crawl. 

I don't yet really know my neighbors here. So the admonition to love them as I love myself seems a bit challenging but also, perhaps because I don't know them, it doesn't seem impossible either.

I knew my neighbors in Mississippi a bit more. We didn't talk often, but when we did it was pleasant and prior to learning we would be moving, I looked forward to getting to know all of them more. 

Except perhaps on Saturday mornings.

Our direct next-door neighbor's garage was on the master bedroom side of our house. And apparently Saturday mornings were his ideal time to test the engine of his sports car. I honestly am not sure exactly what was happening over there except that earlier than I wanted to be awake on Saturday, the revving noises from his garage would rattle the walls in our bedroom. The whole love your neighbor thing might have felt like a bit much in those waking hours.

I am making light, but in all seriousness, I have had these verses on my mind all week. As the world re-opens and we all attempt to resume some normalcy, I have been astounded at the outrage over wearing masks in public. Astounded at the sheer volume of people who flat-out refuse because they say their rights are being violated in the asking. I can't even.

Truly, is there a better way right now to love our neighbors? Wearing the mask protects us from unknowingly spreading a virus that you might be strong enough to fight but you are preventing the spread of your germs to those who might not be as strong. You are preventing the spread to vulnerable populations....like my sons. And your refusal, while certainly within your "rights," will force my family -- and so many others like us --  to have to continue staying home.

The form of the word "love" used in this verse is agape (ἀγάπη). Agape is an unconditional love, a selfless one. We are to love God with our heart, soul, and mind in a selfless manner. In other words, with no conditions, with no reservations. And wait. We are also supposed to love our neighbor -- to agape our neighbor -- with the same selfless love. Oh wow. 

And if I had not watched the news once this week, I would spend a couple of paragraphs encouraging you to selflessly wear your masks (really, I need you to). And I would say Amen, and be done with that. But.

But apparently, we live in a country where asking someone to put their dog on a leash, results in a 9-1-1 call using skin color as a bully tactic. Not exactly love of neighbor there.

And then the video of George Floyd. The heart-wrenching video of George Floyd has made even that incident in Central Park look blasé.

My heart breaks.

"Love your neighbor as yourself." Love your neighbor. Love.

And I realize how ridiculous it is to ask people to wear a mask -- to personally inconvenience themselves -- in order to think of others first, when, apparently, we can't recognize the rights of anyone beyond ourselves, especially not anyone who looks different than the reflection we see in the mirror. We can't recognize how our neighbor might possibly not be a mirror-image of our own face. How is it possible that in 2020 this is still happening? 

The lawyer talking to Jesus wanted clarification of who exactly his neighbor was. In reply, Jesus told the story of the Good Samaritan. (Read Luke 10.) See, the Samaritans weren't a people the lawyer would have recognized as a mirror-image reflection of himself. Jesus knew we needed point-blank admonitions to love those who aren't exactly like us. 

Jesus told us to love our neighbors. He equated the love of our neighbors with love of God.

And it is exactly for the love of God -- and all things godly and good -- that I feel the need to shout that it is time for my fellow white people to stand up and scream that enough is enough. We need to join hands with our friends of color, and with our neighbors of color, and, for the love, with strangers of color, and assure them we stand with them against the horror of what happened to George Floyd. We stand with them in demanding justice, as well as in committing to end the violence. We stand with them. We kneel with them.

We need to love our neighbors.

Flat tires and Accessible Playgrounds.

It was the third day of kindergarten. The first two days had been rainy-have-recess-inside kind of days. But on the third day, the sun was shining so it didn't make sense that for the first time my three little so-excited-to-be-going-to-school kindergarteners got in the van subdued, sad even. And then Mason started crying:

"I couldn't do it, Mommy. I couldn't play!"

Me: "What do you mean you couldn't play?"

Mason: "I can't get to the playground. The teachers told me I couldn't."

More crying.

And though more than a few years have passed, I remember  turning around in my driver's seat as if it happened yesterday and looking this cute little usually-smiling-boy in the eyes and telling him I would fix it. 

Mommy would fix it.

I barely had the trio unloaded from the van before I was on the phone with the principal asking why in the world Mason would be told NOT to go to the playground.

I listened as she described how the old old playground was built down in a gully and the teachers did not think Mason and his power sticks could or should make the trek. They were trying to keep him safe she said. 

The school district had assured her the long-term plan was to build a new playground in the flat easy-to-access area directly behind the school. I asked for a contact to call to urge this date being sped up.

The district assured me it would happen.  But probably not in time for my boys to enjoy it.

But see, I told my Mason that I would fix it. And five years into motherhood, I intended to do just that.

So I had a face-to-face meeting with the principal and asked her to allow me to raise the money for an accessible playground. It took an amazing team, some precious children emptying their piggy banks, and in the end a playground company who gave us a huge discount on the equipment they had assembled to photograph for their catalog, but we built an accessible playground before the triplets started first grade!!

Ribbon cutting for the Hand by Hand Accessible Playground!!!

And perhaps that success falsely set me up to believe I would be able to fix whatever came our way. 

Tonight we had a flat tire in the accessible van. It isn't our first flat. It wasn't even the most scary (ask me sometime about the flat Wade had to change on the side of the interstate in the middle of the Arizona desert with eighteen-wheelers and rattlers too close for comfort.....) But it is one of the coldest nights we have had this winter, and we don't have a spare (stupid conversion didn't allow for one) and so we could have waited for hours for a tow truck or taken Benjamin from his wheelchair into a rescuing vehicle (Claire took an Uber home to get the other car.) and wait to deal with the flat in the warmth of the sun tomorrow. So we opted for the latter.

And so it was with already frazzled nerves that I listened to Benjamin's Personal Care Attendant (PCA) work to ready him for bed tonight. I have spent the last two months training this PCA on how to care for my son. This week her supervisors came in to do another training with her because of my concern that she just isn't getting it. I thought tonight that perhaps I make her nervous. So I sat in my family room desperately attempting not to intervene. And that worked right up until Benjamin yelled for me. He was in his lift but the straps were backwards causing him to be in a terribly uncomfortable and probably unsafe position. I just took over and did the rest of the transfer myself. I probably sighed a lot too.

If in his lift correctly, Benjamin is sitting upright enjoying the ride!

And so as I tried to calm myself after Benjamin was safely in bed, I kept hearing a phrase in my head on a loop -- I will fix this. I will fix the van. I will fix the PCA situation. I will just do it myself if I have to. I will fix it.

And the reality of dealing with the tow truck and figuring out where to even have it towed for tire service in this new place, coupled with the agency urging me to make it work with this PCA is threatening to overwhelm me tonight. I can't help but doubt my ability to fix....

But I remember the playground. I remember that a not-so-pleasant woman urged the PTA to refuse to let our fundraising efforts be under their umbrella. I remember the woman who called me after we were on the news and she insisted that she would ONLY give money if Benjamin and Mason were the only children allowed on the playground. I spent one hour convincing her that the whole point was allowing them to play WITH their friends!

And I remember that we were short thousands of dollars when the playground company called and offered me the photo-assembled playground for almost exactly the amount we had raised.

See, it is with a deep deep sigh that I realize that our playground success did not set me up to falsely believe I could fix it all....rather, I think the God-given success of the playground was God's way of boosting my confidence to tackle the hard, to fight the wrongs, and to advocate for my crew no matter what. 

No matter that they are adults. No matter that the stupid tire is flat. I'll be here tackling it all -- as long as they need me to.

Knit one, purl what?

If you hang out on any of my other social media -- you have seen one or a hundred photos of my yarn obsession. I have been crocheting for a few years but last month, I began to take knitting classes. And while my children have warned me that this statement might age me ten years are so, I am not afraid to say, I am obsessed with knitting. Obsessed.

Bless Beverly at The Southern Needle. Bless her. She showed me the basics and told me to practice by making a washcloth. And I said, ok, but then what?

I currently have three projects going:

A beautiful scarf where I am learning this amazing feather and fan pattern! I stop every few minutes to show it to my family needing their oohs and ahhs. (You might imagine how thrilled they are!)

I am actually much farther along now...but I was so amazed at this stage, I had to capture it on my camera!

A knit-a-long Christmas throw where I am learning new patterns with each block and just having a delightful time seeing the patterns that appear as I knit! Honestly, it is so much fun!

And because, my dear teacher couldn't refuse me when I begged her to show me how to knit a hat at my last class...this:

Look at how the yarn is making stripes appear in the stitching? Isn't it delightful?

Except,  you see, it is large enough for a not-so-small animal to wear. It is huge. Cate tried it on and it went OVER her head and down to her neck.

And so, right after I took that photo. I pulled my yarn and undid the entire thing. All of it. And tonight, I began again.

And as I sat waiting on my Little Red to finish theatre rehearsal, I started over a total of three times before I FINALLY feel like I am on the right track. And as I sat there knitting, I wondered why I wasn't completely frustrated. I wondered why I didn't want to chunk this yarn and move back to my scarf. Honestly, I wondered why something that should by rights be making me crazy with frustration, was actually doing just the opposite. I was enjoying every single moment.

And it hit me.

We are at once in the middle and on the cusp of more changes than my mind can even grasp. Wade is already in Delaware, we close on our new home there later this week. We are in the throes of applying to schools for Little Red. And the triplets -- deep breath in, and out --  are preparing for college graduation! Our family time is rapid bites. We cram in as much quality as we can in far too little quantity. And some times, those quick visits are marred by some misunderstanding, or a misspoken word, or frustrated teen. And some times those visits are marred by a mama who desperately wants to rip the stitches back to a time when all my ducks were under the same roof, and ahem, I was in some semblance of control.

Beautiful then, that today I am reminded of my favorite Psalm:

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful.....all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." Psalm 139:14, 16a

God's got this. He is a master knitter (You saw that, right?), never having to rip stitches back to begin again. Isn't that a relief?

I can't promise I'll get there right away. I might still want to rip the stitches back a bit -- if not to when my four were little bitty, then at least to the beginning of EVERY weekend, where I let my emotions flaw the time. But there is such assurance in knowing that I am not capable of marring God's perfect plan. He has already knit that story together. He has already knit ME together!

So if you need me, I'll be here knitting. And with each stitch, I will be praying for all the decisions facing my crew in the days ahead. And I'll be calmed by the repetition, and buoyed by the challenge, and reminded with every single stitch that God's got this.

Isn't that so amazing?

Zacchaeus was a wee little thief, crook and swindler. But Jesus loved him.

My world was once colored extremely black and white. If I was on one side of an issue, anyone on the other side must just be wrong. Period.

Life chipped away at some of my rigidity even before the triplets were born. I worked in a children's home in Chicago and met statistics with faces and names who shook up my thinking on many levels.

Then my tiny babies were born. Perhaps the biggest lesson of parenting is that we have no idea how little we know about anything until another human (or in my case three) are completely dependent on us. And as they grow and perhaps become less dependent physically, they are still looking to us to help them form ideals, moral compasses, and their worldview in general. And all of a sudden, my rigid views were examined, questioned (nothing like "why? why? why? one after another to make you delve into your own psyche!) and explored and this amazing thing happened -- I began to grow and change and begin to examine my own "whys" and seek my personal compass,  Biblical scripture, to back up my world views.

A few years ago a group we belonged to virtually, began to implore us and our peers to call our congressmen to reject United State's ratification of the United Nations' Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. I was instantly indignant. Much of the reasoning of our virtual organization opposed things that are vital to my boys. And frankly, I felt the convention might actually help other countries achieve a similar level of accessibility as America.

I bring this up today because I need you to understand that every single time one of my friends shared the mandate to contact our senators, I read "fight this issue because we really hate Carol and her boys."  I heard, "Call now before life is made easier for Carol's children. We hate them." The hate was the message over and over and over again.

Now trust me, no one actually typed that. And if you questioned them they were simply standing for their own personal freedoms that they feared would be trampled if the United States ratified the convention. (Sound familiar?)

As a result, I walked around for months with my feelings hurt. I could barely talk to real-life friends who were also members of this organization because I felt so betrayed, so hurt, so hated.

I hope you are hearing me.

My beloved state of Mississippi has been all over the news this week because the legislature and the governor decided there are not enough REAL issues facing our state (who ranks last in almost everything). No, they decided to make up some issues and created a "religious freedom act" which basically says that a business owner can refuse service to anyone they feel doesn't align with their religious convictions. Oh mercy. Because we need to know everybody's sexual orientation before we sell them coffee, flowers, cakes? Really?

There is language that even allows businesses to refuse Benjamin and I the right to use the same restroom because we are not the same sex. I can not even tell you how awful that could make life for us!

But the worst part is that I KNOW that every member of this particular targeted community has heard exactly what I heard a few years back....I hate you. I hate your family. You don't deserve to be in this business. Hate. Hate. Hate.

And oh goodness that breaks my heart. It beaks my heart. 

And the fact that this is colored as if it is to protect religious freedom makes me physically nauseous.

In Luke 19, Jesus is entering Jericho and passes by a man who has climbed a tree to get a better view of him -- you've heard this story, right?  Jesus looks up into the tree and commands the man to come down so they may have supper together.

Now y'all may not know that the little short man up in the tree is Zacchaeus, a tax-collector. And let me assure you that saying he is a collector of taxes is putting it kindly. He collected far more. According to the laws, as long as he gave the government their due, he could charge tax-payers whatever he wanted -- and Zacchaeus had been doing just that for years. He was a very rich man thanks to his cheating and stealing. But Jesus, our LORD -- God come to earth as man -- wanted to serve him, to give him the honor of dining together.

Good gracious I am glad they were in Jericho, because the restaurants in Mississippi might not have let them in!!

Know what Zacchaeus did when Jesus offered that act of hospitality? Let's look: 

"Look, Lord! Here and now I give half my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount."

To which Jesus replied "Today, salvation has come to this house." (Luke 19:8, 9a)

I read it multiply times this morning. Never once did Jesus turn his nose up and walk away because he disagreed with Zacchaeus's business practises. Never once. He didn't shun him because he stole for a living. He didn't ostracize him because he was actually hurting people. No. Never. He fellowshipped with him and it changed Zacchaeus. Changed him.

Could we just stop the hate already? Could we open our arms in welcome to those different than us? Can we possibly leave judgment to the One who truly knows right from wrong, righteous from unrighteous, and hypocrite from genuine? 

Really, our lines don't have to be black and white. Sometimes the color of grace -- of loving even when we don't fully agree on an issue -- is gray.

Crunchy grass and a ready-to-snap Mama.

My grass is crunchy. I have crunchy, dried up, dying in the August-in-Mississippi heat grass. Yuck. I have watched for the sprinklers to come up and on. Nothing.  In June and early July it wasn't an issue, we had an afternoon shower almost daily. It was lovely. Then it stopped. And nothing. Just crunchy grass.

And so I began to worry but then that became horribly insignificant in light of the very real and very significant health issues affecting my little family. 

But this week as the calendar turned to September and as life calmed down for me a bit, my crunchy grass began to irritate me in ways that you might not understand unless you have lived in the desert for 10 years and desperately want nice soft non-crunchy grass under your feet. So I did what I decided I had to do. I began to drag a hose out and park a manual sprinkler in the yard, set a timer and move the stupid thing to hit a different area.

After several days of no doubt seeing me lug the sprinkler and hose out to the front yard this week, my sweet neighbor sent me a text yesterday -- "Um, Carol, don't you have a sprinkler system?" 

Well, hello, I would have thought so but have you SEEN my crunchy grass????

Sweet neighbor told me where her control box is located and I went barreling out to the garage to move boxes. 

Turns out, we DO in fact have a sprinkler system. One controlled by a box in the small garage that I do not use. And one the previous owners had turned off. The spring grass had overgrown the sprinkler heads in the yard and the straw delivery I had requested the week BEFORE we moved in had covered the ones in my flower beds. 

Now y'all, I know this is a stupid first-world problem. I know that crunchy grass is not the end of the world. And I know I should just pat myself on the back for conserving water or something such as that. But really, I had been dragging that hose all over God's crunchy green earth and I had built-in sprinklers?  Really?

It was almost too much...or maybe the problem is Carol is poised to snap in two pieces like the crunchy grass after two weeks of her trio in college....or maybe the move has gotten to me....or maybe it is post-traumatic-stress after the two hospitalizations this month.

Whatever the reason, I sat down and cried. Like a baby. Dear hubby asked what was wrong, "It is too much," I mumbled. Completely perplexed he assured me the sprinklers were working fine and the yard would be ok.

He is right. The yard will be. And me too. I will be. I am not just yet. I feel like my personality is flat. Not very me. I know it is because I do not have my groove yet in this new city or in this new season. I am at once super proud of my kids and selfishly wanting them to be back in my nest as littles who require my assistance. I am at once surrounded by some of my favorite people in the world and yet not in a rhythm with them yet. And did I mention my grass is crunchy?

Today, sweet Little Red played the Xylophone for chapel at her sweet little school. At her insistence, Mason let us swing by his college and he went to hear her (Yes, bless his heart, he had a morning he could sleep in but instead got up extra early for Cate!). We sat in that little gym as the students proceeded in, with Cate's class as the choir. We sang and prayed and listened to the sweetest prayer requests for children's daddies, friends and fish. And of course, we heard our sweet girl make her musical debut!

As we walked back to the car, Mason and I discussed the beauty of the morning. Just 30 minutes really. Thirty minutes where the world seemed a better place, where hope seemed to fill the future. Where when Chaplain Annie closed with "The Lord be with you," a gym-filled with young children responded, "And also with you." I have to tell you, everything seemed right in the world.

The crunchy grass will be ok. And this Mama will find her groove in this new season of life. And my four kiddos will make their way. And you can count on the fact that I will tell you all about it.

The Lord be with you, dear friends.

Because I am having all the thoughts.

The movers are at my house. My home once-filled with all my favorite things is currently in a state of complete chaos with most essentials already loaded on the big truck sitting in my cul-de-sac. I feel a bit out of sorts. Sigh.

Unrelated picture of Pluto...for not other reason than he calms our nerves!

But my brain is swarming with thoughts, dreams, hopes, fears, anxieties, philosophies. You know, the stuff that crazed, over-tired brains swarm with.

In no particular order:

1. The baseboards in our empty bedrooms tell a story about the life of the room-dwellers. I am cleaning and vacuuming and yet, wanting to savor the stories. The movers had no sooner removed Benjamin's bed for instance, before I knew immediately where all the rubber bands had disappeared to every single night during his orthodontia years!

The baseboard behind Cate's adorable window seat shares her love of glitter, rainbow loom and even some softball equipment!

I found feathers from theater costumes behind Mason's; and card stock and craft supplies behind Claire's. 

The cleaning in the midst of the crazy has offered a little reminder to take things slow and savor the LIFE moments with my four. Because, as corny as it sounds, those years are vacuumed up in a heartbeat.

Mid-Tournament Game -- this happy face means she made an awesome play!

2. My trio and I just finished The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis. Wow. What a beautiful book! We have discussed it and then re-visited the discussion repeatedly because it warrants so much analysis. 

Particularly poignant for me was the woman so in-love with her child that she failed to love or be in relationship with anyone else -- including God. I had to re-read the chapter and swallow deep the knowledge that I do not often get my priorities in this area completely right.

The visual image of this woman visiting heaven to decide if she was willing to lay down this obsession with her son in order to fully be immersed in heaven -- and her subsequent refusal to do so -- was a powerful spur to ensure I keep the right perspective on my priorities: God, husband, children, family and friends. (Really, you must read this book!)

3. My trio of graduating seniors performed in their final high school production this weekend. The words about this get stuck in my throat. I am choking on the raw emotion of seeing them perform, watching them shine and remembering, oh remembering the experience of this wonderful theater company that did not blink at included all four!

With Benjamin's beloved Physical Therapist -- she has been to every show!!

Flappers blowing kisses good-bye to my sweet girl....

Me and part of my super-talented crew!

His chair was not very 1920s....so the director transformed it into a "Producer's Chair"! LOVED IT!

Surprise going-away party thrown by the cast for my kiddos!! So so dear!

There are other thoughts -- thoughts anticipating the move home, thoughts of anticipating the first day of college for each of my three, thoughts of gratitude for the investment our friends and family have made in the lives of these little bitty babies born far too early 18 years ago. But alas, the movers are summoning me for assistance, the vacuum has sat idle too long and I think there is quite a disgusting mess where my washing machine once stood. Sigh. I'll be back. And I'm sure I'll over-share about all the emotions once or twice more.

For now....

In the days before we could "pin" an article....

The trio were only two years old when my dear dear friend pulled a magazine out of her purse and told me I HAD to read it. I must have looked skeptical because she flipped it open and pointed to an article about a doctor -- a neurologist -- named Jan who happens to have Cerebral Palsy. Tears were sliding down my face as I read and I knew that Avery had just given me a treasure worth far more than she could imagine!

I clung to that article. I carried it in my purse for years and years. I pulled it out every single time the road looked scary. I re-read it every single time I feared for the boys' future. I read it and I re-read it until the paper was soft with wear and falling apart.

And then, my beloved husband finished his own medical training and began speaking and writing and researching ways to help children like our amazing boys -- children with Cerebral Palsy. Guess who he would work with repeatedly -- Dr. Jan Brunstrom-Hernandez. Eventually, I attended one of the conferences where she gave the opening remarks. I felt so pulled to meet her -- drawn to stand in line to speak to her after the opening session. I got as far as "Hello, my name is" before I completely broke down in tears. Oh y'all, these were not sweet, gently-roll-down-your-face tears, but full out sobbing tears. I was so grateful to her. She got emotional as well before I pulled myself together and shared my story.

Gratitude does that. It completely overwhelms and defies words and language. Without ever treating my boys, without ever seeing them as patients, she had given me something that is beyond medical training -- she had given me hope.

I consider her a friend today. We have dinner when our paths cross and my boys are fortunate to have a relationship with this amazing lady where she encourages and pushes and drives them to be better, to work harder, to overcome.

Today, our friend has opened a new clinic in Texas where she is focused on caring for children like our's. This morning she posted this on her Facebook page:

As soon as I saw it, I prayed -- "Oh, Lord, let Benjamin and Mason inspire a young mama who needs to hear from You today! Help this little blurb to inspire her to keep reaching for her baby's dreams, to keep fighting the fight, and running the race. Help it to give her HOPE."

Because though most days I still feel like that young mama looking for inspiration, I realize that we are on the other end today. It is our turn to give back.

It is the reason I write here. It is the reason I over-share on Facebook and Instagram. It is the reason I will speak anywhere anyone offers me a microphone. Because I know that hope is an intangible thing and yet it carries more weight than almost anything else.

Will you join me in asking God to take these little offerings and turn them into hope for just the right mama, just the right kiddos, just the right family?

Football, the Flu and 2015!

 We've started the new year over here with the flu. So far, only my little Red has a confirmed case but her sister doted on her while I was away so she has been feeling rather poorly too. I am treating them both and further pre-medicating the boys in an attempt to STOP them from also acquiring the yuck.

Basically, what I am saying is the year 2015 has started with a bang at my house. I am guilt-ridden over the fact that I never took the kids in for their annual flu vaccine to start with. I am always hyper-diligent about those stupid shots in an effort to keep Benjamin -- who just can't fight respiratory stuff very well -- healthy. But somehow we went straight from August to December this year. I have no idea where the months in the middle disappeared and so I failed to get my crew their vaccinations.

Then, oh then, I flew to Miami with my guy to watch our beloved Bulldogs in the Orange Bowl. We opted for an adults-only trip because the airline tickets were cost-prohibitive and we literally flew down, watched us lose (big big sigh) and turned around and flew home. But of course, my little Red would come down with a fever while I was in an airplane somewhere over Oklahoma-ish. We landed in Denver and as I called to check on my crew, snow was falling, she was sick and I was panicked that we would not get home.  We finally got to our house in the wee hours of the morning on Jan. 2 and rushed baby girl to the doctor by lunchtime when she felt like she couldn't breath. Dear doctor confirmed our fears -- sweet little Red has the flu.

And Mama has a lot of guilt.

And so as I am sitting here tonight sorting the photos of the holiday season, I found these from Thanksgiving. The reality of trying to secure a "picture perfect" photo is hilarious to me tonight.

Motherhood is a lot like this photo session with my little family. I can lose my focus. I can get tickled, bemused, and distracted.

My constant prayer is a plea for God to stand in the gaps of my imperfection.

And this year, this brand new, just out-of-the-box year, I am seeking God's face to become more focused on what matters, more alert to the needs of my people, and more aware of being fully engaged and present with these whom I have been entrusted.

I won't get it perfect. I will forget things, no doubt. But I am here asking God to stand in the middle of 2015 and fill it to overflowing with His grace, goodness and His perfection. I am asking Him to remain not just in the gaps but in all the spaces, every single space.

And dear ones, I am asking Him to do the same for you!

Happy New Year!!

Can you make room?

Driving from Chicago to Mississippi for Christmas at home seemed like a wonderful idea. It was the triplets' second Christmas and we were eager for them to experience Christmas surrounded by family.

We loaded the van with luggage, gifts, car seats and babies and headed south as soon as Dad was out of classes. We had no idea how these angels would travel and so had no hotel reserved along the route. We would drive as far as we possibly could and then stop for the night.

Except when they got fussy and we pulled off the interstate at the first exit, we discovered not one of the hotels at the exit had a vacancy. Not one.

We got back on the highway and continued heading south. I had soothed the exhausted one year olds and was certain that the proximity to a local college was the only thing filling those particular hotels. We would find an opening for sure at the next exit.

Except we didn't.

Not at the next exit either.

When we finally tumbled out of the van with a room secured for the night we had learned a valuable lesson that we operate by still today. We never -- not ever ever -- leave home without reservations. (And we have not had Christmas in Mississippi since that trip.)

Christmas at Grammie's -- when we finally made it to Mississippi!

Today, my quiet coffee-drinking time by the fire centered on the next verses in Luke:

"So Joseph also went up from the town of Galilee to Judea to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them." (Luke 2: 4-7 NIV)

Can you even imagine? Thanks to the Christmas travels of 1998, I actually can imagine. I can feel the angst as Joseph went from inn to inn inquiring about a room. My shoulders feel tense imagining the stress he must have felt wanting to provide comfort and rest for his beloved.

And as a woman, I can imagine the relief of finally being able to get off the donkey -- or out of the van -- and relax on the bed of hay that Joseph prepared for her. I can hear Mary assuring Joseph that all was well, that she was perfectly comfortable sleeping with the animals surrounding her. No really, the smells were comforting.

What I can not imagine is what happened next! The time came for the baby to be born! She gave birth to Jesus. Wrapped that sweet baby boy in some cloths and made a bed for him in a feeding trough. And I bet she was assuring Joseph of how perfect the make-shift hotel room was the entire time.

Today, can I encourage you to take a deep breath. First, let's make certain we are making room for Jesus this season. Can you clear out the busy? Put down the rush-to-get-the-list-completed of December and make time to reflect on what we are truly celebrating?

And then my dear ones, let's take a lesson from the mother of our Savior: there is no evidence that she let her expectations rob her of the joy of this moment. I doubt she envisioned giving birth to the King of Kings surrounded by cows, sheep and horses. I doubt she imagined that the crib for her firstborn son would be used to feed those animals mere moments before.

Just as I can imagine the stress of finding no room at the inn, I can imagine the whining, complaining and just plain awful attitude I might have had if I had had to sleep on hay, much less give birth there.

Put down your lists. Lay down your expectations. May the baby born in Bethlehem fill you with his perfect peace today as you make room for Him.

Christmas at Grandmar's in Mississippi. I think these faces are saying, please please don't put us back in that van!

Preparing for Christmas.

This morning as I sat in front of the fire, enjoying the quiet before my house awakened, I wanted to prepare my heart for Christmas. As I began reading in Luke 2, I couldn't get past the first three verses:

"In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register." (NIV)

I was a young newlywed the first time in my voting history a presidential election did not turn out as I hoped. Granted, I married young. So this particular presidential election was only my second. But still.

The memories of sitting in front of the television as the results came in -- as state after state lit up in opposition to my candidate of choice -- are vivid even today. Young me thought the world as I knew it was about to be changed forevermore. Married to an aerospace engineer employed by NASA (you know, the same man I am married to today...he changed careers! smile), I was certain our future was doomed. Doomed. I felt strongly. And I felt emotional. 

I thought at the very least we would be transferred and have to move to *gasp* Houston, TX! And at the worst, hubby would lose his job entirely. I was overwhelmed with my worries about the future.

(Completely aside: I know these were silly worries all. Each of my husband's team is still employed at NASA all these years and all these many presidents later. And three years after fearing a big move, hubby and I would voluntarily begin a trek of moves that took us from Alabama to Chicago, to Minnesota, Texas and Arizona!)

But this morning, as I read how Caesar Augustus issued the decree for the census, I couldn't help but flash back to the fear and doom of those days following that presidential election. I know Mary didn't  have television. I know she didn't get word of the decree via Facebook. But even still, I can't help but wonder if she felt the fear, the sense of doom when she learned a decree had been issued that would affect her very future. Was she afraid when she learned that she and Joseph would have to travel to Bethlehem to be counted?

I can't know. Scripture skips right past any emotions and right to the facts. Much more would happen to impact Mary's life. Much more already had.

I turned back a chapter to meditate on how Mary reacted when the angel told her she would give birth to Jesus:

" 'I am the Lord's servant,' Mary said, 'May your word to me be fulfilled.' " Luke 1:38 (NIV)

And right there I knew was the answer. Mary may in fact have had trepidation. She may have had worries. But her response was no doubt indicative of her heart -- she submitted to God's will.

Truly, is there a better way to prepare our hearts for Christmas? I want to follow Mary's example. I want to lay down any anxieties, any worries, any fear of what tomorrow holds. I want to make room for the Lord's work to be done in me.

I want to be a servant.

When we feel unwelcome at church.

I read this article yesterday after my 17-year-old daughter posted it to her Facebook page. It resonated with me. It resonated deep in a place that feels the pain the author writes about. Reading the comments my sweet Claire was receiving made me want to address the topic of church and the special needs family. But the inevitable pain of delving into this particular subject matter was something I strongly wanted to avoid. So I shared the link to my personal Facebook wall and tried to walk away. My hope was that the sharing would be enough. The sharing would alert my friends that this is a real issue. And I could leave it at that. Walk away. Not share personally.

But the comments have rolled in. People have shared the link on their walls. And people have commented.

Again. And again. And again I have read that yes, the church has been a painful place for Mamas with children who present with all manner of special needs. The gamut runs from Autism and Downs Syndrome to Cerebral Palsy and Spina Bifida and everything in between -- families with needs as diverse as the children they love are all facing a common problem: the church does not know what to do with us.

So I am sitting down to address a problem that I have addressed throughout the last 17 years over and over and over again. I sit here typing furiously knowing that even last week as I drove to my church, the echo in my head was that "This is hard. Church is hard for people who hurt."

Please hear me when I say that this is not even a commentary on our current church home, this is a commentary on what if feels like to experience pain from the place you expect/need/desire to find comfort. I know we can do better. I know Jesus intended for us to do better.

The first two years of the triplets' life we were infrequent church goers. Oh believe me when I tell you that this was way way way outside what my Bible-belt-bred heart thought was "OK" but it was our reality. The trio were born so very early, we had to protect their lungs first and foremost and a church nursery in Chicago in the winter was not the place to do this!

But beyond that, I knew we overwhelmed everyone in the nursery department. If they expected six children and I walked in with three that threw their numbers and their worker to baby ratio completely off. I saw it in their faces. I heard it in their voices. We were not unwelcome but we were not welcome.

After sitting on the back row, taking turns carrying babies for emergent diaper changes for three weeks in a row, Wade and I decided we would do better having Bible study at home where you know, we might actually read an entire verse at nap time!

When we learned the boys had Cerebral Palsy I had lost my place of fellowship due to that lack of attendance. It was an empty lonely season for Wade and I as we tried to find the spiritual sustenance for facing the frightening diagnosis outside of the church.

We moved to Minnesota right after the trio turned two. The first church we visited was one of the biggest in the small town of Rochester. The nursery was labeled Creepers, Crawlers and Walkers. I tried to explain that Benjamin, at two, didn't creep, crawl or walk but that he was so bright, so very bright he needed to be in with the two-year-olds. It was a long morning as I was sent from person to person to explain and get "permission". I left heart-sick. Sad. And knowing that I could not explain this every single Sunday. I can handle a lot but this explaining was more than I could bear.

It became my goal to find a tiny church -- one where every one would know us immediately and I would not have to explain the wonder of my trio. We found one that welcomed us. Furthermore, the couple -- Mrs. Patti and Mr. Norman -- who taught the  two-year-old Sunday School class were precious to my heart. Norman purchased a book on Cerebral Palsy to better understand the boys. He built a little step to place under Benjamin's feet so that my son felt stable sitting at the table with the class. I felt like we might heal.

But when they promoted to the next age group, the teacher was not as comfortable with my boys. We came to pick them up more than once with Benjamin laying flat on the floor while kids jumped up and over him. The teacher simply did not know how to handle him. I offered to help. I became an assistant teacher in the class and gave up my own Sunday School hour to help my children. I was ok with it at first.

Then someone told me about the Wednesday night programs. Oh, yes, I had loved Wednesday nights growing up, could my children participate? I was sent to the director to ask her opinion. (Read: No one says YES automatically to the special needs Mama.) Her reply: Of course they could participate.....as long as I volunteered to teach.

And guess what? I said ok. I volunteered. I spent the next couple of years teaching my children on Sunday mornings and on Wednesday nights. I now had no extra time for the adult Bible Study at my own church.

By the time the triplets were five, I was burned out. I was exhausted. And my feelings were hurt. I was completely empty. I loved serving others. I did. But I was used up and poured out. My spiritual and emotional tanks were past empty. I had nothing left to give.

Perhaps you have gathered that I am a strong-willed -- some might say stubborn -- human being. I love God. I love church. I love being in fellowship. I even love SERVING through my faith. I refused to give up. I refused to give in. I knew in my heart the Mrs. Patti and Mr. Normans of the world were out there and we would rejoice in them rather than get weighed down completely by those who didn't know what to do with us.

But y'all, the reality is wearing on a person. We moved to Phoenix and visited many churches. One told us that 8-year-old Benjamin would have to sit in the "wheelchair" section of the church while the rest of us sat on the other side of the sanctuary. I pointed out that he was a little boy and really wanted to sit with his family. We were told that "You should have gotten here earlier then. I can't help you."

Really? Really? We asked for the help of two of the other "greeters" before leaving the church prior to the start of the the service. I was in tears.

As special needs parents, our hearts hurt. We watch our babies be poked, prodded and operated on more often than we think we can endure. We deal with fears of the future, and obstacles of the present. We shop for wheelchairs while our neighbors buy basketball goals. We hurt. We hurt. And we need to be mad at someone for the hurt.

Anyone less stubborn than me -- less determined to FORCE fit her family into the church -- will not just keep pushing, begging and pleading to make a place. Anyone less stubborn will simply walk away from church and never look back. Anyone less stubborn will direct their full-out anger about the disability at the place that should be offering them healing, love and embrace.

And I know this. I know this because I have been told over and over and over again that my sweet special mama friends have walked away and not returned. I have witnessed the pain. I have seen the heartache.

I have walked away from different churches that could not meet our needs. I have tired of the search. I have tired of the push. And I am stubborn.

We have to find a way to make a change. Jesus did not come to save only the fully-able. He did not come to bless our lives in ways that mean we never  have heartache -- and that goes way beyond parenting a child with special needs. No, he came to give us the promise of life-everlasting, and THAT life will be without heartache.

But dear ones, we ARE meant to ease the troubles for our brothers and sisters. We are meant to cry with the hurting, rejoice with the blessed, and love the unloved. We can not be the hands and feet of Jesus if we only welcome those without pain into our midst.

And listen to me carefully, opening your arms to special families DOES NOT MEAN allowing those mamas and daddies to VOLUNTEER to teach! Do you hear me? Embrace them. Give them time to be encouraged and taught and loved on in classes for them with the absolute assurance that their children are precious in your eyes!!

Yes, Benjamin needed some extra help in his classroom. Mr. Norman, Mr. Max, Mr. Gary had no problem asking him questions about the lesson while his classmates did their little craft projects. It didn't stress them or him!

The teen volunteer -- our beloved Miss Christina -- was a special buddy to the boys one summer so that they could participate in Vacation Bible School. She did the extra things they required so that the main teacher did not have to. Wow. What a wonderful way to get your teenagers involved in service at your church WHILE serving a population hungry for church.

Bigger churches often have paging systems for young parents. Implement the same for your special needs parents. Mama will relax and be open to having her heart cared for if she knows you are going to reach her with any concerns for little Johnny.

Have a  volunteer on alert that your church can contact if a special needs family is visiting. Be ready to call on that volunteer to explain the services your fellowship can offer, as well as to take the sweet child and plug him in to his own class while Mom and Dad worship and experience. (Because a Mama who has to make sure her child is safe first and foremost, will not be able to worship in a place where the welcome team shrugs their shoulders and says, "Oh I think we have something in place....but I'll have to find someone to help you." No no no. The answer has to be organized. Thought through. Detailed.)

We can do better. It does not require much. A willing heart. Open arms. A desire to serve those easily forgotten and pushed aside.

Will you step up? Will you make a difference in the lives of families who NEED you?

Are you willing to be the blessing?

Available to be stalked (catchy right?)

I stalked a woman. I did. I couldn't help myself. She was pushing what looked for all the world like  a triplet stroller and we had just been told I was expecting triplets. I made my husband circle the block three times -- certainly giving her cause to worry in our south-side Chicago neighborhood. Finally, when he said I needed to get out and talk to her rather than keep circling the block, staring at her in the hopes she would hold up a sign full of wisdom and how-to-helps, I got out of the car and approached her timidly.

"I'm sorry. I am sure you get this a lot. But are they triplets?"

Dear lady, rolling her eyes because of course she got that a lot, "Yes, yes they are," as she forcefully walked in the opposite direction from me.

"Um, I'm sorry. I am not trying to stalk you (who was I kidding? She had probably watched us circling for the last 15 minutes. We WERE in fact stalking her."), but the doctors just told me yesterday that I am having triplets."

The fear was obviously apparent all over my face. Dear G stopped her stroller and smiled the biggest most welcoming smile a stalkee could ever smile and introduced herself. We stood talking for several minutes...until her own triplets became anxious to move on and my husband had grown weary of circling the block.

But G gave me her name, number, and email. She promised to stay in touch and promised to walk me through this exciting, scary, overwhelming season.

And she did. She counseled me on sleep techniques for the three; she encouraged me when I was nursing and was certain my body would never um...fit in normal blouses again; she helped me learn to navigate my trio in public when the world wanted to stop and stare at them. And once a month she forced me out of the apartment to enjoy dinner with her and two twin moms in the area.

In hindsight, I am certain that G had a million things to do the day I stalked her. She probably had places to be, babies to feed and laundry to sort. But she gave no indication of any such thing. She stood and spoke straight to my expectant heart.

Last week, my kids and I were headed in a trillion directions with four to-do lists a mile long when we learned a friend needed help. Because God pushed me, I stopped what I was doing and offered assistance. My Claire was concerned about my to-do list getting done. And I realized my response to her is a lesson I need to not just teach but model appropriately:

"Oh my girl, if we don't have enough white-space on our calendar to stop and help a friend, then we have big problems."

Even as I spoke, I flashed back to G and her willingness to stand and encourage me all those years ago. I have not always paid her graciousness forward. I far too often let a busy overwhelmed schedule dictate my ability to stop and help a friend. But today as we begin adding activities back for the upcoming school year, my prayer is that I will remember to leave white space on my calendar.

My children do not need for every single minute of their lives to be scheduled, organized and activity-fied (I made that word completely up.) and you know what, your children don't need that either.

My prayer for this season is that you and I will be willing and able to sit with, stand for, or be stalked by a friend in need during this season. My prayer is that our children will see us being deliberate in leaving time for friends, and God-ordained moments, so that they can learn to do they same with their own schedules.

May God use all our moments. May God be reflected in the white space of our calendars. And May God be glorified in the way we use our time.