The roar of motors and rushing wind rivals other noises in our house—kids laughing, kids bickering, television blaring, dogs barking. Three high-powered fans sit in the floor of our dining room-turned-office and the kitchen near the laundry closet. A giant dehumidifier with a hose draining into the nearby bathroom sink is there, too, working to dry out the subfloor after a faulty gasket on a newly-installed pump in the washing machine caused a leak, which we discovered when we returned home from the beach last week. Floorboards in the dining room had buckled into mini mountain ridges.
It’s a small thing, really—an inconvenience for a few days. And soon we’ll have new floors and a great appreciation for homeowner’s insurance. But we have to leave these very loud fans running for a few days, so we’re yelling to speak to one another and trying to not let the noise drive us crazy. In a nice way, it reminds me of my childhood, when our air conditioning was a couple of window units at either in the end of the house and we used floor fans in between. The roar of those motors was a regular sound of summer.
More childhood memories came this week in the form of a pair of wingback chairs. I purchased them through an online auction—I was outbid on everything else—and they were a bargain, especially considering the sentimental value they hold. My parents were kind enough to pick them up for me, and my dad helped me load both into my minivan after church on Wednesday night. The former owners of the chairs are both deceased, but it doesn’t seem so long ago that I was in their home, with my parents and sisters, having dinner. This couple from our church were gracious hosts, kind and welcoming, and their home was a showplace. Now the pink, formal chairs that I remember in their fancy sitting room, are in my not-so-fancy house. They are unlike anything I could probably find in a store today, and they are totally out of place in my home, but I love them, and so do my kids. The chairs remind me of friends and hospitality, they smell like memories, and they are much more comfortable than they look. I hope to rearrange my daughters’ bedroom for the girls to each have one, but for now--until we have to move everything into a pod in the yard while the floors are being replaced--one of the chairs sits in our living room, not far from my work desk, in the middle of the all the chaos.
Work has been especially challenging this week. For part of it, along with the noise of the fans, we've had all four kids at home. It’s hard enough with three kids being on summer break, but when I found out that an outbreak of the virus at preschool meant shutting down the four-year-old’s classroom for a time, I admit, I panicked. I half-jokingly screamed into a pillow. I pretended to bang my head against a wall. Then, I remembered to count it all joy. My four children, whom I love, are under my roof all day. That is a blessing. A hardship when I am on phone meetings for hours, yes, but still a blessing. We have a comfortable home in which to spend our days, exposed subflooring and all. And we are well. Thank God, we are well. I’m praying for friends who are sick right now. And I pray for those who may be struggling to find childcare.
Other than work, dealing with repair people and claims adjustors, taking kids to instrument lessons, church, guiding kids through the day so they’re not constantly on devices, making sure the refrigerator and pantry are stocked for six people, preparing meals, and cuddling our four-month-old kitten who enjoys being held like a baby while I’m at my desk, I’m also finalizing plans for Vacation Bible School. VBS kicks off in a little over two weeks, and I'm praying that the Lord will use it to draw people close to Him.
Since I’ve attended my church for all but the first two years of my life, I have lots of great memories for VBS there. I pray my children love going to VBS at our church as much as I always did, and still do. But directing takes a lot of time. There's much to be done. So, I’ve had to realize that, with everything going on, writing the newest novel should wait; completing the short story I started should wait; and, even helping someone dear to me edit their first book should wait, for a little while. To everything there is a season.
So, why am I taking time now to write about renovations and furniture, work and kids? It helps me process emotion and clear my head. When all the thoughts and feelings start jumbling together, I let them out, so my brain can work better. And the extra benefit? It boosts my faith. When I write about life, the written record proves the goodness of God. His blessings are everywhere--including at funerals and in minivans on country roads--which He showed me this week.
Around 9:30 Thursday morning, while the man was here ripping up our floors, I closed my work computer and left to go sing at the funeral for my friend's father. Alex stayed home with the pets and the kids and the demo guy, and there was no doubt which of us had the easier task.
The funeral was a sweet tribute to a man who loved the Lord, his family, music, and writing. (I only knew of him, but I think we are kindred spirits.) It was an honor to celebrate his life, to grieve the family's loss, and to worship God with them. There was a beautiful peace in the room--the stillness of a loved one's race now finished and the blessed hope of a reunion in the sweet by and by.
Driving home, I could see that the interstate was backed up as I approached the exit, so I kept going, traveling on country backroads instead. The longer route could have been an inconvenience, but it was exactly what I needed. The sun was shining, and the color of the sky and brightness of the clouds was mesmerizing. Seeing the cows and horses, farm ponds, old barns, and the seemingly endless green fields, brought me joy. God was there with me. And there were no loud fans. In the quiet of my minivan, I thanked Him for His blessings.
It’s not been an average kind of week, but there's joy to be found in all of it. I'm waiting and watching to see all the good things God will do, and above the roar, I say, "I’m blessed."
I made a mistake this week. For days it has haunted me. It makes my stomach twist and tighten and my chest ache to think about it. Agonizing—that’s what living with my mistake has been like. All over a social media post.
When I shared on Facebook about our house search, and that we’d had to back out of a contract for the home we’d fallen in love with, I thought it was innocent, just telling friends about the journey. The post was set to private, after all. But the owners of the property somehow found out about it and weren’t happy with what I shared. When I got a phone call confronting me about it, I was devastated. I was embarrassed. I cried. I wanted to hide from the world (and I tried for a little while.) I probably should have known better than to share what I did, but my post wasn’t meant to cause harm. I didn’t mean to mess up. And my impulse was to swear off social media forever.
My reaction might seem silly, but I can’t stand it when people are upset with me. And I hate to make mistakes. Every time I share on social media, I read what I’ve written multiple times to make sure there isn’t an error that will make me look foolish, and especially that I haven’t said something that might hurt someone’s feelings or make them think less of me. So, when I do the very thing I’m so cautious to avoid, it’s torturous to my psyche.
Years ago, I was healed of anxiety issues. Sometimes, the panic tries to sneak back in, and I have to remind myself that I’m healed. It’s when I’m faced with conflict or the consequences of mistakes that I have to do the most reminding. After my social media flub this week, a barrage of stupid mistakes flooded my memory. They piled on top of one another. Thus, this blog. The memories won’t leave me alone, so I’m facing a few by writing about them.
When I was in my late teens, I was by myself in the office on a Saturday at one of my part-time jobs. The phone rang and I answered. The caller sounded like a nice old man. He asked for another employees’ phone number. The list was printed and posted on the wall next to me, and I wanted to help the man out. Next to the lady’s name and number was printed, “Do not give this out.” But the man sounded so sweet. He convinced me that he was her friend. I was young and naïve. I gave the man the phone number, only to find out later, from my very unhappy boss, that the man had been harassing the lady and she’d had to have her number changed because of him. Because of my mistake, she had to have her number changed again. It’s been over twenty years, and I am still sad about what I did.
At twenty, I worked in a different office as a receptionist. One morning, when I got dressed for work, I questioned the outfit. Was the top too lowcut for the office? I stood in front of the mirror, turning and leaning, scrutinizing to decide if the shirt was appropriate. I decided to go with it, only to be approached by the office manager at some point in the day and told never to wear it to work again. I was mortified. I had tried to make a good decision because I did care about how I looked. I didn’t want to be dressed immodestly. I just made the wrong choice.
Not long ago, I did a small task for someone that I loved, thinking that I was being helpful. Instead, the person was offended by my action. They thought I was trying to take over their responsibility, and they haven’t spoken to me since. My mistake this week brought back the hurt of that broken relationship so strongly. The feeling of helplessness. Of confusion. I meant no harm. But somehow, my actions did damage, and I can’t fix it, though I tried.
This week, I was reminded again how quickly things can go from fine to not, from calm to gut-wrenching. Yes, it may seem like I’m overreacting, but the fear of being reprimanded for the next mistake is very real. I often worry, did I thank that person for the gift or compliment? Did they know I was sincere? Did I forget to speak to so-and-so? Did I slight someone by accident? Were they hurt? Are they mad? Did I sound boastful? The questions are endless because I genuinely care about people, and I care what they think about me (maybe too much.)
There are tons more mistakes I could talk about, some bigger, some smaller than the examples here. And I haven’t even talked about sin. This blog will be much too long if I start down that path. So, what’s my point? Is it all hopelessness? Of course, not. That’s never the point.
A few days ago, when I was crying over an action that I couldn’t undo, there was one thing that brought me comfort. I said to myself, “Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me.” The Bible says, “For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38, 39) I’m pretty sure that includes my mistakes. Regardless of what others think about me, He loves me, and that’s all I need to know.
I’ll make more mistakes, for sure. (Writing all this down and sharing it could be a mistake, just like the Facebook post that started it.) But I can handle the fear of messing up again because my mistakes will never change His love for me. I struggle with anxiety sometimes, but no matter what, Jesus loves me. I don’t always get things right, but Jesus loves me. I do foolish things sometimes, but Jesus loves me. I mess up, but Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me. Jesus loves me. And He loves you, too.
The night before the adoption ceremony, I felt nervous. We had waited so long for the day—to make this beautiful, affectionate three-year-old our son—yet, I had this jittery feeling, and that led to guilt. Was I second-guessing our decision? Wasn’t I absolutely sure that I wanted to parent this boy for the rest of my life? Then I realized, my nervousness wasn’t because of doubt. It was the same kind of feeling I had the day I got married. It was very similar to the case of nerves I experienced the morning of my scheduled c-section with my second child. It was the same as any other time someone stands on the edge of forever and is about to take the next step.
I’m not sure when God planted the seed of adoption in my heart. Maybe it was when He adopted me into his family when I was a child. But I had the dream, the desire, the life goal to adopt, for a very long time. My heart cried out at the words of James 1:27. Every time I saw a website or a television spot about children in need of a family, I wept. For years, I read profiles on the Children’s Home Society of NC page and ached for the children. But when was the “right” time to do something about this longing?
Thankfully, my husband, Alex, had the same desire to welcome a child through adoption. After we had two precious girls—Elizabeth in 2007 and Sarah in 2010—we thought, “Okay, we’ll adopt the third child, one day.” Then in 2013, Daniel was born, and we had to say, “I guess we were supposed to have three and adopt the fourth.” That’s when the vision for the future really started taking shape. I had the idea that we would wait until our kids were old enough to be involved in the process—the youngest would be around seven—and, as if I could actually manufacture the scenario, we would adopt a three-year-old. The child would be a boy, because the two girls were already sharing a room, and when I envisioned him, this fourth child of mine had darker skin than me.
In November of 2017, when the tug at my heart was so strong I couldn’t ignore it anymore, I suggested to Alex that we go to a local children’s home—a Christian agency that also does foster care licensing—for an information session. He agreed, though he’d always felt like God would put us in a situation to adopt, outside of the foster care system. After speaking to the licensing specialist for forty-five minutes, we left with an application and paperwork for foster care training in-hand. In the parking lot, Alex said, “So, are you going to fill those out today?”
We began our classes in January 2018, and, long-story-short-- after a tedious process, rife with frustration—we were finally licensed in October of that year. Little did I know, the waiting had only just begun. (Note: we met some remarkable people during the process that we are so glad to have in our lives now.)
I don’t remember when the first call came, but sometime between October and March, we said yes to NINE placements. Do you know how many of those children we helped? Zero. (I wrote about the waiting in this post.) For whatever reason, those children all went other places. When we finally got our first placement in March (I say finally with hesitation, because, while we were eager to help, foster care always means a child has had to experience trauma) it was a seven-year-old boy that we knew would be with us for a short time. I didn’t know it would only be six days. Even though he wasn’t with us long, we cried when he left, and I think of him often.
In May of 2019, I shared with new friends at a writers’ conference that I was anxious to do what I felt God had called us to do. I didn’t want a child to need our family, but I knew there was a child somewhere that did, and the waiting was gut-wrenching. Multiple people prayed for me at that conference, and for God’s will to be done for our family. The next weekend was Memorial Day, spent having a great time at the beach. On the drive home, Sarah made the statement that she felt like someone was missing (which I talked about in this post.) And someone was. The next day, we got the call. The social worker from our agency said that a two-and-half year old, African American male needed a home. She spelled his name but wasn’t sure how it was pronounced. She told me he had asthma (he doesn’t) and that he was non-verbal (he definitely wasn’t.) She was able to give me a few other details about his medical history, and she said that he was coming from another foster home. Around 7:30 pm, he arrived.
I’ll never forget the site of him--this angelic-looking little boy in a dinosaur t-shirt, pulling his tricycle from the county social worker’s car to our front door. She told us that he was very independent. To our surprise, as both social workers (county and licensing agency) sat in our living room going over information, while he played with a toy truck on the couch, we learned that a court hearing to terminate his biological parents’ rights was already scheduled. He had been in foster care, basically, his entire life.
From the beginning, this was not a “typical” foster care scenario. There was a very strong possibility that we would be able to adopt this child. Even though we had trained our minds and hearts to believe in and champion the unofficial foster care motto—"Reunification is always the goal”—that wasn’t the direction his case was headed. And it finally made sense—all the waiting and rejection. The entire time, we were expecting our son. There was no one else that was supposed to be part of our family, either temporarily or permanently. It was always him. From the moment he was born, God knew he would be my son. My husband and I were foster parents, but not really. We were just his parents. God spared us the heartbreak of wondering if we would have to say goodbye, though we still had to go through a long birthing process of waiting.
The first court date was just two weeks after our son came to us. It was a standard “update” hearing. We went, though it wasn’t required or expected. Without going into a lot of detail, we heard things in court that made us cry. Alex and I both fought to maintain our composure, but we couldn’t keep from sniffling as we choked back tears. We were later reprimanded by one of our social workers for our “behavior” in court, as though we could have helped it. We apparently showed too much emotion. That was the first of many times we felt unfairly scrutinized by the system.
The TPR (Termination of Parental Rights) hearing (I think in late July) took several hours and was continued to August. Based on what we knew, we were genuinely surprised when the judge ordered the termination at the August court session. However, our son would not become eligible for adoption for some time. It took five months for the judge to actually sign the termination order. After that, we had to wait thirty days to see if either of our son’s biological parents would appeal the termination. They did not.
In late February 2020, we were able to formally start the adoption process. (Which meant a switch to a different agency social worker who was very kind and helpful.) More paperwork, more waiting. When the pandemic hit in March, our monthly home visits, and the monthly required meetings with our agency, began to all be done by video. This was actually a huge weight lifted. But I also wondered if the adoption process would be hindered by the pandemic. As it turned out, Covid did slow it down, and it definitely made it “different” in a lot of ways (like signing final paperwork in the heat outside DSS office while wearing masks,) but I’m finally able to see that it has all been on God’s calendar anyway.
Around the time it started to seem certain that adoption would happen, we began transitioning our son to his new name. We decided to change his name for several reasons and felt he was still young enough that it wouldn’t be traumatic for him. We often called him by “pet names” anyway. He didn’t know his middle (or last) name, so there was no attachment. And I wanted him to have a name that meant something. We named our son Benjamin because it means “son of my right hand,” and we kept his given first name as his middle name. The boy who was known mostly as “CarCar” became Benjamin Acara, and, on his own, came up with the nickname Benji.
On June 18, 2020, we received word that we had been approved to adopt Benjamin. Then we had to wait for the “when.” This was the hardest period of waiting for me. Somehow, it was even more difficult than waiting to see if his bio parents would appeal the termination, which would do nothing except prolong the process. He was ours, but not legally, and waiting for the adoption ceremony to be scheduled was excruciating. At church, I requested prayer for either patience, or for someone to hurry up and push that paperwork through.
Early on Monday, July 27, I checked my email for the tenth time that morning and there it was—an email saying the adoption ceremony would take place that Friday, during our scheduled beach vacation. We were overjoyed.
After fourteen months of life and memories, we would be able to officially make him part of our family. To my other three children, he was brother from day one. To me and Alex, he was our son from day one. In the last fourteen months, he had been with us to museums, the zoo, aquariums, parks, Vacation Bible School, football games, plays, and family get-togethers. We took him to the beach for the first time last September, and he loved it! We had a party for his third birthday in November, and we wondered if it was his first. He had been with us through good times, like new jobs and three of my book launches, and also bad times, such as the deaths of church members and a painful rift within our church family. He was also there in the wild season of pandemic parenting, as we both worked full-time with four kids at home. Benjamin was already an integral part of our family, and now we would be able to shout it to the world.
On Friday morning, July 31, 2020, at 10:00 am, we gathered around my laptop, at my husband’s parents’ beach house, for a “virtual” adoption ceremony. There were grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins (and some great and helpful social workers) on the video conference, all eager to witness the moment Benjamin officially became ours. It was so wonderful to have all these people cheering us on, cheering for him. He is loved by many, and he will grow up knowing that they were as overjoyed as we were to make him family.
I haven’t said a lot about who my son is as a person, but this story is more about our journey to becoming his parents. Maybe soon I can write about how affectionate, smart, athletic, musical, and funny he is. I’d love to tell you about his likes and dislikes, and cute stories about him and his brother and sisters. Now, we have a lifetime to live and write those stories.
I could also tell you how he came to need our family, but instead, I’ll summarize by sharing something I’ve learned, in general: It takes extreme circumstances for a child to be placed in foster care, and parents are given opportunity after opportunity to reunify. I am confident that, in Benjamin’s case, foster care, then adoption, was the only right path.
Of course, as much as we love him, parenting Benjamin can be challenging, too. It’s sometimes difficult to tell if behavior issues are related to trauma or just being a three-year-old. I think it's normally the latter, having parented three three-year-olds before. There are many studies related to the long-term affects of childhood trauma on the brain, and some say that no matter how a child arrives at adoption, they will always have psychological issues as a result. While I understand the science behind those viewpoints, I also know that God is bigger than science. I believe that He can and will heal Benjamin of any and all physical and emotional impacts of trauma and of his medical history.
Looking back at my original dream for adoption--the one I formulated when Daniel was just a baby—I’m amazed at how God delivered. Daniel is now seven and Benjamin is three—just like the vision. I can't think of any other time in my life that God allowed me to have such a clear glimpse into the future. I thank God for my family and for dreams that come true, and I feel immensely blessed that Benjamin is part of both.
'Even so we, when we were children, were in bondage under the elements of the world: But when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth his Son, made of a woman, made under the law, To redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons. And because ye are sons, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying, Abba, Father. Wherefore thou art no more a servant, but a son; and if a son, then an heir of God through Christ.' Galatians 4:4-8
Just over a week. That's how long we've been a family of six. For the first three days or so, it was hard to grasp. It's an understandably difficult concept to go from being the parent of three children on Monday- picking out three sets of clothes, making three snacks at a time, tucking three kids into bed at night- to being the parent of four kids on Tuesday. But very quickly it became "right". It wasn't even our new normal. It was just the normal we were always supposed to be. Our "finally" normal.
Even as I express how relatively easy this foster care transition has been, and how right it feels, I fully understand that at any moment things could change. We're only responsible for this two-year-old boy for as long as someone else will let us be. Somewhere between one more day and forever, that's all we know. But for now, he's part of the family.
So, how does a stranger become family so quickly. Is it because he's adorable? No, though he is. Is it because he's a "good" baby? No, though he is. Is it because his laughter makes all our hearts melt? No, though it does. My children have taken him in as a brother, and my husband and I have taken him in as a son, for only one reason: GOD. It’s supernatural. Beyond our capabilities. God makes that kind of thing possible. Not us. Psalms 68:6a says, "God setteth the solitary in families: he bringeth out those which are bound with chains:"
The day before "A" came to us, my eight-year-old daughter said, on the ride home from the beach, "I feel like we're missing somebody." All of us were there in the van, including our two dogs. She wasn't talking about Grandma and Grandpa that we left behind at the beach. She was talking about "A", though we didn't yet know who he was. And I knew exactly how she felt. God had been stirring anticipation in our hearts for many months.
On our refrigerator, we have our names linked together, written out in magnetic Scrabble tiles. Just as easy as it is to add our foster son's name to our five, that's how easy it has seemed to make him one of us. He slipped right in like the letters of his name on the board. And it's a perfect analogy of what God has done for us.
In Romans 11, Paul uses the example of an olive tree. The natural branches he speaks of were the nation of Israel, God's chosen people. But we- believers who aren’t descendants of Abraham- being the wild branches, have been grafted into the tree. He added us into the family. He has made us a part of Himself.
Galatians 4:4-5 says it plainly. "But when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth his Son, made of a woman, made under the law, To redeem them that were under the law, that we might receive the adoption of sons."
How can someone become part of a family so quickly? God. With our foster son, it’s God’s love in our hearts and a divine plan that makes it possible. For the seeking soul, it’s a measure of faith and God’s grace by which they can instantly be made His child.
North Carolina’s rich heritage includes the geneses of many well-known and much-loved food products, the likes of which have earned us serious bragging rights. But, as gracious Southerners, we let the food speak for itself instead. Keep reading to learn more about famous brands born in the Tar Heel State, and to find out how I incorporated each of them into my book, Grace & Lavender.
Pepsi-Cola: Invented in New Bern, NC (Craven County) in 1893 by Caleb Bradham, who made and sold it at his drugstore. The name Pepsi-Cola was first used in 1898.
Georgia may have that other cola favorite, but we're proud this world-famous product got its start on our coast.
Fun fact: New Bern is the second-oldest colonial town in North Carolina.
Cheerwine: A cherry-flavored soft drink made by Carolina Beverage Corporation of Salisbury, NC (Rowan County) since 1917. This unique soda is sold across the Southeast, but is best known in the Carolinas and Virginia. The company also markets Cheerwine flavored ice cream, sherbet, and cream bars, sold mainly in Food Lion supermarkets (also referenced in the book), which is based in Salisbury as well.
Fun fact: Rowan County is also home of the North Carolina Transportation Museum in Spencer.
Krispy Kreme Doughnuts: Founded in Winston-Salem, NC (in my county of Forsyth) in 1937, in a rented building located in what is now historic Old Salem. While Krispy Kreme was sold to a Luxembourg-based company in 2016, Winston-Salem remains the World Headquarters and home of the Krispy Kreme Support Center. Corporate operations moved to Charlotte, NC in December 2017.
Fun fact: The influence of the Moravian settlers who established the town of Salem is evidenced, in part, by the many active Moravian congregations in Winston-Salem today. The motto of the Moravian Church is: "In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; and in all things, love."
Texas Pete: A Louisiana-style hot sauce developed and manufactured by the TW Garner Food Company in Winston-Salem, NC. Texas Pete was introduced in 1929 by Sam Garner, operator of the Dixie Pig barbecue stand in Winston-Salem. (Some people here enjoy Texas Pete on everything! I've seen it doused on pizza and scrambled eggs.)
Fun fact: A hint about the location of the fictional town of Springville, NC in my book, comes from the quote, “The best hot sauce in the world is made just down the road.”
Mount Olive Pickle Company: Founded in the mid 1920s in Mount Olive, NC (Wayne County). The company's primary product is pickled cucumbers, but it also supplies canned peppers and relishes, and other pickled products. Mt. Olive is the largest independent pickle company in the United States. The company employs over 500 people, and as many as 800 during the busiest intake season each summer.
Fun fact: On New Year's Eve, Mt. Olive Pickle Company drops a three-foot pickle down a flagpole into a pickle tank, but at 7 p.m. instead of midnight.
Any one of these is enough to make a North Carolinian proud, but to have birthed all five of these products? It makes it hard to be humble.
In my book Grace & Lavender, the main character, Colleen Hill, celebrates this culinary heritage by writing a cookbook featuring these homegrown claims to fame. Her recipes include Krispy Kreme Peach Cobbler, Cheerwine Cupcakes, Pepsi-Cola Pound Cake, and Texas Pete Tater Soup. In the story, Colleen and her young friend, Grace, also make chicken salad using Mt. Olive Pickles.
While the recipe names in my book were from my imagination, internet searches after-the-fact proved that all these recipes, or something very similar, do exist. (And I found a great recipe for Cheerwine Pound Cake from Our State Magazine.)
If you ever decide to try any of these recipes, please let me know! And if I’m in driving distance, I might be up for a taste test.
Eight times. That’s the number of times, so far, that we’ve been passed over for a foster care placement since becoming licensed in October of 2018. And it hurts.
The entire nine-month process of becoming licensed, and now the waiting, was and is an act of faith. I have never had to rely on God more, because I have no control over this situation. And even in my frustration, I recognize this as an opportunity to grow closer to the Lord as I learn to trust in His timing. So, even though I express sadness at not being selected, I still trust that God has a perfect plan, and I only want what He has in store for us. Nothing less. Nothing more. But being passed up still hurts, and it’s something I didn’t expect going into this.
Not all eight have been outright rejections. Sometimes, the situation just changed. And the truth is, none of them have been rejections of us. I know this isn’t personal. There are lots of circumstances involved. Most of them time, we’re given little information, if any, about the decisions that are ultimately reached for each child, but I’ve been assured there’s nothing in our profile that “handicaps” us when it comes to being selected. But it still hurts.
On one hand, I rejoice over the fact that we don’t have a placement, because that means there isn’t a child that needs us because he was taken from his family. We are currently only licensed to foster one boy under the age of six, so obviously, that limits the amount of calls we get. But if we were able to take siblings, or a teenager, no doubt we’d already have a placement. So, the need is real, and I’m hesitant to say anything that might discourage someone from becoming a foster parent. I know that any inconvenience to me, or any emotional upset I have over the waiting, is nothing compared to the trauma these children bring with them when they are placed. But it still hurts.
I’m ready to do what God has called us to do, and to not have the unknown looming over our heads. Even so, I trust that God is protecting us from the wrong assignment and preparing us for the right one, and that He has it all worked out. But it still hurts.
We should hear back about our ninth "yes" on Monday, 1/28.
There's a lot of talk right now about "things" that bring you joy. Thanks to Ms. Kondo, people everywhere are soul-searching and coming to the realization that less is more. While I seriously need to declutter, my coffee mug collection won't be going anywhere. Because, silly as it may sound, they make me happy.
As a disclaimer, this isn't a devotional post. It's a just-for-fun post. But I can't pass up the opportunity to say that material things may make me happy, but Jesus is the true giver of joy. "You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore." Psalms 16:11 (Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post.)
I currently have nine mugs in my collection. I don't seek out new ones, but I'm sure more will eventually be added. There are some mugs in my house that aren't part of the collection, because they aren't special. They're just mugs.
Because these are special to me, I'd like to share them with you. Aside from the fact that I really, really love coffee, and I'm grateful for any vehicle that brings it to my mouth, I love each of these for different reasons.
Let me tell you about them, in no particular order:
These are my writing conference mugs. The green one is from my first ever conference, Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference, in May 2018. The white one is from the North Carolina Christian Writers Conference in September 2018. They are fun reminders of the friends and connections I've made, and of the writing goals I have.
I love these mugs by Big Sky Carvers. The artist is Dean Crouser, and I love his work. I bought the bluebird in summer of 2017 at the Greensboro Science Center on a special visit with my kids. The chickadee was a present from Alex (I think Mother's Day 2018), and the cardinal was a Christmas present from my in-laws last month. The hummingbird might join them someday. These three are extra special to me.
This was a funny and thoughtful Christmas present from my husband. (I'd guess 2013.) It's from a very funny, yet slightly off-color British sitcom I enjoyed back then called "The IT Crowd." The tag line is "Have you tried turning it off and on again?" And as anyone else who's worked in IT can tell you, that's the solution to most computer issues.
This one is definitely the oldest in my collection. I got it on our honeymoon thirteen years ago. It had been a dream for many years to visit the museum that was once the home of Margaret Mitchell, the author of Gone With the Wind. So, we honeymooned in Atlanta, GA. I had no idea then how poignant the quote on the cup was. "In a weak moment I have written a book."
There you have it. My nine special mugs. I decide which one to use each day based on my mood (and which ones are clean.) I probably reach for my bird mugs the most.
Much of myself comes out in my book characters. So it's no surprise that many of them drink coffee. I'll leave you with this excerpt from 'Grace & Lavender'. Thanks for reading!
"Colleen took another long sip from a coffee mug she had used for over twenty years. It was white with World’s Best Mom on it in large, black letters. Coffee was another of the many things for which she was truly and sincerely grateful. Coffee, a good book, perfect four-part harmony, the sight of the first crocuses in spring- Colleen had an aptitude for recognizing simple joys. And despite her longings, it could never be said that she wasn’t satisfied with what she’d been given or wasn’t grateful for everything she had."
Nine months. That’s approximately how long it takes for a baby to fully develop inside its mother’s womb. It’s also the time it took Alex and I to complete all the requirements and get our application for foster care licensing submitted to the state. The irony of the timing wasn’t lost on me as I signed my name to the paper today.
There are so many unknowns about this process. We don’t know exactly when our application will be approved. Possibly in the next couple of weeks. We don’t know who God has chosen for us to invite into our home and family, or when He’ll send them, or how difficult the adjustment will be. We don’t know if we’ll be called to minister to a child’s needs for a short time or, perhaps, forever. As I held the pen to sign the application, fear of the unknown brought worry. But I am reminded of some things I do know.
I know God has called us to this. I’ve known it for a very long time. I know that every life is precious, and there is a child that needs my family to teach them they are a valuable creation of Almighty God. I know that providing a child with a safe and loving environment will have a positive impact on future generations. I know a foster child will mean added stress, but I also know God’s grace is sufficient. I know God’s love is a free gift that replenishes in my heart as I share it with others, and it’s His will for us not to be stingy with it.
We didn't go through the process of the last nine months because we enjoyed it, but I know God has used the "gestational period" of foster care licensing to prepare our hearts for His purpose. I’m sure there will be many more revelations as the plan unfolds. For now, I'll hold onto these truths as we continue to wait.
I'm not a very patient person. I think I get it from my father. Or, at least, since he has the same character flaw, I can claim it's a learned behavior or some undiscovered genetic predisposition and give myself an out. But I guess it really doesn't work that way.
The older I get, the worse my impatience grows. I generally show grace, but often fail when it comes to customer service hold times and waiting for a table at restaurants.
Lately, I find myself waiting for a lot of things.
The writing-related things on my list are normal. Just part of the process. So, I'm not complaining. No one has dropped the ball or has been too lax about anything. They are working on multiple projects for different authors, not just me. I'm just impatient.
The last item on the list, simply by nature of the process, takes a long time, too, although it's frustrating.
But I had a revelation today: I need to be waiting on something even more important than the things on my list. The words of Jesus in John 14:30 reveal the thing I should anticipate most anxiously.
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."
It's so easy to forget, or take for granted, or push to the back of our minds, the promise of Christ's return. But the expectation of His second-coming is fundamental to our faith. We are waiting. Not just waiting, but in a constant state of waiting, watching, and working, as we continue to live and enjoy the life He has given us.
I'm in a season of waiting now. But that's where I should live! Expectant!
When I stop and put things into perspective, the nearer-every-day reality of my blessed hope as a believer should make me more patient when it comes to all the other, lesser expectations in this life season. I'm thankful that, as with Jesus' return, God controls the times and the seasons. Everything works out for good, no matter my perceptions of "on time", "quickly", "slowly", or "delay". I need to trust God's timing every second of my life, even when I have to wait longer than I'd like for a book layout, a life-changing situation, or a pizza buffet. And may we all wait together anxiously for His coming.
We recently compounded the crazy in our house by adding a fourth furry friend to the family. The current dynamic is two parents, three kids, two cats, and two dogs, and the newest member has been an interesting life change.
My husband and I hadn’t dealt with the joys and trials of a puppy in a long time, since our good girl Maggie is far past that stage. Enter a sweet yellow lab mix we both couldn’t resist. His name is Rico, and since we brought him home, this now five-month-old, fifty-two pound puppy has taught me some things about who I am and who I want to be.
Rico is not 100% house-trained. He's learning quickly, but he's still a puppy, and he sometimes has "accidents" in the house. The most frustrating thing about potty training a dog is going a couple of days without any puddles or unpleasant surprises, getting excited about the break-through, then walking into the kitchen to find another mess. Three steps forward and two steps back in the process is discouraging.
While it might be the MOST UNUSUAL COMPARISON I've ever made, Rico's shortcomings remind me of myself. I've been a Christ-follower for a long time. I ought to know how this whole thing works, right? I know what sin is, and I should know how to avoid it. But do I always do the right thing? No, I make mistakes just like Rico. Maybe (definitely) not just like his mistakes, but I can easily find myself in a stinky situation when I'm not Christ-like in my words, thoughts, or actions, and this reality makes me want to be show Rico a little grace.
But there's at least one way in which I aspire to be like my lab. This dog is always by my side. If I'm on the couch, he's on the couch. If I'm working in the kitchen, he's in the kitchen. If I let him outside to potty in the fenced backyard, he won't go unless we come out and stand with him. He'll stay on the deck and bark to be let back in. He doesn't want to be left alone, or maybe he doesn't want me to be alone. Either way, he is loyal; a steadfast companion. He likes to be near me.
James 4:8 says, "Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you..." When we just nudge in close to the Father, he tucks in close to us right back. May I strive to stay near Him, never leave His side. Drawing close to God through reading the Word, praying, and meditating on Him is how I learn to be more like Him and avoid those "messes" that my sin makes. May I be even more loyal to the Lord than my dog is to me.
Thanks, Rico, for the lesson.
About the Blog
Thank you for visiting my blog. I share devotional articles and musings about life, parenting, and the writing journey, as well as important news about my books. I hope you find something of interest here!