Expiration dates

My medial meniscus, as the knee guy so eloquently and thoughtfully shared with me, is "completely macerated, it's shredded."  That was the news about six weeks ago when my very dear husband found the best of the best in knee surgeons for athletes, made an appointment, and in we went.  I was stunned.  I am stunned.  No repair is possible.  My medial meniscus has expired.  

MMM (Macerated Medial Meniscus) and I have had a solid, one-sided relationship.  I've been the guilty partner in this long-term, committed relationship.  I've taken advantage of her, I've assumed that she was always going to show up for me, I've pushed too much, stayed out too late, lied, broken promises.  "Babe, I know you're feeling upset with me, I can tell by your angry vibe, I promise I'll take a day off tomorrow." You name it, I've done it.  And now, the jig is up.  She's done, and there's nothing I can do about it.  No going back in time for a redo.  Just a what do we do now that we are here, at the end of the road.  Cue Backstreet Boys. "I can't let you go.  It's unnatural.  You belong to me, I belong to you."

I am grieving, and I do not really feel like myself.  Turns out all of the stuff I taught and preached and lived in yoga and pilates - movement heals - is really true.  Turns out that the kind of movement I crave is running, jumping, lifting, heart pounding.  Turns out that an expired knee at 55 sucks.

And, I'm figuring out a new pace, a new normal.  It's a trial and error situation of what MMM can tolerate.  Thumbs down - my favorite Peloton rides, lifting heavy weights, walking too much, pickleball games, power yoga, too much gardening. Thumbs up - 30 minute elliptical with Seinfeld episodes; switch to Spotify Fleetwood Mac radio and do weight machines, dead lifts, ski erg, calf raises and hip bridges as many rounds as possible in 20 minutes. 

Oh, and I joined Reddit groups to try to help MMM and I get back on solid ground - osteoarthritis! partial knee replacement! Misha knee system!  I know it's too late for my OG MMM, but I'm hoping that the two of us can find some kind of path forward together.

Here's the thing.  We really all do have an expiration date.  Everything does.  It's scary to think about.  

MMM and I have a plan for a new-ish gizmo that will attach to the bone in my knee, preserve what's left of the rest of my meniscus, and absorb the shock that MMM just can't do for me anymore.  There is hope, and this Misha knee system will buy me time and apparently give me back the activity level that I love.  In the meantime, I'm taking it easy.  Over here on the couch, returning to writing, and working on staying grateful.

Here’s the other thing  something about you or yourself or someone you love is going to face this - an expiration date.  Mine is MMM.  Yours could be illness, marriage, stress, coping with change, really anything  

How will you handle expirations?  

Could there be a different path?

Could God  be guiding you and me and us to a deeper trusting, a knowing, a better life in this space here and now?  

My affirmation (say it slowly 3 times, add 3 deep breaths after the 3 rounds to seal into your central nervous system): My knee is jacked up, and I feel sad to not be able to run and jump and do yoga and play pickleball.  I am taking steps to be strong and to heal and I trust that God is here guiding me, loving me, leading me into a vibrant future.  I trust you, Lord.  I trust you.

Philippians 4:6, The Message
"Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down."

Progress (v)

So silly but a Facebook memory today prompted this post. Levi five years ago. Sleepy, scruffy voice. Newly developed speech. I’m coaxing coaching, coercing him to say “Mama, I love you.” That could be a whole separate blog post and savings account for future therapy for erry one of the Melton kids. So sweet baby boy says Mama and I oooo uuuu. Open vowels but great inflection and eye contact and he just looks happy and well fed and nurtured and loved. His eyes are smiling. He is home and he is ours and he is making gains and that is all that matters in that moment to this Mama.

Fast forward to today. First grade IEP meeting with a sweet and devoted team of speech and teacher and administrator and mom and dad. The system working 💯 the way it is supposed to and little boy surpassing expectations and growing and achieving yearly goals and serving up willfulness and determination with a side of bossiness. He’s got stuff to work on. He’s come so far. 

Two parallel thoughts streaming in my muddled teacher brain. 

Adoption is amazing. How did I get to do this?  Three  times. My kids surprise me and surpass me and surround me with their spirit. A will to overcome. This deep and good soulfilling reminder that life isn’t always or usually wonderful but we can look and listen and trust that God is at work and making a way even when it seems impossible. 

I don’t need to be or have to be worried. Every little thing is gonna be all right. Show up. Do the thing and the next thing and the thing after that. Progress happens. And the progress...that is actually the goal. The goal isn’t really and truly what matters. The progress. That’s where we measure and succeed and stretch and achieve and celebrate. 

So my question to myself and to all of us is- are you progressing?  Are you moving it forward, showing up, all in?  My encouragement as a mom of and teacher to special needs amazing life lesson loves is—the goal isn’t the goal. The goal is momentum, motion, movement in the right direction. 

Intend. Aim. Progress. 

Flying

paradox:  something (such as a situation) that is made up of two opposite things and that seems impossible but is true

Graduating a girl.  She is graduating.  My girl, the graduate.  

I am happy.  She is ready.  This is the natural and right path and I have done my job and I am not finished but THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING and did I do it right and how can I be finished with the thing that defined me for practically every breath of my adult life.  

The shadow of how I pursued and relentlessly chased motherhood looms over me (read all the other blog posts from oh so long ago).  From the age of 23 I prayed and actively worked and drove my husband crazy and drove myself crazy and maybe I drove God crazy with a plea and a prayer and a purpose to be a mom, or more precisely to mother.  I wanted to mother.  And it took a long time to happen and when it did I dropped everything and I did it.  I relished it.  I rejoiced in it.  I relished them, these perfectly imperfect human beings born into a moment of suffering that turned into my greatest joy.  

This year on Mother's Day it occurred to me that maybe we should call it Happy Smother's Day because oh my, mommy is having a hard time letting go.  I am aware of the natural path of parenting and the goal to "raise independent human beings" and I am definitely not desiring any more dependence and...she, the first, is preparing to fly the nest.  She has strong, sturdy, beautiful, graceful wings.  She is practiced and accomplished and capable and smart and funny and sure of herself and she is ready to fly.  I want her to fly.  And then I just can't do it.  I can't.  I'm not ready.  She and her sister and her brother and their daddy are my heart and soul and I am grateful that I am cultivating my own garden and that God is leading me toward my passion and giftedness in loving and teaching kids with different abilities.  But still.  This moment is here.  I am not ready.  And I am ready.  She is ready.  I cannot wait--like I'm holding my breath--to see the path that she charts for herself.  

So I'm holding this paradox, these two opposite emotions that seem impossible but both are true, close to my heart.  I'm holding her, my graduate, close too but don't tell her.  And I'm thanking the giver of all good gifts, the One who brought blessing that runs both ways to heal my mothering sorrow and to heal my girl's tragic and undeserved beginning, the One who is writing her and all of our stories still.  

To God the Father be the glory forever and ever.  Amen.  

from Brene Brown~an Instagram post reflecting on her own daughter's high school graduation

"There's a combination of joy and grief that can take your breath away.  The sum of these two parts wells up inside you and holds your breath hostage until you let go of the notion that you can control the paradox and choose between joy and grief.  Your breath returns only when you submit to the reality that you are caught in the grips of both delight and sorrow.  Both are strong.  Both are true."

Silver linings

Today  marks 25 years with the

Love of my life
Father of my kids
Best friend
Workaholic--keeping it real!
Pastor
Relentless provider
Funny funny funny
Urban
Devoted
Honest
One and only

25 years is a crazy long amount of time. We were babies and wide eyed and optimistic. We are mid forties, clear eyed, and optimistic.

Marriage is no joke. The stats on folks getting married at 19 and 21 are not good. And yet.
We grew up together. We innovated. We dug our hearts in and trusted God when things seemed scary and overwhelming (Three adoptions from China. Three beautiful blessings. Hard fought parenthood.).

On my "happy anniversary baby"  I'm grateful for a shared faith  I'm grateful for our parents living out commitment. I'm grateful that when my feelings were hurt or I felt alone or we argued or he saw my failings and I saw his that we both chose to stay in it. Marriage is the ultimate vulnerability. Exposed. Raw. Seen. Compassion is essential.

Marriage is the iron on iron, soul on soul, sharpening, refining, daring, dreaming, desiring, taking flight union by choosing every day to connect and to encourage and to lift up the other one and to be lifted up in that choice.

It is the hardest thing. And the best thing.  And I love him. And he loves me. We are not perfect but we are perfectly partnering to do marriage together. Wherever you are in your life, married, single, hoping to be married, happily unmarried. Your story isn't finished. God is doing something--especially in the difficult moments--that will be amazing and beautiful and transcendent. Be faithful. Love boldly. Live a life of wild extravagance.

Happy anniversary to my one and only. I wouldn't change a thing.

Rainy days and holidays always get me down

Thanksgiving happened and I got sad. I last visited my grandmother at this time of year.  Christmas was her thing, life sized singing Santa, family united, she glued us together. I miss her.

I had my last real visit with a beloved friend about this time several years ago. She was with me in the fight for mothering when we connected in Texas and we somehow ended up together in the   Midatlantic. Her battle with breast cancer was valiant. And this time of year I remember looking into her eyes and knowing. I can't see a tree ablaze in autumn glory withiut thinking of my Wendy living her final earthly days in a room painted in stately autumn style and reflecting her love of this season. I miss her.

I want to feel happy but the cycle of the season resists, darker days, longer nights, less sunshine. This too is important, to embrace the darkness. I'm not sure we can feel the sun unless we have tasted the night.  I want to be happy and carefree but I feel this weight. "Be here" is the voice I recognize. I am. Advent means God with us. Wherever you are. However that shows up. Whatever that looks like. God.with.us. That is the meaning of Christmas.

May you know it just so.

A Productive Marriage

After all these years, I am productively married.

“Productively?!?” I can almost hear the sarcastic riposte: “Be still my beating heart - tell me more Romeo!” Admittedly, “productive” is probably not the word that would cause most women – at least not the one I know best – to swoon. But hear me out on this one.

First: I am happily married – yes. And I am grateful for that…whatever “happily married” actually means when one has 3 kids (including the resultant bills and a soccer carpool), a dog who relishes creating yellow stains on white carpet, a house in perpetual need of weekend work, the deep drive to feel successful in a career, and a checking account with occasional convulsions. Being married to Julie in the midst of all this is (of course!) blissful joy – EXCEPT when she is exhausted from caring for a preschooler, enduring hormonally-induced moodiness, or suggesting that we should spend money (ever).

In other words, EXCEPT when real life kicks in. 

That’s what this post is about – real life. It may be that exactly none of the above pressures on modern marriages create extra space for “happy”…at least not in the way that I think of “happy”…as sort of a pink, fluffy, cotton candy kind of experience.

Now - I have indeed felt many moments of “happy” with Julie. We have created endless (yes, endless) lighthearted moments together. You won’t hear me brag about it with the guys, but way back when we used to go see G Rated Disney movies together for fun…Aladdin, The Little Mer…. (Back then, the computer graphics in animation were kind of a new thing. Anyway….)

Happy is good. And I would not say that “happy” with Julie has evaporated. I would say that the spice ingredient called “happy” went into a meal called LIFE that demands – and promises - so much more.

Happiness, I think, is great in courtship. It is great in marriage at any stage, in the same way that digging around for that plastic toy in the Cracker Jack box used to be totally WORTH. IT.

But now there are other things on the plate besides caramel-coated crunchiness. There is meat that needs to be carefully chewed, and vegetables that are not always the tastiest (but they nourish). On the plate of marriage is something called human growth.

And this is the reason I am grateful for a “productive” marriage. Because I am still kind of gristly, and there is a lot of me that would probably never make it to the plate in a chic five-star restaurant. I try to act like it, but I don’t know if I am a five-star restaurant kind of guy…my genes tilt more toward the Woolworth’s lunch counter experience, actually. But God and Julie – they keep trimming off the gristle so that my soul can get lean. 

Maybe – long term – that’s where the meaning in marriage is to be found. It IS about “happy”…it IS about “romance”…AND maybe the significance of marriage over the long haul is also about the pain, challenge, promise, and deep gratification of soul-making. 

So perhaps if you are challenged (and even frustrated) in marriage, it could be that you have passed from one stage into another where there is some protein amidst the high-glycemic carbs.

In other words, into a wonderfully “productive” – nourshing - life. 

What I wish the world knew about special needs adoption

What I Wish The World Knew About Special Needs Adoption

I’m not even sure our son Levi qualifies as special needs adoption.  His cleft lip and palate have been repaired thanks to an amazing team at Johns Hopkins.  There is nothing wrong now. But for the first 2 years of his life he couldn’t really speak and he couldn’t really hear.  So now he is a spunky 4 year old super hero loving boy who talks all the time but apparently I’m one of the only ones who can decipher his speech.  This makes life difficult.  For him.  And me. 

He is in a 4 year old preschool class and he’s spoiled rotten and he kicked and hit his teacher today.  I am mortified typing these words.  There are no excuses.  There is no denying that he knows better.  It has been a terrible day (for me). 

But when his teacher said that he needed a behavior plan and that they would be monitoring his progress and that she knew being nonverbal was part of the issue, well my eyes filled with tears.  They spilled over.  I, again, was mortified.  He is not this moment.  This is not the truth about my boy.  He is not nonverbal.  I must admit he does kick and hit when frustrated.  So do I. 

I can’t help but think about my friends parenting children with deeper special needs, because we all are special needs if you want to know the truth.  We all have a unique character gifted from our Creator and we all need others to have open hearts and open hands and open minds to who we are.  My boy should not kick and hit his teacher when he doesn’t want to go to circle time.  And I should not feel defensive.  I should not want to justify his behavior, to remind his new teachers that his story is unique.  But I do.  Please, world, please know that my boy doesn’t want to kick and hit and lash out.  He is sweet.  He cuddles.  He is stubborn.  You have no idea what his beginning looked like.  I’m not quite sure you (or I) could stomach it.

 

Here’s the deal, dear world.  When you adopt a child that doesn’t look like you at all people automatically question.  Or they automatically assume that you helped this little life.  Not true.  In my case for sure my babies rescued me.  Infertility is a terrible, horrible, painful, long slow death.  Peering into the eyes of a sweet soul destined to belong to me healed wounds that went deep.  And although my belly never swelled with their heart beating beneath it, they are mine.  Born in my heart.  Birthed in blood, sweat, and tears of despair, hopelessness, and finally , finally light dawning with God’s plan for our “hope and future.” 

So what I want his teachers to know is that if he does it again he won’t get his Ipad.  Shit’s getting real, y’all.  And what I want his teachers to know is that you don’t have to talk louder to Levi.  He can hear you.  He’s doing his best, but using this relatively new gift of a long and smooth palate is tricky for him.  He really wants to please you but he is also a determined son of a gun. How else do you think he survived the indescribable moments of his early childhood?  I want you to know that he is creative and he loves praise and he sings all the time and sometimes or a lot of the time I wish he would stop asking me questions.  And please don’t label him as nonverbal.  Just because you can’t understand him doesn’t mean he isn’t communicating.  And I also know you’re doing the best you can but I still want to make it better for him and for all the others who feel like their kids are problems and who are in IEP meetings and advocating and feeling worn out and it’s only the 2^nd week of school for goodness sake.

Sending love and light to the moms and dads and teachers deep in the trenches—know that you are doing good.  Know that you are important.  Know that no matter what happens with your baby God is holding you close to his heart. 

Happy holidays.

We drove through Roy Rogers one Christmas Eve after worship to get our then kindergartner some sustenance for the journey south to Mimi and Poppy's.  I paid at the window with a "Merry Christmas!" to the poor soul working that night, and a sweet little voice from the back seat fussed at me.  "Try Happy Holidays, Mommy.  He might not be Christmas.  He might be Hanukah."

This little love is still speaking her mind.  I don't want to shut her down but I sure do wish I could shut her up sometimes.  

Parenting *teens* is not for the faint of heart.  They see through all of the labels and masks and they speak their truth.  I saw/see through the labels and masks but I have never, ever felt comfortable speaking my truth.  And really, should one speak every truth one intuitively understands?  I mean isn't truth for me different at a certain level from truth for you?  Unless we are accepting certain universal truths.  And if we are, then respect for others must be high on that list.  Ain't no way back talk is going to be tolerated in this house.

Are you confused?  Because I am.  And exhausted.  Parenting *teens* is not for the faint of heart.  

Kevin Leman has convinced me that raising this species, *teens*, is pretty much like raising toddlers.    <<And yes, it does help to have both in the household at the same time.  The similarities are striking.>>  Don't get emotionally involved.  It's not about you.  It's about raising decent human beings.  Taking away cell phones works almost all of the time.  More yoga for mama is a very good thing.  

So, pardon me while I go pour (another) glass of wine.  It's been a long weekend.  Don't judge.  

Happy holidays, y'all.  

it wasn't always a happy mother's day

I'm feeling a bit Debbie Downer as I write this post.  Really, it's not about you.  It's about me.  

Mother's Day from about 1994 to 1998 was one of the saddest days for me.  We were deep in the bowels of infertility and every day felt like a stab to my heart.  A heart that longed with infinity for infinity numbers of babies.  I remember literally weeping in the back pew of First Presbyterian Church in Wichita Falls, Texas, unable to hide my pain.  

It's a period of my life that I would love to forget.  To cover over.  To ignore.  Birth announcements arriving often from precious friends who had been married for a far shorter time than my sweet husband and me.  Jealous, angry tears and a general sense of the unfairness of life plaguing my soul.  I wasn't who I wanted to be to my pregnant friends.  I was envious.  I was really sad.  I was bereft. 

I didn't think I would ever have children and I knew I wouldn't bear them in my body.  It is still hard for me to see the swollen belly of strangers and not feel a piercing stab to my heart. 

Fast forward to February of 1998, and a picture of a 5 month old Chinese orphan who is being fast-tracked to our family.  Bliss.  And again in 2002, this time a chubby cheeked 10 month old.  And really, a third?  Our sweet boy with just as chubby cheeks and superpower fleeing skills with his chubby legs.  I am blessed.

And yes, the pain was worth it.  Infertility was a part of my labor, I think.  And yes, I wouldn't change a thing.  And yes, it still hurts. 

So I'm sending out this Mother's Day prayer to those who are longing.  This world is full of babies who need mamas.  I pray that the two of you find each other.  

And tomorrow morning this PW (pastor's wife, silly) will be sitting in the front row, scolding sisters for stirring up their brother and smoothing down Asian hair that grows straight out from its roots and smiling.  

"You didn't grow under my heart, but in it."

xxxooo

she's a good mother

Married at the ripe age of 19.  Baby almost right away (it was me, though, so I know it was all bliss!).  Ten family moves from my birth to age 17.  My mama stayed in school and got her degree and promptly set to work on the hardest job, raising 3 bouncing babies while Daddy worked it.  He was promoted and transferred and climbing the corporate ladder and she held it all together.  

She must have questioned each move.  She must have felt lonely and depressed and desperately needed time away.  I never knew it.  She made a new city our home from the beginning.  We set down roots.  We found a church and we saw the sights and we glued together.  

She grew up in the south with deep tradition and love, and she married a country boy and figured out how to muck out stalls and handle horses.  She started her own business (with a jigsaw!) to help pay for a fabulous wardrobe for her budding fashionista.  She helped to found an outreach for women who had recently moved, turning difficult transitions into blessing. My mama brought warmth and sunshine to Greenville, South Carolina; and Lincoln, Nebraska; and Sarasota, Florida; and Scottsdale, Arizona.   

She didn't try to build a perfect marriage or raise perfect kids (well, most of the time).  She fought hard to stay together.  She leaned in to mothering.  She kept her standards high and her arms open.  She didn't let the sun settle on anger.  She wiped tears from a teenage girl's broken heart, time after time.  She was home almost every.single.day when I got home from school, and she sat at the kitchen table with me and told me I could learn algebra and that boy wasn't worth my time and for goodness' sake could I clean my room.  

What I love the most about my mama is that she chose to be a mother.  She could have done a million other things.  She's talented and beautiful and smart and sought after.  She picked us.  She came to our games and she sent care packages in college and she still plans Camp Mimi and Poppy for her grandchildren--there is space in her life for her babies.   I didn't really get what that means to me until I was 40.  Or until I had 3 kids.  

And also, what I love the most about my mama is that she is real.  She is grounded and sharp witted and sometimes sharp tongued (I come by it honestly) and she is solid in her love and faith and belief in me.  My mama loves her children.  She loves us when we succeed, but what matters more is that she stretches her heart out wide when we fail and scoops us up and urges us on and holds our feet to the fire and always, always, always her love abides.  

I love her smile (I came by that honestly too!).  I love her laugh that you can hear a mile away.  I love that she can whistle with her fingers and call a whole neighborhood in to dinner.  I love that she loves my daddy  with a fierce and unyielding strength.  I love that she loves my brown skinned, almond eyed, children and takes them as her own.  I love that her eyes light up with joy when she sees me.  I love that she remembers the smell of my baby head resting on her shoulder and that she's seen me at my worst, at the lowest of lows not knowing if I would get to one day be a mother, and that she lifted me up.  

She's a good mother.  

"I've got a good mother, 

and her voice is what keeps me here.

Feet on ground,
Heart in hand,
Facing forward,
Be yourself. "

from "She's a Good Mother" by Jann Arden

You are the best thing

That ever happened to me.

I married young, y'all, real young.  Dan jokes with friends that he married me fast before anyone else could sweep in.  Ha!  I was head over heels from the first ice cream cone we shared at 17, socializing in the cafeteria with a bunch of eager freshmen, along with their supreme sophomore mentors, looking for extracurricular activities at Furman U.  My extracurricular was d.a.n.  Well, in between studying and reaching out to high school kids and, you know, socializing.

I knew after he walked me to my dorm and we stayed up till 2am talking about life and Jesus and what it meant to really follow Him.  I knew that this guy had vision and faith and that he was funny...the funny is what really stole my heart.

And we've been together for going on 25 years.

This man lost his father when he was 12 years old.  His mom was about my age when she put one foot in front of the other, went to work, and made life happen for a boy and his sister.  He has known pain and loss.  He awoke to sirens and a dad leaving home on a stretcher, never to return.  How do you do that?

Here's how.  You cling to God, like this boy did.  You choose to risk it all in loving a reckless and silly 17 year old girl.  You walk out on a limb and adopt not one, not two, but three lovely little ones from a communist country.  You put it all out there.  You live big.

This man doesn't cash in his chips when the odds are stacked against him.  He doesn't fold.

He paraded through the living room in nothing but tightie whities on a steamy southern California evening in seminary days, a tall cold Bud in his hand, without a word, just to get me to smile when I was a super stressed out first year teacher working on report cards.  And it worked.

He army crawled around our bed (after we viewed The Bodyguard together and I was freaked out by the stalker scenes).  Why?  To solidify my paranoia.  Yeah.  He likes to keep me on my toes.

He's earnest and loyal and faithful.  He protects and provides for his girls and boy.  He anticipates our needs.  He stresses over writing big checks.  He makes sure we have enough.

He doesn't complete me.  He complements me.  He compliments me too.  That's the secret to a long and happy marriage in case you were wondering.

He's 43 tomorrow, and to me he's just now hitting his stride.  He shepherds our planted body of believers , ushering us into a soon to be finished building to call home while admonishing that the building doesn't define us.  He studies ancient medicine with zeal because we saw its healing power when we held our eldest and tiniest daughter in China.  She was brand new to us and all 10 pounds of her were riddled with fever, gasping for breath.  One tube of truly "ancient Chinese secret" medicine and she was healed.

So happy birthday to this man who cajoles me out of my moods, who holds me in high esteem, who
believes in me and makes room for my hopes and dreams...I love you DM.  You really are the best thing that ever happened to me.

Life Lessons Learned Along the Adoption Path

Even the worst part of your life can come together for good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPW3EB5U0bo

We are all overcoming something.  

In Romans 8:28, Paul writes, "God works all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose."  

The truth about us is we are fragile and broken and often riddled with regret.  God takes it all and turns it into something good.  We are called to persevere, to live with authenticity, to embrace our wounds with patience, and to look for His plan.

Authenticity

How do we live with authenticity?  Maybe it begins by realizing that God isn’t looking for the cleaned up version of our lives.

This sounds basic and like something we all would agree with, but we are immersed in a culture that is consumed with perfection.  The perfect soul mate who completes us (doesn’t exist and if you think he/she does I do not predict a long and happy marriage for you).  The perfect job.  The perfect kids.  The perfect pair of shoes...well, I think I may have stumbled on a few pairs of those.  But the point is, everything has a downside.  And if we spend all of our time pursuing this nonexistent state of perfection that we have dreamed up we are going to be a) not fun to be around because you’re really never satisfied and b) depressed because perfect isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  The truth is, it is countercultural to let our imperfections show.  But that’s the place where true happiness and contentment can be found.  Until we accept that our spouse, our kids, our job, our house, our yard, our shoes are flawed and love them the way they are, even embrace the stuff that drives us crazy, we will be living an inauthentic life. 

The paradox is that imperfect is actually perfect. 

What is perfection?  Perfect is the fullness of who we are, embracing the things we like and the things we don’t like and trusting that if we had it all together there wouldn’t be any room for God to do what he does.

You’re perfect the way you are. 

Psalm 139 speaks to this.  "You are fearfully and wonderfully made."  So starting from within, accepting that you are accepted.  Believing that God put you together in an amazing way and that the party wouldn’t be complete without you. 

“The grace of God means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you. Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. I am with you. Nothing can ever separate us. It's for you I created the universe. I love you. There's only one catch. Like any other gift, the gift of grace can be yours only if you'll reach out and take it. Maybe being able to reach out and take it is a gift too.”  ~Frederick Buechner

So our story of adoption taught this lesson of the perfect within the imperfect to me from the very beginning.  Perfect for me as a 19 year old bride meant baby 1, baby 2, baby 3...boom. boom. boom.  

Alas, it did not go as planned.  A young bride, dreaming of being a young mother and then 6 months go by, no baby.  A year.  Medical tests.  A grim diagnosis in terms of the ability to have a biological child.  Weeping.  Utter despair.  It was hard on our marriage and it was hard on my faith and it was hard on me.  How could this be part of God’s plan to do good in my life?  If he really did miracles, why couldn’t he just do this one for me?  And then some moments happened, and I made a choice.  First, Dan and I turned to each other and I’m not sure if we said this, but I know I thought it.  Stronger marriages than ours had imploded over smaller issues than what we were going through.  We decided to be there for each other instead of each being alone in our own pain.  We held hands and set our faces toward living the life we were given.  I made a choice to accept this painful path, to walk right into the center of the storm and not see a way out but to see God.  And I told him that I did not agree with Him in this plan right now, and it completely sucked from my point of view, but through gritted teeth and a clenched fist I was trusting Him to do what he said he would.  To do something good.  So I didn’t know then what would happen, but you all can see the rest of the story. 

 It’s not how I would have written it, but it’s a pretty good story (most days, anyway). 

Without authenticity in imperfection God could not have done his good work.  What are you looking to overcome?  Could you ask God to be there with you?  

Embracing the Wounds

There is a certain hand that we have all been dealt in life, like our story of infertility.  There are things beyond our control, circumstances that we can do nothing about, our basic temperament, other people in our lives.  The only thing that we do have power of is our response. Circumstances aren’t good or bad; they just are.  The good or bad or whatever comes in how we choose to respond.  So a huge part of the lessons that adoption has lived for me is this whole area of woundedness.  My kids experienced a painful abandonment very early in their precious lives.  At a time when they should have been completely protected and cared for and nurtured, they were left sometimes somewhere public that was on the usual route for the police in China who find abandoned babies routinely and deliver them to the local orphanage; or sometimes totally discarded, literally on the side of the road with a damaged mouth that makes feeding almost impossible, left to die.  I almost can’t even let my mind go there.  And, it’s not my story to tell for my kids.  It’s their story.  But, when we talk about these hard things with the older two, the conversation goes something like this.  “How could a mom do that?”  Me:  “It’s really hard to understand isn’t it?  China is so different than our life here.  They have a law that you are only allowed to have one baby.”  Her:  “But still.  I would break the law.”  Me:  “ Me too, honey, but it’s not that way for them.  So the truth is we don’t really know what happens, and that is so hard for you.  I wish that I could write your story so it didn’t have this really, really sad beginning.  Babies shouldn’t be away from their mommies.  I’m sorry that’s your beginning, but I’m also thankful because that’s how God put our family together.”

It’s simplistic, I know.  And it doesn’t take the hurt away.  But it’s the truth.  God takes really hard things and turns them into things of beauty.  Listen to these words from Ecclesiastes 3:11.  

"He has made everything beautiful in its time.  He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end."

And then along comes Levi.  This little boy who literally wears his wound.  I wrote this about how he is teaching me. 

I wonder if one of the ways God is working in us through Levi’s story is in the wearing of the wound.  His is on the outside.  He doesn’t have a choice about that.  I wear my wounds on the inside.  Sometimes I imagine that I build a guard around these scars, covering over them with jokes or sarcasm or irritability.  We all need surgery to be whole.  We all need the Great Physician to come in and clean out the bad stuff and build up the good stuff and make it all into something beautiful.  He’s really good at that.

So continuing that thread of authenticity being the beginning point for true transformation, and then in that very real space, being honest about the wounds in our own lives.  We all have them and some are much more serious than others.  

Whatever that means for each one of us, the sweetness of the Gospel, the good news of Jesus, is that God sent his son to live and dwell and make his home among us.  He chose the path of suffering, he chose the cross, and in that moment he purified--made it clean-- and sanctified--set it apart-- our suffering. 

I look at Levi’s little scar above his lip and I see the countenance of Christ.  And we can invite Him into our own pain, making room for his healing.  With that choice, the wounds become a part of ALL things working together for good.  Do you have an identified wound, hiding on the inside?  What if that very place is the place where the seed of transformation is formed?  

Patience

Can you see that this isn’t a quick fix Gospel?  Can you see how the virtue of patience is absolutely essential in living an authentic, beautifully healed and redeemed life?  Our culture works against us here too.  We live in a world where speed is literally measured by nanoseconds of difference in internet search abilities.  Right?  I can totally illustrate this because my tech-devoted to all things Mac husband bought me an ipad mini as a belated Christmas gift (and also because I have a creaky old dinosaur laptop that we are trying not to replace!).  And that little baby is soooooo much faster than our super old ipad2.  Do you hear how crazy that is?  We’ve been raised on sit coms where problems are solved neatly in 30 minutes (unless it’s the season finale).  Patience is just not a valued commodity in American life today.  But it is absolutely essential for the spiritual life. 

It's an art, too.  Finding that sweet spot in the journey and then pushing through.  Our adoption story lives out patience.  I wanted to be *done* with birthing our 3-4 kids by age 30.  Instead, here we are, 42 ++ with a sweet little boy who took 6 years to make his way to us!  Patience.  

As we live out authentic lives, being present to our woundedness rather than running away, we cultivate patience to wait on God's plan to work ALL things for GOOD.

Look for God’s Plan

Our culture lifts up self-reliance as the ultimate virtue.  

Parker Palmer defines functional atheism as the myth that we have absolute control over our lives and therefore no real need for God. 

And it may be that even in especially in churches there is a good bit of functional atheism.  In many ways, that is easier than waiting on God's plan for us.  Why would one bother to pursue Christ if we can get to God on our own with clean living and good behavior and a round of “Jesus loves me” for good measure?

And yet, this is the opportunity, to invite God into the mess, He lives and breathes and makes his home and straightens things out, but not the way I might do it, to His liking.

Nic V. doesn't have limbs.  I would argue he is happier and more successful and full of joy than most people who do.  Dan and I didn't plan to adopt.  But the joy that it has brought to our lives is full and complete.  

So where in your life might there be a wound--something you view as a shortcoming--and how might God be using that very place, that very situation, to plant a seed so that the flaw becomes a flourishing victory.  

Psalm 27:13-14  "I remain confident of this.  I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord."

There's a little girl...in my neighborhood

Do you know the rest of this song?  If you do, then you know that we've been just a swingin' with our little Emma Hope for going on 11 years.  This little girl who is getting ready to turn 11 rocked our world--literally--around Thanksgiving of 2002.  We did the usual  Melton adoption shuffle of praying and paperchasing and waiting and waiting and waiting.  The SARS epidemic held us back. but finally, finally we were matched with a sweet little nugget, Wuo Chao Wei (little dancing bird), in  Anhui, China.  And we packed our bags and left her big sister in the loving arms of Mimi and Poppy and were on our way to claim her as our own.  Oh, we did not know that she would claim us first.



She staked her claim with many, many, much tears.  And a binky.  That girl must have cried for 2 weeks straight, except when she was in her mama's arms with said binky.  She was scared of her daddy (took her a while to figure out he was her best ally), and only mommy would do.  The part of our babies' stories that just tears me up is the part about the mommy.  There's a wound, a hole, that only God can fill, and thank you Lord for choosing me as your vessel.

This little spitfire made her way into our hearts with wails and laughter.  She's a firecracker, full of quickfire love and light and just as quick piss and vinegar (I'm not kidding).  She cannot hide her feelings.  One look at her lovely face and you know just what she is thinking.  She's got a will of steel, which I know will serve her well one day, but Lord help me in the meantime.

She's full of ideas--building Lego skyscrapers and filming epic movies with matchbox cars.  She prefers to spend her days in her hand me down camouflage pants from her uncles or dressed to the nines in fancy shoes and skirts.  She's the best kind of contradiction.

I try to inspire her to love learning, and she does, but on her own terms.  Did I mention Lord help me?

This girl who went from baby to middle in the family constellation this year is rallying.  She looks up to her big sister and imitates everything that 14 year old first born does.  She plays trains and dinosaurs and tractors with the baby boy and delights in every moment.  Her loyalty and spunk inspire me.

Happy birthday to my sweet Emma Hope.  You make every day full of adventure.  I never know where we are going to end up.  You light up my life.  I am forever in awe of you, my beautiful, willful girl.  I want to be like you when I grow up!

Love you to infinity (I win!),  Mommy

have yourself a messy little Christmas

Miserable sinus infection raging in my head.  It's made the rounds throughout the house and just the baby boy has escaped (so far).  Little boy who just may have spoken his first words this week--hi, go, car, mama, moon--zooming trains around his sweet little train tracks.  Vroom vroom.  Lights up on the bushes outside, courtesy of the 10-ager.  There are burnt out spots and unappealing gaps of bright orange electrical cords, which to the untrained eye appear very Griswald-ish, but to this practiced mama's eye are pure beauty.  Chaos reigns.  It started to feel not a lot like Christmas and then I listened to this song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nQZmni-oeg4
Andrew Peterson, Behold the Lamb of God
A Christmas album worth the splurge

The first Christmas wasn't silent.  Or serene.  Or perfect.  But it was sacred.  Full of love.  Steeped in grace.

"Embrace the mess," I hear Christ whispering to me.  "I'm not looking for the cleaned up version of your life that reeks of human control and functional atheism (according to Parker Palmer functional atheism = the myth that we have control and therefore no real need for God in our lives.  Why bother if we can get there on our own with good behavior and clean living?).  I am used to the mess.  I made my entrance into humanity in a stable full of animal noises and smells and excrement with a young couple who just trusted.  I can make my entrance into your life amidst bickering big girls, toddler boys who only want their mama especially all the time, laundry piled up to the ceiling, Christmas lists that have nothing to do with Christ that are nowhere near to being begun."

Come, Lord Jesus, come.  My messy Christmas needs this Christ.  Maybe yours does too?

She's fourteen...she's beautiful...and she's mine.

There's this bewitching, brown-eyed, Asian beauty in our house.  She's organized (most of the time) and enjoys taking photographs of unusual elements that she sees in nature or in life.  She has a certain sense of style that evolves on a daily basis, but usually incorporates some variation of her love of riding a board on wheels at breakneck speeds (shhh, don't tell her daddy).  She is an adoring older sister (most of the time), and she has lovingly taken to spending every spare second with a certain little toddler boy.

She solemnly gazed at me with those perfect almond eyes when she was just about 5 months old, the day she was placed in my arms in Nanchang, China.  And now when I look at that face, I still see the baby girl there, the one who took a while to warm up to her new, novice parents.  The baby who absolutely, positively would not utter a word until she was sure to form a sentence.  The little girl who squealed with raucous delight the first time she discovered that she could tumble across the floor, cartwheel after cartwheel.  This little perfectionist was a seriously devoted gymnast, and her specialty was the balance beam.  

Then she/we realized that her heart might be better served without such nerve wracking hours of practice demanding perfection and she discovered the wild open fields of soccer and creek-walking and idle time.

Her natural habitat, though, is the ocean, probably on a surfboard inside the curl of a semi-colossal wave (we've only surfed the East Coast, so colossal is like, totally relative).  She transforms into a Polynesian princess, sun-kissed and salt-water soaked and full of sunshine.  

We named her with Grace because she is just that, a precious, undeserved gift given to us by a loving and generous Father.  

She is counting down the years (now days I was informed earlier) to driving; and while I am utterly and completely freaked out by this thought and truly believe that I just blinked and my baby (my baby) is well on her way to womanhood, I am delighting in every newfound interest, every controversial conversation, every midnight heart to heart sprawled along the bed that used to be mine that she sleeps in.  

She reminds me of all that I know to be true about this life.  It is full of beauty, if I take the time to really see.  It is fleeting.  It is a gift.  

I love you, Ally Gracey.  You are beautiful (and I see you!); you're growing up fast (and it's so much fun to grow with you!); you are a gift.

Happy birthday baby

Dear Levi,

Today you are 2 years old. Wow!  You are such a big boy. It's your second birthday, but your first one with us. You'll learn soon enough that I'm a bit of a wreck on my babies' birthdays. Your story has a sad beginning, and my heart aches for the woman who carried you inside of her and gave birth to you and eventually, gulp, abandoned you. One day when you're old enough to read this we'll have a heart to heart about that, but for now, here's your story.

You are meant to be, my beautiful boy. You were prayed for and longed for and celebrated for 6 long years while we waited for you. And you were worth the wait!

You love trucks and trains and dancing. You have the funniest attraction to red solo cups (which I'm praying does not remain true when you're in college!). You love throwing things, usually of the truck variety, into cups full of coffee or water or the occasional glass of wine. You're really fast, especially when a flight of steps is in your sight.

You are resilient, a fighter, having had to rely on yourself for survival when no baby should.  I'm pretty sure you had the nanny in your room wrapped around your precocious finger.  She sobbed when we met her and she handed you to me. She told me that you were the smartest boy in the whole orphanage and that you played nicely by yourself, a much-admired trait in an orphanage, and one we are endeavoring to transform.

You are solemn until you feel settled and watch out world, then you're a laughing bouncing busy boy. You have two big sisters whom you adore. They get the most laughs. And daddy. But I get the most snuggles, so it works for me.

You're the little prince in our family, and I fear it will always be so. You are good natured and inquisitive and you love to scratch things.  You used to sleep and suck your thumb, but now you're learning how to talk so we think it's a good trade.

You like to do yoga with me, especially riding on my back from plank to downward dog. You love to interrupt our practice when you hear Lenny Kravitz's "Believe" because it's definitely time for us to dance.

So happy birthday baby boy. This is the day we praise God for creating you. I promise I'll pull it together with a happy smile when you blow out your candles!!!

Love you to China and back, for reals!

Mommy

The greater good

Sooo...wrote this about a month ago, but thought its worth posting in the interest of full disclosure.  Adopting special needs is hard. And amazing.

July 10

Its been a rough week. Baby boy had big time surgery last Tuesday and I haven't slept much since. He's a thumb sucker, you see, so in addition to the pain that he's in from his mouth being literally reconstructed, he is really ticked that we are not letting him suck his thumb. And he's wearing these nifty little arm restraints that our surgeon lovingly (joking) calls "no-nos". Here's the rub. He has to do this so he can speak. There is no backing down, no relenting when he's wailing. It's for his long term gain.

 We all have no nos that we wear from time to time, some self inflicted, some we can't control. And I have for sure kicked and screamed and tantrumed my way through in hopes of avoiding pain. But there is a forever picture that we often forget to see, a greater good. For our boy it's the ability to speak. For the rest of us it could be anything really, the trivial getting into shape for a 25th high school reunion (wait, did I just say that out loud???) or the major kicking an addiction or you name it in between. So here's a shout out to the ones in the middle of the fight right now. And here's an encouragement. It's not over. Press on. It will be worth it. You just wait.

August 3

Turns out it was a rough month.  Little Levi went on a hunger strike so we invested hundreds of dollars in Pediasure and he's weaning off it now. Didn't know that babies stop sleeping when they stop sucking their thumbs.  More investments made in concealer for a tired mama.

And it's worth it. He's making so much noise!  Speech therapy starts next week. He's hearing (the tubes in his ears have given him full hearing!) and laughing and learning.

Here's to the greater good. May we all press on toward that which God has called us, including a good night's sleep!!

He's a good father

I have the best dad.

He's a country boy, I'll kick your ass kind of a guy, as in he loves his horse and his dog and his beat up t-shirt.  He'd rather be bush hogging a backfield than playing a round of golf.  He builds fences and mucks out stables.  He's happiest driving down a long, old dirt road that ends at a meadow with a shimmering lake full of fish waiting to be caught.

He's a sage who never learned that you reach a point in your life where you've got it all figured out.  He's journeying to the mountains on weekends to retreat and discover the wisdom of dreams.  He can look into your eyes and pretty much sum up what lies in your heart.  He listens with careful attention and only offers advice when persistently requested.  He reads with relish the likes of Thomas Merton and Karl Jung and Richard Rohr, and his life reflects their rich spirituality.  He wouldn't like that I'm bragging on his insatiable curiosity about God, about people, about the Christ whom he serves with devotion and gratitude.

He's a recovering corporate warrior who travels at dawn, precisely packed, an expeditor extraordinaire, and a surfer, with a knack for finding just the right wave because he is patient and knows the art of biding his time.  He is the playful Poppy, beloved to his granddaughters for bursting in on a scene of jumping on the bed and joining right in.

He knows how to raise a daughter.  He had different rules for me than my brothers.  I wasn't allowed to say any bad words, like fart.  I had to be home at eleven.  No dates until I was 17.  Working the late night shift at an ice cream shop was strictly forbidden ("no daughter of mine is closing up shop by herself and driving home late at night").  He nurtured my dreams of going back to the south for college, to the alma mater of my ancestors.  He teased that I was going to Furman so I could fall in love just like he and Mama did, just like Poppa and Jenky did.  And wouldn't you know, he was right?

He was my first love, as every daddy of little girls should be in my opinion.  During a drawn-out dry spell, with no suitors in sight, when I was 16 going on 17, he took me on my first date.  We dined at Timothy's in Scottsdale, a fancy pants kind of restaurant.  I sipped my first glass of wine (didn't really like it back then; my how times have changed), learned which fork to use, and delighted in a conversation full of dreams for the future.  He was setting the bar for those suitors to come.  He set it high.

I am blessed to have known the love of a faithful father who has loved my mama for going on 43 years.  I am blessed to have known at the way-too-young age of 19 what I wanted in a man who would one day be the father to my children.  I wanted a man with my father's heart.  And I found him.

Praying for good fathers for all of God's children.  Praying for the one true Faithful Father to gather the fatherless in His arms.  Praying for the future fathers we are raising.