“Sometimes in the country, you will see an old water-wheel outside of a mill. The water fills its buckets, and all day long it turns round and round in the sunshine. It seems to be working in vain. You see nothing that it is doing by its constant motion. But its shaft runs through the wall; and within the mill it turns the stones which grind the wheat, and the bolts which prepare the flour for the bread that feeds hundreds; or runs the looms which weave the fabrics that keep many warm in winter. There are lives which with all their ceaseless toiling, seem to be accomplishing nothing; and yet they reach through the veil into the sphere of the unseen world, and there they make blessing and benefit which value is incalculable. There is a success which is not measured by the standards of this vain world. There is an invisible sphere in which values are not rated by dollars and cents, but by their spiritual and eternal character.” ~ J. R. Miller, 1896

I’ve been awake since 4:20 this morning. We just returned home from China with Lilyan and are still marveling over her story and the wonder of the actual, real-life “her.” She’s amazing, and I’ll try to share more about her and our trip to China in future posts, but for right now I’m struggling with a terrible case of jet lag, and ashamed to admit that I’m quaking in my boots this morning as I think about the year or so I know we have ahead of us.

Lilyan’s medical needs are even more severe and unclear than we expected, and tomorrow we will face the first of an unending stretch of appointments as we begin to get a better picture of where our life will go from here.

But the memories of our son Jaden’s first year at home are fresh enough that I have a pretty good idea what’s coming at us now.

And I feel tired. And scared.

As I was trying to focus my foggy brain on a quiet time this morning, I came across the quote above, and it reminded me of something I wrote almost exactly a year ago, during that really tough time with our new son. I haven’t posted it here, yet, so I’m doing that now.

Re-reading it today encouraged my heart as I try to stop flinching and just rest in the knowledge that whatever is waiting on the horizon for us is part of God’s beautiful story. He already has it well in-hand.

Maybe it will encourage someone else, too.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You guys must walk a life of faith. I felt the presence of God the minute I walked into your home. You and your husband are so alive with the power of God, and I’m so blessed and a better man just because of meeting your family today.”

As I sat in the back of the ambulance with our little Jaden and listened to the ambulance attendant say these words, I felt so confused. I wanted to hang my mouth open and say, “Seriously??!! I mean, are you kidding me?”

I remember not so many years ago, feeling like God was painting a beautiful masterpiece as He built our family and ministry, The Shepherd’s Crook, and how He had seemed to be working through our lives to show Himself to other people.

It was a hard life, and some years were harder than others, but most of the time God’s presence was so tangible, and we felt like we could see the incredible piece of artwork He was creating as He wove the threads of our life together day by day.

We felt like His fingerprints were so visible to a watching world, and we regularly asked Him to make us worthy to serve as His ambassadors.

This was what we had longed for when we made that commitment to give God every aspect of our lives as a sacrifice and when we told Him that we would follow Him anywhere He led us—even if we couldn’t see where we were going.

But during the year or two leading up to this encounter in the back of the ambulance, we felt we had been battered about so severely that we were just scrabbling to survive every day and to maintain some kind of a grasp on God and our faith.

There were times when we clearly felt His hand moving through our lives as He brought new children into our home and still sometimes brought big answers to our huge prayers for help. But more and more it seemed like we were asking questions we felt we should’ve been mature enough to already know the answers to, and fighting with doubts concerning truths of God’s character that shouldn’t still be a part of our Christian walk.

We were tired. We were discouraged. We were dealing with some big behavioral and spiritual issues with a few of our children that challenged our confidence as parents; we were fighting medical crises one after the other with no end in sight; we couldn’t pay some of our bills; we hadn’t been able to attend church for six months; The Shepherd’s Crook was in serious financial trouble and on the brink of folding; and weariness seemed to just be waiting for us, hovering in the air each day as we climbed out of bed.

Just the day before this ambulance ride, I had gone out for my early morning walk and prayer time.

My prayers that morning were nothing but whimpers for help, as I poured my heart out to God, telling Him that I just didn’t know what He was doing or what had happened to the beautiful testimony we thought He had been sharing through our family.

I cried out to Him, “God, what happened to that beautiful work of art You were creating? Everything is such a mess now. Where are You? I feel like we’re nothing but just a big ol’ smashed mud pie now!”

I had come home from my walk with a heavy heart and unanswered questions.

And suddenly here was this sixty-plus-year-old ambulance attendant stating that during the ten minutes he had been in our home placing our son on a stretcher while Jaden’s siblings watched and encouraged their baby brother, he had seen and felt God’s presence and that his life had been changed! How could that be?

As I pondered this over the next few days, I was ashamed of my arrogance in thinking that I was the best judge of what God was doing through us. And I began to regain my perspective.

We shouldn’t spend too much time wondering if God is using us. We shouldn’t be focusing on ourselves at all. Instead, we should just be looking at Him and trying to keep doing the work He puts before us no matter how hard or how useless it seems to be.

It just might be that, when we see nothing but messy, watery, flattened mud pies, God is causing a watching world to see fabulous sand castles built in His name, created by His hands.

Are we willing to let God smash us and make a mess of the pictures we create in our minds when we think we’re smart enough to have His plans all figured out?

If we can reach a place of letting go in this area, then He will squeeze and squish and shape us into something that will allow the world to see past us so that they will be able to look into the face of the Living God.

“. . . But he who calls in secret on his God—who spends much time in holy retirement—who delights to meditate on the words of the Most High—whose soul is given up to Christ—who delights in his fullness, rejoices in his all-sufficiency, prays for his second coming, and delights in the thought of his glorious advent—such a man, I say, must have an overflowing heart; and as his heart is, such will his life be. It will be a full life; it will be a life that will speak from the sepulcher, and wake the echoes of the future. ‘Keep thine heart with all diligence’ (Proverbs 4:23), and entreat the Holy Spirit to keep it full; for, otherwise, the issues of thy life will be feeble, shallow, and superficial; and thou mayest as well not have lived at all.” ~Charles Spurgeon

“Providence is wonderfully intricate. Ah! You want always to see through Providence, do you not? You never will, I assure you. You have not eyes good enough.”
~ Charles Spurgeon

Kathryn’s visit to a local tea room with Mommy and Daddy for her 10th birthday

Just a couple of weeks after Kathryn turned two, I journaled the following thoughts:

Midnight Reflections – May 20, 2006

It’s after midnight, and she’s having trouble sleeping. This is one of those nights when she needs to know that I am here, feel my arms around her, feel my body touching hers. I look down into Kathryn’s face and wonder at the beauty there. It takes my breath away. Such a perfect little body; such a broken little brain. Oh, God, I love this baby. My heart feels as if it could burst with the love You have planted and nurtured there for this incredible child You created. How can I ever say thank you for allowing me—for trusting me—to parent her for You? She must be so special to You, yet You entrusted her to my care for however long she graces this world with her presence. God, what do I do, though, if she still needs to be held like this when she is fourteen? How will I meet her needs when she no longer fits into my arms? But right now, at this moment, she isn’t fourteen. She is just barely two. And she fits perfectly in my arms with her beautiful head nestled against my chest and her soft breath rhythmically warming my face as I lean over to smell her hair and her silky skin. So for now, I will hold my precious baby and drink in the miracle of being her mom. There is no time but this moment, and I will lose myself in it. Kathryn Felicity, “pure happiness,” welcome to our world for a time. I wish we could all live in yours. 

And now  . . . here we are. Kathryn turns ten today. She’s not yet fourteen, but she weighs ninety-two pounds and is still as helpless as she was at the age of two.

I can no longer lift her, and she no longer fits into my arms. Yet, how comforting—thrilling, really—to see that I am still able to meet her needs. She has no trouble finding ways to snuggle with me and drink in the assurances she needs that I’m always here beside her. God continues to provide all that she—and I—need as we weave our way through the very uncertain path that is Kathryn’s life.

Our journey with Kathryn has always been a mystery. You can read more about Kathryn’s story here, but every day with her is a wait-and-see moment.

Life at her side has been full of unexpected victories and heartbreaking disappointments. And the future remains shrouded in secrecy. Only God knows what’s ahead.

As she nears adolescence, it’s likely that her seizure activity will increase. There’s always the possibility that she will sustain further brain damage from these seizures and lose much—or even all—of the ability she has so surprisingly achieved.

We don’t even know how long her life will be. Her time with us could end unexpectedly at any time.

And what if she does live on much longer than anyone imagines? If I should go Home before she does? How will she ever survive without me? I am her lifeline. This is one of my greatest fears in life, and, yet . . . I can’t bear the thought of even one day here without her.

Although it’s much more obvious in some lives than in others, we are all walking through a land of complete uncertainty. We may think we have our plans all nicely laid out, but it only takes one horrible car accident; one tornado; one always-feared diagnosis and our lives are changed forever.

One of my favorite quotes is from a poem by Minnie Lou Haskins originally titled, “God Knows.” 

“And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: ‘Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.’ And he replied: ‘Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

To truly and intimately know and walk with the One who can see the full picture brings indescribable peace and assurance that all is well. There is nothing to fear.

Yes, there will unquestionably be very hard things ahead. Pain and unwelcome changes await us all. Of this we can be sure. But each and every trial and triumph is carefully orchestrated and wrapped in—infused with—love that is richer, more complete, deeper than anything we can imagine. And each one comes to us overlaid with promises that we will never pass through them alone. He will walk with us, sustaining us; taking us from “strength to strength” (Psalm 84:7).

We chose long ago not to allow fear to rob us of any moments of joy brought to us through parenting Kathryn. We would’ve missed so much if we had wasted the past ten years wringing our hands and fretting over the what-ifs.

We are very human, though. Physical exhaustion; mental and emotional strain; the stresses of every day life—all of these things often allow the fear of the unknown to break through and disturb our peace.

The only remedy for this is a tighter hold to the God who brought Kathryn to us and a more complete surrender of the flimsy grasp on our futures that we sometimes fool ourselves into thinking we have. And when I’m too tired to hold onto Him, then I relax into His forever-promised hold on me.

“You who have been borne by Me from birth and have been carried from the womb; even to your old age I will be the same, and even to your graying years I will bear you! I have done it, and I will carry you.”  Isaiah 46: 3-4

Then peace flows through my soul. Rest. Deep contented sigh. I’m set free to soar to heights unimaginable and soak in all of the joy this life has for me; every precious drop of happiness that God squeezes through the ups and downs of parenting my no-longer-so-little Kathryn.

Happy, happy birthday to my girl. She has already accomplished far, far more than anyone ever dreamed possible, and God has already used her to touch others’ lives. Her determination and perseverance and spunk and innocence and effervescence urge me on to better things every day. She and I will continue forward together — sometimes dancing, sometimes crawling, sometimes crying, sometimes rejoicing — through the days ahead. We don’t know what those days hold, but we know Who holds them and us.

The following is a photo journey of our amazing life with Kathryn through the past ten years:

The very empty little girl we found when we arrived in Guatemala

So disconnected from the world around her

Finally – Daddy arrives to rescue her; to sing to her; to carry her through the rest of her life

Meeting her new family – being snuggled by her brother, Colin, who is blind

Such a very different little girl now

Cooing at her brother, Nathan

Kathryn’s beloved companion, Gandalf

First pony tails

Turning three

The judge who finalized Kathryn’s adoption and wrote about her in his book

Learning to walk!!

The ugliness of seizures (trying to eat an ice cream cone in the aftermath)

Becoming an aunt

Hiking with Daddy

Time to pack away the “pacis”

A new walker for a bigger girl

Learning to toast marshmallows

More seizures

Turning six

First visit from the tooth fairy

Building a block tower all by herself!!

A brand new, very special tricycle for Christmas

Learning to fly a kite with Daddy

Filling the role of flower girl for her friend and former occupational therapist

A new special swing all her own

Teaching herself how to draw circles!! (this shouldn’t even be possible!)

A walker for her doll – Christmas present from a brother

And more seizures

7th birthday – the first time she ever blew out her candles by herself

Taught herself “tall knees” (amazing!)

A new walker – hands-free! This opened a whole new world for our girl.

Bonding with a rescued baby robin who lived with us for awhile

Continued seizures and snuggles with a sister afterward

Learning to bowl with Daddy’s help

Playing basketball with her physical therapist (truly astounding!)

Happy Tenth Birthday, my beautiful, perfect girl!

I remember some kids dying. A man would come with a bag. When he came, I knew another orphan had died. He was kind of bald and had a little bit of a beard. He would carry the dead kids away in the bag.

Oh, dear God! Help me! He’s been home with us three-and-a-half years now and, at the age of ten, is finally beginning to feel safe enough to start sharing little snippets of the hell he lived for at least three very long, damaging years of his life.

This son of ours was found abandoned in a bus station when he was about three years old. Very little is known about the beginning of his life, but he was able to tell those who found him that someone—an older man, presumably a father or a grandfather—had left him there after his mother died; that gathering and selling empty water bottles didn’t generate enough income for this man to continue feeding and caring for a paraplegic child who also suffered from severe incontinence.

But someone had cared enough to try for at least three years in a country where babies are regularly abandoned at birth because of less severe birth defects than this. Someone had seemingly loved this little one enough to hold onto him and try to give him a life.

Then she died. And he was alone.

Soon after being found, this child whose world had been turned completely inside out, was sent to live in a place that has a reputation for being one of the worst orphanages in his birth country. It would be another four years before he was finally able to come home to us.

We’ll never know everything his innocent little heart survived during those years, but he’s finally beginning to drop a clue here and there. He seems almost ready to begin testing the waters a bit by letting us very slowly into this secret world of his.

Disobedience, lying, sneaking . . . unattractive characteristics—all of them. And they have been appearing with greater frequency over the past year or so.

Experience has taught us that sometimes this means our love is finally breaking through a layer or two of that protective armor these kids are forced to don in order to survive the lives they find themselves in—through no fault of their own.

Sometimes . . . when a layer crumbles away . . . it leaves behind raw, bleeding pain. And sometimes . . . that pain looks and sounds like nastiness: I don’t want you; go away!

But the pain is really screaming: Please don’t leave me; come and find me; don’t give up on me! 

It’s hard. So very hard. This is the side of adoption that isn’t talked about so much. It’s much easier to share the happy birthday pictures; the Christmas morning stories; the physical healing after desperately-needed surgeries.

I overheard the nannies saying some things that made me think the babies were taken and burned when the man took them away in the bag. But I think the older kids were put into some kind of a truck when they died.

For a little one to witness this as a regular part of his childhood? This is inconceivable even when we read about it in an article on the Internet; when we shed a tear and place a hand to our throats while trying to process such things happening to some unknown child.

But to listen to one’s own child share such horrors—things that we mothers would sacrifice our own lives to protect our children from . . .

Hours later, my mind and heart still can’t absorb it. I can’t sleep. I keep seeing him as such a little boy. Alone. Watching this drama play out day after day right before his eyes. No one even trying to explain to him what has happened; assure him that he is safe and will be taken care of; shield him even a little bit from things that even adults couldn’t live through without deep, permanent scars.

There was another building out in back of the building where we lived. Behind us. That’s where the  “out-of-control” kids were sent to live. 

He was unable to explain what he meant by “out-of-control kids” so chose to give us an example.

One night after the nannies put us to bed, they went out for a walk or something, and an older, big boy came sneaking into our room to hurt the other kids. I saw him sneak into our room. But the nannies came back and caught him and he had to go live in the other building in the back—behind our building.

He told us he remembered a doctor who was nice to him sometimes. And he has at least some clear memories of the severe neglect that resulted in the horribly infected bedsores discovered when we finally got him out of this place; ulcers that left him terribly scarred all across his lower back, buttock, and upper thigh.

I was always wet, and no one changed my clothes. And I remember my blankets where we slept were always wet and didn’t get changed.

I’m confronted with my helplessness. How can one ever be prepared to do what’s needed to heal a child with places this broken inside his aching heart?

God in Heaven, what EVER gave You the idea that I was the one to be this little one’s Mommy??? Where do I begin? I love him more than words can express, but HOW do I help him?

I have actually never doubted that I am his mother. As soon as we learned about him and began discussing the possibility of adopting him, we started praying for him. Early one morning, as I sat in my bedroom praying for this little one and for clear direction about our role in his life, I was suddenly and dramatically overcome with feelings of urgency and protectiveness for this boy; very much emotions of a mother’s heart. Immediately, I just knew with such certainty that he was ours. I remember crying and praying, “God, he’s my son. I have to go and get him. We have to bring him home! This child is my son! Please bring him to us!”

And the battle was not an easy one as we fought to complete that adoption in the face of major obstacles. But he was ours. We knew that, and this certainty kept us strong for the fight.

Finalizing the adoption – a new beginning for our boy

His first night with us – sleeping soundly in clean dry pajamas and covers, snuggling his new doggie and blankie

Laughing with his new Mommy at the zoo in his birth country

Finally home, and meeting his new siblings at the airport.

So, as the battle for his heart and his soul rages on, I will choose to fall back on this confirmation that he is my son; I am his mother.

God doesn’t have to explain His plans to me. It’s enough to know that He brought us together.

And it’s enough to know that He has promised to be the strength in my weakness; to guide us as we pour endless gallons of love over this son of ours and petition Heaven with a continuous bombardment of prayers for his eventual healing—complete healing and freedom from the memories that haunt his thoughts and affect his actions.

Celebrating his most recent birthday, trying valiantly to overcome the many scars that plague his heart and mind

I will trust the dreams I believe God placed in our hearts for this boy’s future; promises to slowly reveal to a watching world the amazing person buried under so much pain and hurt.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11

This son’s heart is not beyond the reach of the God of the Universe. He is capable of healing when no human hand can accomplish this. And the fact that he is beginning to share these very private places with us—this is a sign that the past three-and-a-half years have gradually been bringing about the healing so critical to his reaching his fullest potential.

And when I’m too tired or scared or weak to go on, I’ll rest in the arms that brought this child to me and wait for God’s whispered direction. This battle is His. I am merely His child, chosen to fight in obedience, and promised victory in the end—promised so many things. I can cling to these assurances from Him.

And we will fight to our dying breath to keep helping to rescue other orphans (yes, I used the very un-PC word “rescue” and I dare anyone to read this post and argue that these situations can’t be described as rescues!) and find families who are willing to enter into battle themselves to uncover the hidden treasures buried deep in the hearts of others just like our son.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.  . . . stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you . . . the Lord will be with you.”
2 Chronicles 20: 15, 17

“He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.”
Isaiah 40:11

“How blessed is the man whose strength is in You . . .
They go from strength to strength.”
Psalm 84:5, 7

“He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.”
Isaiah 40:29

“He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.
He determines the number of the stars
 and calls them each by name.
Great is our Lord and mighty in power . . .
His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse,
nor His delight in the legs of the warrior;
the Lord delights in those who . . .
put their hope in His unfailing love.”
Psalm 147:3

“He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted . . .
To set at liberty those who are oppressed.”
Luke 4:18

My second baby, Erin, turns 31 today. Kind of.

The first fourteen years of Erin’s life are punctuated by memories of fear, panic, desperate attempts to make her “normal,” long nights of crying out to God for miracles.

There are good memories of those years, too. Her smile when she finally, finally learned to skip after trying for much longer than other children (she taught herself one leg at a time, and we all celebrated with her when she accomplished this). The unconditional love that she poured out on us and everyone else she met. Her dearly beloved “Glo-Bug.” Watching her learn to ride a horse, groom him, and jump him in competitions.

Learning to ride Doughboy, one of her favorite horses at the stable where she took therapeutic riding lessons

Erin, about 7 years old, trying to read to her younger brother

But the majority of those years for me were about making sure I left no stone unturned as I searched for answers about how to teach her to crawl, to walk, to talk (eleven years of speech therapy); how to help her learn to read; how to get her through school emotionally intact in spite of bullies (we ultimately chose to homeschool and this protected her from the bullies, allowed her battered heart to heal, and finally made it possible for her to learn to read); how to make sure she would eventually have the life that every parent dreams of for their child.

Then… that day in the neuro-psychologist’s office here in Cincinnati as he discussed the results of her developmental testing. She was fourteen. In spite of all my efforts, there were still such huge gaps. I knew that I was running out of time to “make her ready” to live the life I had all planned out for her.

So we decided to have this full battery of testing completed, hoping that this doctor could give us the magic combination of treatments, tools, tricks that would “fix” her.

It was so agonizing to see her struggle through those tests, aimed at the very core of her many weaknesses. I remember the searing pain in my heart as I watched her self-esteem shrink before my eyes while she tried to squeeze every drop of potential from her brain during those hours of evaluation, fully aware of the fact that she was getting many of the answers wrong.

And in the end, Scott and I sat in this doctor’s office and he shattered every dream I had ever had for my baby girl when he said to us, “It’s time for you to prepare yourselves for the probability that your daughter will never live independently.”

Oh, dear God. How could this be true? Had I not worked hard enough? Was there some new secret cure I had somehow overlooked as we dragged her around the country for many, many different kinds of tests and treatments? What had I done wrong? How had I failed her?

The grieving process that followed the news that day was almost unbearable. I thought I might never take a full breath again.

And as we sat Erin down to talk through this with her and try to help her realistically face this “new” future, my very soul was ripped to shreds as she started down her own path of grief.

Unlike Kathryn who lives blissfully in a world of innocence with no understanding of just how different she is from other children her age, Erin understood what this meant. Although not concretely, she somehow grasped that she was now facing a lifetime of watching younger siblings and friends slowly outgrow her one by one. Dating, driver’s licenses, marriage, parenthood. . .  were all dreams that were no longer part of the story that we thought had been written for her.

As a bridesmaid in her sister’s Renaissance-style wedding

It was a long, painful process as we all very slowly began to accept the loss of the story we had written for Erin and began to try and embrace the story that God had written for her life.

Scott and I were able to tell her with real confidence that whatever God had planned for her to do in her lifetime, He had given her everything she would need to accomplish that.

But it meant placing my own picture of her future into some kind of a crypt and burying it deep, deep somewhere, then turning my back and walking away. I knew I should never look back, but sometimes I did. And when I did, then I would stumble and have to repeat steps in the grieving process.

Oh so gradually, though, I was able to keep moving forward in this new direction and then finally to lift up my head and look around at this new world where we found ourselves.

I was surprised to find freedom! I had spent so much of those first fourteen years with my head down, looking for answers — had focused so passionately on the “broken” parts of my daughter — that I had missed so many beautiful things. She was funny; she loved and felt deeply, fully, completely; she was resourceful and oh, so hungry to learn; she had a servant’s heart that cared more for others than any human I had ever met. I was now free to just let Erin be the Erin God had created her to be. I no longer felt pressured to try and make her into some version of Erin that I thought she should be. She and I could both just relax, breathe deeply, rest, drink in life. I could step back and gaze on her beauty and just enjoy the gift of her.

I couldn’t go back and reclaim those fourteen years, although there were times when I longed to be able to. But I could move forward resolving not to miss any more beautiful moments as I watched God reveal all that He had packed inside this special daughter of mine, proving what we had told her — that He had given her every thing she needed to accomplish all that He had planned for her in this life.

Performing a song in sign language for the God she loves

She teaches me much about humility and patience as she works so hard to learn new tasks and commit to memory the steps for completing these tasks. She shames me as she serves this family tirelessly day after day, truly using her gifts to bless others, only occasionally stopping to think about, or feel sorry for, herself. I’m certain that she makes the angels themselves sing with joy as they witness her deep, deep love for her Savior and her genuine attempts and desire to walk in His ways.

Her whole world is made up of only one very small corner of the universe, but she fills that corner with blazing light as she lives out each day, doing the work God has given her to do in our home; pouring devoted love into the lives of her younger siblings and nieces and nephews; basking in their love and adoration for her.

Becoming an aunt — her nephew

With her niece

God has taught me so much about Himself through this precious child of His as He has guided me through the process of surrendering my plans for her and watching in amazement as He daily fulfills his plans for her in His broken and needy world.

Erin with her dearly-loved companion, Teddy

Happy, happy birthday my dear Erin. I love you. I long to be like you in so many ways. I thank God for you. And don’t ever forget that it’s because of you — of exactly who you really are — that our home is now overflowing with beautiful gifts from God, brought to us from all corners of the world. Gifts who make our lives complete, enhance our ability to love, reflect the face of God. Thank you for so graciously, gracefully being just who God made you to be.

“But one little piece of these thoughts — one aspect of what I’m trying to get my hands on as I chase these elusive ideas through my brain — is the reality of just how many beautiful moments I never see; how many opportunities I lose to be a light to those around me; how many chances I miss to drink in joy, simply because I’m looking at the negative side of life.” 

My friend died.

It was too soon. She should’ve had many years here, still. A husband to grow old with. Grandchildren to meet. Lives to impact. Work to do for the God she loved so much.

Her passing has made me think — not for the first time — about the uncertainty of life. Its brevity, even when we make it to “old age and gray hairs” (Isaiah 46:4) before being called to our Home.

I can’t stop pondering how fleeting are the moments we have in which to discover our mark and then leave it on the world; to touch the lives of others around us; to positively impact the lives of those who come in contact with us; to leave the world a better place in some small way.

I can’t even put all of my thoughts and feelings into words. And if I could, I wouldn’t have time to write all of those millions of words down. And if did, no one would have time to read them.

But one little piece of these thoughts — one aspect of what I’m trying to get my hands on as I chase these elusive ideas through my brain — is the reality of just how many beautiful moments I never see; how many opportunities I lose to be a light to those around me; how many chances I miss to drink in joy, simply because I’m looking at the negative side of life. 

Have you noticed that some people are just born with positive attitudes? My husband is one of them. Our oldest daughter is another.

I’m not one of these people. In fact, I once heard my husband very lovingly describe me as a “the glass is half empty and leaking” kind of a gal. Wow. Not very flattering, but I have to admit that it’s true. That is my natural state.

I so long to be a sunshiny person, and I thank God for placing many of these naturally positive people in my life. One of my favorite light-up-the-world people is our little seven-year-old Ethan.

Ethan is pretty well-known for his motto, “Today is a weally good day.”

No matter what kind of day it is, Ethan just somehow, almost invariably, sees it through a different lens than most of us. To him, life is just a great open-ended story, full of potential and excitement. The “eternal optimist” and a “the glass is constantly overflowing” kind of a guy.

Ethan was born with schizencephaly, the same type of brain damage as Kathryn’s, but a mild form as compared to her very severe version. He has the potential for seizures, but has only had one, so far — as an infant, in Guatemala before we adopted him. He had some left-side weakness when he came home, but that was mostly corrected through occupational therapy. His coordination isn’t top-notch, and his little brain seems to process more slowly than ours in the area of language. We see this mostly with word retrieval, and as he works to construct sentences. You can’t rush him as he tries to find the right words and the right order in which to put these words together to express some of the very awesome thoughts in his head. And there is always the possibility that his disability will worsen as he grows.

But Ethan lives in the “now.” He doesn’t bother worrying about what might happen someday or let his current challenges block out the sun that seems to shine over his little head everywhere he goes.

He’s incredibly creative. And happy. So, so happy. His days are filled with adventures involving two of his best buds, Lambie and Tigger. He delights in building elaborate costumes for them out of Trio Blocks . . .

. . . or even paper.

He dreams up the most exciting escapades for the two of them and has made them part of the family. They both regularly join us for movies or game night or family prayer time in our family room . . .

. . . and Lambie was even given the job of guarding our bowl of Halloween candy this year . . .

. . . (but then ate all of it!)

One of Ethan’s favorite Christmas presents this year was a pair of pajamas for each of them.

He draws pictures of them.

And one night when Tigger was inadvertently left upstairs on Ethan’s bed during our family reading time, he (Tigger) sneaked out of bed and turned on Ethan’s CD player full volume, blasting the whole house with Pixar tunes. (True story.)

Recently we were having one of those days at our house that just can’t be described in any way other than, “bad.”  Never mind the details; it just seemed like everything had gone wrong from the very beginning of the day. After lunch, Scott had taken Owen to Children’s Hospital for a minor surgery, only to be told that the doctor was running behind in the OR.

The afternoon wore on, and nurses just kept popping in to tell Scott that the doctor was running further and further behind.

After waiting for about three hours, Scott and I finally decided through a quick texting conversation, that this day called for some drastic measures to end it on a positive note. Plans were thrown together for ordering pizza and choosing a fun movie to watch whenever he and Owen finally got home. And still we all waited as the afternoon dragged on through dinner time.

After five hours, Owen was finally taken into surgery for his quick half-hour procedure, but it was very late and the two of them still had a 40-minute drive home even after Owen was released from the Recovery Room.

I was way past grumpy by this point and had given up any hope of ending this day on a positive note when Ethan slipped into the room. He gave me one of his famous smiles and said softly, “This is a weally good day because I’m getting to stay up late to wait for Daddy and Owen, and when I go to bed late I have weally good dweams and long dweams.“

Wow. I was suddenly so struck by the startling difference between Ethan’s view of the day and my own. Were we really talking about the same day? Absolutely! He was just looking at it through his Ethan-colored glasses. (Where can I get me some of those???)

Sadness flowed through me as I realized that I had thrown away a whole day. Lost a precious opportunity to be an example to my watching kids. Once again, God had spoken through one of my little ones, gently reproved me, and taught me a lesson.

It’s happened before. I suddenly see myself as I really am — hear what really comes out of my mouth as I whine and complain; I determine to change my ways; and then I fail — again.

But life is so short. Time is so precious.

I will try again. I will strive even more to squish myself down and crawl inside the skin of a seven-year-old so I can look out at the world through his eyes.

I will try to stop when I feel my day falling apart and ask myself, “What would Ethan see in this situation?” knowing that he would definitely find something great and wonderful — even magical, exciting, adventurous.

Most of all, I will pledge, again, to look at each disappointment in the way in which my grown-up knowledge and experience should enable me to. Searching for glimpses of God’s sovereign Hand, knowing that anything that passes through my day has been given His permission to enter my life. It has His stamp of approval. Is part of His beautifully designed plan.

I will ask for His help in learning to somehow combine child-like joy and innocence with the grown-up experiences that prove God is worthy of our trust and our joy.

I will fail again. I know this. But I’ll keep trying.

“By perseverance the snail reached the ark.”  ~ Charles Spurgeon

Too many days, hours, minutes have already been wasted. Shame, shame on me!

I can’t get those back. I can only try to avoid losing any more precious seconds of my oh-so-short time here, thanking God that He is a Father of second chances and fresh starts and great mercy. A Father that loves me enough to bless me with children just packed full of so many things to teach me.

 “Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections, but instantly set about remedying them – every day begin the task anew.” ~ Francis de Sales