Read Between the Lines...

Somewhere in this great, big country a little girl's fears are masked by the make-up of a young woman.

Somewhere in this great, big country a young lady prepares to face the world alone.

Somewhere in this great, big country a foster child will become an adult and emancipate.

Somewhere in this great, big country a family is praying they will be able to intervene in time.

Somewhere in that great, big expanse of Heaven, our Heavenly Father holds the answer to how or if the paths of these individuals will intersect.

That's all I can say...

for now.

Lucky, 9-1-1, and God

Mom!! Dad!!! There's a FIRE on OUR property!!!

Saturdays, for us, are usually quiet, relaxing days. We go to church in the morning. We have a special lunch either at home or with family and/or friends. Sometimes all the church families enjoy a time of fellowship by eating together at the church. After lunch, we enjoy a nature walk, Bible-study game, or simply sit around singing praises to God together. Sometimes we visit and sing for those confined to convalescent hospitals or who can't leave their homes. All-in-all Saturdays are usually pretty relaxed, where the main focus is spending time with God and family, NOT crossing things off our to-do lists. We call these days, "Sabbath," as in a weekly time of rest and remembrance.

The key word is "usually."

This Saturday was a little different. There was noise. There were sirens. There was heart-pounding, adrenaline-rushing excitement in the air.

But first I must tell you about Lucky.

In January, Nikki turned 10. (I still can't believe it, but it's true.) We promised her a dog from the animal shelter, there are a surplus of stray animals in our little town. That was three months ago. This Friday, God took care of that problem for us when a stray black-and-white puppy showed up at our school.

Meet Lucky.

He's sweet, calm, obedient, patient with the kids, and as perfect a puppy as a family could ask for. He's also a flea-bitten and mangy, but we adore him!!!

On Saturday, I told the kids we would not be going to anyone’s house for lunch after church, even if invited. Instead, we would come straight home to spend time getting to know our new dog. Everyone agreed.

After lunch, the three younger girls headed outside while Shawn, Billy, Andie, and I talked and lingered over dessert. Suddenly, Nikki burst through the door shouting, “Fire! There’s a fire on our property!”

Shawn and Andie dashed outside to fill buckets and douse the flames creeping steadily towards our house. I called 9-1-1, then joined the bucket brigade. Smoke filled the air, making breathing difficult. Nikki, Alyssa, and Maya became increasingly concerned each time we disappeared into the haze to dump water on the flames. “Be careful!” they shouted, then cheered when we safely re-emerged.

Shortly before the fire fighters arrived I stopped to survey the scene. My gaze was directed toward flames inching nearer some kind of a meter by the house. “I should probably get those,” I mused.

Not surprisingly, the fire fighters were much more efficient at extinguishing the fire with their full-powered water hoses. The fire was put out quickly, leaving only blackened ground and charred tree trunks. While packing up their gear, one of the fire fighters shook his head and commented that we were lucky the fire didn’t get any closer to that gas meter on the hill.

Gas meter?!

Later that night I had a little difficulty falling asleep. Random thoughts, questions, and a multiplicity of scenarios tumbled through my head. Would God send us a mangy, stray dog just to protect our home from a fire He knew was coming our way? What would have happened if we had not come home that afternoon?

What would have happened if I had not obeyed the prompting to notice the flames nearing the gas line? What if the girls had not spotted the fire in time? What if...? What if…? What IF...?! And then God gently broke through my feverish thoughts and comforted me by reminding me of a quote from one of my favorite books, “There are no ‘what-ifs’ in God’s kingdom.” (The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom.)

Early the next morning I slipped out to where the fire had occurred. The smell of charcoal still hung heavy in the crisp morning air. Shafts of light cut through the pines, marking out dappled patterns across the blackened ground. Half stepping, half sliding down the incline, I stopped at the gas meter. I just had to see it all again. There, alongside the gas line, telltale black marks paralleled the gas meter, then curved around towards the front. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight and I had the feeling I was standing on hallowed ground.

"The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear Him, and he delivers them.” Psalm 34:7.

Running In Granny Shoes - The Beginning of a Journey

First written May 15, 2011
I am a bit out of shape. My once trim and attractive figure has morphed into something I'm so not proud of. My clothes fit snugger than they used to. The needle on the scale swings a bit higher than it used to. I can pinch more inches than I dare to share. In short, I have needed to make some changes, especially in the area of exercise.

I used to exercise regularly. Actually, I used to be pretty fit. My diet has remained healthy, but my exercise routine has diminished to the point of being practically nonexistent. Other than the walking around I do to maintain order in our house, I have done very little to tone up my muscles. But, in my defense, I have a lot of good excuses...

1) My athletic shoes are worn out...

2) It's cold outside...

3) I'm tired...

Okay, so they aren't really good excuses at all. I need to start exercising and I know it. But I really didn't have any athletic shoes until ...

One day at church my aunt asked me what size shoes I wore. I told her and she gleefully thrust a Walmart bag under my nose. Inside was a pair of baby blue granny shoes, complete with a wide velcro strap. Her daughter-in-law had purchased the shoes for her grandmother, who wisely never wore them. This was evident by the tags still attached. "Maybe you can use them?" my aunt hinted.

I gulped, remembered my list of shabby excuses, and forced myself to reach for the bag. I told myself that these monstrosities would encourage me to finally purchase my own pair of chic athletic shoes and finally get into an exercise routine.

That was several months ago.

Today, I decided I would start. Mindful of the granny shoes still in their bag in my closet, I decided I would run early in the morning so as not to frighten my neighbors. No such luck! By the time I finished my devotions, got the kids breakfast, and took care of a few odds-and-ends, it was 10:00 a.m.

But I was determined to start anyway. If I didn't start today, when would I? I would only push it off again and again. Resolutely, I slipped on my granny shoes, secured the velcro straps, and headed for the front door. Besides, they weren't really that bad, I consoled myself. Okay, maybe they were...

My 5-year-old stopped in mid-sentence, mouth agape, to give me a critical once-over. My husband, who never, ever comments on my clothing, asked if I was going out "...like that?" My teenage daughter stifled a giggle. My resolve began to weaken. Should I or shouldn't I? Frantically ping-ponging arguments around in my head, I decided that if I didn't start today, I probably never would. Praying silently that no one would step outside of their homes until I had safely returned to mine, I took off.

It was exhilarating to be running again! I loved the feel of my feet pounding the pavement, the wind blowing through my hair, my lungs filling with crisp morning air. I was alive! I was free! I was running!!!

And then I hit the ninth house.

Gasping for breath, I slowed to a walk. Multi-colored spots blipped before my eyes. My knees turned to jello and my legs wobbled beneath me. My heart thumped crazily in my chest and resounded through my ears. Careening like a drunk, the world spinning dizzily around me, I began to feel sick. Then faint. And, a little like I might keel over and die on the spot.

But, I was wearing those awful granny shoes and was too embarrassed to be seen, let alone rescued, with those attached to my person.

So, bolstered by pride and pride alone, I continued to trudge on.

Somehow, I regained enough composure to wave weakly to an elderly couple out walking their dog - who didn't even blink when they saw my granny shoes! They also didn't seem to notice the alarms going off all over my body as my internal systems scrambled to recover from that initial shock. Emergency response teams were mobilized. A host of other first-alert responders raced around within me to stabilize my heart-rate, strengthen my legs, and pump oxygen to each and every neglected square-inch of my being. I made the executive decision to spare my body any more trauma. There would be no more running for me today. I would just power walk stagger back home.

Then the wave of discouragement smacked me upside the head. Hot tears of failure stung my eyes. What was I thinking?! I couldn't run to save my life!!! I hated my body and, obviously, my body hated me back. I wanted to quit.

But "quit" is a four-letter-word.

Fast forward ten months:
Today is March 11. When I finish this blog I will lace up my snazzy athletic shoes and go jogging. (I chucked those granny shoes long ago.) I will feel the wind in my hair, breathe the crisp morning air, and feel energized and alive! Even after I pass the ninth house!

I made some mistakes at the beginning of my quest to regain physical fitness. But I didn't give up. Granny shoes and all I continued to walk daily and then run. I began to eat smaller portions, focusing more on eating a lot of fresh fruits and veggies. (Approximately 75% of each of my meals is raw - either salads or fruit/veggie pieces.) I cut waaaaay back on anything fried. Already nearly vegan (the only animal products we consume are the eggs our chickens lay), I continue to cook 95% of our meals from scratch. I do this, not because I enjoy cooking (I hate it, actually), but pre-packaged and processed foods contain so many additives/preservatives/artificial etc. that they just aren't healthy. My beverage of choice is simple - water. Juices are treats. Sodas are reserved for extremely rare occasions of celebration.

And the pay-off? In the past ten months I have lost seventeen pounds. Yessiree! Count 'em! One-seven! That's more pounds than I have fingers to count on! It's fun to shop for clothes once more, because they are actually starting to look good on me again. I still have some more to lose, but the last ten months have shown me that with hard work and determination, it's possible.

One final word:
My dad was a runner. Six days each week, I awoke to the sound of his footsteps racing around the track he had built in our backyard. When he got too old to run anymore, he walked. He stopped walking only months before he died last August.

When I began my journey back to fitness, I would call Dad after nearly every jog to share with him how far I had run. He was always encouraging. Always supportive. His encouragement has stayed with me. Now, on the days when I don't feel like jogging, I remember the words he gave me shortly before he died. They still carry me.

We all need some encouragement to do something that's hard for us - like starting an exercise program. Moms, especially, need this. We give out so much to our families that we sometimes forget to care for ourselves.

Hmmm...

I think I might just have the beginnings of an idea ...

Who's Stalking Your Child Online?

The following clip is absolutely frightening and a must-see for all parents. While the online community is a wonderful way to connect, there are also incredible risks. As parents, especially those of us who blog and share photos of our children, we must be informed. I knew some of this information, but I must admit, I learned even more after watching this! Take a moment to educate yourself and protect your kids.

Wearing Black Again

A little over six months ago, I rifled through my wardrobe looking for black to wear to my father's funeral. Black is a color of mourning. It mirrors the feelings of the heart. Today, I am again looking for black clothing to wear because I am mourning the sudden loss of my uncle.

Just ten days ago I sat in his home in California browsing through old picture albums. He, the historian of our family, shared many family stories and humorous anecdotes with me. He was happy. Upbeat. Alive.


Today, he's gone. My uncle, a former foster child, is at rest. There's more I want to tell of his story from foster child to family man, but not now.

Now I mourn.

And look for black.

(Photo taken on February 19, in California. My uncle and my mom - brother and sister - separated in foster care and reunited as adults)

Get Your Kleenex Out - And Say "Yes"

Warning: Watching this will cause great big tears to well up in your eyes and fall down your face. You may also experience an uncontrollable urge to jump up and run to the nearest phone to call your local adoption agency and fill out endless stacks of paperwork. If these symptoms continue to persist for an indefinite period of time, do NOT call your doctor as this condition is completely incurable. :)

Seven Again

We are blessed with five adopted children ranging in age from 23 to 5. Throughout the years we have also collected several other children. These kids, for one reason or another, have either lived with us or somehow become an integral part of our lives. They feel like family and so they ARE family. We call them our heart kids.

Most of them are old enough to live on their own now. Some already have kids. Some are, like toddlers, just taking their first tremulous steps into the adult world while we watch, arms outstretched, ready to catch them should they tumble.

Billy is one of our heart kids. Originally, he stayed behind when we made the big move out to Georgia, wisely avoiding the cross-country trek. During that time he stayed with a friend of the family, volunteered at a school, and kept up with his physical therapy sessions (he's recovering from a broken leg - long story/short landing). A month ago, he asked to join us.

Last Wednesday, Andriana and I flew back to California to collect our four cats and Billy. We returned to Atlanta International Airport at 6:00 Tuesday morning. We were a sight to behold! Billy hobbled on crutches, while Andriana and I, bleary-eyed, wrinkled, and grumpy, toted several overstuffed suitcases and four bewildered cats. Thankfully, my husband collected us all and we were soon on our way home.

Home. It feels a little more complete once more. We are seven in the home again. Our four cats have staked their domains. Billy has started working at the school where I teach. We're signing him up for music lessons. He's planning to start college next semester. We're thrilled he's with us. Welcome, Billy!

Every Child Deserves a Home

Love the message here...

The Orphan's Song

Doubtless, you've seen this clip. But it's one to watch again. And again. It's the heart-cry of an orphan seeking love and recognition in a world that has abandoned him. But this time, the world has stopped to listen. Is it possible that in his voice they hear an echo of the millions of orphans around the world also calling out for recognition? Can you hear it? Listen!

Back!

It's been three months and fifteen days since my last post? Really? Where has time gone?!

I've been trying to get on my feet again since our big move from California to Georgia.

It's taken a bit longer than I expected.

It's been a bit harder than I expected.

But, through it all, God has been so good to us...

Just as I expected He would be. :)

Here is a photo recap of our last few months of transition.

Saying good-bye to sweet friends at the party thrown for us by our dear friends, Rick & Jeannette.

Packing up our stuff...

Driving endless miles across a seemingly endless continent to the tune of an endless round of "Are we there yet?"

Enjoying brief visits with family and friends along the way made things so much better!!!

Quick stop at Laura Ingalls Wilders' home in Missouri...

Being welcomed, at last, to Georgia!

Visiting with East Coast relatives (and one from Estonia)...

Flying back, two weeks later, to the West Coast to assist my foster daughter with her second baby...

Helping my girls enter an art contest...
(Maya won third place)

Teaching!!!

Welcoming my mom out for a visit - soooo wonderful!!!

Vacationing in Florida - NIIIICE!

Finally, finally, finally getting our PODS delivered to our front door.

Getting the kids ready for their school's winter concert.

(Andriana played a violin solo and with a string ensemble.)

(Maya played recorder with her little group. Most of them could only blow and someone had to help them with the fingering. But Maya didn't want or need my help.)

And now I am getting ready for another trip to California. This time I'm going to get our cats.

It's good to be back.

Thanks for your patience.