Compassion part 1: When you can't feed 100 people

Sometimes the needs of our hurting world can feel like a crushing weight.

Barrel-bomb shrapnel is pulled from a newborn's face and Nigerian schoolgirls are pulled roughly from their dorms, still missing a year later.
Tsunamis sweep generations away, wildfires turn homes to ash in a dry land, and masked soldiers think nothing of beheading children while masked doctors do the same in sterile clinics.

Each tragedy pulses through our phones and computer screens with numbing regularity. It's tempting to shut our eyes, plug our ears, and roll over into a deep, comfortable coma.

Don't.

Do not buy into the slimy lie that because you cannot heal our world, you should ignore it.

You cannot stop all the wars or heal all the diseases, but you can make a difference.

I love this quote by Mother Teresa:

Picture from FMSC: http://preview.tinyurl.com/oocguxv

So, my question to you is this: If you could lift one child out of hopelessness, would you?

I'm asking because I just received a fat packet from Compassion International with the profiles of three children inside.

You guys, they are three of the most beautifully unique children I've ever seen.

Up on my fridge, between the wedding invitations and graduation announcements, are two brown faces that my husband and I love like family. 

One is a young man named Eric. Eric is from Mexico and he writes to us to tell us about his grades, his hopes for the future, and his love for futbol (soccer). In his last letter, he told us that he wants to follow God, but he is not sure that he can. His father refuses to take the family to church, and we pray his heart will soften.

The other is a dark-skinned beauty from Ethiopia with round eyes and angular shoulders. I became Asnaku's sponsor when she was six, and she is now thirteen. She loves the color red, and she worries about her schoolwork. She wants to do well and get a good job someday, and she asks when will we visit? Her letters are always decorated with artwork.

The high level of care for the children, the financial integrity, and the quality of communications provided by Compassion International has been impressive.

But far beyond the medical, educational, and social benefits given to each child in the program, the personal connection we've been able to have with both Eric and Asnaku has been something truly special.

So here's the plan: for ten days my blog posts will focus on the children in this packet and on the work of Compassion International. 

I have two goals:

1. To find loving sponsors for Egi, Yegele, and little Gregori by the end of September, 
2. To have a conversation about compassion, need, and God's ancient and unchanging pursuit of poor and broken people. 

I hope you'll join me, get to know the kids, and show them to your friends! Because while we can't do everything, we can do something.

Karis :: Birder, Giggler, Listener to Hearts

There is something very surreal about a younger sister getting married. I can only imagine what Mom and Dad must be feeling.

Then and Now overlap and tug at each other when I look at her so happy with him, and I can’t help but remember the last two decades and two.

After all, this was the little sister who swelled our mommy's belly while I was five and six—old enough to remember the conversations with Baby through her shirt while Daddy held the camcorder.

This was the baby who made me so proud because her crib was in my room. We played peekaboo in the glow of the night-light in defiance of bedtime because her giggle was the best sound in the world.

This was the munchkin with the long lashes and the shock of crazy hair that stood up straight like something electrified in our family Christmas picture.

This was the kid who got a broken collarbone because my concern for the “rules” overshadowed my concern for her. And then she forgave me and never seemed to remember that it was my fault.

This is the little roommate who lay under me in her bunk and asked me to tell her about Heaven. So I did, and I never knew until our twenties that those late-night whispered talks had led her to Jesus.

This is the comedian whose talent for voice impressions from movies makes us howl with laughter. I am still convinced that she could work for Disney and make millions.

This is the peacemaker, the tenderhearted friend of every left out and lonely girl in the lunchroom.

This is the bird-watcher, the giggler, the listener to hearts.

This is the little sister who has become a best friend, an equal, an example of love to me.

Baby sister, beautiful woman, I am standing with you. As you promise love to each other forever, I promise too.

I promise to always be your friend,
to always pray for you and Mark,
to always be a loving aunt to your future babies,
and to always be your sister in every sense of the word.

Keeping up with the Castilles:: Debt, Dancing, and Deaconization

Hello, my sweet family and friends!

Obligatory bluebonnet picture. The sun was bright. :P

It's been a while since I visited this little patch of internet. The sheer volume of documents at work has kept my fingers tapping constantly, and they feel the ache of repetitive motion by the end of the day. Most evenings, I can't wait to grab my gym bag and give my body a chance to sweat out the stiffness of a day spent sitting. 

Not only does my body shun the thought of sitting at the computer, sometimes words are just...gone.

For a highly verbal external processor who majored in Communication, it is an odd feeling to reach inside and find nothing.

Uhhhhhhh...me no have words. Come back later. 

But the Lord has been good. In the middle of the constant phone ringing at work, I feel His presence. When I'm feverishly typing out thirty emails, processing over a hundred new documents, and telling the tenth student in a row how to run a degree evaluation, He is with me, giving me gentleness when I just don't have any left to give out.

And He keeps giving me times of refreshing. There was a recent tickle fight with my husband. There were tacos shared at our tiny table with friends. And check out the new flowers popping up in my garden!

But since it's been a while--and because last week enjoyd a rare vacation in Dallas and had some time to work on a post--I thought I should take the chance to catch you up on some recent highlights. 

Here's the first one, and it's a doozy....

WE ARE DEBT FREE!!

When I met my hubby, he had paid off his loans. But then he said "I do", and cheerfully agreed to start from ground zero with mine.

After two and a half years of renting small, driving old, (and the generosity of my sweet Grandma Elaine who set up an amazing little trust fund for each grandchild at our births), we sent the last payment for my student loans two weeks ago!

Actual photo of the last payment! 

Oh, there was no sweeter sound than that last mouse click. We totally did a happy dance in our living room. Thank you, God!


SPEAKING OF DANCING...

 The students in our homegroup threw an amazing, retro dance party for my man's 34th birthday! Everyone picked a decade, and we *literally* tore up the vinyl dance floor with music spanning every era of the past century.

There were twinkling lights, a photo backdrop bedecked with handmade paper discs, chocolate covered strawberries, and even--to my allergy-prone husband's delight--a gluten free chocolate cake! Seriously, those girls outdid themselves.

I have a personal theory that most of us weren't done playing dress up by the time we reached the age when we were too cool to do such things. And this is why adult costume parties exist.

My hubby was genuinely touched. In all the years that he has been leading a homegroup,  the students had never before thrown such an amazing party for him. He felt so loved and celebrated.

And then last Sunday, we celebrated for another reason...

HUBBY BECAME A DEACON!

This step has seriously brought us to our knees, totally flabbergasted at the goodness of God. When my husband came to our church in 2003, he was a college junior with spiked hair, energy that would rival a twelve year old, and no real concept of community.

Since then, my man has been mentored, discipled, trained, and encouraged by godly men in our church. As the years have gone by, he has become a mentor, a trainer, an encourager for younger men, all while continuing to receive love, correction and support from others.

It's a beautiful cycle as we build up each other. When all serve, all are served. 

As he and the husband of my friend stood at the front of the church to be named deacons, our pastors prayed, and I bowed my head over my open hands.

I've realized that receiving the title "deacon" is a bit like being officially named a janitor. Deacon is literally Greek for servant. And serving means continually dying to self, continually allowing the Lord to empty you--of pride, of expectations, of yourself. It isn't glamorous, self-fulfilling, or comfortable.

But Jesus served. He died to himself in every way imaginable, all the way to the ultimate obedience at the cross. And if serving knits us closer to his heart, makes us more like Him, then I say bring it on.

Italy this year looks different

I *almost* posted this Wednesday, but it was the first of April, and the common wisdom says that nothing posted on April Fools Day should be trusted as fact.

I wanted you to believe me when I tell you this.

After much prayer and thought, I have decided to remain state-side this year while my husband goes back to Milan in May.

To explain why, let me tell you the story.

Around November, as I was praying for my friends in Italy and for the coming mission trip, I felt a hesitancy that was as unexpected as it was strong. Why does this year feel different? I wondered.

 The following week, my beautiful younger sister got a sparkling rock on her left hand. A wedding was quickly set for June. Only a few short weeks later, my other sister and her husband welcomed a sweet baby girl to our family. In our close-knit clan, babies and weddings are all-hands-on-deck affairs--a chance to pour love through action and presence.

I was torn. On the one hand, I could not wait to see my friends in Milan. I longed to grieve with the church there over the recent death of one of the missionaries, to continue the conversations about life and Jesus with those I met in the last three years, and to feel the joy of serving alongside my husband in a place we've both come to love.

On the other hand was a growing desire to grasp these momentous moments with my sisters. But it felt almost selfish to consider choosing family over a mission trip.

There was not enough vacation for both.

However, as I prayed, I became convinced that loving my sisters and their families was this year's mission. And, as I realized several years ago, even spiritual things like a mission trip overseas can be downright disobedient if the Lord is asking me to do something else.

So while it feels odd to reach March without a flurry of support-raising, I am filled with peace. When I get home and see the coffee cups from an Italy meeting cluttering the countertop by the sink, I smile, knowing that God has hand-picked these seven volunteers. It is a good team, and they will succeed.

And that's not all.

God has been dropping ideas into the now-peaceful pool of my heart. Each one sends excited ripples to the very edges of me until I can hardly sit still! I may be here, an ocean away from the team for two weeks, but those two weeks have a purpose. The purpose is slowly forming into a plan, but that will have to wait until the next post. :)

Stay tuned! 

Nora Beth ♥

My darling niece has finally arrived!

Isn't she just the most beautiful little burrito you ever did see?

Nora Beth made her entrance last Tuesday night at 10:15 pm with a cry and her little hand raised up by her face, as if eager to grasp at the outside world.

My sister and brother-in-law chose not to discover the gender until she was solid and warm in their arms. Just an extra layer of wonder piled on the already incredible mystery of a new person becoming.

When Dad yelled from the kitchen that he had finally gotten THE text, we sisters came thumping and squealing down the stairs. It was gender-reveal party and grand entrance all rolled into one. I think we were a little drunk with the suspense.

Later that night, I finally held her for the first time. With her tiny 7 pound self nestled in my arms, I was struck by two thoughts:

#1. This is the child who will one day be a "cool older cousin" to every one of my future kids. (Such a fun thought! I had amazing older cousins.)

#2. This little girl will never stop existing.

Never.

Once a person begins, they will never vanish or vaporize, even if their bodies turn back to dust. The Bible tells us that we are created to be eternal personalities, forever existing in one state or another. (See Matthew 25:40-46)

And that is not all. We are created to exist forever in relationship with the One who made us.

Sweet Nora, I pray this over you: that your relationship with Him would start early, be deep, and stay strong until you see Him face to face. Welcome to our family, beautiful one.


______________________________________________

Click here to read how my sister first told us that she was pregnant. :)

The story of how I freaked out and received a car anyway.

It was 9:32pm at the end of a long Tuesday. Work was still in crazy mode from the move, laundry sat in forlorn piles in our bedroom, and the empty fridge could not be ignored another day. My calendar was ballooning out of control with unexpected social engagements, and my head ached.

I called hubby on my way to the grocery store, hoping for a pep talk. Instead I heard:
"So, the car place called. They said it's the engine. The guy said they could probably sell our car for parts."

I gripped the steering wheel of our one working car. How could they offer so little for my faithful little Camry with the awesome gas mileage? And we'd just replaced the air conditioning that summer.

Suddenly, out of my mouth were coming fearful, panicky words that flung accusation on my man and fuel on my fear. It wasn't pretty.

Fear leaves little room for trust, especially when I speak it out loud. 

The next night I was still tense. I drove to the gym, popped in my earbuds, and clicked on a podcast by one of my favorite Bible teachers.

My legs and arms began to move in rhythm, and she started to tell a story of a whole nation who panicked. They looked into a new land, and instead of feeling excited that God had finally brought them to this beautiful place, they freaked out because the current residents made them feel small. They worried that they and their kids would be squashed like grasshoppers if they so much as stepped over the border.

The fear fostered amnesia. They forgot how God had rescued them out of slavery. They forgot how He'd fed them for 40 years. They forgot how He had already destroyed two nations for them.

I stepped off the machine and walked to the mats, feeling like the story was mine.

Those Jews looked at their smallness instead of God's bigness, and they shrunk back. Then she said something that made my pounding heart pause: "Their fear was rebellion."

After wiping away the tears that threatened to spill all over the exercise mat, I had an internal dialogue with God.

God, I'm sorry for not trusting you. I'm sorry for panicking instead of remembering how faithful you've ALWAYS been. You will always give me just what I need, even if it's not what I want. I don't want to forget your goodness. I don't want to rebel. 

There in the sweat and clang of the gym, I heard him say, Daughter, I forgive you. And I will always be your shepherd. Trust me. Stay close to me. Don't let your circumstances make you freak out. I am bigger than your circumstances.

A few days after my realization in the gym, hubby and I were actually feeling pretty excited about the one-car thing. After all, it was something we had seriously considered before. It meant less insurance to pay, less gas to buy, and less money to spend on up-keep. And it wasn't like we would be stranded. We have a bike, and we live a mere five minute walk from the University bus route.

We had just about decided that having only one car was the coolest move we ever made when my dad called. He said they had a car they weren't using, and wanted to know when they could drive it down to us.

"Aww, thanks, Dad! You're so sweet to let us borrow it for a while!"

He started laughing on the other end. "Oh, no sweetheart. We want to give you this car."

My jaw dropped, and I almost dropped the phone with the weight of what was being offered. After all my freaking out, my clenching and grasping at control, he was giving us a car.

So unexpected. So extravagant. So undeserved. And I thought to myself, this is what grace looks like.


Ok, I have to add this disclaimer--I don't share this story to say that God is good BECAUSE He gave us a car. Even if we had lost both cars at once, with no replacement, God would still be good because that is who He is. He is good, and He has already shown that goodness and mercy with crazy extravagance on a cross where He died in my place. 

I share this story because I want to remind myself to trust my Shepherd, and I hope that it can encourage someone else too. 

This month as the Christmas lights go up and the stores vie for our attention, I want to hope in Jesus, and not my circumstances. I want to cling to Him, the rock-solid constant, so that finances, social engagements, lack of sleep, or messy kitchens don't throw me for another crazy loop. 

Five minute Friday:: Care

This month has spun past full and fast. Some months are like that--each day so brim-full of people and conversation and work and weekends busier than the weeks between that you can barely catch your breath. 

I crave the process of writing like a runner craves the road. I feel so thankful that I finally get the chance to sit for five minutes on this Friday night and pin down meaning with these keys. I'm grateful to Kate for faithfully hosting this writer's party each week, even though I know her month might have been as full as mine. 

Tonight the prompt is CARE. And if you have no clue what's going on, head on over here to check out what Five Minute Friday is all about! 

{CARE}

An open letter to the woman with the 101-year-old mother:

Today you tipped a little while in my direction and spilled out some of your story. I felt honored that you would tell me, the girl a half century behind you in wisdom.

You told how she came to live with you this summer. How her house sits empty in Ohio with no one to cut the grass. How the sister in another state was caring for her, but now it’s your turn and you feel like there are days it’s just simply too. Much.

You told how she was a rock for your family, caring for your handicapped brother until even his hair was gray and he fell. Your mouth pulled in at the memory, and I thought how painful it would be to lose a brother. I told you so, and your eyes grew glossy.

You told how exhausting it is now, how you were unprepared to physically lift the woman who carried you as a child.

I don’t know what it’s like, but thank you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for dying to self for the sake of the dying. Thank you for making her breakfast each day, making her bed, making her smile.

We—the self-absorbed, the media-glutted, the youth-obsessed—we desperately need your example. We need to see love in action that is not flashy, not instagrammed, not applauded. We need to know that it’s possible to love our parents this way so that when the day comes, we will have the courage to care too. 

Chocolate Trifle Recipe

This is one of those summer posts that I meant to post weeks ago, but better late than never! (Plus, now you get it just in time for the weekend!)

My hubby happens to be the only member of his family who has a birthday in a month other than June. This year, by weird coincidence, the sum of the ages of his parents and brothers equaled exactly 200 years.

So of course, they threw a bi-centennial birthday party!

Even though my husband's 33 years threw off the number, they let him celebrate too. Quite nice of them, don'cha think? :)

Dozens of family members and old friends showed up at the TX coast to sit under the spindly legs of his family's pink beach home. We ate tacos, compared patriotic pedicures, and spit watermelon seeds while the nieces and nephews spent their Popsicle-induced sugar highs in the surf.

In honor of the occasion, I tried out a new Chocolate Trifle recipe I'd begged from a co-worker after she made it for an office potluck. (Thanks, Allison!) I loved it because it was decadent and chocolate-y enough for my chocolate loving self, but not overly heavy thanks to the whipped topping she used. And with only five ingredients, it was super easy!

Chocolate Trifle

Ingredients

• 1 box brownie mix (I used a gluten free mix so that hubby could have some too)
• 1 3.9oz box instant chocolate pudding
• 1 12-oz can sweetened condensed milk
• 1/2 c. water
• 2 containers of whipped cream topping (one 8-oz, the other 12-oz)
• candy of your choice (I used Heath Bar)

Directions

• Prep brownies by box directions. Let cool, and then cut into small squares. Divide the brownies in half.
• Line the bottom of a large bowl with 1/2 the brownie pieces.
• In a separate bowl, combine chocolate pudding, 1/2 c water, and 12 oz sweetened condensed milk. Graduate fold in the 8 oz container of whipped cream topping.
• Layer the pudding and whipped cream mix over the brownie layer in the bowl (reserving at least half of the mix for later).
• On top of the brownies and pudding, make a layer of whipped topping (use about 1/2 of the 12 oz container).
• Sprinkle half of the candy over the whipped topping.
• Place another layer of brownies in the bowl. (Are you catching the pattern? LAYERS.)
• Use remaining pudding over the new brownie layer.
• Use the remaining whipped cream over the new pudding layer.
• Top with the rest of the candy.
• Chill until ready to serve!

Five Minute Friday :: Finish

It is Monday, but I sit on the floor in my sister's room, a hundred miles away from my office.

The prompt this week is finish. In the grief and mingled joy of the past few days, the word sits at home in my heart. 

For Lisa-Jo, the wonderful mommy blogger who has hosted this link up for over 5 years, the word signals the passing of the baton. She wrote so beautifully this week about finishing your piece of a story. A story that was never yours to begin with because all stories are inherited and gifted to you for a time. She is passing the baton to her dear friend, Kate Motaung, who I am excited to read and come to know as I have come to love Lisa-Jo.

FINISH

I get glimpses of the truth when the baby I just held is suddenly in pre-school, or when I wonder how college could be behind me already. 

Life is short, but most of my hours slip past unnoticed-- a given rather than a gift. 

On Thursday my phone buzzed for the second time against my leg. I was sitting in a friend’s living room, surrounded by my homegroup as we worshipped to the strumming of a guitar.

I stepped out into the humidity to answer the call and my heart stood still at Dad’s words.

“Cherise, your uncle passed away today in his sleep.”

My tears flowed warm, steadily wetting my husband’s shirt as he held me. I cried for my uncle. I cried for us. I especially cried for my sweet aunt and two cousins who will now have to live without their dad. He was a fixture of our family, a constant in my memories of Christmases and dinners and reunions.

He was sixty years young.

Life is short. It’s easy to assume that the trajectory we are riding will continue, that we have time to make that phone call, forgive that friend, learn contentment, finally do that thing.

But the finish line could be closer than we dreamed. 

My sister's secret is out!

I've been itching to blog this news for what feels like forever, but it wasn't my secret to tell. However, now that the real owners of the secret have put the news on facebook, I can tell the world that...

MY SISTER, SHARON, IS HAVING A BABY!!

**Cue the flash mob dancing, fireworks and other means of extravagant celebration!!**

Sometime shortly after Christmas, she and my brother-in-law will welcome a new little Someone, and all of us are thrilled! It's grandchild #14 for his parents, but for mine, it's #1!

Every grandchild will be special of course, but this one, by simply being first, gives each of us a new label.

Mom is now also Grandma.
Dad becomes Abuelo.
We three sisters are suddenly Aunties. (I became an instant aunt to the most adorable kids on the planet when I married hubby, but now I'll be an Auntie on both sides!)

Being the creative genius that she is, my sister came up with an adorable way to announce the pregnancy. Mom had been wanting a photo album of their wedding pictures for several years, so my sister created the books for both sets of parents and then placed a small card in the pocket in the back cover.

The front of the card said, "The adventure continues..."

...and here is what they saw on the inside!

My brother-in-law secretly caught their reactions on video, and it's absolutely priceless. Enjoy!

A letter to the bride

Little cousin, you were so lovely that weekend, radiant in your womanhood and your love.

You ran to us the night we arrived for your rehearsal dinner, all glowing and breathless with arms flung wide, and I felt like years and miles hadn't mattered at all.

You are no longer the doe-eyed little girl who made flower chains with my sister and begged us Olders to "be the bad guys" for your games. You no longer climb trees barefoot, sharing secrets with the Twin Cousin and concocting pranks for your big brother.

That was precious, but this, this new season you've joined us in--this is glorious.

You made those forever promises as you stood in your lace, and I leaned close to my own love and let the vows re-imprint themselves on my resolve.

You will see--weddings get a new layer of richness and meaning after you have your own.

The East Coasters were the last pockets of family to finally meet my husband. It felt like your new love and mine were initiated into the clan on the same fun-filled, rain-blessed weekend. Every outrageous game of Brandi Dog and Farkle, every crochet stitch taught--they turned our far-flung lives into community again and I remembered how much I love our family.

The couple that started it all: Grandma and Grandpa Beekman

Sweet cousin, I love you. I love the love I see in you, between you both, and pouring out to everyone within reach.

I pray you keep choosing love. Keep choosing humility.
I pray you keep choosing to open yourselves to friendships, even when they move away or get pregnant before you do or take a while to return your calls.
That you will have grace for the budgeting foibles that will come.
That you find a beautiful new "family culture" as you discover how to do the oneness of marriage.

Aaaaannnd I secretly pray that you move to Texas. (Because that would be awesome!)

A chance to make my sister's day

Anyone remember this?

If you’ve been around here for a while, you might remember that 2012 was the summer that we lived in a cute little cabin with a tree growing up through the middle of its roof. Hubby was one of the staff for Colorado Leadership Training, a program that combines an amazing summer job with mentoring, deep relationships, and opportunities for outreach.

There were some scary wildfires.
We even had some crazy car trouble that made for a memorable first anniversary.
The sunsets were jaw-droppingly gorgeous against the mountains each night.
And we met more amazing people in one summer than I thought possible.

THIS summer, it’s my little sister’s turn!

The day after her highschool graduation this May, Kat headed north for a summer of working full time for the YMCA as a family coordinator. Which basically means she has the coolest job ever: she leads nighttime hikes, plays games with kids, and gives nature tours.

Her limited time off is filled with leadership training, new friends, bouldering, and running trails in the early mornings.

When her pictures pop up on my news feed, I can almost smell the mountains.

Those highschool dreads had become part of her in my mind, so her new close-cropped hair takes me by surprise. But it's adorable. She is a gamine, blue-eyed beauty with a boyish halo of blond.

One thing I remember from our summer at LT is how special real mail became.

Cell phone reception at the 'Y is almost non-existent, and Wi-Fi hotspots are small and crowded. When you miss your family and friends at home, there is nothing quite like finding a fat letter at the tiny post office, your name written in loopy, familiar cursive.

If you know my lil' sis and want to make her day, write her a note! (If you don't know her, consider writing a note to someone else!)

Here is her summer address:

[Staffer's Name] - EPC Staff

PO Box 20700

Estes Park, CO 80511

Book Review::Surprised by Motherhood

I am not a mother, but odds are I will be someday.

 

Someday my fridge will be covered with crayon masterpieces, my walls with jelly stains, and my floors with cheerios. Someday hubby and I will be entrusted with one or more miniature humans and I know deep in my gut that our lives will never be the same.  

 

Honestly, it’s terrifying.

 

Even though I love children.

Even though I get wistful over the soft curls of my friend's kids.

Even though I pray for the ones who will someday look like me and my husband.

Change has just never been my favorite, and the knowledge that two little pink lines will one day change absolutely everything--well, it scares the bejeezus out of me.

 

When that day comes, I will be so thankful for moms like Lisa-Jo and brave, hope-filled words like hers that come straight from the trenches. Which is why...I'm unashamedly doing my very first book review/promo for her!

 

Surprised by Motherhood reads like a heartfelt conversation on the couch with the author, a girl from South Africa who married a "cowboy-green eyed" man from the Northwest on the firm understanding that she would never bear his children. Ten years and three kids later, she bravely bares her heart and invites you into the messy, hilarious journey all laced with truth and wild hope.

 

 

She writes for you mommies. You, the ones who feel caught on the exhausting treadmill of life wondering, "will things ever slow down?" She believes you deserve a super-hero cape and a cheering squad and she's volunteering to wave pom-poms for you.

 

"I would throw away most of the parenting books that made me feel like I was somehow failing this most important test of womanhood—being a mother. I’d throw out the advice about what I was doing wrong or should be doing differently or should aspire to be doing. I’d just revel in the daily, sleep-deprived merry-go-round and eat a lot more chocolate cake.(p. x)"

 

She puts it this way:

This isn’t a “how-to” book, it’s simply my “you can” story.

 

She writes for you daughters too, especially for those who feel the absence of their mothers. When she was entering high school, her own mom was entering a hospital. Now, more than eighteen years after her mother's death, Lisa-Jo understands the pain of working through the unsaid, the unexplained. Whether the absence is literal or emotional, the wounds are real and she offers her own journey in all its confusion and healing.

 

She also writes for the not-yet mommies and someday mommies, the ones of us who need someone to say, "I was scared too. Yes, it's hard--but it's glorious and beautiful and worth it."

 

“Parenting is not for the faint of heart. And it’s especially not for those type A personalities accustomed to having all their ducks in a row, all their check boxes checked, and their sofa cushions, cereal boxes, and entire lives neatly arranged.” (p. 4)

 

  It doesn't hurt that she is type-A like me. Just an added layer of commonality to make me believe dying to self in the area of perfection might actually be possible.

Grab the first three chapters here for free!

The one where I'm a 2 year old with a splinter

My finger is pink and throbbing and my throat trembles with a sob. The memory is flooded by the yellow glow of the lamp by the couch. Daddy sits and draws me to him. Even sitting, his knees are still as high as my chest.

"Ok, let me take a look, sweetie."

I remember his big, warm hands tilting my finger for examination. So gentle, so safe.

"You have a little splinter--see that? I'm gonna get it out for ya."

He must have explained. He always explained. Patient, child-size words for my reassurance were always in abundance. My Daddy has a teacher's heart.

The next thing I remember is the blanket over my head, a sheltering shadow of fibers glowing in the lamplight while the warm hands tenderly coaxed the painful spot.

The edge of the blanket hung below the huge knees. My finger and its splinter were out there, in the brightness. All I could see were the shoes below and the yellow light pressing pinkly through the weave of the blanket while my wound was probed.

I didn't need to see it; I needed only to stand still and open my hand so Daddy could fix me.

This week, I was shifting loads of laundry from one machine to the next when God pulled this memory, dripping with intensity and light, from the archives of my memories. Hubby was shocked that I could remember so much at age two! I'm not really sure how I can, but I'm thankful. Since that moment with the laundry, I've turned this memory over and over in my mind like a shining penny, relishing it for the truth it deposited in my tiny-girl heart.

She was loved.

She was safe.

Even if her finger hurt, Daddy could be trusted.

Twenty five years later, I am so thankful that I have a daddy who--by his tenderness, his compassion, his gentleness, his delight in his daughter--set the stage for me to know God, the Father.

Daddy, I know you'll read this. I love you, and happy birthday. :) 

To: My Mommy on Her Birthday

Today is your birthday, but I am over 100 miles away. 

If I could, I would wake you up with herbal tea and a walk in the sparkling dawn because we both love mornings. I would clean your house, rub your back, and then let you nap while I made dinner. 

But I can’t, so here—these are a few of the thankful thoughts I’ve had all day about you.

Thank you for being a mommy who snuggled and kissed and hugged freely.

Thank you for putting up with math-induced pouting and door-slamming.

Thank you for singing about birdies and cherry trees and barrel-and-a-heap while the ball bearings squeaked beneath us.

I am so thankful that you taught us for an entire year about China.

And that you made dollies and their tiny fashions with us.

Thank you for reading aloud.You dedicated hundreds of hours to this, enthralling our hearts forever with the beauty of words and stories.

For making us apologize to each other. 

For apologizing to us.

For nature hikes, sketchbooks in hand.

For encouraging dress-up and pretend (even if it meant the whole living room disappeared under boxes and sheets).

For Hershey-bar pie and Swedish tea rings at Christmas.

For all the times you packed and unpacked for camping trips.

For trimming our bangs in your bathroom, swishing the hair bits away with that funny brush.

For thrift shopping,
                bra shopping,
                                and shopping to fill shoeboxes meant for kids in Belize or Bhutan or Belarus,  making Christmas expand beyond my own wish list.

For letting our little fingers into your sewing, your paints, your charcoal pencils and teaching us that art isn’t about the product, but the process.

For loving Daddy and for kissing him in front of us.

For long talks in the bathroom, in the car, and during walks through our suburban streets with our tennis shoes crunching in tandem--talks anywhere about everything.

For treating me like an adult, but letting me be a little girl whenever I need it.

And finally, thank you for not hiding your flaws. This most of all. Because of it, I have hope that perfectionism is not permanent. I know that there is strength in humility, and beauty in admitting need. 

Blessed are the poor in spirit, because their daughters see God through their brokenness.

Happy birthday, Mommy. I love you.