The Tree Hunt Before Christmas

Merry Christmas, everyone!

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Just came across a picture my sister took from our tree hunting escapade a couple weeks ago. This photo sums it all up so well. You guys. This was the WORST tree hunting experience I’ve EVER had. It was also our first. So, that was our first mistake. Going tree hunting for the first time as a family of SEVEN. Seven people plus an aunt who all have to agree on the perfect tree. We thought we would go out on a merry adventure, find our little tree, cut it down, cart it home, and all decorate it together like a happy little family, singing Christmas carols all the while. Ha. Hahaha. It went something more like this…

Joshua: “Who needs heavy coats to go tree hunting? It’s only 45° on the PRAIRIE!”

We get to the tree farm and, “Whoa, 45° feels a lot colder here…”

To say that we were a little underdressed would be an interesting way of expressing things. Thankfully we had a couple extra blankets in the car to wrap Baby in. There was no snow, but there was a lot of mud. Oh, so much mud. Monkey4 was so attracted to the mud that he kept face planting into it every couple of steps. This shocked and appalled the little guy. My phone was very attracted to it, too. It flew out of my hand dove into a brown puddle as I tried to snap a quaint picture of the boys walking toward the trees.

We had brought Little Miss’ stroller along instead of the wheelchair. Has anyone tried to push a 33lb child uphill in six inches of mud? How’d that go for ya? Ten steps in and the wheels were so caked with mud that all you could see was blobs of brown.

Anyway, we walked and walked all over that farm looking for the perfect tree. And we finally found a pretty good one. But wait… There on the horizon stood the most beautifulest Christmas tree we had seen all day. It was only a little farther down the hill. We walked (swam?) through the mud to inspect the gorgeous tree. Yes, we all agreed, it was perfect. We took a family picture beside it, as you can see below. We were a happy tree hunting family.

Papa pulled out the saw to start cutting that beauty down and… We hear him groan from under the branches. “What?!” We all shout in concern.

“It’s two trees.”

Come again?

“It’s two trees grown up right beside each other. If we cut one of them down it will look like we have half a tree.”

Of course. Of COURSE it had to be two trees…

But there was still the first tree we’d picked out. We would just go back to our original choice. Sure, it wasn’t quite as pretty as the two-tree-wonder. But it was still a nice tree. As we reached the top of the hill headed back to that first tree we heard a terrible sound. It was the sound of a little boy standing in front of our tree saying, “Yes, Dad, this is the one!” And then the sound of another family’s saw cutting our Christmas tree down. We watched them drag our tree away, along with five other near-perfect trees. Sigh.

The hunt began again. By this time there were tears. Baby was hungry. Two little boys had to go potty. I’m fairly certain Little Miss has never been so cold in her life. She seemed terrified that her hands might never get warm. I tried carrying her to comfort her. We fell in a hole. We put her back in her stroller. She and the stroller tipped over. It was a deesaster.

We decided to put Little Miss, the aunt, and the baby (two of whom were quite grumpy by this point) in the car while the rest of us settled on a tree. And you know what? We ended up stumbling on the most perfect Christmas tree I’ve ever had. More beautifuler even than that two-tree deceiver. We hacked it down, dragged it through the mud, strapped it to the roof, and wearily traipsed home. That blue spruce now graces our living room with enchanting majesty. Just don’t look at the back of the tree. The mud monster wouldn’t completely let go.

The End.

I Make Broth from Scratch but I Feed My Kids Frozen Pizza for Lunch

        I scrolled Facebook recently and read about all the amazing things my friends are able to accomplish in a single 24 hour day. One friend had just served her family a three course dinner on a weeknight. Another friend was in the middle of remodeling her house, mostly on her own. My sister-in-law posted a picture of the beautiful yarn she had just hand-dyed (she’s so awesome!). All my friends seem to pull off the image of perfect wife and mother with creative ease, and I’m over here like, “I took a shower today! Go me!”

I wondered how in the world they do it all. How do they cook, and clean, and homeschool, and give speeches, and dote on their husbands, and find time for their own hobbies, all while staying in shape, organizing nonprofit events, and balancing a baby, two toddlers, and a 4^th grader? What’s their secret?

Here’s the secret (and I know you know this): they don’t all do it all!

I found myself looking at my friends as if they were all one person. As if the same person who cooked a gourmet meal also gutted her kitchen and restored it to its 1940s glory, all in the same day. As if the woman with six children under the age of six is the same woman who runs an international business from her home. As if the person who founded an international orphanage for special needs children is the same person who owns a dairy farm and makes her own cheese.

                            How silly.

But, that’s how moms feel sometimes when they look at the accomplishments of those around them and then survey the chaos that has exploded in their own living rooms. They feel like everyone else is able to juggle all areas of life with grace while they struggle simply to throw food on the table three times a day.

I was surprised (more like shocked) when someone told me recently, “You just seem to have it all together.” Girl. Have you seen my bathroom? Have you heard the way I snap at my kids when I get hangry? Do you realize I still haven’t written thank-you notes for the gifts we received at our baby shower back in March?

Just in case you see a snippet of my life in your newsfeed and think that I have anything (much less everything) together, let me tell you...

·  I make chicken broth from scratch because I believe it’s super healthy for my family. I also feed my kids frozen pizza for lunch. Go figure.

·  I make my own laundry detergent because it’s cheaper. I also gave up cloth diapering and buy disposables because, though more expensive, they’re easier!

·  I take my husband’s shoes off when he gets home, but I don’t get up to make him breakfast before he leaves for work.

·  I make my kids say “please” and “thank you,” but I’ve done a terrible job at teaching them to say “ma’am” and “sir.”

·  We do devotional with the kids every night, but we don’t always eat together as a family.

·  I keep a decently clean house most of the time, but I don’t read to my kids every day.

·  I make my kids brush their teeth every night, but – Okay, we won’t go there ;-)

I believe all those things are important, but I struggle to do all of them all the time.

There is always a trade-off.

Making the choice to do one thing always means making the choice not to do something else. It doesn’t mean you’ll never do that other thing, it just means you can’t do it while you do what you need or want to do in this moment. You get to decide what your priorities are, and they do not have to be the same as mine. As long as they are lining up with God’s top priorities for your life, you’re good.

       As women we like to pride ourselves on our ability to multitask. We can bounce a baby on one hip while whipping up supper, paying bills, checking emails, and grading school assignments. We are supermoms, after all. But, no matter how good you are at multitasking, you still have to make the choice not to do something. While you’re busy doing that impressive dinnertime dance, there is no way you can also write an award winning novel, teach an expert class on essential oils, and give your husband the undivided attention he deserves all at the same time. No one does it all, and especially not all at once.

          We adopted a little girl and gave birth to our fifth kid this year. Now is not the time for me to plan a huge vegetable garden, pursue my dream of flipping houses, or even teach Bible class. As great as those things are, they are not things I’m capable of doing right now, and that’s okay. I do what I can, and that’s enough.

         I make the choice to improve my family’s eating habits by cooking what I can from scratch, while also recognizing that there are seasons when sandwiches and juice boxes are going to have to do. I make the choice to save my family money by putting a little extra work into making my own housecleaning products, while at the same time choosing to spend a little extra money on other things simply to make life less stressful.

          When you observe someone from afar, it’s easy to see the  things they are able to do and assume that they have mastered life. But, remember, there are only 24 hours in their day, too. They may look like they’re able to do it all, but they’re not. Their excellence in one area means that they struggle in another. Just like you. You may not be the perfect homemaker, but you’ve got some mad skills. And, hey, if the most impressive thing you do in a day is point your kids to Jesus, you’re doing a pretty awesome job, chica. Well done.

          Now go forth and start that homemade vegetable soup to simmering, then go hand out cookies and enjoy your kids’ smiles. They’ll know you’re something pretty special.

"...study to be quiet, and to do your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you; That ye may walk honestly toward them that are without, and that ye may have lack of nothing" (1 Thessalonians 4:11-12).

What’s your trade-off? What’s something cool you do but are only able to do because you do something else a little less impressive?

To read a husband's perspective on this topic, click HERE.

When International Adoption is a Waste of Money

A little over a year ago we took our first trip to Bulgaria. Upon returning home, I wrote the following post. I didn’t end up publishing it at the time because I didn’t feel like I had found the right words. Those “right words” never came. I’m sharing anyway.

 ~~~

“People who say that international adoption is an unwise use of God’s money just don’t know.” 

I listened to my friend, the mother of two internationally adopted children, and I nodded my head in agreement. I thought I knew what she meant. I have been so frustrated throughout our adoption process to hear people say that international adoption is poor stewardship of God’s money. That we really should be adopting through foster care because it’s free. Or that we should be using our money to support Gospel preachers instead. Leave it to the orphanages to care for the kids.

I know these comments are made with the best of intentions, but most of these comments are also made in ignorance. People tell us, “Your money is better spent supporting orphan homes where they can care for many children.” These good-hearted people have no idea of the damage caused by growing up in an institution – even a “Good” one. They can’t possibly know. Surely they don’t understand. If they did, they would never say such a thing. Never.

I thought I understood.

When my adoptive friends relayed to me the things they saw in orphanages overseas, I cried with them. When they told me of little babies who lie in cribs staring up at the ceiling for hours without making a sound, I got chills. When they described how the children are lined up and force-fed a liquid diet no matter their age, and the bruises they acquire simply due to malnutrition, I was angry. How could anyone hear of children living in these conditions and not know that it is worth every penny it takes to get them into a safe, loving home?

But I didn’t understand the half of it. And in truth, I still don’t.

I thought I was prepared to walk into the orphanage where our daughter has lived since she was born. They tried to warn us. They told us that our daughter’s Center is one of the better ones, but that it would still not be “Good.” I had read and researched and talked to other adoptive parents. I thought I was ready. It wasn’t as if I have never been outside the U.S. I’ve been to third world countries, and I didn’t think this could be much worse than what I had previously seen. But I underestimated what it would be like to walk into that building for the first time, knowing this is where my little girl has been raised.

When we first arrived, a nurse unlocked the front door and led us into a dark, musty corridor. There were no lights. Concrete walls and floors surrounded us like a prison cell. We could hear the screams of a baby coming from somewhere on the second floor. The unheeded cries echoed throughout the building; the only sound to break the eerie silence.  

We waited with our translator while the nurse went to get the Doctor who was on call in the Director’s absence. Down the hall, a baby was swinging – the only other person in sight. It was as if the orphanage was nearly abandoned. Yet, we later learned that there were children in every room lining those halls. Children who never made a sound.

The Doctor greeted us warmly and led us into her office where we met with her and the Psychologist. They told us as much as they could about our little girl’s history and personality. They were helpful, caring, and as open as they were permitted to be. Little Miss was obviously a favorite, and they were more than happy to answer most of our questions.

During this conversation we met Little Miss for the first time. She was wheeled into the room, and the next few moments were a mix of joyful tears and nervous giggles. To read more about our first visits with her, click here.

Over the course of the week, we got to see a good bit of our daughter’s environment. She lives on the second floor with the young babies because of her limited mobility. There are eight children in her ward, and she is the oldest by far. This has pros and cons. She rarely interacts with any children, and she doesn’t know what to make of creatures her own size. She also doesn’t know how to play with age appropriate toys, or how to get attention without babbling like a nine month old (though she is perfectly capable of communicating on an older level).

The pros are that, because she does have more communication skills than the babies, the nurses talk to her more frequently and give her more individual attention than she would probably receive in the ward with children her own age. The nurses love the fact that she can sing along with them, and they all get a kick out of her dance moves. As a result, she interacts with adults really well and makes great eye contact. She is particularly attached to one nurse who even our translator commented was one of the best orphanage caregivers she’s ever seen. That is huge!

Children raised in orphanages are often neglected not necessarily from a lack of concern but more often due to a lack of resources and a lack of education on developmental needs. These things were obviously lacking in our daughter’s orphanage, but the staff was doing the best they knew how. The meals at this orphanage are varied in texture and content, the children are fed slowly with bottles or spoons (depending on the age of the child), and the Doctor and nurses pay decently close attention to the nutritional value of the food they provide. Our daughter is definitely in one of the better orphanages. I am extremely grateful that she has been given such advantages and that she ended up in an orphanage with a very special caregiver. The Lord has been mindful of our little girl.

And yet.

It’s hard to describe the haunting realities of what we saw. The orphanage is dark, sterile, and bare. Broken glass covers the playground. But that doesn’t matter because the children rarely go outside. Bedrooms about the size of a small walk-in closet line the halls, two cribs to a room. The babies sit or lie in these cribs until they are taken out, on schedule, to be fed or changed. There is silence in the ward, except for the rare cry of a baby who has not yet learned that his cries gain him nothing. Most of the babies do not respond if you try to engage them. They only stare at you with hollow, expressionless eyes.

One constant thought swirled in my head.

We must get her out of here!

But who will come for the others?

No one who sees a place like that can possibly believe that any amount of money used to get even one child out is a waste. Surely, they cannot.

And what I saw is not the half. I don’t know the half. I only know stories.

The stories of the family who traveled to meet their daughter, held her in their arms, and committed to bringing her home, but never got that chance. Just months before they were due to pick her up, their daughter starved to death under the care of “doctors” who were feeding her a very “special” diet. Their daughter was seven years old. She weighed nine pounds.

The stories of the family who adopted a little boy with almost exactly the same condition as our daughter. Except he was in a much worse orphanage. His body was covered in scars and sores. He was the same age as Little Miss, but he had no language and very little communication skills. He was caged in his crib for days. He was the subject of medical experimentation and abuse.

The stories of the little boy who kicked and screamed in fear when his new parents took him outside because he had never felt the sun on his face.

The stories of malnutrition, sexual abuse, and emotional trauma.

Stories that are more the reality than the rarity.

I’m not sure exactly what this post is about. Mostly, I think I’m still processing. It’s hard to put into words what it was like to visit Little Miss. Some of it doesn’t sound so bad as I go back and read what I’ve written. That’s only because I’m incapable of finding words to accurately describe the living conditions of these kids. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Sure, I’ve been to third world countries. I’ve seen devastating poverty. But in all those places I’ve been before, I also saw the love of family. Walking into an orphanage where these children have no one to count on but themselves… It was a different level of heartbreak.

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a huge supporter of adoption, whether domestic or international. This is not a post about how everyone ought to adopt internationally. Children in foster care face some of the same harsh realities as do children in orphanages. This has nothing to do with “adopt this way, not that.” This is a plea from my heart to yours. Don’t tell me that international adoption is a waste of God’s money. When you say that, I hear a forgotten baby’s cries echoing down the hall. I see the prison cells that serve as bedrooms. I see the face of a mama whose daughter starved to death.

And I have to believe.

You just don’t know.