letters from a mister.

Another tip then? These have been fun. 

A note on tips from this side of town-they might not work for everyone. And that's okay-one shoe doesn't fit any and all mamas. But, hopefully, these will open your eyes to the ways that you, yes you, tired and feeble and weak and (did I mention) tired, are doing a good job; really. These are the small moments in the long long days where I sit back and say with a soft laugh, hey, this is where I did good today. This is the good stuff. My hope is that you have similar small victorious moments through your days, too. 

So, Mama, here's a tip: Read with your babes, yes, but with a twist. 

Believe it or not, I'm not a big fiction reader. I failed—literally got an F—in English when I was in sixth grade. Then I turned to dark and twisted books about drug addicts and the like...I'm sure it was some kind of cry for help or in relation to my traumatic child hood but, I digress.

I have a love for Scripture and its poetic books (Psalms, namely), and non-fiction books. But when I lost the boys the first time, I started reading A Wrinkle In Time to distract me from the heartache I was facing. I realized that classic fiction was a beautiful thing I needed to make time for. 

When I was nursing Scout—instead of queuing up the next Netflix binge (and I do love a good binge), I started reading A Little Princess to her. We kept going through bottle feeding and finished when she was close to a year old; those memories of reading a beautiful book on triumph in trial, and gentleness in both grief and persecution blessed my heart as much as I hoped it fed into her love for books. 

After T came along, it obviously was impossible to read a chapter book, nurse, and chase a toddler around all at once, so don't roll your eyes just yet—I won't paint an unrealistic picture for you. But now that Tennessee is active and loves exploring and pressing buttons in her sweet independent ways, my hands are a bit more free. Come 5 p.m. on Saturday nights, my girls and I turn off the screens and head upstairs to their playroom. I put Tennessee on the floor, free to roam, and Scout grabs her vintage copy of Little Women, and then I grab mine, and we sit in our rocking chairs side by side (the only difference is that she has her "lanky" aka blankie, in tow, as well). And we read—it takes an hour to get through ten pages, but we're doing it. And most days, these are the only moments Scout will snuggle up on my lap and remind me that she is still a baby, my baby. And she's learning that we don't touch the pages of our special books and that she has her own copies (collected from Flea Markets and used stores over time) to flip through; because is there anything better than flipping and folding the pages of an old book? 

We still read baby books and board books and practice our animal sounds, but reading a classic, thick novel, a story, has given me a confidence boost as a mom—a feeling of, well, I may have burnt the eggs today, but hey, I've read 50 pages of Little Women to my daughters in ten months and that's a win. 

Don't be afraid to pick up that classic Austen novel and reading two pages then putting it down because someone decided to start eating yesterdays forgotten spinach off the floor (just me?). 

Here are some books on our list to get you started: 

Jane Austen's Treasures

The Roald Dahl Treasury

Madeleine L'Engle: A Wrinkle in Time

Mary Wolstonecraft: A Vindication for the Rights of Women

  Frances Hodgson Burnett: The Secret Garden

Tell her she’s wild and free and that it’s good to run--that it’s not always safe, and her knees may get scraped but girl, it’s good to run. 

Tell her she’s strong. She’s able. She can be secure because she knows that back home she has a tribe of six more (four of them being boys+men) cheering her on-loud. TELL HER so loud that your cheers and “go”s and YES YOU CAN extinguishes all the cannot’s and no’s and sorry’s. 

Tell her she’s lovely. That she’s precious and pure and fragile and sweet. Because meek doesn’t mix with weak and yes, women, yes, we are fragile too. We need...no. We deserve a tender kind of love with hands that hold us like a delicate, antique china-not because we’re quick to break, but because we are a rare and lovely and hard to find-and impossible to replace. 

Tell her the heart she owns is impossible to replace. 

Tell her that the voice she’s been given is worth a listen. 

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. 

Because if we stay silent (moms, dads, sisters, brothers, mentors, aunts...) there are a flurry of other voices that are loud and strong and like to yell out obscene thoughts and define their delicate hearts and bodies and minds as something to be purchased, dismissed, or abused. 

Am I being too course? Too harsh? I surely hope I’m not the only one who sees this reality on billboards and commercials and, heck, even those Bratz dolls being sold in Target. 

Oh Mamas...this one is for you. Tell her. Tell her she’s worthy and lovely and freaking strong (depending on age...I encourage you say freaking for the emotional punch it brings). Yes, use your words, but use your actions too. Show her the strength that comes from being kind to a cashier that’s making your already frazzled hair grow a few more grays. Show her the courage that comes with weeping for the lost and extending your hand to the needy. Most of all, show her the warrior you are by the love you bear in the home-with your man, with your kids, with your Jesus, and, yes, even with yourself. 

Tell her. Because the silence will get filled. And you want a chorus of strength to be her resting cloud all of her days. Enjoy her. Show her. Teach her and guide her and watch her as she keeps growing taller. 

It’s been hard. All of it. It’s been tense and difficult and full and beautiful and and and...There’s a lot to it-it being this life we’ve chosen to accept with open arms as it was thrusted onto our laps.

Since having our second daughter, there’s been this emotional fragility in me that I’m not used to. Yes, I’ve always been sensitive, especially to things people would say about the boys or our loss, but with T, there’s this whole new layer of the void of my birth mom. She always told me what a terrible child I was, and my biggest fear is being anything like her-but there’s moments in the overwhelm or having two under two where my breathing cuts short and my mind goes dark that the record starts spinning You are just. like. her. 

These are the moments I have to sit and remind myself: I am a foster child too. 

I have an incredible family that’s stepped in to fill that cap-but there’s sixteen years of damage to, even after years of therapy and working the ish out, still explore and balm. 

My husband treads carefully. There are days of sweet exhaustion, where we go to bed facing each other and saying, Man...we do good. We are proud of the life we’ve chosen. Saying no was never an option in our minds, but when we have people remind us that it was truly a choice to say yes, we sit back and let God pat us on the back and say, Kids, you’ve done good. Keep at it. 

And then there are days like today, where we wake up early for an eight hour trauma informed parenting class that feels pointless because, honestly, we’ve been trauma informed parents for over five years, and yes, maybe we never sat through a class but, social services, you’re too late-our time is precious and I think an eight hour date or therapy session with my man would do a hell of a lot more good than watching you, paid and childless you, tell me how the state requires you to talk about this and to show me with your eyes that you don’t really care. And if I have to hear one more person tell me what a saint my husband is for marrying someone with “so much.....’stuff’” I think I might lose the tiny grip I have on it all. 

And maybe I’m wrong. Hopefully I’ll be surprised and proved wrong. I’m open to it. But man, I’m pooped. I’m tired and processing and dealing with layers and layers and layers of stuff. And loving on two girls and undoing years of heartache for three boys. And trying to cook Thanksgiving and budget Christmas and keep my houseclean and and and...

And I remember, I’m a foster child too. And my heart has been injured too. And we’re all in this together. My husband didn’t swoop away my “baggage” as some have called it. He saw me with my hands (willingly) in the mud, and sat beside me and shoved his hands next to mine. We’re in it together. And we’re in it for good. And we’re learning and in process and and and...

We kept Tennessee’s name a secret throughout our pregnancy because, we learned with Scout that a name is something sacred and beautiful and thought through by parents that sometimes, when shared with misunderstanding ears, can be mistaken for an opportunity to share an opinion or observation on a name. Like...I’m sorry cashier at the thrift store, you aren’t going to sway me from naming my daughter. But thanks for your input and putting me in a bad mood. It happened a few times with Scout, and Tennessee was such a precious name to us, we weren’t going to risk having the excitement of her sweet title poked and prodded at, so we kept it to ourselves. 

We held the name with delicate hands, and it’s almost a prophetic statement to her delicate character we’ve gotten to know this past month. Many people have asked the hows and whys behind our Sweet T’s name, and I figure her one month birthday is as good a day as any to share it. 

Scout, according to the dictionary, means “The First Explorer,” and we’ve seen her live up to that name more and more as she becomes a little-toddler-lady. I’ve tried everything to get her to follow me. Bribery, pretending I’m leaving (which I hate), dangling treats...but she always finds a way to run about a yard or two ahead of me, right up to strangers, and offer her hellos-today it was to a sweet elderly couple. It made their day-what a testament to the lady she’s becoming. 

We saw the meaning behind Scout’s name, along with our prayers for fearlessness, come into fruition early on, and we wanted the same thing for our second daughter-just with her own characteristics and strengths and little perks that evolve over time. 

For us, Tennessee (the state) has always held this sacred fantasy of slow living and fine music. Will and I have a relationship that really started with a foundation of Jesus (of course) and music (ok...and Friday Night Lights but...different story different day). Our favorite musicians are all from Tennessee, our first concert together was sweet sweet Ellie and Drew, and they also sang our first dance song (not live obviously but that would have been a dream). From the time we were married, we talked about the dream of venturing out to the land of floating leaves and old buildings and changing seasons. We knew it was a distant dream because of our life’s circumstances, but it was very real dream nonetheless. 

As we’ve grown into our second year of marriage, and out of the newlywed phase, we look back at pictures of our engagement and laugh at how young we look. We may still be young, in marriage and in years, but we’ve experienced a lot that has aged us, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. But we think this is what makes our marriage beautiful. We carry some old souls within these young bodies, and we want the same for our Tennessee. That the wisdom and experience she faces from even the earliest of days gives her a spirit of wisdom and depth that can only replicate the beauty of the architecture you see walking around Franklin in fall. 

Wisdom, depth, new life that comes with seasons that we Californians will never fully understand-Tennessee carries these in her name. The slowness and simplicity of life and love that we hear of in songs about Tennessee (the state) give us a feeling of home, even from miles and miles away. So while Scout may be our adventurer, T may be our homecoming. Because both are beautiful, and we need both to grow and be sustained, and our prayer is that these sisters will balance each other out with their own stories and experiences, and that T keeps her safe, Scout keeps her wild. 

In one month we’ve experienced: 

T is obviously the runt of five. She’s precious and delicate and sweet...until you mess with her (as in her position if she’s sleeping, or set her down when she’s being held). She may be tiny, but she is fierce with her lungs. That’s something new for us. 

She’s a cuddle bug who wants to be held and close to me at all times. Again, very new. But I’m not complaining. 

She likes to wear neutral colors (ok ok she doesn’t have a choice but they so fit her personality). 

Singing “Tennessee” by Drew and Ellie Holcomb immediately calms her. 

She also barfed all over me today. Happy One Month to me!

We were sitting at our kitchen table and something hit me-

Pain is key on the route to redemption. 

I can’t remember who or what we were talking about specifically; I can’t remember what ache we were reminiscing on...But it was this cool wave of insight and realization that came over me all at once, not in a overwhelming drowning sort of way, but, more like a gentle ocean breeze. One I said it to him, I stopped. And blinked. And let the truth of that statement permeate my own heart. 

R.E.D.E.M.P.T.I.O.N. -it’s always at the top of our list, instagram and facebook profiles, the height of the worship service...it’s what we like to focus on first because, let’s be honest, it feels great. I am redeemed. I am loved. I am restored. I am new. Yes! Yes. Truth. 

But what if we took a minute to sit in the Saturday (yes, the day between Good Friday, when Jesus died, and Sunday, where Christ was raised) instead of building a bridge, skipping the day of feeling the loss’ weight...

Because, the truth is, the joy we experience with the morning is a followup to the dark night we felt. 

We are adopted because we were once orphans. Fatherless, motherless, dirty, lost, with nothing. 

We are able to experience the joy of foster parenting and adoption because there are parents out there who would rather kiss their addictions than their kids goodnight. 

We are able to lift our hands in worship, because Christ-perfect, precious Christ-died a violent and painful death to suffer in our place. 

We are able to rejoice at our hearts’ healing in a Gentle but Firm Father’s hands, because they were once shattered by careless hands. 

The very very best things in life are preluded by pain-the ones that leave a significant mark on our hearts, souls, very being bear a dim reflection of what preceded the joy of the experience. Don’t forget to acknowledge the ache, and thank it, for making the joy as sweet as it is. 

I looked at him, my husband, the one who I’ve probably hurt more times than I care to count, the one who I’ve experienced joy beyond measure, with all tears and laughter that come with both emotions, and we swallowed and sat in that truth like the children we are. Then sat at our table and finished our apple pie and tea, and went to be grateful for all that’s been provided and restored in our own lives and hearts through the various pains and circumstances we’ve faced over three years of marriage and the course of our lives. 

I’ve started and restarted this post a few times-whether on paper or in my head. This is a day we’ve been imagining and dreaming of and envisioning for almost five years...The day, for lack of a better image, that the umbilical cord for us could be cut, and that we, as kids, would experience freedom. 

I can’t help but include myself in this victory day because, in all truth, nothing has reminded me more of being beaten and shattered, all physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually, throughout my childhood, than being placed in the position of defending the boys in the process. 

This time has been different...so so so different. I’m not alone (huge difference...numero uno difference). I have a husband who sits with me in court dates and meetings with social workers and reminds me to speak up and sends me away to take breaks. I’m not at the mercy of the courts and social services will-I’m standing on my own two feet, hand in hand with a great man who believes in the power of the Freedom Fighter, Jesus, and sees the brokenness of the system with me. He reminds me that I’m not crazy and blocks unwarranted people and numbers from my line of contact. The woman who caged me with fear and irrationality and instability as a child used to hold the same power to do the same, even when I was twenty-two, by saying things like, “You don’t remember? You gave yourself that black eye. I was always a good mom,” or “don’t you remember how much you loved me as a child? It’s a shame you grew up to be who you are, I’m ashamed of you,” and so on and so forth; and, although I could tell myself and know in my head that none of what she said was rational and true, all we want as girls, as women with these little girls still aching inside of us, is to hear our mommies say, “girl, you did good, and I am proud of the beauty that is you...”

This time around, I have used my voice-even though it shakes and trembles and fears being misunderstood or twisted to prove a point, to prove a point that my mom and her attorneys have attempted to construct since day one...that this was my master plan to get back at my mom for all the years of abuse...

I denied the lies, and fought the fear of how I would be interpreted and fought hard for what was right. 

But this time we had social workers and attorneys that were for our boys, which is all we ever wanted. 

And today, we watched first hand one of our cubs find his voice with great courage. He sat and joked with the judge. He told them what he knew to be true, and what he’s learned in the three months since living with us (this time around): that a mommy is never supposed to call you names and try to define you as worthless. that a mommy is someone who is supposed to make you icky food you don’t like...because it’s healthy...not let you run into a liquor store at 6am for an iced tea and taki chips, or let you go hungry at night. that a mommy is the adult and a mommy isn’t supposed to make you be the one to teach your brother to read or write or tie his shoes...because that’s what mommies do. They care for you, they defend you, they watch and love and build you up-no matter if their perfect or imperfect or somewhere in between, they do this right. 

Today, my mom, the woman who gave birth to me almost 26 years ago, the woman who carried me and has pictures of me in her belly, and who bought me a bunny when I was three (named Jellybean), who took me to Europe on a whim and signed me up for all kinds of dance-but who is sick, who can’t love me because she can’t love herself, who called me terrible names and told me she hated me starting when I was ten, who accused me of sleeping with husbands of hers and exposed me to things little girls were never meant to question or understand-lost her rights to be a mommy. She had four chances, four little people put in her care starting 26 years ago, and all four are now free and cut from her opportunity to try to care. 

And my heart grieves for her. She walked out of the courtroom smiling because...maybe she didn’t know what else to do with her face or thoughts. That’s been her M.O. for as long as I’ve been able to observe her: don’t face the ways you’ve hurt people. Don’t face yourself, and never apologize-it truly is always always always someone else’s fault, someone else problem...even if it’s her own child, someone else is always to blame for the black-eye or car accident or drinking.

Today, we cry freedom. Today we celebrate the new, and real, normal. And today, we grieve for a birth-mom who’s lost her opportunity to be a mommy, forever. Our feelings are complicated and our hearts are full of competing feelings. But we are grateful beyond measure for a God who stood up for three precious cubs that have forever changed how we view family and how we walk as Mommy and Daddy. 

This is not our “gotcha day” yet...but this is a day where we feel like we’ve just burst through the ribbon at the end of a five year marathon, where our chests are burning from running so long and we are heaving for air and covered in sweat and tears and who knows what else because we haven’t stopped. We’ve never stopped until we crossed this line. 

And all the ground we’ve ran over, all the miles that our feet have trampled on throughout the marathon, we’ve beaten it all. It’s all dust behind us-26, 17, 12, and (almost) 7 years of dust and dirt has been crushed by our running forward. And now that we’ve crossed and ripped through that golden ribbon, we’re too overwhelmed with all the feels to let ourselves look back. 

We’ve been in a constant state of transition since we were dating. It started in October 2014 when the attorney came out of the courtroom, on a Tuesday, to inform me that the boys would be reunified that Friday. No TDM (team decision meeting), no time to process, and no explanation. It just wasn’t bad enough, was their reason. 

Will and I got engaged two months later, then married six months after that, pregnant two weeks after-all the while being in full time  ministry, together...but separate. Our wedding was a bittersweet celebration. There was great joy and it was quite the party (to say the least). We danced and ate and worshipped, but we also invited people into a delicate side of the story-Will sang our vows “You, me and the other three” to recognize and honor that two VIPs were missing that day. We hadn’t seen them in nearly three months at that point. 

On our honeymoon, we made a last minute detour to Santa Cruz. We walked to the boardwalk and sat and cried watching the rides and mommies and daddies holding giddy, wiggly hands because we missed our little lost boys in that moment too much. 

In the midst of these moments of sheer pain and anguish, people...well intentioned people...made comments like This is time for you and Will to be married and enjoy the newlywed life, like they forgot that we still had a teen in our home and two little boys in our hearts, everywhere with us. They forgot that our newlywed life would never be a normal newlywed life because it was marked and started on a racetrack with grief. And there were moments of sheer bliss. Yes yes indeed, but man oh man was there grief, too. 

When we found out we were pregnant, there was well...first, a feeling of “wait, what..” We didn’t even think it was possible that fast! Followed by joy, followed by months of grief. Hard grief-and when times were light, times were light; like when we found out Scout was, indeed, our precious Scout, and when we got to see her dancing and making herself comfortable on the ultrasounds, and as we watched my belly grow to hold her a little longer. But in between all the bigger days, there were the normal days where tears were my food and my pillow was soaked and Will was lost at how to comfort me because I had lost a piece of me-two pieces of me were stolen, and I didn’t know if they would ever come back or not but somehow, my grief was my form of hope. The book was left open. And then we had Scout and we would laugh in the car thinking of the ways our Cubs would react to her growing, how we longed for them to meet her, to see her to know her, and gratitude and sorrow co-existed with each and every breath of each and every day. 

And, in the midst of all this, ministry. Full time ministry. And newly married, way too newly married. We felt like we were constantly lost in a break of a wave-where the white foam blinds you and you can’t feel up from down until the sand scratches your eyes or skin. We were tumbling and fighting and missing each other because I was feeling missed. My grief, that was a reality for me everyday, was a burden, a thing deeply misunderstood, a weakness, or a conversation starter for some. And my husband was caught in the middle of defending the church he loved and the wife he chose. And I was caught in the middle of feeling pushed to “put [my]self out there” by well-meaning people, and feeling called by God to hold myself back and let me feel. There was a sacred invitation in that time to hold onto the hope that only grief can offer, but, unfortunately, people didn’t know how to handle it, and I didn’t know how to express it and the two combined collided-needs weren’t met and hearts were disappointed, and all the while, I’m trying to figure out this whole “Pastor’s Wife Life” thing, and just not fitting in anywhere. 

There were so many moments of “man, I wish they knew me before the boys. I was so whole before this happened,” -have you ever felt that way? The wish that people just knew you at your prime, before the pain or the cancer or the death or trauma...if they only knew how capable and strong you once were, right? But, the truth is, when the event hits that you think will completely shatter and break you, the one that stops your heart and makes you weak...it’s the key to being human, the key to your ministry, and the key to you becoming more fully you and more fully available to sit with people in their own grief and hope breathing pattern and say, I know. And it’s ok, without the need to fix or wrap or dismiss. 

And something happened. I realized that I wasn’t alone in feeling this way, like I thought I was, and that there were people who wanted to walk with us, and a final straw came where I looked at Will and said, “I can’t. I’m done,” and he said “Okay, I get it now.” And that was the moment where we decided to stop battling each other and choose to latch hands, move forward together...finally, together...and to walk tall into the wave break, rather than letting the whitewash rule over us. We’ve stepped out, and we’ve dipped our toes in the water of transition, and learned from the times we’ve let the transition break us and other relationships, and have accepted the ways we’ve let it shape us. And we’ve taken a step back and thanked the pain for teaching us, and thanked the battle wounds for scarring us and showing us what we and others desperately need and are looking for, and have stepped into our new normal. We’ve kissed transition goodnight for the time being and have renamed it, rather, reclaimed it, for what it truly is: a moment to catch your breath before redemption, a moment to experience deep calling out-a new branch of life and learning in our relationship with God, and an opportunity to learn how to love people in their seasons of ache and wonder and confusion-when all they can see is the water and all they can feel is the scratching of the sand. 

Because...one more Mother’s Day post can’t hurt. 

It’s a messy day for lots of reasons. It’s a painful day for some, a celebration for many-and awkward for most. Do you talk about it from the pulpit? Do you ignore it’s existence? What the heck do we do with this day. 

I’ve written and read my fair share of opinions, but there’s this overlooked population of people, caretakers, that tends to get forgotten in general, but especially on this day: The Misters. 

Now, let me explain what a Mister is. A Mister is a term of endearment given to me by Young Buck, my oldest of three little brothers. my brothers (Young Bug, Cub, Tiny Cub) were put into my care four years ago, after being removed from our bio mom by CPS. It was a necessary removal for their safety and well being. One day, my Young Buck looked at me and said, You’re my Mister-my mom and my sister. 

I’ve lived and loved this title everyday since. 

Foster parenting is complicated in general. You’re caretaker, you’re mom, but sometimes you’re viewed (or told by Social Services like me) as a glorified babysitter. You fall in love, but are living in fear of your heart being ripped from your chest because one court date and it could all be over. All the hours of rides and therapy and cuddles and kisses could be taken in a snap...But reunification, if done truly truly truly in the benefit of the child (which, in my opinion, is a rare find) can be a beautiful and good and holy thing. 

Now, add another layer to it. 

Imagine with me, that the person who has caused the baby or child you took home from the hospital, or had dropped off at your doorstep with one shoe and clothes on his back, or that was so severely underweight he looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks when placed in your home, was abused and/or neglected by the same person who abused or neglected you. 

You know their patterns. You can hear the stories from your fostered babes and see the drunken slurs and angry rants and feel the slap. The sting is one you actually know, you can’t even imagine because you just know. 

And, for the sake of the child, you separate yourself and your experience because it’s not about you. This time, it’s about them, and their healing and their growing up to be strong, capable people. And oh you get the joy to do that because, hopefully, someone did that for you too. 

As a Mister, you get pegged in court as an angry orphan, trying to get back at your bio mom for all the pain she’s caused by taking her kids. You’re voiceless and tied down from all but screaming, YOU DON’T GET IT. I have nothing but compassion for my abuser. Nothing but compassion and sadness. But I cannot and will not stopped fighting for these kids to have the best life because that’s what I promised to do. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do? 

Yep, as a foster parent, you promise to do everything you can to fight for the wellbeing of the child. “It’s your job to fight,” they’ll tell you. Unless you’re a Mister. If you speak up and fight, oh it could shed you in a poor poor light. 

Because the history there is ugly. Even if you’ve been redeemed and rescued. You have a Mom, a new Mom who’s taught you and gave you away at your wedding day and you’ve been a mom to a precious precious babe and you’re healthy and thriving and all that goes in between, as a Mister, your voice is a hard one to hear, because courts don’t like complicated, Darling. And bio-mom’s patterns are the same as ten years ago, and if you bring this to light, well, girl, you’re just a little too “attached” they think. 

As a Mister, on Mother’s Day, people sheepishly smile and say “Happy Mother’s Day?” and some respond great by saying you do good and I see you with a card and a cupcake at your door. Some people ignore it, or ask you how your “first” mother’s day is after you have a bio-babe, forgetting the fact that you have a 17 year old who you buy milk for and go to every game is with you, too. Or, some, just say nothing. And honestly...there’s no right answer. Because this day is messy and hard. Because, all the while, as a Mister, you’re grieving that fact that your mom, the one your heart aches to call “mommy” and hug, is incapable of loving you, of seeing you, of saying, Girl, you do good, because she’s accepted a toxin’s temptation over ever loving you. 

So, do me a favor this Mother’s Day-not for me, but for all the Mister’s and Survivors and sisters out there, will you? Remember that this day is complicated. And it deserves to be treated with care and delicate hands. There’s no right way, there’s no easy prayer, but there is God-given qualities like empathy and a simple touch that can make all the difference. Everyone has a story with Motherhood-whether with their own mom or in growing into becoming a mom, and those fragile hearts have to be handled with care. It’s not a perfectly kept and wrapped day or phrase that can heal all-but I think with the wisdom God promises, and a pause before speaking, and the recognition that yes, even your story has broken and shattered pieces (so don’t try to fix others’ pain...embrace it) and grace, abundant grace, we can start the healing process together in recognizing that we are all walking this journey with a sacred limp. 

Mother’s Day for a Mister is messy, as it is for many other women and mommies and sisters and friends-it deserves to be carried with delicate hands and careful phrases. It’s a day to remember and grieve the loss of a childhood you never had, or the loss of a child. It’s a day to grieve the loss of the mom you loved, or who just could never love you for whatever reason. It’s a day to grieve the waiting, the loss, and the surrender you are continually called to give. 

I took great pride in thinking I would never be one of “those moms...”

You know...the ones who cared deeply about their babe’s first birthday; who spend ridiculous amounts of money on an event that their baby would never recall at bedtime pillow talks...Nope, not me. I don’t care. Look how much I don’t care.

But...I was wrong. As the day approached, the vision became more and more clear, and the dream, the excitement, the anticipation of the day became more and more real. I had turned into a mom that cared about my baby’s first birthday party.

And I feel zero shame about it. This day was beautiful and filled with so much love and grace and the testimony of community (as has become a common theme in our story). It all came together 15 minutes before the guests arrived; I pitched the vision, and gave friends the trust and free reign to go and be wild in their creative selves, because, truth be told, our girl is wild and free and all that you would guess with that curly hair and saucy side smile...and we believe she will be an agent of freedom and healing for others-inviting them to just be their creative and beautiful selves and run in sweet freedom in the direction their hearts’ (with the Spirit’s prompting) calls.

Be Wild, Sweet Child.

This is our prayer for you, Girl, as we grow tired quickly chasing you around and around, and as we delight in you daily with your sweet and tender and external sunshine-bursts of joy. Oh, stay wild, sweet child, as you listen and hear and wait and go after His call. Heartache will come, and waiting will tempt you to quit and curl up, but Sweet Child, we’ll cry and wait and pray with you as you endure. And we’ll be behind you to pick you up, kiss the wounds and hold you tight...then pat you on the behind, as if to say, c’mon girl, there’s more life to see.  

STAY WILD, SWEET CHILD, as people and systems and culture tells you, “fit this mold, fit that, and hey, this one too...you’ve gotta keep up...” because, sweet, sweet child-you can only be caught up by the walls you put around yourself-no one else can contain you. So don’t let those fools fool you. If you hear a Wild Roar inside you, and if you’ve sat and listened and prayed...oh Girl...GO. Run fast and free and flip the bird at those who tell you to slow down and conform, because Sass and Beauty and Grace can all exist in one small package.

And please, Sweet Sister, remind me of these words, and remind me of these prayers that I’ve prayed: But Mama, you prayed for me to be fearless. But Mama you prayed for me to be brave and strong. But Mama, God is saying, ‘Go, Girl. Go go go. I am with you always,’ so I have to fly!

And I’ll say and remember how right you are as you let my hand go to follow the bigger picture. We’ll pray for you and watch you fly with some knee scrapes along the way, and I’ll always keep the kettle warm for tea with you.

Oh Sweet, Sweet Child...the love we carry for you is heavy and fiery and passionate and strong. But the Love of God...oh Girl(!)...now that’s a relentless kind we cannot match in our human existence.

Thank you thank you thank you Jesus for making me Scout’s Mama. This is just the beginning.

Loss. It’s a real thing, believe it or not. Everyone has experienced it-from a baby losing their favorite toy at the park, to a child losing a tooth, to a teen losing a grandparent, to a death, divorce, abandonment, betrayal-we have this in common. We have all experienced loss and death in some capacity. Some people run from the reality, some can’t get out of bed, and others rise out of the dust of their loss with a new roar. 

Two weeks ago, we received a call that we had been waiting for for two years. I knew the call would come again-at least, a part of me hoped it would, another part of me dreaded it because it meant something terrible had happened to the kids my heart has claimed as its own. The call that says, Sally this is CPS. We have your brothers. 

We started the process of getting our home approved and background checked within the half hour, and five hours later, we picked up our cubs from a room stuffed with kids waiting to be picked up, all different ages-infant to preteen. In the midst of all the hustle of getting our boys back, I feel like the memory goes into slow motion as I still see the nameless faces of the kids and babies just waiting to be hugged, held, or have spit up wiped off their faces, amongst the television and pull out couches that surrounded them. 

We were reunited with our cubs, and brought them into a new home with Scout in our room, and their room transformed into a boys room in a matter of minutes (because some great friends strapped their baby to their chest and said, yep we’ll be there). 

A lot of people have been asking how the past two weeks have been; are you so happy? has been the most common question. And yes, we are. But it’s complicated. 

Because, honestly? I look at them and I grieve that there are two years of lost time. The baby I weaned from the bottle has grown into a Little Cub who wants to play soccer and the fiery seven year old has turned into a preteen and I’ve lost time. We have all lost sacred time with them. 

And I’m angry. I’m angry that I was told, a little less than two years ago, that it just wasn’t bad enough of a case to keep them from the one who wrecks their spirits, hearts, and bodies. The one who drags them up stairs and calls them unrepeatable names. The court, Orange County Juvenile Court, the judge, the system...They said it just wasn’t all that bad. 

But Will and I see the consequences front and center of “just not bad enough” in our home now. We see what the trauma of fear o punishment can do to a little boy who used to be spirited and silly and loud, and what verbal abuse could do to a once strong willed, wise guy. It shreds them. It brings them to a point of losing who they are in the midst of being told how lowly their own mom thinks of them. 

We are praying for a miracle here, folks. We don’t share this to tear anyone down, but to share the reality of the problem. These issues are real, and they should make you uncomfortable, uneasy, and sad, because they are not intended by the Maker of Heaven. God never intended his children to be abused. God never intended for Orphans to exist (yes...there are indeed Orphans in Orange County whether they admit it or not). And these facts, if you have a taste of God’s goodness in your heart, his justice, kindness, and mercy, should make you angry and desire change. We are asking you to pray for this with us. We want this chapter of the storm and devastation to end for our Cubs. 

So yes, like the verse says, Hope Deferred makes the heart sick, but a Desire Fulfilled is a Tree of Life (Proverbs 13:12)...there is a desire that has been fulfilled here. Will and I have never felt so complete and sure of the fact that not only are we doing exactly what we were always meant to do, but we’re experiencing a glimpse of refreshment, feeling like this is the way life was always meant to be. There’s beauty in that. Our house is full, and so are our hearts. 

Last week, my husband and I watched the American Idol Farewell Season premiere, and something happened that made us cringe.

Yes, there was a fair share of bad auditions, but these (honestly) make me shrill with delight. What really charred our appetite was an audition featuring a husband and wife, individual contestants, who happened go into their audition at the same time, with their baby girl. The wife sang, got told she was good...but just not good enough, and that her baby was distractingly cute. The husband got put through the next round...To make it more painful, after the wife was rejected, she held the baby and watched the judges ooh and ahh at her husband’s talent, literally inches away.

As if this wasn't heart wrenching and awkward enough, what followed made my husband and I go to bed tossing and turning. In a candid, yet skillfully captured, moment, the wife is in tears, and she turns to (and on) her husband and says "I've never been good enough...I watch you follow your dreams..." through her sobs.

My husband and I looked at each other and back at the screen and made a series of grunts and groans and "AGHS" -it was literally painful for us to watch...

And the main reason is because it was way too familiar.

It hit so close to home for us. We've had that conversation. I've shed those tears. Will's looked at me with the same surprise at the pain. We both resonated with the wife who just felt shattered, and had compassion on the husband who had no idea what he was doing could cause such pain.

We walked upstairs and Will said shyly, I just can't stop thinking about that couple. It literally stung our hearts for a solid amount of time.

I knew marrying a pastor had it's share of trials and joys: lack of privacy, unwarranted exposure, late nights and a full time (unpaid) job for me. But I never could have imagined the sense of competition I would face.

No...I don't want to steal Will's electric guitar and be the star of the show. I don't want to be a worship leader aside from with my husband. But there were months when I would get stopped in the grocery store, or calls at work (when I worked at the same church as Will) where people would ask me if I knew the worship leader, because he's just so darn talented. 

And, just to clear the air, I totally agree, my husband is hot and talented and humble as all get go. But I just had begun to hear so much about him, and nothing about me, the wife who stayed in a city she never wanted to live in, who sacrificed time with her husband, time as a family, and time for herself in the name of ministry, the wife who stays home and works hard to create a refuge for her family, and for the rotating door of guests...And I felt lost in the midst of the Costco runs and late night meetings. 

So...we fought. Multiple times. About the same thing. We often didn't know it was about the same thing, but the same hurt came up every time...I gave (insert career, ministry, comfort, vacation) up for you. I never wanted this. I am more than this.

In the midst of wanting to be noticed, I lost my focus that should have rested on being my husband’s best friend. 

So, when we see this displayed to America across the screen in our living room, fighting everything in us not to jump off the couch and shut it off in aching discomfort, we recognized all kinds of feelings we've been working through. Will knowing what it's like to be the husband who just didn't know, but also being able to look at the wife with complete compassion, because, after holding and fighting and entering the hard conversations, he is starting to get what it's like on the other side, too.

And him knowing, now (after lots of "conversations") how necessary it is for me to hear my frustrations are warranted, that I'm seen first by God, and second by him, and that he's grateful and proud has made all the difference for us. Will's success is my success. And he doesn’t carry my passions lightly.

His dreams are my dreams, but he encourages me to pursue my own, apart from worship with him, because there's a necessity for us to see each other, hear each other, and feel each other cheering. Marriage is a marathon, not a sprint, and so are dreams. What an honor to be in a lifetime job to be someone's cheerleader, coach, or shoulder, and to root each other on in the pursuit of the big and small things. 

In a time where social media has the ability to temporarily, and superficially, fill the heart’s “notice me!” cry, it’s too easy to get caught up in the search for our own significance. My significance rests in my servanthood-to my husband, my children, my job, and church. I don’t need extra merit or a name tag because I know my biggest fan is waiting for me at home, to hold my hand as I rest easy in bed. I don’t need the approval of man, because the approval of man is trumped by the approval of God, and I have that stamp sealed on my heart. 

Our marriage is far from perfect (are you surprised? I certainly hope not!). We argue, disagree, I’m selfish, so is Will. I’ve said it many times: Marriage is not for the faint of heart. It’s hard you guys, for anyone.

Specifically, today I am talking to those lucky few with stories of massive redemption. People who were once identified as orphans, now forever chosen; those with a history of hardship, a messy past, a sticky story...What about those who have experienced the realness of Christ as a result of their pain, before being married? Marriage is hard for anyone, but there’s some significant and unique circumstances that come up when you come from a broken home. 

Here’s how Will and I have made intentional choices to fight for health in our marriage, when we both come from our own version of crap-central (yes, I said that): 

1. We go to counseling.

We have gone to therapy since the beginning of our engagement. Nothing was wrong. We weren’t even really fighting. We just knew our circumstances were different than most new married couples (because of me fostering as a single for so long) and that our stories required some unpacking. Nothing could have prepared us for the amount of things we’ve worked through in our two years in therapy. I cannot recommend it enough. For anyone. Place the stigmas to rest and realize, if you are going to step into therapy, it’s probably because you’re the healthy one in the storm and you are able to step out whole. The things Will and I have discovered about ourselves and each other, the ways we’ve learned to communicate, I can’t vouch for it enough...We’ve been able to heal together, and that’s special. 

2. We let each other cry. 

So. many. tears. There have been nights where the bills are piling or Will’s job is just hard to navigate (for both of us) and we just cry. I listen to Will say that it’s hard. I agree. And I listen. And then, in other circumstances, he does the same. We don’t try to fix. We don’t try to lecture. We just say, “Yup. This sucks. I’m so sorry honey,” and let the other just feel whatever they need to feel. And sometimes, I have to remind him, “please, stop talking, and just listen.” And guess what his reaction is? “Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry.”

3. We get mad for each other. 

Even when I’m wrong, I sometimes just need to hear Will say he’s upset on my behalf. That he is on my side, and that he is for me; that he’s going to march up to that person who made me sad and give them a piece of his mind. 

This took time. And counsel. Will had to learn that he’s on my team now, and all his other loyalties (except to God, of course) were secondary. We went through a rough season of him defending and reasoning, “yea, but babe...a, b, c, d.” And me shutting down in response. What we learned was, after having a mom that was not only not a defender of me, but out to literally destroy me, that I just needed to know Will was on my side, even when I was just venting. And I do the same for him. 

I, on the other hand, am actually really good at this, in a really bad way...I’m his number one fan and number one protector. If you try to hurt him, take advantage of him, or dishonor him in anyway, you should watch out. And you will hear from me. It’s something I like to call “little dog syndrome.” 

4. We separate what’s “me” and what’s “them.” 

What I mean by this is, if Will comes home, and I’m snappy and not wanting to talk, he usually knows it’s not something he did, but it’s something happening outside of our control. Whether it was a rough day with the baby or a holiday that reminds me of losing the boys is approaching, I’ll probably start complaining about the need to clean the house. And Will’s response? He invites me to rest, to get alone time, and does something to alleviate the stress, like do the dishes. Even if my behavior raises anxiety in him he talks himself down and reminds himself, first, that this isn’t necessarily about him. This is me, and my junk, and I’m still a baby in trying to work through it all. 

I am not in any way saying it’s good to take out our stuff on our spouses. I am, however, coming from the perspective of a woman who grow up in a destructive home, and unless you’ve been there, you can never understand the impact it has on all your marriages, but most of all your marriage. It’s inevitable that things come up, and sometimes the “thing” is too hard to utter. As I learn to communicate what’s going on in the midst of my analysis paralysis, he reminds himself of what’s actually happening, and where this is coming from. This is where fight, flight, or freeze comes into play, and when it is absolutely necessary to know what your partner’s MO is. 

6. We laugh and pray together. 

Sometimes, we just bust out in laughter in the middle of our biggest fights. It’s usually because we realize we (eh...I’m) just fighting out of stubbornness. We could be in the middle of a fight, and in the next moment I have tears rolling down my cheeks from laughing so hard. Just because marriage is hard doesn’t mean it’s not fun! Gosh, if I could remember these early days as full of laughter, that’s a win in my books. 

I would love to tell you we pray after every fight. That we pray together every night and every morning and before we get intimate or...you get the idea. But we don’t. Not always. A lot of times, it’s me waiting for him to take ownership as the pastor of our home, or it’s him not even thinking about prayer and me feeling too vulnerable to take the one step deeper. But when we say it out loud, I think we should pray, or can you pray for me, we make it count. Even when we’re not “feeling it” or spiritually wiped out, we do it and it is an engrained reminder for the next time, when we are spiraling and having that what the heck is going on kind of week. God is faithful to remind us, gently, that we’ve forgotten our first love (Him) and let other things (even good things: church, kids, each other) steal our focus. He reels us back in and reminds us that He is our home, and nothing is more powerful than when we come to Him united. 

Last night, when Will and I were watching Modern Family, we were intrigued by this quote: "Why do we choose partners so different from ourselves? It's not fate or chance or clichés like 'the heart wants what the heart wants.'" "We choose our partners because they represent the unfinished business from our childhood."

There is so much unfinished business, whether it be pain or joy, that stems from our childhood. It’s necessary to work through, and it’s a lifetime of learning; but I love that I get to do it together. 

“If I were asked to give what I consider the single most useful bit of advice for all humanity, it would be this: Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life, and when it comes, hold your head high. Look it squarely in the eye and say, ‘I will be bigger than you. You cannot defeat me.’ Then, repeat to yourself the most comforting words of all, ‘This too will pass.’ -Ann Landers

Most of you have heard my story, or at least, heard bits and pieces of it. It’s marked by pain, redemption, more pain, then more redemption...a whole lot of grace and beautification. It’s a process of renewal and a process of becoming (becoming what? I guess we will see). 

Because of this story-no matter how much beauty I’ve found in the struggle, in the dirt and adoption and breaking ground, I’m desperate to preserve My Girl from those same aches. I’ve made unrealistic commitments in my heart about what mommying will look like from me, all the fun we’ll have together and all the evil I’ll protect her from. We’ll run through the fields and frolic together where no injures can touch us! We’ll be free! 

But (obviously) life isn’t that “free.” There are aches and pains that hit suddenly. There are traumas even those with the best-of-lives face. We’ve all heard the stories that can swell the tellers eyes with tears instantly, no matter how blessed they are. 

There will be pains I will not be able to prevent. No bandaid can fix, no kisses can heal. It is inevitable, in the forces of this world, that pain will strike swiftly, and it will be complicated and she will carry it on her own. 

This has been a record-playing thought in my mama brain this week (not original...we’ve watched Inside Out almost four times): there will be pains I can’t protect her from. 

My happy-go-lucky, free spirit girl will cry secret tears in the bathroom. She will see and hear things about herself she won’t like, and she will have secret imposing lies and battles she thinks she’s lost. 

And Jesus will call me to wait. 

As much as I want to rescue, I will be called to wait, and let the struggle grow her and mold her and shape her not into who I want her to be, but who Christ has called her to be. 

And my heart will (it already is) crying out to the Lord, asking if I could just take those aches for her. Can I just carry them for her, Lord? Because I can handle them. I can handle my own tears. Hers? Oh no, Lord. I can’t do that. 

And the Lord reminds me of the ache he faced when He let Christ hang on the tree--for my sake. For her sake. So that these secret tears won’t be in vain, but for His glory, and he good. For the sake of the world and the legacy she’ll leave. 

My role is to teach her the hardest lesson I’ll ever know-to live in the struggle well. To know it’s ok to be sad, and it’s alright to be mad. Just know the beauty will come from the struggle if not today then in eternity when we’ll watch the Great Tale unfold in ways we never thought possible. 

In my helplessness to heal her wounds, I will teach her that we are never truly helpless, but helped by a God who offers His strong hand to hold and hang onto, no matter how weak our grip. 

In my brokenness in seeing her breaking, I will teach her to linger and let the process be, no only for herself but for those around her. To take a step forward and say “it’s ok to be sad today.” 

In my relinquishing of control (oh sweet, sweet, control...how i love thee...let me count the ways...)-I will teach My Girl the sweetness of surrender and release. 

And in that sweet release, we will learn together to receive. 

There are many many lessons to be learned and taught that will be impossible to do on my own. But my intention is to rely on Christ as I learn, to relinquish, then share what I’ve learned in the process; embracing this blessed mess, and admitting I don’t have it together, all figured out, and letting the waves of Mercy teach My Girl what needs to be taught so that the struggle will not remain as just so, but will grow into a beautiful time in her unfolding story. 

Something has been irking me lately. It’s this feeling every time someone asks about the boys, or how our “situation” is, or if we see them...Something pangs my insides and hits me like vinegar on an open wound. 

Overtime, we’ve seen a lot of our relationships shift; some even deteriorate. My brokenness in this season (this two year long so far season) is still very gaping; some days I feel whole again, like nothing can steal the lightness of life from me again; others, and most, I feel like I am sinking in quicksand. 

But, as I go through my process, and live out my story, I’ve noticed something that I think may be the root of my irk-

I am not a victim. 

But a lot of times, I am treated or seen as such. There’s this confusion and complication that comes with my story (it has the same feel as the “I’m my own grandpa” song, but it’s more like I was my brothers’ mother even though we were all birthed from the same woman). People want to know the hows and whys (was your mom just unfit? --was the most recent of probes with a new meet and greet). I try to explain the but Jesus part of it: yes, but God told me months before to get ready girl, something big is coming. yes, but Jesus is more real than the pain, and he says he’ll sit with me as I cry--will you? 

I often leave conversations with people about the boys feeling defeated and depressed. And, I realize more than anyone this is a complicated situation, and there’s no right thing to say. But what I want to get across is this truth: 

I am not a victim. 

Because, yes, the pain is very real-but Oh in that pain, how all the more real is the beauty? SOMETHING springs forth in our desert places. I have to believe that SOMETHING will grow from this heartache situation. 

And I say this not to get more tender glances or comments of understanding-I don’t share my story on social media and through writing because I want people to feel bad for me-but I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe there’s someone out there who is feeling the way I do? Carrying the pain of a little lost boy or girl-or any kind of loss. And they too can find comfort in someone saying out loud: this pain sucks and the recovery is a confusing hot mess. But we are not alone in it. 

So, yes. My mother was unfit, and the boys’ placement was an emergency. I stood up to say yes, of course to fostering them. And, in all honesty, I would have said the same thing if they were not my brothers (contrary to popular belief) because my heart races for the care of the orphan. There is a need, and a lack of people willing to step out and say yes. 

I was not a victim of my circumstances. I was empowered to do hard and holy things by an all powerful, all knowing Savior who saw me from the creation of time. He mapped out my story for me long before that call came through in the middle of the night, and He sees it for what it is all the way through the end. 

I am not a victim. 

This was just the way God had set out for me to serve His purpose of stepping in for the orphan. Yes, I thought it was going to involve moving to the most dangerous countries and kicking down doors to rescue trafficked women, but God had something different (way freaking different) planned for me that involved having my eyes opened to the irrefutable flaws of the Orange County Department of Children and Families services. Now I am walking with the knowledge of the flaws, and since I am aware, I am responsible to do something. 

WE ARE NOT VICTIMS OF OUR CIRCUMSTANCES. 

This is a scary post for me to write. It’s not about orphan care, trump, or Scripture. It’s about my heart--it’s an expose, if you will; and it’s an invitation into a vulnerable, messy place. You are welcome. 

I haven’t taken Scout to church since she was nearly two months old. I went one time since, but was filled with so much anxiety after being chased and pulled at (all in genuine love and excitement) that I haven’t gone back. 

It’s been a lonely, isolating season, but it’s been a beautiful one, too. I’ve removed myself from most of the world in order to protect my time as a wife, a mom, a homemaker. I’ve decided to stop inviting in numerous new relationships, and instead to invest in the few long-run relationships. Those that have been there in the long-run, and those that will continue to be there as we journey through life together. The ones that require no explanation or apologies. The ones that invite us to just be.  

I never imagined taking a pause from church...and when people would ask where I’ve been, why they haven’t seen me, I would usually resort to explaining how Scout’s nap sched. is on point, and I don’t want to mess that up. Or how, it seems totally pointless for me to sit in the back and be completely unable to listen to the message when I could read my Bible at home during a nap and walk away more refreshed. Both are true reasons. They are the tangible reasons...But neither are the reason I’ve pressed the pause button.

The last time I went to church, I sat in service, without Scout, and it was a message on Martha and Mary. The classic, age-old tale of the busy sister vs. the sister who chilled out and listened to Jesus. In the middle of the message, I felt the Lord free me from my guilt of not being the “pastor’s wife” I always imagined: front row, best wife medallion, lover of all, well-known-as-husband’s biggest fan, ETC. ETC. I realized I had been putting all this pressure on myself to get up and be the superest of supermoms with the perfectly kept house and the PDF (parent directed feeding) guru who never let’s her child’s schedule rule her, and the most “spiritually” mature of mommy’s that attends every class and service with a way-high-lifted head. But, the reality of it is Scout’s naps rule (as in, they rockkkk), and I find so much rest and restoration at home, when Rex and Will are both at church. I’m a better mom and wife because of these Sunday’s home, when it’s just me and my girl. 

And, the truth is, these are my days to really give her all my focus, without running to another thing or place or carpool or football game. 

These are the days where I say no to social media, and yes to the stories in the Old and New Testament. The days where I say no to consumerism and busy-mindedness and say yes to simplicity, ease, and relearning how to pray. These are the days where I invest spiritually into myself, my home, and my family. 

It’s me and her, and I invite Christ into our home on this day to fill us up for the rest of the week. 

The truth that God spoke over me that day was this: You have chosen the good thing. 

Remember, Mary? Christ said to Martha:  Martha, Martha...you are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed-or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken from her (Luke 10:41). 

I’m hesitant to write this post. I’m nervous about the ignorant comments or rants that will likely appear on my instagram. The stupid comments I’ll receive about “illegals” and how “terrible” our country is because of them. People just searching for a way to make uneducated, intolerant remarks in a bigger platform because, let’s face it, we are much much braver behind a screen than face to face. 

My husband recently posted this article from Rolling Stone about Trump’s stance on immigration and how it’s gone from an entertaining late-night-show content deal to an actually pretty dangerous influence. It’s a great read, and I encourage everyone (whatever your stance on immigration might be) to check it out. 

He was slewed by an ignorant man who just kept saying over and over again things that weren’t even a part of the article. He claimed he read it, but....by the looks of what he was responding with (over...and over....and over and over again...) he either doesn’t know how to read or he didn’t read it (I have compassion on the first possibility). 

I’m not writing this about immigration policy. That’s an individual conviction. I’m writing about treating humans like humans, whatever they’ve done. I’m not here to convince anyone to vote in a particular way, to boot people out or let them stay, but I’m here on behalf of my convictions, as a disciple, a responsible voter, and a concerned woman. 

In the beginning, Trump was the highlight of Jon Stewart and the hilarity of conversations. Anyone would agree that, in the beginning, it was complete ludicrous what he was saying and how he was saying it.

Then he went up in the polls. 

You see, this is where the danger lies...this man talks about two things that perk up even the least political American’s ears: deportation and “get rich quick.” 

The problem is this is all he talks about. 

If you watch a campaign debate, any conversation on Planned Parenthood, terrorism, women’s rights, etc. is completely sidetracked with this statement “I’ve created these many businesses with this much money” or “this is why we need a giant wall” (obvious paraphrasing happening here). 

So, a trained public speaker, is gaining people’s votes and support because he’s constantly bringing it back around to two things: money and power. In my opinion, he’s tapping into the human’s innate sinful nature. 

And this is my fear: that people, in their hate and/or desperation towards Obama, our country’s economic status, and immigration policy, are not doing their research and getting educated, and just running to the polls entrusting this extremely untrustworthy guy with the fate of our nation. 

So, sir commenting support for hate-crimes on my husband’s post about a Hispanic homeless man that got beat up in the name of Trump (by the way, the article NEVER states the man was an illegal citizen)...Let me ask you this: 

Have you done your research? 

Trump is known for saying things about women that demean them as second class citizens (oh, but he makes sure, now, to let people know the women got what they deserved because...well they just weren’t nice to him...oh poor poor Trumpy...the girls on the presidential campaign weren’t nice to you...aw....here’s a yollypoppy and a weetle band-aide for you....--I’m sorry but I could cuss at how stupid this excuse is. But, I have high schoolers who look up to me so...I won’t). He’s called them “fat pigs, dogs, slobs, filthy animals...” 

Well with a president like THAT, our NFL is sureeeeee to make progress in sexual assault and domestic violence.Yea, right. 

And many many other comments and lifestyle choices that are just not sane or safe for this country, for the people, for me, my husband, my son, my daughter...

And, I think what irks me about immigrants always getting the “welfare” rep...I am white. As white as white can be. My mom is an alcoholic, dare I say, deadbeat, who has manipulated and used the welfare system, social services, and any other system in place to help struggling Americans because, well...according to her she just doesn’t have a problem, Officer. So please, pass me those food stamps so I can use my income to booze it up and beat my kids. Thanks. 

Did I mention...my alcoholic mother is white. As white as white could be. She, not an illegal immigrant, is abusing the system and her children.  

I will wrap it up with this. People, please, for the fate of humanity, do your research! Don’t vote for someone because he promises this false security with his mouth and big walls. These are just words. 

And the frightening thing is this: Hitler started with just words too. 

Please, people, especially my Christian brothers and sisters, research who you are about to vote for. Seek counsel, seek wisdom from the Scriptures and books like Welcoming the Stranger, because, the truth is, you have more influence than you know, and you have a call to make sane and human choices for where you are. 

I’ve said this before, and if you talk to me, follow me on Instagram, or read my blog...you will hear it again, “Marriage is not for the faint of heart.” 

Nay, marriage is a hard hard hard battle for the brave. It’s a constant battle of the wills, toughening of the soul, and reminder that, darn it, we just aren’t quite Home yet, and we are (I am) in desperate need of One I can call my Savior. 

This week was one of those I’m on my knees, Lord kind of weeks.

One of those weeks where I looked at my wounded soldier, my husband, the one I had wounded with my own words, and say we must remember that we are the not enemies. The Enemy is our Enemy. 

The one I have stood facing, promising forever and promising faithfulness and camaraderie has been a victim of my poisonous, exhausted, stabbing tongue.  

Yes friends...we too (the pastors, the Kims) have those weeks. 

And when I finally had time to rest from the battle (the battle with, not against, my spouse), and bring the conflict in my heart out to the Light, this scary-good prayer came like breath: Grow me as a wife. All the areas I need to grow in to become the wife you designed me to be, grow me, God. I accept the challenge.

You see, there are many times where I’ve tried to fit a picture I’ve seen of what a wife should look like...Tammy Taylor is my perfect picture of a wife (you can laugh, but if you’ve seen FNL, don’t lie about your admiration. I will call you out so fast). If only I were like Tammy where I could express my frustration with that cute little Southern charm and a whip of that killer hair, and still make that bbq happen with a big grin on my face...If only I could be more like Tammy Taylor. 

But Will didn’t marry Tammy...and Tammy is fictional. Will married me, and there are pieces of me that he needs. And there may even be broken pieces of mine that he (my Will) needs to see healed, because that’s how I will become more of the wife God designed me to be. 

Because, in beautiful honesty, my brokenness is what sets me a part. And my brokenness is a unique gift I bring into my marriage, if I allow God’s healing hand to do his work in it. 

And the scary-good prayer of accepting the challenge to grow, this is a challenge towards commitment, honoring my husband above myself, and trusting in God to grow my husband into the man HE’s designed him to be...not the mold of a man I plan to shove him into.

This is the challenge I’ve accepted: I want to become more of the wife God intended me, no one else, to be. I want to grow grow grow and cultivate a home of healing for my husband and our big kid and our baby. I want to walk in the knowledge that I am a woman, a wife, restored in so many ways, because my God is the God who makes the withered hand straight and the little girl arise. 

My God is the God who presents challenges that are worthy of walking through with heads held high and arms outstretched. 

His work will never be completed on this side of heaven, but my prayer is that in 50 years I can look to my left and see my husband’s big ol’ (toothless) smile, knowing that, through all the shattered glass, we are trying our hardest and working our tails off to be Christ to each other.