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Monthly Archives: August 2012

I know. You can’t hug every cat.

I grew up with cats. Soft, furry, squishy, pink nosed cats. I have had several defining life moments centered around cats. My very first cat was a white cat named Tiffany (yes, after the singer). Tiffany had babies, and when I was five, I was mad at my sister over something having to do with these baby kittens, and I said my very first curse word. I don’t remember exactly what we were fighting about or why, but I do remember feeling very passionate about my opinion, enough to drop a D-bomb over it. I grew up, not really even considering that there were people who didn’t like cats. How can you NOT love something that ignores you repeatedly but then takes revenge on you for not scratching it’s back the second you walk in the door?? Adorable!

But I married a man who like Kanye’s woman, can be so heartless. He is allergic to cats. Allegedly. Not like I’ve ever seen him break out in hives, but whatever. Adding insult to injury, he doesn’t like cats. This hasn’t always stopped me from bringing home strays or suggesting that we try out a pet cat.  Hence, this conversation…

Me-(seeing a friend post on Facebook about needing to give away their cat)- “Honey! look at this sweet kitty!”


Me-“This cat has a thumb. Well, that settles it”

Wes-“settles what?”

Me-“did you not hear me? This cat has.a.thumb. Can you not see the potential here?”

Wes- “the potential to sneeze?”

Me-“and also to play poker with it, it could do a thumb war with the kids, it could catch rats much more efficiently”


Me-“Wes. It could do that pointy gun wink thing.”

Wes-“you think that cat could wink.”

Me-“uh, hello?! It has a thumb. Clearly it’s gifted. Imagine coming home, and Edward Scissorpaws is sitting in the chair-”

Wes-“getting hair all over it-”

Me-“AND THEN he greets you with a friendly wink and gun point. Come on, tell me you don’t want that!”

Wes-“I don’t want that”

Me- “I don’t understand why I have to always be the visionary in this relationship.”

Wes-“yeah, that’s what’s happening here…lack of vision”

Me-“I just think you don’t see all the full picture. Eva Purron is black and white. She has thumbs. I could make her a little top hat and glue little taps to her back feet. She could tap dance AND do jazz hands. I really don’t see the problem here”

Wes-“where do I start?”

Me-“I just think-”

Wes-“it’s late. I’m going to bed. I’m going to need so much coffee in the morning” (walks out of room)

Me-(calling down the hall)-“Wouldn’t it be great if someone could bring you a cup of coffee? You could only hold a cup if you had thumbs, you know!”

Wes comes back into the room, and we get into bed…

Me-“I can tell you need some time to think about it, that’s great. You just give me a signal when you are ready. Maybe a thumbs up. Which Professor McGonagall can do”

Wes-(glancing at the dog and sighing)-“Sunday, pray for me”

We turn off light. Silence.

Me-(whispering)- “Dogs can’t pray. They can’t fold their hands. Because they have no thumbs”

Check and mate.


“It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a mom…”

Breakdown of the last twelve hours…

10:30 pm- Go to sleep

12:30 am- Malachi-“can I sleep with you?”

Me- (gently, with my Karyn Purvis voice) “It sounds like you are needing some cuddle time with mommy. I’d love to cuddle with you, my precious boy, but right now mommy would like you to try to sleep in your big boy bed. You are so brave yes you are! What a big superhero you are! Love you bunches! Smooch smooch!” (the above may be slightly paraphrased)

1:30 am- Malachi-“Mommy, I hear Selah eating cereal”

Me-“No you don’t”

Malachi- “yes I do”

Me- “I promise you don’t”

Malachi- “Oh. Can I have some cereal?”

2:30 am- Selah has a nightmare about sharks. She says she tried hard to wake up before it hurt her but she just couldn’t.

2:32 am- Wonder if sharks is a metaphor. Decide it’s just because she watched Soul Surfer.

2:35 am- Malachi- “Can I sleep with you now?” I explain that he is a big boy now with a lovely comfortable bed. He counters with the lower lip. I counter with mumbling about consequences.

3:30 am- Selah bangs on her door. I stumble in, ready to fend off the shark. She’s already back to sleep.

4:30 am- Wes’ alarm goes off. He hits snooze and promptly goes back to sleep. I don’t.

4:35 am- Malachi- “What about now?” I open one eye and we exchange a silent look. Small showdown. He sighs and slowly shuffles back to his room.

4:40 am- I decide Malachi must be part bat because of his super sonic hearing.

5:15 am-Decide to get up to make it to accountability at 6:00.

5:20 am-Decide brushing my hair is really optional.

5:30 am- Decide wearing a bra isn’t.

5:31 am- Contemplate how to start slipping sleeping pills to my accountability partners on Tuesday nights.

5:34 am- Wonder if wearing a formal dress to accountability would make me feel better. Decide to try this in the future.

5:35 am- Walk outside. Hear noises. Wonder if it’s even safe to meet this early.

5:37 am- Drive wrong way to restaurant

5:40 am- turn on radio. Hear The Police. Think about writing a more realistic love song. 70% of what he does is magic, 20% just annoys me, 10% I am just neutral…

5:45 am- Congratulate myself on doing that math correctly.

7:45 am- Drive home. Feel accounted for.

8:15 am-Tell Malachi that if he visits me at night, he must tap dance while talking to me. If I’m going to be awake, I might as well be entertained.

And scene….

Leave a comment. Reading them will keep me awake.

“From your head down to your toes, you’re not much, goodness knows, but you’re so precious to me, sweet as can be, baby of mine”…

Dear T,

He starts third grade today. He got up, grumbling a little because he has a little Ethiopian alarm clock that sleeps in the bottom bunk and wakes him up before he is ready. He gave me his charm eyes, hopeful for the prospect of Lucky Charms for breakfast. He knows those are going to be used for rewards for his brother and night-time potty training, but he also knows how to work those charm eyes. I didn’t give in. I want his teacher to like me, and sending him to school with dye and preservative filled marshmallows coursing through his blood didn’t seem like the best way to accomplish that. He doesn’t know that I am going to have a bowl of Lucky Charms after I drop him and his sister off, because if you are going to cry over a bowl of cereal, it should at least be the cereal you really want. There were tears, I didn’t even bother trying to hide them. Tears of relief-the summer has been long and I am ready to get back into a routine. Tears of nostalgia-can he really be almost nine? I remember starting third grade, and feeling like I was so cool, because I wore purple jellies and a plastic charm bracelet on the first day…clearly the marks of a girl on the cusp of womanhood. But looking at him now, through his big boy haircut, his insistence that he wear sports gear instead of the Gymboree outfit I picked out, sometimes all I can see is the chubby cheeked baby with the brown eyes and mile long eyelashes toddling around with his arms outstretched, all of his limbs resembling balloon animals, reaching for me. I can still hear him singing “row row row your boat, gently down the street, merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is spider dreams” I never correct him. He doesn’t say “helidoctor” anymore or “Jophus” when reading about Joseph. Now his conversations are filled with chatter about sports, sports, and oh yeah, sports. He is gently amused and patient with me when I mix up sports teams. He asked me, sweetly and with a kindness that just isn’t normal for an eight year old boy, if I would please use his name while cheering for him in soccer instead of yelling “baby” or “sweetheart”. I cried for another reason today. I cried out of thankfulness for you, and grief for you that you don’t get to see these things. I didn’t think I could understand the concept of being so grateful for something and grieving for it at the exact same time.  Last night, I wondered if you know that school starts today. I wondered if you thought about him, or if you allow yourself to think about him. Do you wonder what he is good at in school or if he likes music and art? Do you hope that he’s popular, or do you think he might be shy? There are times at night when I look up at the sky and I feel a lump in my throat because I think there is a child out there that is supposed to be mine, and I don’t know where they are or is they are safe or healthy or happy. I pray, it’s just a quick heart gasp of “remind me who You are”, so I don’t drown in worry. I wonder if you ever feel this about him. I hope you know he is happy, and loved, oh how this boy is loved. He is sweetness, funny, smart, brave, and he loves Jesus.

Thank you seems small and weak. I don’t think there is a word in the English language that can convey the feeling an adoptive mother can have towards her child’s birthmother. He is one of the best gifts I’ve ever had, and when I look at him, I think about how you didn’t just choose life for him, you chose it for all of us.

I looked at pictures of you last night. He has your eyes. I pray you can see with those same eyes how your faithfulness has changed my whole world.

Love, Me

Dear A,

I remember that in the hospital, as I walked into the room after you delivered Selah, you were holding this blanket with cheeks. That’s all I could see, these precious cheeks and then these enormous blue eyes. You looked exhausted and overwhelmed, and I remember thinking “I don’t know how to do this”. Not the baby part, but the part where I had to take her out of your arms, and watch your face change to hide your grief. When you handed her over to me, you quietly said “here’s our girl”. I felt like I was trying to promise you with my eyes that I would cherish her and that she would be ours, that you would not be swept aside as some sort of unimportant prelude to her story. Well, our girl started second grade today. She put on her brand new skirt and shirt, tugged her hair into pigtails, and marched right out the door, no fear, no hesitation. Our girl is literally the bravest kid I know, but not just for those reasons. Selah is easily overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of her world. Sometimes even gentle touch feels oppressive to her. She has every reason in the world to curl up in a ball and demand to be left alone, to retreat into herself until the world starts making sense. She has every reason to be defensive towards others, because her brain can’t always determine if they mean her harm or good. But she is…none of those things. She is friendly, and not in a passive way. She genuinely wants to know what is going on in people’s world. She is inclusive, and often spots the kid who is being left out. Her lack of boundaries is at times an incredible gift, as I watched her once ask a little girl in a wheelchair if she’d like to swing on the swings. Her mom explained that she really couldn’t hold herself up on the swings, and our girl simply shrugged and said “well, she could just sit on my lap, I’ll hold her and you push”. To be honest, I want to be like Selah when I grow up.

Your life has been difficult. Sometimes I am blown away that you even chose us, chose to give her a life when the alternative was there. Imagining a world without Selah is like trying to imagine it without the sun, it’s such a strange concept that I can’t wrap my brain around it. And it’s not just me- did you know she practically has her own fan page on Facebook? This child has brought so much laughter, the world would be so quiet without her. I have such a difficult time letting her go to teachers, wanting them to understand just how precious she is, how unique, how amazing, how smart she is. It is a hard lesson in trust. I can’t even imagine what that was like for you in the hospital. I prayed then, and pray now that I live up to what you wanted for her. I pray for the times that it’s just too hard to think about her, that you are comforted and that it draws you closer to Jesus. I pray that the sacrificial love you showed for Selah will be a picture to you of how God gave up His Son for you. And I pray for you, sweet girl. You are not that much younger than me, but I feel a sort of motherly affection for you, and wonder if you are safe, and healthy, and happy.

Second grade. She’s still got those cheeks and those enormous blue eyes. Just between you and me, our girl is the best girl that school has.

Love, Me

I’m rockin the suburbs, just like Jon Bon Jovi did, I’m rockin the suburbs, except that he was talented…

Last week I wrote about the joy of school supply shopping but I now have irrefutable proof that the internets are watched by the government because on Tuesday, I got a letter from our school and enclosed was a brand new school supply list, which only matched the original school supply list by three items.  In this moment, I had a choice- I could rant about the unfairness of this and demand that the school accept my original supplies, or I could be a big girl and go back to the temple of doom Target and begin the process all over again.  Believe me, it took a bit of time to decide. The desire to be a big girl won out, so I got ready to head back to the store. I was smarter this time, and went at night without kids. Going shopping without kids versus with kids is like getting a root canal versus getting a root canal while pleasantly tipsy. Both will be painful, but in one scenario, you might be happy enough to just not feel it as much. I gathered my headphones, put my shopping pants on (oh please, like you don’t have shopping pants), and did some warm up stretches. I headed into Target and gave myself the pep talk…

Okay girl, you can do this. This is a perfect opportunity to develop patience and perseverance and also to wear pajama pants in public. You will find all you need. You will not be here forever. You will not cry. Just get in, get your starbucks on, get what you need, maybe check out the nail polish, no no, we are not here for you, think of the children…

Most of you probably know that I am a bit obsessed with music, and the best part of shopping alone is that I can put my headphones on and catch up on my listening. There are a few problems with this though. First, I love to sing and I don’t always remember to use my inside my head voice instead of my auditioning for American Idol voice. The second problem is that for many songs, it is literally impossible for me not to dance a little. I mean, we are talking about Justin Timberlake people, what do you want from me??  I’m not made of stone! This is especially an issue lately because I have been feeling rather stifled with my too-cool-to-be-seen-with-my-moonwalking- mom oldest son. His last statement to me regarding this was “Can’t we sometimes just get the milk?” Sorry kid, it’s not my fault they play Cold Hearted Snake over the loud-speaker at Tom Thumb. Python-esq moves are practically required during that song. Paula Abdul won’t be denied.

The following is an almost completely accurate transcript of my thoughts while searching for all the supplies…

Wide ruled, wide ruled,wiiiiiiiide ruuuuuullllled, nope, that’s college ruled, hmmm I wonder if the college ruled notebooks go all mean girl on the wide ruled notebooks when the store closes and are all like uh, you can’t be on this aisle, this is only for the college ruled…okay, let’s see…oh of COURSE you want an orange folder…I wonder if I used an orange highlighter and just colored one of these…ooh, there’s one…nope, army pants lady got it…way to go army pants lady, you probably didn’t really even need an orange folder…but I’m not gonna question you because you have a neck tattoo…okay, and now we need tab dividers…tab…do they even make Tab anymore…what was Tab anyway, like Coke but not really Coke…focus focus…tab dividers…wait, he needs a pack of eight…this is a pack of six…sigh, this is just like the hot dog hot dog bun dilemma…

(Singing) “Ya’ll don’t know what it’s like, being male, middle class and white…”

Oops, sorry Fishing hat man, that wasn’t a statement about you…just listening to a little Ben Folds…okay so what’s left…low odor sharpies…hmm…man, if I was a teacher, I’d want the strongest smelling markers I could legally get away with…I wonder what people would think if I was carrying a big glass of wine while shopping…that’s what this store needs, employees walking around serving wine…and those little quiches…shopping for folders wouldn’t be nearly as tedious if I had wine and quiche…We are young…

(singing) “heartache to heartache, we stand!”

Whatever lady, no need for staring…I don’t know if Pat Benatar was made for Target, but it is wer-kin girlfriend…both of us knowing…Target’s a battlefield…it is so difficult to push this cart and play pretend guitar at the same time…gasp…a little NSYNC…I miss those boys…you could totally change these lyrics to be about school supply shopping…

I’m doin’ this tonight, there’s probably gonna be a fight, I didn’t buy anything right, hey teachers come on, I shopped here endlessly, there’s nothing here for free, and now I want to leave and go home, I know that I can’t take no more, it ain’t no lie, I don’t want to see supplies no more, baby buy buy buy…

Seriously, I should put that on YouTube…

Moral of the story- Don’t trust the first supply list you get. Bring your own wine and hors d’oeuvres to Target because they won’t provide them. It’s very possible I have ADD.

Pat Robertson, who you calling weird??

I wrote this post over the weekend, deleted it, wrote it over again the exact same way, deleted it again, and now am trying again. I deleted it twice because I felt I was speaking out of emotion, and the tone was pure sarcasm. While I appreciate humor and sarcasm, I understand that at times it clouds the message instead of clarifying it, and I don’t want to be guilty of that for this subject.  My original draft began with this- “PAT ROBERTSON, IS YOU DRUNK?!” Let me try for better….

Dear friends of adoptive parents,

On Friday, you might have noticed that your friends who have adopted children were upset, maybe a little tender-hearted, maybe just plain mad. I was one of those plain mad ones, as evidenced that I walked into my kitchen and walked back out three times to tell my husband another thought I had about this event. On Friday, Pat Robertson stated on his show-

“You don’t know what problems there are,” he continued. “I’ve got a dear friend who adopted a little kid from an orphanage down in Colombia. The child had brain damage — you know — grew up weird.”

“You just never know what’s been done to a child before you get that child,” Robertson elaborated. “What kind of sexual abuse there has been, what kind of cruelty, what kind of food deprivation, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. So you’re not a dog because you don’t want to take on that responsibility.”

He was referring to a woman who had called in to ask why men seemed to be unwilling to date her once they realized she had children she had adopted. After some backlash, he released a statement saying that he misspoke and that he is highly dedicated to helping orphans. Now putting aside that isn’t an actual apology (because I am trying hard to keep this not about him), I’m going to go out on a limb and say it. He’s right.

Hear me out before you write me angry emails. The problem isn’t that Robertson went too far, it’s that he didn’t go far enough. He stopped with the assumption that one, children who have been adopted (especially from orphanages) have a good chance of being “weird”, and two, that risk may be too much for a man to handle, therefore, making the caller undateble. Your friends, the ones who got upset, they aren’t upset because they are protective parents who don’t like people talking about the negatives of adoption. They aren’t mad because a tv preacher said something mean. They aren’t even really that mad because he said their kids might be weird. They have figured out two answers to the fear of “can I love and care for a child that might have had a difficult background”-  the answers are yup and so what.

What I mean is this-there is something wrong with adopted children. They are weird.

There is something wrong with children who weren’t adopted. They are weird.

There is something wrong with adoptive parents. They are weird.

There is something wrong with parents who don’t adopt. They are weird.

There is something wrong with me. I am weird. (if you have doubts about this, please review previous blog postings)

There is something wrong with you. You are weird.

As an adoptive parent, I’ve seen that yes, my children are affected by their past, both prenatally and early childhood. Yes, I’ve wished for more information and of course wished that they had not suffered. But one of the blessings of adoption is that you get to see, in a way that is sometimes difficult for people who haven’t adopted, is His sovereignty. See, it isn’t that our kids don’t struggle, it isn’t a defensive battle cry of “my child is the same as your child”, it’s that we get to see in a really tangible way the picture of being adopted into God’s family. We come, with our baggage and prior neglect, with our trust issues and self-dependence, with our stoic insistence that we can make ourselves happy, and get to see that transformed into something beautiful. A relationship with a real Daddy. Not a good church, not an intellectual understanding of the bible, not the title of christian, but a deep and intimate relationship with the One who loves us, despite that there is something wrong with us. Romans 5:8 says “But while we were still sinners, Christ died for us”.  While we were still sinners, He died. Read that again friend. While we were still sinners. Not after we got our act together. Not after we stopped being foolish. Not when we were worthy or smarter or more spiritual or clean or sober or not depressed or not divorced or just…better. While we were still weird, while there was something wrong with us, while others rejected us, while we were abused and abusive, He died for us. We get to be adopted, not as the slightly odd cousin that the rest of the family tolerates, but as precious sons and daughters.

Does this mean adoption is the right choice for everyone? No. But Mr. Robertson, I am not nearly as sad that you misrepresented what adoption is as I am that you butchered what the gospel is.

And to the woman who called in, this is what I would say to you. If a man chooses not to date you because you have children, he is probably not ready to become a father, and that is okay. If he chooses not to date you because you have adopted children, then he doesn’t understand the gospel, and that should disqualify him from your book anyway.



Do you have questions about adoption or about having this relationship with Jesus? I’d love to talk to you! You can email me at

Oh the shark has pretty teeth dear, and he shows ’em, on aisle five…

It is that special time of year again, a time where people gather to watch the glory of the hunt, the majesty of creatures searching for what they want and need, and the power of survival of the fittest. Shark Week. You can also refer to it by it’s lesser known name, “School supply shopping”.

School supplies are my shopping nemesis, the thing that strikes fear and loathing in my heart as soon as that list comes out. I thought that this year I would be smart and do all my shopping on line, but I quickly realized that I was going to spend twice as much on line as I would in a store.  I also have to be careful about supplies for my sensory girl, so it’s important that I can actually see something before I buy it, so off to Target we went…

Just a few observations from this visit-

*What is “manilla” anyway? Is it a color? A texture? A cross between mocha and vanilla?

*Why can’t stores organize folders by types? A box of “folders with pockets”, “folders with pockets and brads”, “folders with no pockets and no brads so we really don’t know why they are even made”, “folders with Justin Bieber on them”, “folders that are a perfect blend of blue and purple so your son won’t use it because it’s purple and your daughter won’t use it because it’s blue.”

*Who in the hizzy is this D’Nealian guy and why does he make paper so elusive??

*The person who decided to put Starbucks in Target is a frickin genius.

* The person who someday decides to put a daycare in Target is more geniusy.

*If your four year old says he needs to go to the bathroom right now, listen to him. Don’t keep looking for index cards because if you do, your day will end with buying index cards and a new outfit for said four year old.

*Trying to explain why your daughter sounds racist is impossible.

*Do not allow your Ethiopian child to pretend to be batman in the store because your daughter will yell down the aisle “HEY DARK ONE! I’M TALKING TO YOU-THE DARK ONE!”

*Starbucks cups are too small to hide behind.

*Two moms can communicate with just their eyes, sending the message of don’t you dare pick up that glue stick that is the last glue stick and I’ve been searching for that glue stick for 45 minutes alright you grabbed it so that’s how you want to play it well it is so on meet me in the parking lot it’s bout to get real up in herr.

*School supply lists don’t really list all teachers need. I didn’t see Valium, wine, or straitjackets anywhere on that list.

*School supply shopping ought to be part of abstinence teaching. I envision dragging 16 year olds down the aisles, screaming “FIND THE PLAIN COVERED SPIRAL NOTEBOOK WITH WIDE RULED PAPER GO GO GO NO YOU CAN’T HAVE THE ONE DIRECTION FOLDER IT MUST! BE! PLAIN! STOP CRYING, THE TEARS JUST MAKE YOU WEAK, THIS WILL HAPPEN TO YOU IF YOU HAVE SEX!!”

Sharks don’t seem that scary, huh?

That time he fought da law, and da law won…

If you know me longer than about four minutes, you know that I am not exactly a strict “rule follower”. (Except for driving. I drive like a grandma. A grandma who is alive and has no dents in her car thank you very much) But I have no problem taking a “mental health” day, eating raw cookie dough, or ripping tags off of mattresses willy nilly. I drove in the HOV lane when I was pregnant.  Because that’s how I roll- I’m not going to be controlled by The Man.

But I have a boy, my beautiful firstborn son. He is precious, with shining brown eyes, blonde hair, and the cutest smile on the planet. He is smart and engaging, kind and sweet, funny and easygoing. But when you open a psychology textbook to the section about birth order, you may see a picture of my son standing in the backyard, yelling at his brother and sister about how they NOT JUMPING RESPONSIBLEY ON THE TRAMPOLINE.  When Josiah gets in trouble, there is a 90% chance it is because he is trying to be the boss, either by literally bossing his siblings around or arguing with me about what I’ve asked him to do.  He is rarely, if ever, outwardly disrespectful or rebellious, but he can be easily convinced of his own rightness.  His first bornness can clash with my last bornness in a way that drives him crazy. It doesn’t drive ME crazy, because I am a last born, and last born people just think those things are funny. Last year, he had a school supply list that included an orange plastic folder with pockets and brads. After looking at two different stores and online, I couldn’t find an orange folder and as a last born, I figured it probably wasn’t that big of a deal.  When he realized he was missing the orange folder, he charged down the hall, hyperventilating about how he was going to be in trouble on the very first day because he was UNPREPARED FOR SCHOOL.  I calmly listened to his tirade, then handed him a blue folder that had a Post-It on it that said “You are confused. I am actually orange”. For some reason, Josiah did not think that was funny.

Today, Josiah had a full morning of trying to be the boss of the house, and after getting in trouble several times, I told him that I could tell he wanted to be an adult very badly so I was going to let him. I explained that I was now taking the day off as the adult, and he could take over. At first, he seemed pretty excited, but that quickly changed when I directed him to the laundry and then sat down with his Xbox controller.  For the rest of the afternoon and evening, he cleaned, organized, and took care of Selah and Malachi when they needed something.  He didn’t complain too much, (partly because he knew it wouldn’t help and partly because he wanted to appear that it didn’t bother him), but by dinner, I could see the burden of working all day wearing on him. He was quieter, more subdued. A heaviness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

The next day, I asked him if he would like to be an adult again or go back to being a child. He wisely chose being a child.

I didn’t enjoy this lesson. I mean, it was a little nice to know he was cleaning the bathroom while I played with Malachi, but truthfully, I knew in the back of my mind that this was a hard lesson for him and I was going to have to clean the bathroom again anyway because 8-year-old boys are not known for their stellar cleaning skills. As his mama, I like taking care of him. I like being the one he depends on. I like being trusted. It brings me joy to meet his needs and to see his face when I give him what he needs and sometimes what he wants. I’m his mama and he is mine.

Now, I’m much more prodigal son than older brother, but watching my own little “older brother” struggle his way through trying to be the adult made me view my rebellion in a new way. It’s the same struggle for control. While Josiah is convinced that his way is better and that he can earn approval through being right, I am convinced that my way might not be better, but it will probably be more fun. God is my Father- He’s the adult, and I am the child. And the times He’s allowed me my way, my desire to be in control, it doesn’t take long before lightness turns heavy, that “freedom” becomes oppressive, and I am frantically searching for my Daddy. And just like Josiah and me, I believe He loves taking care of me, and it brings Him joy when I trust Him.  I pray that Josiah learns that his Father can be trusted because He is capable, and I continue to learn that my Father can be trusted because He is good.

And Jesus, if it’s not too much, help me find the illusive orange folder this year!

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