Permision to Break the Rules

The Angel has been having trouble at school again. A girl who daily tries o tell The Angel she is not enough. And because of her skin color, The Angel is less than the crowd.  It's almost impossible for me to believe that any one would want to give her a hard time. But then again, I'm her mom and I know that not every kid has the love and support that The Angel gets at home.  And not every one knows that she is as close to heaven on earth that I will ever be. But we've talked a lot about that whoever is giving her a hard time may not be being lifted up or loved at home.That the only real resolve we have is to approach the throne room each night about this girl and pray for her heart and her home.

I pack her a lunch almost four times a week. She loves it and I love sending her a mid-day reminder in my handwriting that I am with her, no matter where she is or what she is going through at the time.

School has a rule that you are not allowed to share your lunch with some one else. That sounds like a great rule. No exchange of germs. An attempt to shun judgement as a comparison to "what's in your lunch box is better/worse than mine."

Today, when I picked her up, she asked me to forgive her if she got in trouble. I was astounded that she would ever get in trouble at school. She told me that the girl giving her trouble did not have enough to eat in her lunch bag today, so The Angel gave her a portion of hers.  And as we drove down the road, I fought back the tears and told her that if there was ever a reason to break the rules...The Angel had found one. And I would back her to the end.

 

Finally Choosing.

 

 

It's closing in on three years since my first trip to Ethiopia.

Three years since we first met our sponsorship son through Children's HopeChest.

Three years since I became an every day mama to two kids.

And carrying love for many others in my heart every day.

 

How do you measure time?

I know that most value it in minutes or hours. Some even days.

A count down of sorts.

To graduation.

A driver's license.

Marriage.

Retirement.

Death.

 

I've totaled all of these things in hours, years, breaths and moments.

But the older I get, the pieces of my life that resonate most memorable

are the ones I remember having to make a big choice about.

 

Choosing to finish law school re-focused any day dreams of  being young and

 paying off student loans.

(paying that bill every month still takes my breath away.)

 

Choosing to love The Hero was easy.

But walking down the aisle refocused my ideas of commitment and loyalty.

 

Choosing to be a mother spun my thoughts on selfishness and "me time."

(Is there really any "me time" as a mommy?)

 

But leaving my heart in Ethiopia was never up to me.

It was always out of my control.

There is not a day I don't wake up and ache for a different time zone.

The macchiatos.

The air.

Feeling as though I've arrived home.

 

Three years ago, I knew I was there for a reason.

More than just to be a mother.

More than just to write a few blog posts about our trip across the ocean.

 

I had read all the good Christian literature about how to respond to the fatherless and abject poverty.

But it wasn't until I had been and seen for myself that I learned

true love is nothing if not acted upon.

It is not a feeling. It's a force.

 

The Angel and The Dinosaur were toddlers when we landed back in Oklahoma.

I struggled to explain to our family and friends about the wrestling of poverty and pure beauty.

I worried I might never find the words.

I finally settled that I wouldn't.

 

But I kept writing those sponsorship letters.

I kept remembering the boy who walked to a cesspool he called a river to get water.

Every day.

Where cows and humans relieved themselves next to women bathing clothes and children.

Every day.

 

 I couldn't return to my life and act like I didn't know.

Every plastic water bottle felt heavier in my hand.

Each hot shower more of a luxury.

And a washing mechanism for our clothes and dishes; well that was just greedy.

 

I wanted to tell everyone I met his story.

So that maybe an avalanche of love could change it all.

 

I wrote his story for children.

Because that's how Jesus says we are to come to Him.

It's the purest form of ourselves.

The most honest and true parts.

 

I found an amazing artist who slashed his rates to walk this boy's story with me.

We went through re-writes and re-dos and rewinds.

I knew I wanted the proceeds to benefit water projects.

A well in his honor.

 

No publisher really seemed to agree.

Because of the intensity of the illustrations and the size of the pages,

few printers were willing to touch it.

 

So I did exactly what the enemy wants us to do when we're trying to start an avalanche:

I let life get in the way.

 

For 18 months, the project was stagnant.

About six months ago, I found a printer in Tennessee who agreed to print it.

Hard cover.

Just like one you would buy in a book store.

But I would have to print 1000 of them.

Did you see the zeros after the 1?

I threw up in my mouth when they sent me the estimate to print it.

Could I really do this?

 

So I it did it again:

I put the estimate under my desk

and focused on soccer games, home work and advocating for some really amazing causes.

 And I let life get in the way.

 

No one really calls me out like The Hero.

It's probably one of the main reasons I married him.

During a cleaning session a few weeks ago, he found the artwork for the book.

"You should have done this a year ago"

was all he said.

 

I contacted the printer last week.

Checked that the estimate was still correct.

And today, I came home to this envelope on my porch.

 

 

 

 

The print proofs.

 

The urge to throw up has been present all night long.

I still haven't opened them.

It has set on the table like a guest who needs to be introduced.

The Hero is at the station or he would have ripped it open.

 

I think there was a reason Jesus was always saying things like

"Do not be afraid" or "Fear not."

It seems to be the biggest issue in my life.

Being afraid of the unknown, risks, or the biggest F word of all....

Failure.

 

But then I'm reminded that fear is a choice.

And tonight, I am choosing that for the sake of building a water well

in the name of someone I love,

I will not be afraid.

 

Hold onto your shorts.

You're probably going to get really tired of hearing about this project

in the coming weeks.

Let's start an avalanche.

 

 

 



It drives me nuts when my kids ask me a question and then five seconds later ask the same question again. I'm repeatively saying "if you would have listened the first time..."
Back in September, I was sent home with pneumonia and was on bed rest for a week. I never remember being so sick in my life. I even cracked two ribs due to all the coughing. My doctor took me off almost all physical activity and no long distance running for 6-8 weeks. Because of all the hacking, coughing and wheezing, sleeping longer than six hours at a time was almost impossible for months. But even still, I've been waking up in the middle of the night almost every morning. I toss and I turn and force myself to try and fall back asleep, which only leaves me cranky and stressed in the morning.
My body has simply not recovered from being so sick, several weeks ago, I went back into the doctor because my pneumonia cough had returned and I just couldn't stop being tired. I also couldn't stop hacking. I was sent in for several rounds of tests and x-rays and all of them came back clear. I had yet another bronchial infection. My doc again advised me to take care of myself and again suggested a bout of bed rest, my lungs just need time to fully heal.

Like every one else, entering the busiest seasons of the year, I am yearning for more hours on the clock. Kids, soccer, school, work, laundry and dishes are pushing me to the limit. My prayers go up every several hours "where am I going to find the time?" And now even my lungs were needing time to rest.
Traveling to Ethiopia in July was not recommended and still the thought of not being on African soil this summer breaks my heart. But like my kids, I guess I need to be told more than once sometimes and if I want to finally get back to max capacity, I guess I better get started.