Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Special Segment

Twenty-eight years ago my husband, Randy, addressed an envelope to Holt International Children’s Services, stuffed a check into the folded application for adoption, sealed it, and deposited it on the entertainment center to wait on God. Taking me tenderly by the shoulders, he whispered, “I believe you, Ann, when you say you’ve heard from God, but I need to hear from Him before I can go through with adopting a Korean baby.”

I agreed.

In August 2013, I told you the story of how Randy’s job out of Huntsville, Alabama assigned him to travel two hours away to a city where he’d deliver a sales pitch to a man whose wife had been adopted from Korea through Holt in the 1950’s. There is no way Randy or I believed this was a coincidence. This woman’s story of how she was later reunited and grew up with her biological brother, gave us incentive and courage to follow through with Megan’s adoption.

I did not tell you the name of the city. I did not tell you the man’s name.There was a reason.You see, for two weeks prior to posting the blog in August, I searched for him and his family. I wanted to tell you who he was. He and his wife had been an intricate part of our testimony for almost three decades, and I suddenly wanted to meet them. What happened to them? 

Randy no longer remembered their Texarkana, Arkansas address, and he only vaguely remembered the location of their neighborhood.The only tidbit of information he could recall was where David Baker attended church. I phoned the Texarkana, Texas church and spoke with the secretary, but she was relatively new to her job and had no record of David. She called the long-standing members of the congregation; still, no one remembered him or his Asian wife.

Next, I tried an internet link.There were several David Bakers in Arkansas and in Texarkana. But one listing named a wife, Glenda, and two daughters, Hollie and Tamara.The man Randy had met years before had two young daughters. The man’s age matched, too.So though it seemed a long shot, I let my fingers do the walking. I called the home phone, got a machine, and left a message. Two or three days passed and there was no word.

Back in 1985 David Baker had invested in a line of medical vending machines through Randy. Perhaps his business had not done well. Maybe he didn’t want to be found.

But a small nudge in my spirit kept me going.

I plugged David’s name into my Facebook search engine. Nothing.

I tried the wife’s name I’d gotten off the internet link. Nothing.

I decided to type in the oldest daughter’s name (using her maiden name in the middle), and a picture came up on Facebook of a young woman who didn’t look particularly biracial, but her children did.They had Asian eyes.

I brought up her friend’s list, and there was the name I’d labored to find. David Baker. 

I clicked on the link, and when his profile enlarged, it was a photo of him taken with his wife. He was white, and she was Asian. Delighted, excitement bubbled in the pit of my stomach.

But David’s Facebook page was private, his last status very old. How did I even know he was alive? I decided to message the daughter, Hollie, in California and request her friendship. She was active on her Facebook account. But I never heard from her. I suspect her privacy settings bumped my message to her spam folder.

The thought came to me to visit the other daughter’s Facebook page. Tamara lived in Little Rock. I glanced over her picture, but since I had left a phone message on what I thought was David’s machine and a friend request on Hollie’s Facebook page, I decided not to send a message to Tamara.

Defeated, I prayed. I asked God to help me find David and Glenda Baker, but I was running out of time. I needed to post the blog before the end of the month. I told the Lord I’d wait a day or two longer to post the story, but in the end, I was disappointed. I was forced to rewrite the story, taking the names of people and places out of it.

Skip forward to last week. I gave my first interview to Author Carole Brown, and in that interview, I told my “never quit “story. (http://www.sunnebnkwrtr.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-warm-welcome-to-ann-mccauley.html ) But on Friday night, I never wanted to quit writing more. Between the Morning Glory blog and my interview, I felt I’d exposed too much of my heart for the sake of writing.

The enemy viciously attacked my mind. Randy did his best to scrape me up and stick me back together, but I cried until the wee hours of morning.Writing and publishing is a lonely, solitary, and sometimes painful process.

By Monday morning, my feelings were not lining up, so I made a conscious choice. “Lord, I will only care what you think of me. I will write Your stories.”

The phone rang a few hours later and it was my daughter-in-law, Rachel. I hadn’t planned a trip to Bryant (almost an hour away), but I suddenly had a strong desire to see my two-year-old granddaughter, Addy. I found myself telling Rachel I would come and visit them the next day. My plan was to shop at Target, then run over to their house. But the next morning, Rachel asked me to come and get them first. She had some shopping to do, as well.

We had a wonderful morning and visited several stores. Right before lunch, I made it to Target with Addy. We shopped the Christmas aisle for a very long time, talking about Christmas and enjoying each other’s company. Rachel joined us when it was time to leave.The checkout lanes were crowded. I left one and moved to another where there was only one person ahead of me. Rachel decided to take Addy to the restroom for a diaper change.

Once I was alone, my gaze fell on the person sliding her card through the credit card machine. At first I skimmed the pretty, younger woman, but then every one of my nerves stood at attention.This woman looked like Tamara—David Baker’s daughter. I studied her eyes and held my breath as she entered her pin number. Hadn’t Tamara’s profile said she lived in Little Rock? This was Bryant, twenty to thirty minutes outside Little Rock. I’d only seen Tamara’s picture once. It couldn’t be. Could it?

That’s when I realized a shorter woman stood next to her, a woman with graying hair, holding a squirming baby boy. I leaned to the left to examine this other woman. She was Asian. A sudden thrill teased its way up my spine.

The two women moved aside to add their purchases to their buggy and leave. I had to act or forever wonder.

“Excuse me.” My hands trembled, and my voice shook. “Are you from Texarkana?”

The younger woman smiled a bit. “My mother is.” She nodded toward the older lady as my heart fluttered and blossomed in wonder. What have you done, Lord? How did you orchestrate this? Texarkana is two hours away.

“Is your name Baker?” The words rushed out of me of their own accord.

Tamara’s smile faded, and her face took on a puzzled expression.“Yes, my mother’s name is Baker.”

“Oh please, can you wait on me to check out. I’ve been searching for you. I really need a moment to speak with you. Please?”

Tamara’s shoulders relaxed though her eyebrows raised. “Of course.”

I don’t know how I got through the transaction. My mind sped one hundred miles an hour.When I finished and closed the gap between me and Mrs. Baker, she smiled and the baby relaxed on her shoulder and drifted sound asleep.

“Oh how, I have searched for you. I can’t believe this! Twenty-eight years ago, our husbands met in your home over business. We had been praying about adopting a daughter through Holt. We don’t believe it was ever a coincidence that Randy met your husband that day. We now have four adopted children, three through Holt International.”

Glenda’s smile grew wider and Tamara said, “So… This is a God thing.”

“Yes! Yes, this is a big God thing. Your mother and father have been a part of our testimony for years. I am a writer. On my blog, I’ve been sharing about our first daughter’s adoption. I blogged about you and your personal adoption story back in August, but not before I searched for you. I actually saw your photo on Facebook, Tamara. That’s how I recognized you.”

“You should have friended me!”

“Yes, I should have. Don’t you live in Little Rock?”

“No, I live here in Bryant. Where do you live?”

“Arkadelphia.”

“Really? My sister and I both went to Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia! Ya know, Mom comes to help me once a month with my three little ones.That’s why she’s here today. Do you know about my Uncle John?”

“Yes! I wrote about him and how he and your mom were reunited and grew up together in Hooks, Texas. It’s an incredible story. I hope I got most of the details right.”

“Well, Uncle John is writing a book.You must talk to him.”'

Friends, I should probably end this story, but not until you know this. I never planned on going to Bryant, Arkansas this week. On Tuesday morning I awoke at 3AM, couldn’t go back to sleep, and I felt physically ill. I thought about staying home, but I wanted to see Addy since I won’t see her during the Thanksgiving holiday. I didn’t have a particular time to shop at Target. I am not sure why we checked out when we did. Or, why I changed lines...

But there is a God, and He is personal.This I know. And, when He chooses, He will peel back the curtain for you to see Him in action.There are no coincidences, only divine appointments.God is the same, yesterday, today, and forever. He is a supernatural God.

As I drove home from Bryant, I thought about how much I love the holidays and surprising my children—showering them with good gifts. I am sure my Heavenly Father was smiling. He loves me. He couldn’t wait for the opportunity to thrill me and give me two gifts named Tamara and Glenda.

Know this, dear ones. God feels just as passionately about each of you.

Listen for His Whispers

Pregnant: The Adoption of Megan, Segment 5

Everywhere I turned, God showered me with assurance about His plan for our adoption, right down to the family who moved across the street. The father of the young family was Japanese, and I gathered perspective on what it was like to be a mixed Asian family in the American South. Blended families did exist, even in our small town.

God networked behind the scenes. Families came into our lives that year who would be instrumental in Megan’s adoption: Richard and Belinda Burns, Bud and Sue Wood, and Ron and Stacy Smith.

We met Bud and Sue early that fall through our church. One evening they invited us to dinner. When we’d finished, the husbands left for a men’s prayer meeting. Sue and I curled up on the sofa to cross-stitch while our children played. I shared with Sue our plans to adopt a Korean baby. Her hoop and aida cloth dropped to her lap as her mouth fell open. I remember thinking she must not understand why we’d internationally adopt.  But before I could further explain, her eyes glistened with tears.

“All day long, God nudged me to phone you, Ann.  I couldn’t understand why, so I ignored His promptings. I feel so foolish, now.”

“Why?”

“I have a dear friend where we moved from that has a brain tumor. God kept telling me to call you and have you pray for her. Tomorrow she goes into the hospital to have surgery. Since I don’t know you well, I couldn’t understand the connection. Now? I do. My friend and her husband have four children, two biological and two adopted, one child from Japan.”

My heart clenched as faith for this woman’s healing rose in my gut. Certainly God wanted her to live and rear her children to know Him. Sue and I prayed. The next day, Sue’s friend had seventy x-rays and the doctors marveled. Not a trace of the tumor could be found.

Soon after, Bud told us he’d been adopted, and that was the special reason we’d become friends. The man thrived on every detail of Megan’s adoption and literally prayed her home.

Belinda and I became fast friends soon after I met Sue. Like Sue, I met Belinda at church. I had something special in common with her. She, the mother of boys, had a heart’s desire to have a daughter. But would her husband go for another baby in hard economic times, or would God grant the desire of her heart? We agreed to pray for one another. Her daughter, Mallory, was born on my birthday one year later. I think God smiled. Oh, and did I tell you? Turns out, Belinda’s husband, Richard, was adopted.

September 18, 1957/ September 18, 1986

A few months later, high school friends, Ron and Stacy Smith moved to our area. Ron, fresh out of medical school, opened his first practice. As we helped them move into their home, we had no idea the strong direction their lives and ours would branch and take. But one thing was sure. Ron and Stacy believed in miracles and prayerfully supported us. Stacy’s dad is Author Gilbert Morris

God brought others into our lives, for certain, extraordinary moments. Important others like Ed and LaVerne Midyett who slipped a crisp fifty dollar bill into Randy’s lapel pocket when he picked up his suit at their dry cleaners. It was January of 1986, and we were to leave bright and early the next morning for Memphis, TN and our first adoption agency interviews.

Sweating bullets, we stepped into the adoption agency office. Compact, its walls were covered in photos of Holt children with their forever families. These calmed our nerves a bit before the upcoming interrogation. How would we explain that we didn’t have a plan for coming up with our adoption monies?

The social worker rushed to greet us, and we were whisked into chairs. “I am so sorry, but before we begin, I must tell you there has been an oversight. Immigration is now requiring an extra fifty dollars, immediate payment.”

Fall 2013: Soon after Megan’s homecoming Bud and Sue Wood moved to Northwest Arkansas, Richard and Belinda Burns moved to Alaska, and Ron and Stacy Smith moved to Texas, and then Georgia. This summer the Burns returned to Arkansas, and Megan reconnected with her childhood friend, Mallory, now married and living near Houston. Richard and Belinda bought one of Megan’s paintings upon her graduation from Henderson State University this past spring, and it hangs in their living room.  Megan had no memory of Bud and Sue, but as we moved Meg to Fayetteville, AR this summer, she reconnected with the Wood family. Now Megan and I are separated by miles, but Bud and Sue are watching over her as though she were their own.

Bud and Sue Wood with Megan, June 2013

Listen For His Whispers

Coats, Pillows, and a China Cabinet

The church we attended gave each of our children a warm coat, but not just a warm coat. Beautiful coats. Coats they would wear for years to come.They also gave the kids new bed pillows.You wouldn’t think such a gift would excite children, but they were needed, our children appreciative. Our oldest son was in Iraq, and this same body of believers sent a care package to him. Many families in the church sent gift cards for us to buy Christmas for the kids.What a loving and thoughtful group of people.We were blessed to know them.

God doesn't always use a mailbox to send blessings...

But our problems were bigger than those who loved us. For the first time in more than twenty-five years of marriage, my husband was without employment. The calendar on the kitchen fridge flapped each time I passed, a reminder that the rent was due. We had needs no one could conceive, and we were helpless to do anything but pray.

Instead of meeting those needs, God seemed distant.  His word to us always the same, Work for me. Work for me. So each morning, we used our dwindling cash for gasoline, drove to our church, and worked there as though we were employed. We had vision for a family and children’s ministry and spent days, cleaning, organizing, painting, and preparing.

Late one evening a truck pulled into the yard and began backing to our front porch. Two sweet people from the church hopped out and began unloading a dining room suit. We were overwhelmed. This couple, in the real-estate business, had sold a home in which the owners had left behind a table, chairs, and china cabinet to be given away.

Only God knew I’d always wanted a china cabinet. I had never told a single person. That evening after the kids fell asleep I took my china out of storage boxes and carefully placed each piece into the lighted cabinet. Finished, I turned the house lights off and stood back. Lovely. But my thoughts were not so lovely. Lacking the beauty of faith and dependence, tears welled in my eyes, and I whispered, “Lord, why would you give me a china cabinet and no house to live in?” I was as fragile as one of my china cups. The fear of moving to a homeless shelter loomed even as a rumble of laughter escaped my throat at the thought of the question.

After I crawled into bed, my husband told me we would have to try and sell the dining room suit. My shoulders sunk as I looked him in the eye. I choked up and tears prickled. “That was a personal gift from my Father. Only He knew what it meant. He's trying to tell us something. We can’t sell it. We just can’t. This was my Christmas present.”

The next morning, we rose early to work at the church. As I climbed into the van and reached for my seat belt, my husband leveled his gaze on mine and said, “Aren’t you going to get our rent money from the mailbox?”

God doesn't always use a mailbox to send blessings...

I eyed him right back, and my ire rose. He was being sarcastic. His practical mind screamed to sell the dining room suit, and I stood in his way. I snatched the stack of letters from the mailbox and returned to the van. A Christmas card stood out among the bills. As I tore it open, my jaw went slack. There was a check for $2,000 dollars inside the card. This money came from people who called themselves secret agents. Believers, who hardly knew us at all, they lived in another state and were not privy to our circumstances.

Sometimes God uses a mailbox...

Everything was paid and on time. But our living conditions were not changed. Another month rolled by, and bills came due a second time. God kept saying, Work for me. Work for me.  A second envelope came in the mail that month. This letter was from another family who lived in a totally different state. We had not heard from these people in years. And inside the letter was a check for $2,200 dollars. God gave us a raise.  Another month passed and bills came due. This time God gave Randy a job that paid nineteen dollars an hour.

God didn’t help us because of our service to the church. God didn’t help us because we had adopted children, or because we homeschooled. God didn’t help because we were special, or because we held a rare measure of faith. The opposite was true.

No. Our Father wants to freely give. And as we admire qualities of hard work, loyalty, and growth in our own children, so does He. But He gives unconditionally because He’s Daddy. The work at the church was to keep us occupied in a good thing while He worked on our financial miracles. What was this truly about? Our level of trust was challenged. 

You see, the provisions were always present and on their way before we could see or touch them.

It’s humbling to share about our needy times, but it’s exhilarating to share what God is willing and able to do for His kids. What have you walked through that confirms He is real and holds your hand?

Listen for His Whispers

Seasoned

I wouldn't be a Southern gal if I didn't own an iron skillet or two. When I married, I was given ten. 

Opening the final gift of my bridal shower, I tugged tissue paper away to reveal yet one more five pound, cast iron bludgeon to add to my culinary arsenal. My grandmother hunched forward to whisper in my ear that skillets needed to be seasoned. The entire circle heard her raspy revelation which led to a round-table discussion on best methods.  Rolling my eyes, I thought: Somehow the excitement of being in love overshadows this Suzy Homemaker session.

When despite my heartfelt newlywed labors, I scorched the eggs four mornings straight; I humbly realized Grandma knew what she was talking about—seasoning is serious. I had a vague idea that seasoning had something to do with iron changing to a darkened state. After all, my skillets had been slate gray when new from the gift wrap unlike my grandmother’s coal black ones. And what was the current condition of mine?  They were orange with rust. Tongue in cheek, I swallowed my pride, and approached my grandmother, asking, "How DO you season a skillet?"  
            Her answer sounded tedious, not in the least romantic. In fact, it sounded like WORK.  But then a space bubble appeared just above my head, where I pictured myself scrubbing scorched eggs off the surface of the skillet while droplets of sweat ricocheted from the pan's surface; and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to listen. Though, this kind of activity was not how I imagined my first days of wedded delight, Grandma’s gentle admonition of marital purpose caused my heart to rouse, and I listened to her instructions with new found ardor and allegiance to backwoods kitchen warfare. 

1.      Grease the skillet

2.      Allocate the storage of the skillet to the oven

3.      Whenever you heat the oven to bake, the skillet will turn red hot

4.      Remove it from the oven while baking whatever you heated the oven to cook

5.      After it cools, grease the skillet again

6.      Repeat

7.      Repeat

8.      Repeat

9.      Repeat

Just as Grandma vowed, the oil and the heat seasoned my iron skillet over a period of time. Cornbread batter stopped sticking to the sides and bottom, and my eggs turned out light and fluffy. This meant my groom became a happier and less-hungry man.

Twenty years later, I lounged on the sofa, awake before the children for a rare moment of quiet. As I considered all the challenges and tangled problems of my life and tried to tell God how He could fix them, the image of my large iron skillet popped into another space bubble just above my head. Of all things to envision! And in the deep quiet place of my heart, I heard the Lord say, “Ann, you're just like that old, iron skillet.”

I grew quiet. Forevermore! How am I like a skillet? As I pondered the analogy, I realized that through the years of use and faithful seasoning, that heavy, blackened skillet had become my most desired kitchen tool and dependable friend.

How have You seasoned me, Lord? I just feel rusty, I thought as tears streaked my cheeks, and a sob swelled in my throat.

And the answer came. The fires of life: money pressures, marriage challenges, the blur of diapers, meals, training, homeschooling. Oh, the hours of homeschooling!  Will I ever make it through to graduation with one child—much less six—and, what about their unique learning differences? How will I meet everyone’s need when there is only one of me? He reminded me, I am never alone. Then His tender disclosure made my eyes grow wide with understanding. All the circumstantial difficulties of life knotted together were the oven of my seasoning. 

But I know that heat alone does not a seasoned skillet make; and I realized, neither do trials alone grow us into instruments of service fit for our Master. Layered between my red-hot oven moments when I think I might die from all the demands. God is the Faithful One who seasons me by anointing my head with the oil of His Holy Spirit. He soothes me with His presence and His Word. His mercy, new every morning, covers me while His love streams through me providing genuine joy. His patience gives me hope. He hardly ever takes the trials, the heat, or the oven away. But He consoles me again and again, oiling me to tackle the fire because I have an intended purpose. What about you? Are you a little smoky from the frying pan?

Listen for His Whispers

Remedy for Burnout: Enduring for the Eternal

God is joking, right? Move away from our state and to an uncertain destiny just because of homeschooling?

We had to question what God had told us about homeschooling our children back when our oldest was five. The decision hadn’t been easy then, but God placed a knowing inside us that it was the right thing to do.

There will always be conflicting points of view and interpretations on how to best handle situations, but your commitment to that one thing you know God spoke to your heart will see you through. When burnout hits, if our motivations are built 

and based on God’s unchanging nature, we cannot fail.

Backed into a corner, we had to reconsider. Two things transpired to make us question whether we should stay in our home of twelve years. We had adopted a son who was hearing impaired. The size of a three year old, he labored through a church preschool program and private speech therapy services, but these situations held at bay decisions about public school until his adoption was finalized. The other consideration was our oldest biological son. The state we lived in required second graders to pass an exam, and this child lagged behind in reading—not that unusual for boys his age. But, there was one shot at passing the test, and he didn’t.

The law was the law. If your child had a special need in any area, then the parent was required to be certified in that field to home educate. I had to be certified in both reading specialty and hearing impairment to homeschool two of my children, and I wasn’t.

The local school district complicated matters by telling us they would not hire someone certified in hearing impairment. We went to battle. We knew our rights. Going to the highest levels to insist the schools provide for our adopted son, we worked to change minds and hearts, but it did no good. We spent so much time in war there was no time to spend with the children, especially our hearing impaired son, who had desperate needs.

Father, tell us what to do. We put the house on the market, and it didn’t sell. Is this your answer, Lord?  We could leave our home and move fifteen miles across the state line and homeschool each of our children in freedom. What a temptation! We prayed harder.

“For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”

2 Corinthians 4: 17-18 (NKJ)

One day, my husband came home with an answer. A good steward of God’s wealth and blessing maintains his material belongings in a responsible manner. The conflict? The Bible also says, that the planet is our temporary residence, and that we should make decisions based on what is eternal rather than on what is temporary. What did we know for certain? Our two biological children and two adopted children were God given. To live an authentic example of relationship with God was our highest responsibility to them. And the biggest lesson life had taught us? God is most concerned with what will last.

Money? It comes and it goes. Places to live and things to wear? He promises to provide. Our decision was made based on enduring for what was eternal. We moved across state lines and continued to homeschool our children. I am not saying this is the right decision for everyone in our situation. I have never seen God do anything the same way twice. But, I am saying, it was the right decision for us at that moment.

There was a price. Our house never sold, and we endured hardships. Was the hardship fair? Adversity made us want to doubt our decisions. Even now, I sometimes wonder if we could have done something differently. But each time we were challenged, we counted it joy and pursued knowing Him and the fellowship of His sufferings. God never once failed us financially. He supplied materially and entrusted us with two more internationally adopted children.

“For we know that if our earthly house, this tent, (I realize this can mean our bodies) is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” 2 Corinthians 5:1(NKJ)

Throughout the years we have been faced with this one question. Would we choose what is important now or what would be important later?

Heartfelt commitments require endurance through hardship, trial, testing, and attack. Outward circumstances are never easy to decipher. There will always be conflicting points of view and interpretations on how to best handle situations, but your commitment to that one thing you know God spoke to your heart will see you through. When burnout hits, if our motivations are built and based on God’s unchanging nature, we cannot fail.

*The preceding story was created as I journeyed through burnout and explored a remedy for it. Rest is the letter R in Remedy. Exercise your faith is letter E. Meditate More is letter M. Today's post is letter E, Endure for the Eternal. Stay tuned for future blogs concerning letters D-Y.*

 Listen for His Whispers...

Remedy for Burnout: Remember To Rest

My nerves crackled with anxiety, and I blinked away thoughts of cutting loose and running. The toilet paper wasn’t normally stored in the refrigerator. As my brain power flickered like a dying light bulb, I questioned my sanity. Had I really put unwashed clothes in the dryer and mistaken Lysol Spray for deodorant this morning?

To my side, a daughter murmured to her homegrown doll, Francesca, as she swept the doll’s mitten-shaped hand across a Braille alphabet card. “No silly. That’s not the answer. It’s G. G says Qu in Queen. Let’s try it again.”

Phonic’s therapy. Today.

While still processing the toilet paper in the fridge, my other daughter, walking like Frankenstein, entered the kitchen dressed in cardboard. Have you ever bent to pull toilet paper from the fridge while having a conversation with Disney’s Cogsworth the Clock, alias Asian nine-year-old with a perfectly face-painted French mustache?

Art class. Quirky. But cute.

I eased myself into a chair and peered toward the peaceful sight of the Methodist church building next door. A gentle wind swayed the bushes of the side-yard, and my gaze scaled the white steeple.

Anchor me,Lord!

But an interruption much like television static blurred past the window. My oldest son, wearing Man from Snowy River hat, breezed down the driveway on horseback. A lariat poised in his right hand spun in the air. I jumped to my feet and scrambled to the living room. As I reached the large, front windows, the horse came to an abrupt stop. My son yanked on his rope, and a glimpse of his target stumbled from behind the shoulder point of the Welsh pony. Arms bound, a younger brother yelled to Kingdom come.

Impressive equestrian skills. People skills? Not so much.

A third brother slammed the back door, ran toward me speaking with characteristically disjointed syllables and signing with frantic hands.

Tattling 101. If this son could tattle, he could talk.

Recess ended. I called each of my darlings to attend court. I perched on the sofa and had them form a lineup which included Francesca, Cogsworth, and Man from Snowy River. Lunch over and instruction beginning again at 2PM, I relegated each of them to a different room in the house for one hour of peace and quiet.

Instead of caving, I stretched on the sofa and prayed, remembering back several years to when the children were smaller. And, God reminded me about the importance of rest.

Love your neighbor as yourself… Loving yourself isn’t self promotion, is it? It’s necessary.

I had started well. Once the kids had outgrown naptime, I had still required them to sit calmly on their beds for an hour every afternoon. They could read, draw, play quietly with Legos… When had I allowed this important time of day to slip into obscurity?

I could hear parenting experts telling me to keep my children busy, busy. Then they're less trouble, right? But, creativity and soul nurturing are oftentimes born of quiet moments for kids and moms alike.

God whispered to me the need for purposeful rest. This type of rest would keep me on track with the practical elements in my life. I could handle the work-a-day existence of being mom and teacher if I believed I was doing it all for a higher purpose. I’d forgotten. Like the Children of Israel wandering the desert, I’d let mundane days rob me of my calling, and I’d allowed God’s splendor to dim.

Growing weary in doing well… This Biblical phrase identified and cemented the issue. In modern vernacular, I was experiencing burnout. How does one put the brakes on burnout when you already feel chewed and swallowed?

Reaching for my Bible, I read Joshua 4:3, 6, & 7. God instructed Joshua to lay memory stones. The purpose? To remind future generations of His power, presence, and provision. The stones were taken from the Jordan River, and they were lifted from the riverbed in the places where the priest's feet stood firm before the Ark of the Covenant. This Ark represented God’s presence. Why was this significant? Our decision to parent and homeschool, and the ability to actually do it, had been firmly planted in God's power, presence, and provision from the beginning. So why was I lacking?

Rest—so easy and so hard.

I began to understand. Strong, family memories could wield weapons to slay burnout. New memories were tactical procedures ensuring my future. But what should comprise my memory stones? I couldn’t imagine myself gathering rocks. Then it hit me. Journals, scrapbooks, photo albums, lapbooks—anything that records our progress and demonstrates God’s graciousness to us is a memory stone.

Afternoon quiet time was reinstituted at my house that day. I gathered fluffy pillows, lit a scented candle, snuggled deeper into the folds of the couch, and reviewed my purpose along with my children’s treasured moments.

I renewed my mind, setting it on the finished work of Jesus Christ—the Believer’s ultimate rest—and basked in the comforting help of the Holy Spirit.

Refreshed…

 “[What would have become of me] had I not believed that I would see the Lord’s goodness in the land of the living?” Psalm 27:13 (Amplified)

What about you? I’d love to hear what sustains you. What restful thing do you do to regain focus?

                       

*The preceding story was created as I journeyed through burnout and explored a remedy for it. Rest is the letter R in Remedy. Stay tuned for future blogs concerning letters E-M-E-D-Y.

           

2 Thessalonians 1:3

Joshua 4:3-24

Psalm 16: 9

Isaiah 63:14

Listen for His Whispers...