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...

When Trouble Finds You

New beginnings are like new blooms; they anticipate sunshine and dew-kissed days to blossom.  They spring forth, by design of the Creator, fresh, sturdy, yet tender and lovely.

We had moved to a new beginning—a different house, neighborhood, town, and state. I was prepared. I’d gathered curriculum. I’d planned entertaining activities for my toddler. My boys, seven, six, and five, had organized closets filled with learning games, and I had a teacher corner, complete with manuals and motivating magazines. I had made calls and studied state law. My paperwork was filed.

            On this first day of school, my primary agenda was to feed hungry tummies. I scrambled eggs and made toast. Kissing my husband as he headed for work, I skipped to the bathroom to groom while the kids ate. When I came back, the kids had deserted. The boys had made a pirate ship of the bunk beds and the toddler was listening to music. Happy sounds filtered the rooms and the sun’s rays splashed my face while I scrubbed the frying pan at the kitchen sink.

            A knock sounded on the back door as peals of laughter and playacting grew louder. My daughter clamored through the room marching to music. I scanned the table. Scrambled eggs dotted its surface.  Electric curlers were atop my head, but I was dressed. I shuddered. Being in a new place, I didn’t know people. Who would knock on the back door at eight in the morning?

I managed to pluck two or three rollers from my hair as I opened the door. A stranger stood there.  Be gracious.

“Mrs. McCauley?” he said, never cracking a smile.

“Yes?”

“I am Mr. Jones and I am with the state truancy department. Someone filed a complaint with us saying your children are not in school. This is the first day of school, ma’am. Are your children here?”

Panic gripped. Heavenly Father! This was before the days of organizations telling you what to do in such situations. The door was wide open, and this man had one foot in the threshold. Wisdom told me to show confidence and honesty. What else could I do?

“Please come in…” I smiled, though trembling. The children’s games ceased and they swarmed, grinning at the company. I told them to do what they were supposed to be doing, and one by one they trickled away. The pirate ship sailed.  Hails of shiver me timbers reverberated. I swept my hand around the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry things are a mess.We just finished breakfast.”

He said nothing.

“Mr. Jones, I am a homeschooler. My children have not been outdoors this morning, and I don’t understand who called and complained.”

“The call was made last week, before school began.”

“I don’t understand. Why would someone do that?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Why don’t you show me your paperwork?”

            I invited him to follow me to my teacher corner. Anyone could tell I was organized and serious, but suddenly I realized I had been remiss. I had filed papers without making a photocopy, and I had no proof of what I’d sent the state. An explanation nervously poured from my mouth.

            He asked to see the children’s books. I showed him everything and treated him with the dignity of a trusted friend. As he strolled once more to the classroom, he stooped to speak with my three-year-old, who now sat with a book. 

“What are you reading, honey?”

“A book about Jesus.” She beamed, and I could see her eyes blaze a trail to his heart.

The man rose, meeting my eyes and said, “You are doing a wonderful job…”

Most of the time trouble will come calling when it’s least expected, and situations can spin out of control in a hurry. Granted, I should have been more prepared, but what I learned speaks volumes.  A gentle answer can turn away wrath. What is meant for evil, God can change for good. The attributes of our Father—truthfulness, graciousness, confidence—exercised in our actions, can produce lovely blooms endowed with hope of flowering. What about you? Have you had a negative reaction to homeschooling turn around because you cried out for God’s virtues? Have you found yourself in a new situation, counting on God to be faithful and fruitful in your endeavors?

*Author’s note:  I do recommend homeschoolers join HSLDA and learn what to do in a situation like the one above. The days of pioneering are over, and there is helpful information on what to do before and after your rights are threatened.  

Though we may be unprepared, the Holy Spirit is our Helper.

Listen for his whispers! 

Popcorn Memories

One night, a few years ago now, my body as always longed for rest, but the alarm jolted me awake at midnight's blue, when the kids would be fast asleep. What?!? Then I remembered. I slipped from beneath flannel sheets and electric blanket into the still cold of our ancient house, looking back with longing at my soft pillow. The century-old stairs creaked as I scaled them in cloak of darkness, a tight fist about a one-dollar bill. I tiptoed through the upstairs maze, my feet dodging dressers, cast-aside shoes, and prickly, little carpet tacks at every portal. As I shivered, I smiled to myself; my mission would soon be accomplished. A baby tooth awaited me in a snack-sized Ziploc tucked under my second-born's pillow.

Carefully, carefully, I inched toward Jarred's bunk.  Five feet… Four feet… Three feet away from his wee, slumbering snore... Faint moonlight softened his little face into a deceiving sweetness. Two feet… I reached out… And the world plunged from its axis! My legs went sprawling in mid-air; the breath I’d been holding burst into a wild, squeal of terror. The room shifted, rocked, rolled, and I landed in a bruising heap among more than a thousand glass marbles. Looking up at the ceiling, I knew with icy certainty— my favorite red-haired mischief-maker had booby-trapped the tooth fairy! Every scene from The Ransom of Red Chief went flying through my head, as I turned red with fury.

That night carried the real potential to send me over the proverbial edge, though I forgave my repentant son, toothless grin and all. The next day, black-and-blue and sleep deprived, I needed a vacation, but there was no money for such a luxury. I calculated the cost of a sitter for the day and decided I was worth it, but none were available. Randy will watch the kids this evening, and I can escape. But events conspired against me, and of course, he had to work late.

I was stuck. Stuck! Stuck! Stuck! And in the midst of my stomping about with no glamorous place to hide from this exasperating day, memories began skipping through my brain like popcorn. Pop! Pop! Pop!

POP! The time my creative toddlers destroyed their room. No, I really mean destroyed. As in every toy out, every stitch of clothing strewn. Have you ever stood at the door to that room? Well, I knew they couldn't clean up their mess alone – but I simply took one look, turned and walked away, shaking my head like a lunatic and babbling, "Just – clean it up." When I returned, they had cleaned it all right. Around the baseboards in perfect rows marched a baseball, a shoe, a Big Bird bank, a sock, a soldier, another shoe, baby lotion, a Fisher-Price tape player, another sock, and on, and on, all the way around the room. I sipped my iced tea and studied the two-man clean-up crew, now chasing their squealing younger sister.

POP! The morning my son, Joshua, decided to take down the chain link fence. I had never analyzed how a chain link fence is put together, much less taken down, but my son visualized a fort built from that section of fencing. Not only did he dismantle the section screw by screw, he also took the garden shears and cut an ingenious doorway through the middle of it. Would you think dull garden shears could cut through chain? I stared at the gaping hole, thinking, My head is actually going to explode this time. I had two choices: I could have an aneurysm, or not. Making the obvious choice, I looked at my son and said – teeth clenched – voice low, "Put. It. Back." By sunset that evening, the section was back in place, the center bound together with wire like a great incision.

I learned from each catastrophe. When did each shenanigan, my children pulled, transition in my mind to an endearing memory? Finally, I sat wilting on the back stoop, watching my kids romping in the yard, and with memories came bubbles of laughter.

I sipped my iced tea and reflected on my life with children. Hadn't God been good to me, after my first child was stillborn? Hadn't He whispered to me that I would have children? Me. The mom of six blessings. My heart softened. Despite my annoyance, He refreshed me. From that night forward, the tooth fairy never again retrieved teeth from under children's pillows—making the exchange instead at the downstairs' bookcase.

But I learned that survival is about clinging to God’s merciful gift of humor, gracing me with the perspective to laugh at, and occasionally even with, my children's hoodlum ways. Sometimes a restorative vacation is just a step backwards into a few blessed minutes of hysterical laughter. 

So, pop back in time, and tell me your funny. When did humor help you survive?

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new 

beginnings we cherish each time we 

experience God.  

A Seed—A Wind—A Masterpiece

1990

Leesa Wallace now understood the grief swollen hearts of others. Her precious Caitlin, born just three months earlier with trisomy-19, fought for her life. Worship music lilted in the background of the hospital room, and the baby responded to it as she always had.  Yet this time, she was too weak for her arms and legs to flail and reach toward heaven. This time, only her eyes danced in rhythm to the heartbeat of the Father.  As the music paused between songs, the baby gave up her fight and flew into the arms of the Savior who had loved her first.  And a gaping wound rent Leesa’s heart, leaving a hole. She clutched the trembling hand of her husband, and together they cried.

1999

Since Caitlin’s death, three more daughters were born into the Wallace household to join big brother, Zachory, but the family was incomplete.  Leesa knew on the inside—had always known—that God wanted her to have a medically fragile child. Not one to replace Caitlin, but one chosen by the Father to love, serve, and bless.

The seed, planted by the Father, began germinating. The knowing became inescapable. It was time. After taking adoption classes through the state of Louisiana, the Wallace family began searching for their special child, and Leesa was led to Adopt America, a national organization representing children for adoption with special needs.  The process with Louisiana was slow and painstaking. But Adopt America found a child almost immediately and agreed to work between states to unite their family with a child.

Louisiana joined hands with Adopt America and the state of Texas. There was a seven month old boy, Matthew, living in a foster home in San Antonio, born with spina bifida. Leesa was given the names and phone number for the foster parents, and God was the orchestra leader bringing every instrument of His service into play.  And this was only the warm-up.

After dinner one evening, Leesa phoned San Antonio.  Foster parent, Dennis Snyder, answered.   They chatted and in their discourse Leesa asked, “Why do you foster children who are medically challenged?”  His reply would send electricity jolting through her body.  This couple had a heart for fragile children because they had a daughter born with trisomy-18, who died at age nine. 

When Mr. Snyder asked, “Why do you want to adopt a medically fragile child?” Leesa told him about Caitlin. Immediately, Dennis called his wife to the extension.  She asked; and Leesa explained that they had previously lived in Round Rock, Texas, approximately sixty miles from the Snyder’s home in San Antonio. 

Long faded memories began popping in Leesa as Jeanne Snyder peppered her with questions. In which Texas cemetery had Caitlin been buried?  And when?  Leesa’s pulse escalated as she told Jeanne the specific name of the cemetery.  As things turned out, the Snyders had started a support group for families who had children with trisomy, and when they learned a young family in Round Rock had lost their daughter, Jeanne had made the drive to attend the funeral.  Yes.  Jeanne Snyder had been at Caitlin’s funeral.

As the conversation continued to unfold, Leesa realized she had gone to one of the San Antonio support group meetings shortly after Caitlin was born, and though names had withered with time, it was the Snyder’s home where she had sat and shared about her special daughter. Yes. Matthew was being fostered in this same home. A knowing settled over Leesa. And, God, the Maestro, lifted his baton in prelude.

The social worker in Texas was eager to find a Hispanic home for this child who was both white and Hispanic in heritage. This woman chose to be uncooperative and launched a campaign to find Matthew a Hispanic home. Her final ploy sent devastating breakers into the coastline of Leesa’s heart. The Texas social worker decided to do an expanded feature, advertising Matthew on Texas television despite protests by the Snyders and the Wallaces. Matthew was a cute and gregarious baby.  His potential was unknown, and he was passing huge developmental milestones. Who wouldn’t want to adopt him? 

But in the end, not a single person made contact to ask more questions about adopting Matthew.  This mother and son were meant to be together.  The Heavenly Conductor brought His masterpiece to conclusion.  Matthew Wallace’s adoption was finalized September of 2000.

2012

Today, Matthew is thirteen.  He recently went to med-camp, and he has overcome many adversities through the help of his loving parents. The Snyders are still involved in Matthew’s life, playing an extended family role. 

God places the lonely in families.  Psalm 68:6A

(Left to Right) The Wallace Children: Kimberlee, Sadie, Zachory, Matthew, and Meghann 

Paul and Leesa Wallace pastor a church in Shreveport, LA. Our family was privileged to be apart of their church family for many years. God directed me to share this part of their story with you. Live blessed!    Ann McCauley

Listen for His Whispers

Casting Your Net

Casting Your Net

Ann Cooper McCauley

The child in the video stumbled with every step, head lagging, shoulder’s drooping.  The South Korean nurses prodded him to perform for the camera, but every action spoke of discouragement. This boy, an orphan in mismatched, too-small clothes, clinging to a skimpy, cellophane envelope of crackers, would be mine.  Yet, the video could not prepare me for the boy who staggered from the plane, wailing.  

Within three months, his uncooperative muscles grew stronger, but his head bounced off walls when he ran.  I thought he might have cerebral palsy, but malnutrition, poor health care, and a ruptured eardrum were his primary problems.  And though undetected, Joshua at age eight was deaf with no language, except a crude form of gesturing.

Mine.  He was mine to love and educate, while I homeschooled siblings--ages seven, five, and two.  The first year I waded through, shuttling Joshua to private speech therapy and a church kindergarten program.

            

Three years later, Joshua flourished.  He learned simple language, his motor control improved, and he was happy.  I felt great about the job my husband and I were doing homeschooling my special kids.  I loved our life.

            

Joshua's fourth school year in our home approached, and doubts began to whisper in my ear.  Day after day of working with him was like picking sand from the beach one grain at a time and the slow progress seemed like precious little for a boy who had so far to go.  I was juggling my marriage, a large house, three other active children with their unique needs, four grade levels, church responsibilities, and this slow learner.  I was exhausted and primed to buy a lie.

           

The enemy told me I was failing everyone in my household that year.  

           

I remember the day I collapsed, shouting into my tear-soaked pillow, “It wasn't supposed to be this way, God!” My heart whispered truth, my Father wouldn’t leave me, but my emotions told me otherwise.

The voice told me I was having a nervous breakdown.  Who was I to home educate my children?  And then a thought crept through my soul, sending chills down my spine—to save my other children, Joshua’s education at home might have to be sacrificed.  What kind of terrible, hateful mother would think such thoughts, three children at home and one in school?  Around and around the thoughts whirled.  So this is what it feels like to have a nervous breakdown. 

           

Another Voice came to my defense.  “Ann, cast your net on the other side of the boat.” I knew it was scripture, but it didn’t seem the balm I needed.  What does that mean?  I have no idea.

“Exactly,” the Voice whispered. “You don’t have answers.” 

           

I lay still, listening to my tattered breaths, hoping for more—like maybe an answer.  Nothing.  Completely frustrated, I snatched the yellow pages from the nightstand.  Who do I think I’m going to call?  Who could or would be willing to help a crazed homeschooling mom?  And, with whom would I be safe to admit my weakness?  

           

Then this clear thought spiraled through my mind, I need someone who knows sign language.  Perhaps if someone fluent in sign language worked with my son, he could learn.  I need a Christian—someone who won't turn me in to the state for doing such a pitiful job.  Illogical hope rose in my heart as I flipped to church listings.  Miracle of miracles, the First Baptist Church supported a deaf mission.  

          

Emotions of tsunami proportions seized me as I dialed the number. Frustration challenged hope, and fear battled against faith.  The phone rang, and a gentle female voice answered.  

          

I froze with the phone to my ear.  I opened my mouth, but I could not speak.  I held my breath as long as I could, biting my tongue; but sobs broke the silence.  The lifeline on the other end of the phone soothed, “It's all right… Speak when you’re able.”

            

Finally, I gasped, “I need help!”  Such a long story to tell and this was all that would come out of my mouth?

            

The voice on the other end introduced herself as the pastor's wife, and before the conversation was over, after I was emptied and calm, help was on the way.  Her husband, fluent in sign language, would be at my house by early evening. 

            

The pastor sat on our sofa that night and said, “Of course I will pray for you, but that’s not why I’m here.  I want to know what I can do for you.” 

           

I hated to impose, but here was the answer to all my prayers sitting in front of me.  Faltering I said, “Do you really mean this?”

            

At the pastor's genuine nod, the words tumbled from me with lightning-like desperation, “I need someone to teach Joshua to read using sign language.  I have the instructional tools designed for the deaf, but my signing is too slow.” I paused for breath, “Would you be Joshua’s tutor?"

            

The pastor agreed without hesitation.  Every week this kind, energetic man worked with Joshua for hours.  But as the school days progressed from autumn to spring, we noticed Joshua losing ground.  He could learn ten new words, only to forget twenty he’d mastered the weeks before.  By summertime the truth was clear: the delightful boy who had the expressive language of a three-year-old was not capable of reading.   I didn’t do this to him!  It’s not my fault.  He’s doing the best he can.

            

And then that quiet, small Voice spoke to my heart, “This time will you cast your net on the other side of the boat?”

             

And this time I understood.  When we’ve fished our side of the boat with no catch, when our intents of heart seem too lofty, and best efforts not enough, we can cast the net of our expectations, our hopes, and our cares to the God side of the boat. We don’t have to have all the answers. We just need to take the hand of the one who is THE WAY.  This doesn’t mean, I stopped trying to teach Joshua, but I certainly relaxed to enjoy my journey with him more. 

Joshua’s potential was a mystery in those days.  He is now thirty-one.  Looking back, I now know what he was capable of doing and what he was not, based on his limitations. Wouldn’t faith have been simple if I could have known the end from the beginning?  Unseen challenges press us forward so we reach the greatest potential in others and in ourselves.  The secret is in how we press on.

            

Our choices don't look so plain while we are in the depths.  We can fish the side of the boat representing our own works or lack of them, our despondency.  Or, we can cast our net on the other side--the God side--knowing His rewards will manifest whether we envision them or not.

The disciple, Peter, tells us, “CAST all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.”(NKJ 1Peter 5:17).  God loved and cared for your kids before you knew they existed.  He ever holds your hand. Can you trust Him today to handle your child's future, knowing He has the best possible outcome planned?

Author's note: 1) Each time you read the word "I" in this post, please keep in mind that my husband and I have worked together as a team to lovingly birth and educate our children.  I write this story from my point of view, but my sweet husband walked alongside, ever leading, ever encouraging. 2) Joshua today is one of the happiest individuals on the planet.  He works in electronics  at a local sheltered workshop.  He is a favorite among people all over town and at work.  The police chief recently told my husband at a community coffee, "Joshua McCauley is MY electronics man."

Mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.

When You're Tempted to Quit

Twelve months had passed since God gave my husband and me a beautiful vision of having a daughter from South Korea. The faith months, of believing what seemed impossible, were marked by milestones, each a tender expression of the Shepherd’s leading. I had lost a baby girl at birth five years earlier, but God had another daughter for me, whom I’d name Megan.  On the Fourth of July, I cross-stitched her name beneath a rosette of pink flowers and framed the needlework for the nursery we’d soon create.

Every week for two months I had eagerly asked husband; “Can we put the nursery together?” 

And each week, he’d said, “It’s not time, Ann.  Let’s wait.”

But on this Fourth of July 1986, he didn’t balk.  He agreed that the next morning, we would put our daughter’s baby bed together and prepare her room, though we didn’t have a clue how we’d financially adopt her. 

The next morning, husband was outdoors searching for hardware to use on the crib.  I was in the nursery ironing little girl clothes, lovingly crafted for our first daughter, who never got to wear them.  A voice planted seeds of doubt in my heart.  The voice was cruel.  It said; “You’re a fool.  This isn’t God.  You made it up because you want a daughter so much.  These little pink things your ironing?  They’ll never be worn by a child in your arms.”

Panic galloped through my heart.  I shook and fought tears.  The thought raced through my head that I was unbalanced.  And then I crumbled, telling God I was sorry, and that I’d go to everyone I’d told and tell them I had conjured the whole idea of adoption from a warped imagination.

I snatched a Living Bible from the bedside table and flung it open, begging God to give me a word of comfort.  My eyes fell to a scripture about preparing a signboard for a child before knowing the child was on its way.   Then my eyes riveted on the cross-stitched sampler I’d created.  My pulse slowed; my mind cleared. 

“No,” I said aloud to the voice.  “God gave me vision for this daughter.”  Not once had adoption crossed my natural mind in the years prior.  This was God’s story to write.

Three weeks later the phone rang.  I dried my hands on a dishtowel, as my two young sons flew by dressed as superheroes.  Our social worker was on the phone.  Her pleasant voice pulsated joy as she said, “Ann, congratulations! You have a daughter.”

I slid to the kitchen floor, receiver in hand, knees weak.  “How old is she?”  I asked, my heart brimming with hope.  Our youngest son was turning two.  The agency had told us our daughter would at least be younger than our youngest.  My heart braced to be told she was more than a year old.  Perhaps eighteen months?

“Oh, Ann, she’s just a newborn,” the lady replied.  “Isn’t God good?”

“Wh—what?  Wh--when?” I stuttered.  “When was she born?”

“She was born on the fifth day of July, Ann—just three weeks ago.”

On July fifth of this year, Megan will be twenty-six years old.  What a blessing she has been to our lives.  How many adoptive parents have the privilege of knowing exactly what they were doing the date their child was born?  What if I’d quit?  I was so close.  What if I hadn’t reached for the Word of God?  The day our daughter was born was the very day the enemy launched his most brutal attack on my mind.

You and I are not so different; we are clay.  Are you listening to the voice of your enemy telling you to quit your dream—the dream planted in your heart by Almighty God?  Are you second guessing whether something you have believed was ever from God at all?  Dreams and visions take all shapes.  If you know yours was born of God, don’t give up!  He will write your story.

Welcome to Morning Glory: When God Whispers

Welcome to Morning Gory: When God Whispers. Why this blog?  I have come to believe mornings in our lives are those fresh, new beginnings we cherish each time we experience God.  

When I was young, I believed early mornings were special, set-apart times to spend with the Father. I based this on Psalm 5:3 (NKJV). "My voice You shall hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning I will direct it to you and will look up."  And, Psalm 63:1(NKJV): “O God You are my God; early will I seek You.”

Then one day, God turned what I believed on its ear. When young children and sleepless nights came along, I found it harder to pull myself from bed for devotion time with God. Why couldn’t I discipline my body to rise early? I struggled with condemnation.

I was reflecting on these verses and asking God to forgive me, again, when His gentle perspective hit me between the eyes. Mornings mean early. Early doesn’t have to mean the dawn of each day, though it can have this meaning; but, God cares that I seek Him early—before I need Him—before trouble finds me. He doesn’t care so much about ritual as He cares about me.

And devotion time with God—any time of day—can be hours, minutes, seconds, just as long as we understand, it is not one sided. God wants to be with me as much as He wants me to come to Him. He wants to speak to me. He wants to be my Bright and Morning Star. And every time He directs my steps, every time He speaks something new to me, I am experiencing Him and His answers to life.

This blog will hit many topics. My hope is that it will have take home value for each of us.  I look forward to hearing from you.  In what areas have you been set free?

Let us enjoy His glory together.