Introduction {it happened on a sunday} Day 1

"By the seventh day, God had finished the work he'd been doing, so on the seventh day, He rested from all His work.  Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy."  Genesis 2:2-3

For thousands of years, Jews have celebrated the Sabbath, stopping their work as the sun sets on Friday and resting all day Saturday.  They follow the example of the Creator, who took a day each week to pause, to stop, to enjoy what He'd made.  Somewhere along the way, the Christians came along and claimed Sundays as the holy Sabbath day, rewriting the Creation story to fit a new system of belief.

In thinking about the encounters and experiences and people who have impacted my faith journey, it struck me that a number of significant moments occurred on Sundays.  Not only is Sunday the day of the week that Christians around the world gather for communal worship, it is also the day Jesus rose from the dead and offered the free gift of salvation to the world.  So it is both personal and universal, and seems like the perfect day to anchor this blog series.

Over the next 31 days, I'll share stories from my past and the moments that have contributed to who I am today.  I'm excited to put together this collection of memories, and a little nervous to reveal something so intensely personal and special to the world.  My hope is that each person reading my blog this month will do so with openness and love.  My ultimate desire is not to change your mind, but to encourage you to reflect on your own life, your own beliefs, and consider what has contributed to where you find yourself today.

Thanks for visiting!

Picking Up and Laying Down

I don't think I will ever forget this conversation I had with my husband when I was in my final trimester of my first pregnancy.  We were at our home, probably eating a slow-paced meal or reading books or one of the other leisurely activities we enjoyed Before Kids.  My husband gazed at the ever-growing basketball under my shirt and said, "Do you know, when I go to work sometimes I forget we're having a baby?"  He said it in a voice of bemused wonder, so casual.  And inside my hormone-fueled, aching body, my blood boiled.

My son was almost born fatherless.

I entertained the thought of murdering my husband for a moment before deciding instead to yell at him.  (I'm not sure he ever got used to Pregnant Rachel.  He never could seem to tell what would make me angry, make me cry, or what I would shrug off or ignore.)  "It must be nice to walk out the door and completely forget about this baby," I shouted.  "It must be nice to get busy with something and have it just fall out of your head.  It must be nice to focus on something else, anything else, because the evidence of this kid's impending birth is not sitting on your bladder."

My husband had the privilege of forgetting what was going on inside my body.  I did not.  Even before I took the test that confirmed we were having a baby, my body was under assault.  I was exhausted, nauseous, flatulent, clumsy, then ravenously hungry, constipated, achy, emotional, and sometimes I was terrified, manically cleaning, wishing I could undo what was happening and go back to my old life.  I never got a break from my experience, from my feelings, from the
knowledge that my life was changing and would never be the same.

Now, let's all agree on one thing:  when a man and woman who love each other get pregnant and have a beautiful baby that they raise together, this is a good thing.  Although pregnancy is not fun in many ways, the outcome is amazing.  It's why I did it again, why I would do it again tomorrow if I could.  But there are many experiences and feelings that are not great, that we would love to be able to put an end-date on.  Like racism.  I'll bet black people in America, if they were told that yes, your lives are hard right now, and this is a difficult thing you all are going through, but in nine months you will be able to shed the burden of hundreds of years of judgment and oppression and experience true equality in every area of life...well, I'll bet they would take a collective deep breath and get through the next nine months.

Except there is no expiration date.  Muslims will still be Muslims next year, provided they don't get murdered by ignorant nationalist jerks.  Black men will still look like scary big dudes to people who see a threat where there isn't one.  Mexicans (and really, all people of Latin descent, whose skin is just a shade too brown) will still get told to go back where they came from, even if here is where they came from.  The others, the minorities, the different looking will never get a break from discrimination, which can be as simple as being followed around a convenience store or being placed in remedial classes at school, all the way to being shot while standing unarmed next to their broken down car.  I get why people are angry.

And, while I mourn with those who mourn, and I long to see change in our country, I cannot deny that I get the privilege daily to decide how much to care.  I can choose to pick up my grief, to offer words of comfort and compassion, to walk with protesters and write a blog post and rant at whoever will listen that This is not right.  Or I can sit with my kids and read Pete the Cat and sigh about how messy their rooms are and feel disappointed that I have to drink water because someone else drank my Coke and get excited about a new episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.  I can look around at all that I have:  a house, three healthy children, a good husband, enough money to keep the lights on and food on the table, a big yard to play in, schools where my kids are learning and thriving.  I can see a police car and only feel worried if my speedometer says I'm going too fast, I can let my kids run around the playground and ride their bikes and my biggest concern is that they'll be kind to others.  The people in government and starring in movies and advertising shampoo look like me.  I don't feel judged at my bank or when I apply for jobs or when I walk in somewhere unfamiliar.

In many ways, the world is a safe place for me.  Does that mean that it's a safe place for everyone?  Absolutely not.  In fact, my own experiences as a vulnerable child tell me that this world is not a good place to be isolated and defenseless.  It is only the powerful and the privileged who will thrive here.  My white skin and my suburban address cushion me from the harsh experiences of the larger world.  I don't have to think about it if I don't want to.  I can shut my door and forget about all of it.

So, people who look like me, people who have this privilege of ignoring the experiences and hardships of others, what choice will you make today?  How will you choose to see the world tomorrow?  What are you going to do about the outcry across our country that there is not freedom and justice for all?

It is time to pick up the burden.  It is time to care about our brothers and sisters who are dying while we go to Target and soccer practice and remodel our kitchens.  It is time to change the system from the inside out, and it is time that we all feel uncomfortable about what is happening in our streets.

It is time to mourn.

Trust-Building for Marriage

I texted my husband this afternoon to find out when he was coming home from work; a shifting schedule lately has made his arrival home unpredictable, and I've eaten a few dinners by myself because the food is ready before he's here.  The response he sent me made me laugh out loud and took me through a flashback of memories from the past decade of our marriage.

It read "I'm by the airport."

Every couple has inside jokes and words or phrases that have special meaning.  This is an area we excel in, as we have laughed and teased each other almost non-stop for all of our adult lives.  So here's the story...

When we were first married, I worked north of our local airport, and we lived south of the airport.  My daily commute was about 10 miles of highway with no other significant landmarks beyond passing the airport.  My husband, working different hours, texted and called (I might have referred to it as "pestered" at the time) me each day when I was getting off work, always with the same question, "Where are you?"  I would look around in exasperation; it didn't matter if I was almost home or just leaving work, the best answer I could give was, "I'm by the airport."  This gave him no clue about when I'd be getting home, since I might be just five minutes away or thirty, and since I refused to be more precise about my location, it entered our lexicon of shared memory.

That's the surface of the story.

What really blew my mind this afternoon, when I read our old joke (I haven't commuted to work in years), was all that other stuff that was going on underneath.  I struggled as a newlywed.  My life changed overnight, and yet, in so many ways, things also stayed the same.  I was adjusting to being responsible to and for someone else, not sure how to merge our lives beyond the couple we'd been for years as we dated long-distance.  I didn't really appreciate the daily questions of where I was and when I'd be home, questions that likely came from a place of boredom or habit, but sounded to my young, independent ears like an accusation.  Where are you?  What are you doing?  I resented the implication that I needed to be checked on, and tossed out a vague answer to avoid feeling trapped and pinned down.  (Edited to add: My husband read this and said, "You still resent those questions." Some things don't change.)

This only frustrated my husband, probably feeling many of the same confusing things I was, and trying to navigate our new marriage.  I gave him no useful information, as he frequently reminded me that "by the airport" covered the bulk of my drive.  It also bothered him that I didn't answer my phone every time it rang, that I often left it at home or turned it off, making me unreachable.  (Remember, young ones, this was just the start of the cell phone era we live in today.  I checked for my wallet and keys before I went out, and left those on the table regularly, too.)

And so we dug in our heels.  I began to respond "by the airport" when we both knew I was in a completely different part of town.  I let his calls go to voicemail.  He called more, asking for specific answers.  When we both got smart phones not much later, he installed a tracking app on my phone so he could see my location no matter what (without my knowledge).  As it always happens, it blew up in our faces.

I was hanging out at my parents' house while he was at work, and when he finished for the night, he called to ask if I was going to stay at my parents' much longer, or was I heading home soon?  My sense of freedom felt under attack, and I flipped out when he casually mentioned he was tracking me by my phone, and we both got in our cars to go home for the big fight.  We don't argue much, but I'd rank this one in our Top 10 in terms of hurt feelings.  I felt like he didn't trust me, when I'd given him no reason not to.  He said he was sick of hearing I was "by the airport" and relied on the phone to give him an honest answer.

Then came the ultimatum:  either he had to delete the app off my phone or I was going to leave it at home forever.

It was like the whole situation flipped.  He agreed that tracking me had been an overstep, and I agreed that I could be more informative if he wanted to know where I was.  Little by little, he called and checked in less, and I became more transparent.  The hurt and anger dissipated as life moved on.  We added children to our family and became both desperate for the other person to get home and help, and desperate to get out of the house ourselves.

One night, I was driving home from the store (there's another inside joke we have about my trips to the grocery store, but I won't bog things down here by telling it), turning onto our street, when my phone lit up.  "Where are you?"  I recognized not a distrustful husband, but a man feeling overwhelmed by caring for active little kids.  And an impish bubble of laughter erupted from my stomach, as I pulled in our driveway and typed back my response.

"I'm by the airport."

The look of shock and relief on his face when I walked in the door a moment later was priceless.  He traded me a baby for the groceries, and proceeded to exhale.

 Trust and security take time to build, and the steps we take to get there can be hard.  But it feels so good to get to a place of understanding and laugh about our old hangups.

Becoming Brave and Opening the Door

I was reminded of this story from Acts 9 while I listened to a recent sermon from Austin New Church (which can be found here).  This serves as our introduction to Saul, a Pharisee and persecutor of the Way, Jesus' followers.  Saul will become Paul as a result of his encounter with God on the road, and will go on to write most of the New Testament letters and spread the gospel message further.  But in Acts 9, Saul is traveling and is suddenly struck blind and hears a voice from heaven.  He does what the voice says, which makes sense, because even with our modern Western medicine and technology, if I suddenly lost the ability to see, and I heard someone giving me instructions to restore my sight, you better believe I'd follow those words down to the letter.

And then the story takes an interesting turn.  God has called out to a man who will make a radical life change and plant churches all over Asia and Europe, but then he also speaks to a man named Ananias.  Ananias is already a believer, already fully committed to God and His Church, so when he hears the voice, he responds, "Yes, Lord."

The Lord told him, "Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street.  Ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul.  He is praying.  In a vision, he has seen a man named Ananias.  The man has come and placed his hands on him.  Now he will be able to see again."

"Lord," Ananias answered, "I've heard many reports about this man.  They say he has done great harm to God's people in Jerusalem.  Now he has come here to arrest all those who worship you.  The chief priests have given him authority to do this."

But the Lord said to Ananias, "Go!  I have chosen this man to work for me.  He will carry my name to those who aren't Jews, and to their kings.  He will bring my name to the people of Israel.  I will show him how much he must suffer for me."

Then Ananias went to the house and entered it.  He placed his hands on Saul.  "Brother Saul," he said, "you saw the Lord Jesus.  He appeared to you on the road as you were coming here.  He has sent me so that you will be able to see again.  You will be filled with the Holy Spirit."  Acts 9:10-17

As I reflect on the word brave this month, I am reminded of how often God's calling to me has been the same as for Ananias.  Open your door.  Take down your walls.  Let others in.  Ananias had every reason to stay away from Saul.  He'd heard all about him, and he didn't want to get locked up or put to death.  He just wanted to worship the Lord in peace.  But God had a plan not just to redeem Saul's life, but Ananias' as well.

The world is teeming with stories of hate and violence and fear and isolation.  Sometimes it is impossible to separate the people of God from everyone else, because we allow ourselves to hear these tales and we shut our doors.  We try to keep it out.

"For God has not given us a Spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love and self-discipline." (2 Timothy 1:7)  God calls His people to be brave.  To open their doors and step out in faith.  Nowhere in my life is this more evident than our decision to become foster parents, and then adoptive parents.  Plenty of people warned us and tried to talk us out of doing it.  We would be opening ourselves up to something unknown, possibly dangerous.  We rejected that mentality, because we don't believe in fearing what we don't know.  Instead of some horror, we became the parents of a beautiful little boy, who nestled himself firmly in our hearts.  And that little boy, in turn, opened us to a whole family of people of look like him and share his personality quirks.  Though it is sometimes difficult, it is a beautiful expression of God's kingdom that we are able to walk this journey openly.

Sometimes being brave means opening the door of an adoption agency, and beginning the process of placing your child in someone else's home.  Sometimes it mean opening your door to a child (or children) in need of a family.  Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let go of the labels we've borne in the past (unloved, abandoned, unworthy, ashamed) and let in people who will walk with us towards healing and wholeness.

God didn't give up on Saul, even though he persecuted God's people, sometimes to the point of murder.  God didn't let Ananias stay in his house, scared and alone.  God brought these two men together to accomplish the work of His kingdom, and generations of believers have been blessed by their courage.

God hasn't given up on you either.  Every morning, He gives us the chance to be brave once again.  So who will you let in?

On Tuesdays

I count my summer by Tuesdays.  It makes me feel a bit wistful that there are only four left before school commences and we return to our typical week:  Mondays drag and Fridays feel like the finish line.  In the summer, Mondays are restful and Tuesdays are a party, for one simple reason.  Tuesday is Friend Day.

Bubbles!

Over the past year, my children (ages 4, 6, and 8) have all developed a strong friendship with someone outside our family.  I wondered how long it would last when the boys described their brothers as their best friends.  And especially for my oldest, on the autism spectrum and introverted in the extreme, I wondered if he would ever have a friend who didn't share his last name.

It's a hard thing that I never considered before the diagnosis.  I have been blessed to have the same best friend for the past two decades, as well as a husband who often fills the role.  I have friends at church and friends to chat with at pick up/drop off, friends who work at the library and Starbucks, friends to go see movies with and hang out on a lazy afternoon.  (Not that I have those anymore.)

But this kid, this sweet, silly boy, has a hard time engaging other people.  He experiences much of life on another plane, and tends to keep to himself.  Even when other kids desire to interact with him, he just doesn't participate in conversations the same way, or answer questions in a linear fashion, and I can see the frustration on the faces of his classmates and kids at the playground.  It's just easier to leave him to his own games and carry on with tag or basketball with the other kids.

Playing "Minecraft in Real Life"

A while back, one of my friends started working on Tuesdays, and needed someone to drop off her kids at school.  I volunteered, since we live close to the school, and her kids are always a delight to be around.  When summer rolled around, she still had work on Tuesdays, and three kids in need of a place to play.  It worked well that her kids' ages fall near my own kids' ages, and they got along great for 12 weeks.  The most remarkable part was that her son, a few months older than my sweet James, loves to play video games, and wanted James to teach him how to play one of our games.  So, week after week, James had a friend to play with.  They could sit side by side (but more often, James bounces around the room while he plays), complete tasks together, and they actually talked to each other!  Ian would ask questions, and James would answer in his own way.

I watched nervously, trying to serve as interpreter, or to catch James' attention when he seemed to be ignoring Ian.  But mostly, the two boys worked it out together, and a bond was established.  They play games together, and if James is intent on doing things his own way, Ian finds something to play with the other kids.  And now James looks forward to Tuesdays, to having his friend come over.  The kid who would rather be left alone, who seemed content to go through life solo, has a friend!  And it touches my heart every week to see them together.

Lego Star Wars!

It takes work, and special attention, and a whole lot of luck to match kids with special needs to someone who genuinely wants to spend time with them.  So many people in our kids' lives are there in a professional capacity, that finding someone who wants to be a friend is a gift.  And I'll do my best to appreciate whenever we find those gifts.

Bye Bye Nursery {A Transition}

Things are in transition in the Lipford house.

It's actually a pretty challenging time for me, closing doors on the past and preparing for what comes next.

Nine years ago, I was in the biggest transition of my life.  I'd left full-time employment at a bank and brought home a newborn son, becoming a stay-at-home mom overnight.  I couldn't really express all the highs and lows I was going through, and I certainly didn't have anyone to whom I could say these things out loud.

Some days I wanted to go back to work just to talk with my co-workers, women who had served as a sounding board and advised me on so many smaller changes.  I longed for all the pleasant parts of my previous life:  adult conversations and earning a paycheck.  And lunch breaks!!  How I missed those thirty minutes of quiet.

Instead, I was nursing a child who ate round-the-clock (you don't double your birth weight in two months by slacking in this area), adjusting to the constant touch and demands on my person.  I think the hardest part of being an introvert mom is just how much time is spent in the presence of your children.  I wanted to scream, "Leave me alone!  Nobody touch me for the next hour!"

One thing I did enjoy was setting up our new baby's nursery.  We moved into our house when he was six months old, and I painted his new room and bright, cheerful yellow, with soft white curtains on the windows, bright sheets in the crib, and playful pictures on the walls.  It's a small room, 9 feet by 9 feet, and it was just the right size to fit my babies as they came along, 1 2 3.  Each would transition to a big-boy bed when the next baby boy arrived, and I would lovingly fold the tiny clothes and put them away in the dresser.

So much has happened in nine years.  I am no longer ankle-deep in babies and toddlers.  My days no longer consist of an Elmo video, a walk around the neighborhood, home for lunch, and hey! it's nap time!  We have moved on to bike rides and swim lessons and Marvel heroes.  Questions that range from the annoying ("Why did you drive this way?") to the thought-provoking ("Are police the good guys?") to the down-right incomprehensible ("When you are a baby, will I have to change your diaper?").

The crib is gone, the changing table is obsolete, and the tiny clothes are packed away in storage bins. I don't want this time to be over.  (Seriously, if anyone wants to give me a baby, I will take him no questions asked...)  Somedays, I actually miss the life I used to have, the one full of crying infants and spilled drinks and blowout diapers.  I haven't wanted to let it go.

But this week, the time has come to say goodbye.  Our little yellow room no longer works for our family.  So I'm turning it into a purple "Homework Room", with desks and books and educational artwork.

Part of me knows that this is a necessary change, good even.  We have been blessed with three healthy children who are growing up, who are learning to read and add and figure things out for themselves.  It also means new freedoms and opportunities for me, a chance to write and create and remember who I am independent of all of this.

Still...it's hard to close that door.

On Mother's Day or Feeling Halfway

Today marks my ninth Mother's Day as an actual mother.  Since it is a day to celebrate me and all the other women who have birthed or raised children, I feel like the best way to celebrate is to take the day off.  I've devoted my life to my children since the first one arrived, and on this one day a year, I don't want to do dishes or fold laundry or wipe noses or play Candy Land.  I want to go to the movies or sit at Panera and slowly eat a pastry.  In recent years (now that I have friends again), it's been a chance to gather all the ladies I love and go for a walk or eat fried food or peruse the perennials at a local greenhouse.  It's a day to pause and reflect and remember who I am apart from these (not so) little people who call me Mom.

This week has been a challenge, for sure.  I've had all three boys lose their minds over something, screaming and kicking and yelling at me.  (Thankfully, it was all at different times.  I probably would have taken off running down the street to get away from them if it had happened at once.)  I've also had all three boys, at different times, tell me that I am beautiful and wonderful and they love me.  And, more than anything, this week has made me feel as though I am right in the middle of this mothering thing.

Now, my oldest kid turned nine this year, aka halfway to adulthood.  But I'm learning from watching my own mom that having a kid turn 18 hardly concludes the role.  Moms are like the mafia:  in it for life.  However, I am deep in the midst of seeing how this plays out.  We have our books and blogs and parenting experts and mom labels (like "Free Range" or "Helicopter" or "Tiger Mom" or "Hot Mess") and we are throwing our weight behind the importance of breastfeeding and limiting screen time and encouraging our kids while exposing them to the world, protecting them while also pushing them out of the nest.

After the week we've had, I admitted to a friend that I just don't know.  I don't know if I'm doing anything right or if I'm making all the wrong choices.  Am I disciplining the boys like I should?  Am I too permissive?  Am I pointing them in the right direction so they'll become capable and responsible adults, or am I missing moments to impart serious life lessons?  Or, am I completely missing the point?

We are in the middle of our journey together as a family.  We've left the starting point, we are down the road, we've come too far to go back.  But we haven't arrived anywhere.  We haven't reached the point where we see clearly.  Our children are partially formed lumps of clay, sometimes looking worse than before it all began.

On my Mother's Day hike today, we climbed a structure a few stories high.  We were surrounded by trees, and part of the way up, all I could see were branches and leaves.  But when we reached the top, it was the most gorgeous view.  Sunny and verdant and picture perfect.  Looking down from the top, I could see this little pond we'd passed earlier, the vista of trees we'd walked through at the beginning.  And I can't help but feel like this moment in time is in the midst of the climb.  I can't see the forest for the trees.  I have no idea how my children will turn out, how much will be my fault, or if any of it will trace back to this exact week.  (Let me interject here:  I doubt it.)  I just have to keep going.

May these words ring true, not just for me, but for each of you.  Stay the course.  Keep showing up for your kids.  Refrain from joining them on the floor during their tantrums, or matching them shout for shout.  Keep making the sandwiches and reading the stories and folding the clothes and reminding them to wash their hands.  Keep modeling respect and honesty and hard work, and pray for them every day.  And don't forget your Mother's Day ice cream sundae.