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.

Dear Senator Portman

Dear Senator Portman:

You lost my vote today.

Over the summer, I watched with horror as millions of Syrians and Iranians washed ashore in Europe.  These people were living with such unspeakable tragedy that they risked their lives and the lives of the people they love (children, elderly, the disabled) to escape it.

Now, I've studied Europe's geography and political systems.  I knew that they didn't have the space or the resources to handle so many refugees.  But I looked around, at this beautiful state I live in, and I saw green fields and open spaces.  I saw apartments and homes for sale and for rent.  I saw empty commercial buildings, and I thought, we have room here.  We live in this amazing land of freedom and democracy, where people can be at peace and raise their families and start new businesses.

What we are missing is the accompanying attitude of welcome.

We need a massive shift in our thinking, to stop hoarding our resources and our freedoms.  We need to welcome these refugees to our communities, to live out the foundational principle of America.  We need leaders in Washington who will show us the way.  I hoped that I would see our Congress researching the issues and making informed decisions, but what I found were cowards reacting out of fear, making erroneous assumptions and knee-jerk policies.

You were one of those cowards.

I, and several of my friends and family, sent you a petition, explaining that we wanted Syrian refugees to come to Ohio.  That we were willing to help them settle, to learn from them as they learned from us.  I would love to see a Syrian restaurant pop up in my area, for my children to see different shades of skin and dress and beliefs when they walk in their public schools.  We actually believe in the words inscribed on the Statue of Liberty, that timeless entreaty to "Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free..."

Your response disappointed me, because you didn't even acknowledge that I was disagreeing with you.  You clung to your cowardly decision, ignoring that your constituents were saying that they wanted something different.

"To that end, I call on the Administration to immediately halt the resettlement of Syrian refugees into the United States until there has been a thorough review of DHS and State Department vetting procedures to ensure that no terrorists or individuals with links to Islamist extremist groups make it into the United States, as they have in France."

It wasn't a Syrian refugee that committed that horrible attack in France, it was the very terrorists these refugees are trying to escape that did it.  But the facts weren't really part of your decision-making process, were they?

I shook my head in disgust.  Yet only a few weeks later, you appeared on my computer screen again.  This time, Jon Stewart was visiting your office in DC, along with 911 First Responders.  They were in Washington, trying to get Congress to pass the Zadroga Act, legislation to provide healthcare coverage for the brave men and women who rushed into the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001.  This should have been a no-brainer.  Our entire country was riveted on that day, watching the tragedy unfold.  It created a time of unprecedented unity.  If there is anyone that our politicians should be taking care of and protecting, it is those amazing first responders.

But Jon Stewart confronted you in a hallway to question why in the world you hadn't yet voted in favor of this continuing coverage.  And it became apparent to me that you are not representing the wishes of our state.  If it takes an unemployed comedian and a TV camera to shame you into doing the right thing, then you don't deserve your seat in Congress.

I voted for your opponent today.  I hope a new face, a new voice, will listen to the people of Ohio instead of toeing the party line.  Especially when the party is wrong.

May freedom win out over fear, and may America usher in the wretched refuse of Europe's teeming shore.

Sincerely,
Rachel Lipford

Know What You're About (Day 1)

There is an old Sunday School song I grew up with, one that I can still recall, complete with church-appropriate hand motions (because dancing is wrong but motioning that something is gushing out of you is holy).  It goes like this:

I've got a river of life flowing out of me,

Makes the lame to walk and the blind to see!

Opens prison doors sets the captives free

(youth groups love to squeeze in a little

shout of "I'm free!" here)

Oh, I've got a river of life flowing out of me!

I always liked songs that were upbeat and especially gave me the chance to stand up and move around a little.  (I'm in the Lord's Army was another gem.)  But as I get older, as time and experience, and yes, even Jesus, transform me, I find that the message in this simple song rings true.

When I was young and singing this song heartily with other kids, I was one of those captives.  I was held in by shame and fear, so painfully shy and uncomfortable with myself.  I went into my head, into my imagination, and I pretended I was whole and free.  Having no idea what the real thing felt like, I convinced myself that what I was able to dream up was enough.

I made up stories and began to write them down.  I imagined that someday I might even make a living as a writer, like the still, smiling photographs on the backs of my novels.  They were calm and happy, and most importantly, grown up.  If I could be like them, then I maybe I wouldn't be me anymore.

But everyone said it was impractical to try to write fiction, and even if I could block out the pragmatist in my head who stomped on those childhood dreams, what would I even write about?  What did I know?  What could I give?  What could I write that would make a difference?

Marriage and motherhood cracked my heart wide open, and I began to see little streams of ideas.  I started writing again, writing what was in my imagination but also in my heart.  One day, I conjured a woman, a character.  She was full of shame and hiding in her life.  (Hey, write what you know.)  She needed love to transform her, to set her free from her invisible shackles.

And so I wrote the first part of a novel.  I set it aside to welcome my third child, and over the course of his first year of life, I experienced the transformation that she and I were both desperate for.  I finally had the courage and the support to voice my shame, to let go of my fears, and to finally start to find peace with myself.  When I sat down again to work on the story, I couldn't believe how parallel our lives were, me and this imaginary woman.

Soon, the ideas began bursting like popcorn in my mind.  With three children to take care of, it is slow work to put pen to paper (yes, I write my first drafts longhand).  But I finally know what I'm about.  I am about redemption.

This is what I know, because this is what I've lived.  A life that is not pretending, but really being lived free.  It is the gift I want to give my characters.  More importantly, it is the gift I want to give my readers.  I want you to know that you don't have to hide.  I want you to know that your past doesn't define you.  I want you to know that you are not alone.

Someone tossed me the keys to open my prison doors and beckoned me to walk out, to live free.  I want to write words that do the same for others.  I want to shine light in the dark places and show you how to experience a river of life pouring out of you.  Spring up, Oh well.  (Goosh Goosh Goosh Goosh) 

Outside In

Every other Saturday night, our house fills with delicious smells.  My husband and I take turns making yummy breakfast foods, because every other Sunday morning, we teach the middle school students at our church.  A wise friend once told me something that has proved to be true: you have to love people from the outside in.

When we show up with food, our students will sit with us and allow us to nourish their minds because we are first nourishing their bodies.  Over time, after being consistent with food and honest answers and showing that we care, they will finally allow us into the depths, where their spirits reside.  If we want to reach their souls, we have to start by feeding their endlessly hungry bodies.

It makes sense if you think about it, because we all know how poorly people learn when they are starving, or afraid, or worried about their personal safety.  I learned Maslow's hierarchy years ago in a college sociology class, and yet I can be so intent on what is below the surface of the people I love that I completely ignore their more pressing physical needs.

It shouldn't be complicated, and yet it is.  Sometimes it is tunnel vision, sometimes it is our own ignorance.  I was thinking about my son who is adopted, and the little girl that we fostered a few years ago, about how needy they were when they came to us.  And we wanted to soothe their bodies and fill their bellies and reassure them that they were precious and loved and safe, but we were ignoring the first layer.

Do you know what is most important to a child?  More than food, more than physical safety, more than warm blankets on a clean bed?  His mom.  Psychologist Harry Harlow performed experiments on rhesus monkeys in the 1950s that demonstrated how crucial a mother is to her baby, and the conversations I have with my non-biological children confirms it.  Which means that while we mend the physical and emotional wounds of children who have been neglected and abused, we must also demonstrate love for the adults who allowed it in the first place.  No easy task.

I had a moment of panic the other day when my son reached for a bag of cookies and said, "I've never tried this before.  Let me have some!"  Because I can easily imagine his birth parents saying or thinking something similar when they were introduced to the addictive drugs that derailed their lives. How much are we, as adoptive parents, able to re-write biology?  Is there something ticking inside him that will go off in adolescence and take him down their same path?  Or was it childhood hyperbole that I was reading way too much into?

I don't want my son to repeat his mom's mistakes, and the best way I can think to help him is to let him know her, to be honest about why he lives with us and what unique challenges he'll face as he grows up.  The worst thing I could possibly do is talk about her with disrespect, calling her names or criticizing her choices.  If I can step back and allow him to see her as she is, without casting my own thoughts or feelings onto their relationship, then I trust that he'll understand what is true better.  He won't grow up with some idealized version of her (or me, for that matter), because he will know where he came from.