Say It Enough, You'll Start to Believe It
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We made it to San Juan de la Maguana last night around 10:00. It was quite the adventure. The Internet is spotty and I’m only able to get online on my phone so updates may be tough.
This is a beautiful country. We’re excited to be here and serve. Here we go!
Tomorrow morning we will board a plane with our children and hop over the blue waters to the Dominican Republic. It’s not a vacation, though Lee and I have vacationed there in the past. It almost makes my stomach churn to think of the exorbitant amounts of food we ate in one short week when just outside the walls of our resort children were starving.
We are heading to Dominican with Servant’s Heart Ministry purely out of obedience. I told you earlier that I initially didn’t want to go on this trip. It’s not that I didn’t want to serve, but I felt an enormous amount of anxiety at the thought of spending the money to go to Dominican when my heart still longs and hopes to adopt.
But this trip is about obedience. It’s about realizing that while the door to adoption is temporarily closed, there are needs to be met and we have the ability and resources to meet them. This trip isn’t about me and what I want – it’s about following through with an opportunity that was placed before us.
It’s about saying “Yes,” and in my yes, God has been good to ignite and excitement for the trip. I am really excited to leave tomorrow.
Servant’s Heart Ministry began in 2008 when a group of men in Nashville joined with a passion to change as many lives as possible through Jesus. Their mission statement reads:
To impact and change the lives of children around the world through missions for Christ by providing life sustaining necessities, sending, supporting and maintaining mission teams, construction and the sponsoring of children in order to lead them to Christ and break the cycle of poverty.
This week we are headed south to serve the least of these. It’s a chance for our children to see that life is very different outside of their own little sphere. This will be a stretch for them – it will be a stretch for all of us.
This will be a different sort of family trip. Judging from the amount of complaining that’s gone on the last twenty-four hours (I’m tired of walking! My legs hurt! I don’t wanna eat this food! It’s hot out here! Me! Mine! Now!) I think there will be plenty of opportunity for life lessons. It won’t make them perfect children.
It won’t make Lee a perfect dad.
It won’t make me a perfect mom. (I mean, I’m practically perfect already, you know? How do you improve on that?)
(I am kidding!)
(Seriously…that’s a joke. Don’t send me nasty emails.)
What this week will do is offer vivid pictures to be committed to memory, a moving reel that can be tapped into when the monotony of life just seems to be so much. And maybe this will be the week that the Lord speaks to Lee and I as we continue to seek Him for what the next step should be.
I will be blogging this week during the trip. I want you to see what is coming of this vision cast several years ago by men who also wanted to obey – men that chose to say “Yes.” What an impact we can have in this world when we choose to step into the things that make us uncomfortable and we say “Yes” to serving others.
If you’re interested in learning more about Servant’s Heart Ministry and the work that they are doing in the Dominican, visit their website and stop on by this week! I’m excited about the opportunity to keep you all posted (Haha! Get it? Posted? Hehehe…Aaaahhhh, blogging humor. It is the best.)
Disclaimer: Lee and I chose to take this trip with our kids. I am blogging about it because I want to, not because I’ve been asked to. I will post my opinions based upon what I see and learn.
Friends, we need to have a serious heart to heart.
If you were sitting in front of me, I’d hand you a steaming cup of chai, the cinnamon and spice wafting through the room as gentle, peaceful music played softly in the corner. We’d sit down, you and I, and we’d smile peacefully at one another. Then I’d tell you I have something to say, and the atmosphere would be so serene that you would hear my encouragement without any need to put up defenses. You’d see that I am genuinely concerned for your well-being, and that I am only looking out for what’s best for you.
So imagine that scene. I’ll give you a minute to pull the image together in your mind.
Ready? Okay, here it is.
It’s time we all acknowledged that leggings as pants are a bad idea.
I spent most of my day yesterday hopping from one plane to another, and I sat for some time in the Atlanta airport, one of the busiest airports in the world, and friends I was flabbergasted. I’ve watched as this “leggings as pants” style has slowly infiltrated our culture and I’ve been bemused. Most of the time I witnessed said fashion horror on twiggy teens who technically could pull it off. I’ve smiled because I know that someday their future children will pull out photo albums and see pictures of their “Emo” parents all decked out in leggings, a t-shirt and converse, and they will roll laughing. (They just might LOL...)
But what I saw in the airport took this fashion oddity to a whole new level. Women, all ages and sizes, strolled through the airport with nothing but black cotton leggings painted on their legs. Some wore longer t-shirts over the leggings, but most did not. It was like they started getting dressed and half way through the process they just…gave up.
Ladies, leggings are super cute. I have a couple pairs of them. They are darling…underneath a kicky skirt or a sassy little dress. They are an accessory – they are not the main item of clothing. They’re an undergarment. Honestly, I saw only one person yesterday who really, truly rocked the leggings. She was 2. That is the only time in life that leggings as pants are acceptable (and really encouraged because diaper bottom through leggings? Adorable.)
Every era has a style they regret. You know it’s true. The ’80’s have an entire closet full of unfortunate fashions. I’m simply here to be a voice of reason for us all. I’m trying to spare you the unfortunate embarrassment of pictures that forever plague you. Pictures of you in leggings…worn as pants. You may disagree, but if you take my advice, even reluctantly, you will someday thank me….as will everyone else in the world.
Let’s unite together as one and fight this unfortunate trend. We will raise our fists together, a sign of solidarity, as we boldly proclaim LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS!
Who’s with me? Let’s spread the word – #LeggingsAreNotPants
For more on unfortunate airport wear, and for advice on how to avoid poor clothing choices, visit my friend Nicole’s recent post. I let out a hearty “Amen” or four when I read it.
This quiche from the quaint little downtown area was lick the plate good.
Me. Honored and inspired and wearing my sassy hat.
It’s a horse with a fascinator!
Four women teeming with creativity, bravery and wicked humor.
Hope brimming
One can be inspired to create and one can be inspired to eat. In one day’s time I have been inspired to do both.
Thelma and Louise
Sweet Land of Liberty
Whether it be artistic or concrete, public or private, simple or complex – each of us was created with inspiration, a need to turn around and create something.
And when we give in to inspiration and creation in any form, we live life fully, impacting the world around us.
It’s time for our annual Creative Weekend in the hills of Northern California, but this year the adventure grows as I’m flying into San Diego to meet my dear friend Wendy (remember how I told you everyone should have a Wendy? Everyone especially needs a Wendy in California – they are the best Wendy’s.) She and I will then travel up through the state of California to the lake house that has formed the backdrop for some of my greatest creating the last few years.
It’s totally Thelma and Louise, but hopefully without the cops, dramatic angst and the driving off a cliff business.
So that’s where I’m headed today. I’ll be writing from the lake and I look forward to the quiet, uninterrupted time to simply think and process.
You know who else is blogging from the field today? A new team of Compassion Bloggers. They leave for Nicaragua today and they will be writing their stories all week. Please jump on over to the Compassion Bloggers site and support those writers. It’s an emotionally draining process to take one of those trips and I can tell you that comments and prayer support and encouraging words are enormously sustaining so please consider backing them up as they craft word pictures of the beauty that Compassion creates from ashes.
Yesterday I sat in a cheery room looking up at the long watercolor of a beach hanging on the wall. Elevator music played gently from the overhead speakers as I waited rather nervously for the orthodontist to walk in and tell me just how much it was going to cost to iron out the mouths of my babes – the children who, sadly, inherited their mom’s regular (slightly larger than normal?) teeth and their father’s much smaller than normal mouth.
It dawned on me as he explained what we were looking at (thankfully a little further down the road…like starting next year and beyond until forever) for their teeth that I have one more coming up behind them who’s going to need as much, if not more, orthodontia than they do.
I tried to calculate the cost in my mind, allowing for the overlap in treatments from one child to the next, and then smoke came out my ears and instead of finishing my sums, I envisioned swimming in a pool of Nutella because the math was too much and Nutella is my happy place.
Once I settled down a bit, I had a second revelation – I am going to go straight from pull ups to orthodontia without so much as a week off and I suddenly wondered why on Earth we didn’t space these kids out more so we could have a little breathing room?!
Then I remembered that we intended to space them out more, but God has a sense of humor and was all Oh you want to wait awhile? Here, have a third before the second can walk a straight line.
Then I thought about the day I found out I was pregnant with Landon and I thought for sure I’d forever ruined Sloan and Tia’s lives by forcing them to accept a new baby when neither could really speak in complete sentences. This, of course, led me to remember Lee’s reaction to finding out we were pregnant a third time. Shock, a small measure of horror and an accusatory stare that somehow placed all the blame on me for apparently thinking a child into my womb.
There followed a rather significant amount of time when I had one child in pull ups and two in diapers. We finally, mercifully, got it down to one in pull ups and one in diapers and then two in pull ups and we’ve finally chipped and whittled away to where we are only buying pull ups for one child.
Nighttime potty training is my nemesis.
My oldest will be 10 next month, which means I have been investing in Huggies and Pampers products for a decade and when I finally surrender the last pull up to the landfills (you’re welcome environment), I will walk straight to the orthodontist’s office and give him my right arm for straight teeth and with three so close together, treatments will overlap, I’ll have to surrender the other arm and six-seven years later we will pay off the orthodontia just in time to start paying for college.
I’m starting to wonder if there is some validity to choosing your favorite child and investing in only that kid for the duration of eighteen years.
All the books on raising children lead me to believe that would be a poor course of action to take in child rearing, but really how much can those crazy child psychologists know anyway, right?
Wrong?
I know, of course, that having children close together is, in the long run, really the way to go. They will be the best of friends (We hope. Judging by how many arguments I’ve broken up since school let out I’m not sure when exactly that friendship thing will kick in, but I have high hopes. High, high hopes. Hiiiiiiiigh hopes), they will experience much of life together and in relatively similar circles. They will be able to create so many memories together, which will hopefully make converstaions around the Thanksgiving table in twenty years a lot more fun and they will have the benefit of knowing that there’s always someone nearby who has your back.
Those are the pros and I’d say, for the most part, the pros outweigh the cons.
And there’s always the hope that the final child will graduate pull ups at least a week before the expanders/braces begin. Seven whole days.
A girl can dream.
“Music. A meaningless acceleration in the rhythm of celestial experience.”
C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
As a music lover, a singer and a worshiper in the church, I find myself more and more learning and understanding the art of worship, because it really is an art. Worship cannot be approached devoid of passion and yet, so often, that’s exactly what happens. I watch as worshipers, both on stage and in the congregation, stand unmoved, unimpressed, sometimes even annoyed, throughout the entire worship portion of a church service and I want to grab them by the hand and squeeze tight while whispering in their ears, “This is the God of the Universe to whom we sing. Rejoice and be glad!”
I don’t do that, of course, because that would be weird and slightly intrusive…
There are some obvious reasons to me why this happens to worshipers and they are reasons that I understand. Some of them are valid and some just need to be worked through a bit. (And to make things perfectly clear, the specific worship I am discussing here today is the actual worship portion of a church service. Not the every day worship of living out faith.)
The first reason why I think many struggle to worship passionately is a perceived lack of talent. I see it in their eyes, sometimes even in the ones standing in front of the microphone. There is a fleeting (or not so fleeting) look of fear, of doubt, maybe even embarrassment as they begin to sing. I can almost see the thought bubble float above their heads.
There is some truth to the idea that a person leading worship should, indeed, be able to carry a tune and carry it well. Beautiful harmonies accelerate the rhythm of celestial experience and there’s no way to get around that. But most churches have some process of vetting singers, so if you’ve been placed before a microphone by the person in charge, chances are you have been given that responsibility with some measure of confidence so my advice to you is this: embrace it.
If you are actual leader of worship, lead boldly and passionately. Don’t look out at the congregation with wide, scared eyes like your grandma shoved you on stage and ordered you to sing. Sing because you can and smile because you enjoy it.
Lizard Catchin’…
Got him! (And later released him. Dear PETA…please don’t come after me.)
I don’t know if that’s theologically accurate but I feel like it might be based in some pretty solid Truth.
(And it’s probably best if you don’t mention this to the other trees. I don’t want to offend…)
We’re at the beach for the next couple of days basking in the glow of God’s beloved land.
White sands and rippling waves beckon as summer settles down and who are we not to answer her blessed call?
If you need me, I’ll have my toes buried in the sand and my nose buried in a book. Something about the beach seems to unbraid the knots in my neck and the pangs in my shoulders.
Probably because He loves the beach. It’s a land after His own heart.
Again, feel free to question my theology.
(But before you do, think about how often Jesus seemed to be walking along the shores. A LOT. Jesus loves sand between His toes, I’m certain of it.)
(Just kidding Kansas and Nebraska. Jesus loves you, too. *wink, wink*)
And we all said amen…
Between end of the year craziness (Yes, we’re still in school because apparently Florida hates children) and a tropical depression that has settled on top of us (it’s like a cruel joke to have to get up and out to school on a day when it’s dark and steadily raining – I think Mother Nature is mad at Florida…probably for hating kids), I just don’t have any decent blog posts in me.
But I have pictures and I have an old blog post that still makes me laugh…and cringe. Pictures first:
Remember when Landon looked like this?
Yesterday I went to his end of the year preschool program where they had those babies in caps and gowns and I almost died from the cute. This is my Landon now:
At one point the preschool director got up and started talking about how we only have 13 years left with these kids at home and how quickly that time will go and I briefly envisioned throwing a shoe at her, but I refrained because that would be inappropriate.
But for real.
To make this post just a little more random and to not tie it together at all, I’m going to leave you with a post that I originally published in October 2010. I wrote this after a rather unfortunate incident that occurred upon cleaning out my minivan.
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Saturday night found Lee and I in the minivan, kids in tow, heading out to the mattress store to purchase two new mattresses. Never mind that the kids desperately needed them. Never mind that Tia’s mattress was so cheap that is was literally falling apart and becoming a potential hazard. Never mind that both mattresses had been peed on so many times they could be deemed a health code violation. Never mind any of those things. The fact is simply this:
I went out on Saturday evening to buy mattresses and thought it was fun.
Hi, my name is Kelli and I am a bona fide minivan mom.
Ah, but we haven’t even got to the best part of the story. What? Surely you know there would be more to this story than the fact that I had a hoot buying twin mattresses on a Saturday night, right? A hoot!
It was the incident that occurred when we returned home that sent my world aspinnin’. It started simple. We came home so Lee could drop the kids and I off and return to the mattress store to pick up our most exciting purchases. We had to remove the car seats and fold down the back seats and clean up a bit. And it was during this event that I began to question my entire identity.
The title of my blog is Minivans Are Hot. With the operative word being Hot. I know, I know…Minivan and Hot together in a sentence is an oxymoron. And most days I would beg to differ and would launch into a diatribe about how it’s sexy to be a mom and how minivan moms have it goin’ on and I would work my hardest to convince you that I was right. Until Saturday night…
What I found in the back seat of my minivan was anything but Hot. Let’s start with what I found under the seat, shall we? It was sticky…it was brown…it had flecks of leaves and dirt stuck to it. What was that?!
From there I removed the kids car seats to find enough dried, crumbled food to feed a small pack of wild baboons. It was sealed into the lining of the seat fabric and had to be scraped out with my fingernail. *heave* Don’t even get me started on what I found in their seats.
But the piece de resitance came when I crawled into the way back and looked inside the cup holder. It is here that I gasped, looked at my husband and exclaimed, “Gross! This is why minivans are NOT. HOT.” Then I clutched my chest with the gravity of my statement and fell in dramatic Disney Princess fashion onto the seat, the back of my hand against my forehead…
No I didn’t. That last part didn’t happen – mostly because I wouldn’t want to lay on those seats for $100. Maybe for $1000, though.
In the cup holder sat dried, crusted, molded bread. It appears my children are stock piling food in the back seat of our minivan in the event that a giant meteor should come crashing down to earth and we need to seek shelter inside the car for a significant amount of time. It also appears that they have eaten portions of a sandwich and then shoved the remaining portion in the cup holder and have, every day for who knows how long, been looking at this rotting sandwich and ignoring it.
It’s like I’m raising little cave people!
I promptly dug out the rot and marched to the trash can. My husband, sensing my impending melt down went dashing for the Shop Vac in the basement. Being the super hero that he is, he spent the next half hour sucking the muck out of our minivan while I went inside and lectured my children on the importance of throwing away rotten food. I also tried to talk myself out of changing my blog title from Minivans Are Hot to Minivans Are A Place Where Horrors grow Beneathe the Seats and in the Cupholders While You Yourself Obliviously Drive From Here to There Thinking You Are Looking Fine When Really You Are Controlling a Moving Science Experiment.
But in typical Hero fashion, my man came inside just as I was certain that my entire online identity was going to have to be realtered and yelled “Ta-Da!” I walked outside to see the seats clean (hey look! The fabric’s grey…) The cup holders clean…er. They still have a sticky substance that I can only assume will need to be chisled out at some point (probably just before we decide to sell the car). And it smelled much more pleasant too. It was actually quite nice in there.
I smiled at him and jumped into his arms. Small birds flitted about our heads as he spun me around and when we kissed little animated hearts floated up into the dusky sky.
Alright…that last part didn’t happen either. Sometimes I wish I lived in a cartoon.
Despite the cleanliness of my car, however, I couldn’t shake the fact that I had outwardly acknowledged the un-hotness of my minivan. And so I’m here to retrain my mind. And if any of you are having a hard time believeing that Minivans Are Hot like I am, then why don’t you join in with me as we repeat the mantra over and over.
Minivans are hot, minivans are hot, minivans are hot, minivans are not, minivans are not…
NONONONONO!!!!
Let’s try again.
Minivans are hot, minivans are hot, minivans are hot…
Do you believe it?
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