Weeping may tarry for a night...

I sat in a sweltering room in Guangzhou, China nervously gripping a little stuffed bunny, anxiously checking the clock on the wall every 30 seconds.

I watched as family after family was handed their baby, but minutes came and went, then what seemed like hours, though in that moment, time felt suspended. I have no idea how long I waited.

She's late.

Papers were signed by families. Then we were all asked to line up for a photo of the whole group. Parents beamed, babies cried. But my arms were empty.

Families slowly began to file out of the building, back to their hotels with their precious new babies.

Then finally I heard her, a tiny bundle of ferocity coming through the double doors gripped by a strange man she'd never met before that day.

They quickly made their way past me and all I wanted to do was run to her and grab her from the strange man, but they disappeared behind a curtain. I could hear her sobbing as a woman came in to quickly change her diaper.

Then my guide turned to me and said, "It's time."

I stood there shaking, trying not to sprint toward the little room where I heard her wails coming from. The strange man made his way toward me, holding the little bundle of ferocity in his arms. I am sure he said something to me, but all I remember is her.

I choked back the tears as I wrapped my arms around her as she sobbed. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her picture on Facebook almost one year prior. I'm not one to believe in love at first sight, but the feeling I knew so well from five years prior welled up inside me, my heart said, "There you are. I've been looking for you." I knew she was mine.

Our time in Guangzhou was marked by tear stained cheeks. Her little body shook with sobs whenever we had to venture from our hotel room, often wilting with exhaustion in my arms. I had been down this road before; I begged God, "Please let this get easier when we're home."

But her anxiety continued. This tiny little girl had lost everything she'd known not once, but twice in her 21 months on this earth and her heart had been shattered. Her walls had been built up so high I feared I'd never be able to overcome them.

She kept us at a distance, preferring to play alone, crying when we tried to snuggle her. wriggling out of our arms when we tried to comfort her. I begged, "Jesus, please break down the barriers! Please help her to let us love her!"

We fought. Hard.

And slowly, things began to change.

First, she'd only play with me through the safety of the trampoline net. Then she began to smush my cheeks. Then she'd grab my hands so she could jump without falling over.

And slowly, the walls began to fall.

She's still a tiny ball of ferocity, but she's also a beautiful blend of laughter, orneriness, joy and love.

She sits on my lap and revels in my songs.

She claps and knows mama will bring her a bottle of warm milk.

She cries when she gets hurt and knows I will be there to hold her as the tears fall.

And a dozen times a day, tiny chubby arms reach up my legs and she knows I will hold her, carrying her on my hip for as long as she needs.

Bonding isn't instantaneous. Sometimes, it's hard won. And for many, it's a lifelong dance, an internal push and pull of constant reminders, "You are safe and you are loved."

But as long as I walk this earth, I will fight for her, my tiny ball of ferocity, with the fierceness that she has taken on this world and all it's heartache.

You, my precious Joy Joy, are so very loved.

Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning. Psalm 30:5

Consider it pure joy...

Last night after dinner, I took our kids into the backyard to play while Dan cleaned up the kitchen. It's quite a production even getting our crew outside, but after a long day, my body ached and my soul was weary. I just needed to have some fun. 

So I wheeled Michael out, carried Charlie Joy to the trampoline, carried Lorelai to her swing and Max came tearing out wearing only a pair of basketball shorts. It was above 60 degrees, so we're going to enjoy the warmth, dang it.

In a family filled with kiddos who have various medical needs, it can be hard to find things we can all do together, but we quickly devised a game of seeing how far we could all kick a giant ball across the yard. Lorelai and Max tried from their swings, Michael tried from his wheelchair, and we all rolled with side splitting laughter as the ball flew all over creation --- over power lines, on top of the garage, once smacking Max's bare stomach with such force the sound made us all jump. We were overjoyed to just be having fun together laughing.

Five years ago today, I lost several friends who I thought would always be at my side, friends I thought were ride or die. We were in the process of adopting Michael and were knee deep in fundraising to bring him home. I was confronted publicly on Facebook about my abilities to care for him when I couldn't even pay for his adoption on my own. I was humiliated and hurt that these women I'd called my friends so many years didn't ask me privately or even try understand the nuance between affording adoption and affording to care for a child. Never did I imagine I'd lose friends when opening my heart to a child in desperate need of a family, but that day we severed communication. As painful as it was, I assumed it was a one-off.

Some time later, shortly after bringing another child home, we were struggling hard and we reached out for help. As we sat in our living room, pouring out our broken souls and hearts, our pastor said to us, "I think it was a mistake to adopt her, but it's done now..." Just a few weeks later, in the midst of great pain and confusion, despite our pleas to work together for solutions, we were asked to leave our church we'd called home for many years. 

Here we were again, heartbroken at the loss of our village because we said, "yes."

As I was playing this ridiculous game last night with my precious children, I thought about these words that came from others -- "mistake," "you shouldn't adopt children if you can't afford to pay the fees yourself," -- lies that I dared to give a moment's thought to.

Adoption can be brutal. I have sat in a hotel room for two weeks holding a grieving, terrified child. I have spent nights on the couch comforting a little boy who can't verbalize what's causing him to scream in agony. I have been bit, hit, cursed at, sometimes for hours on end. To choose to say yes to adoption is to choose to carry a child's trauma as your own. 

We hold these precious hands as we walk through the fire with them, and say, "I am here with you, no matter what." We love hard. We hold them through the fears of abandonment. We rock them when they can't express what hurts. We remind them as their tiny fists hit our flesh, "You don't need to fight. You are safe here."

We have been called to this sacred work of healing hearts. God didn't promise us it would be easy, but just as I was reminded last night through peals of laughter coming from four little souls that are mending, it is a great joy.

 A mistake, though? Never.

Slow Sundays

I woke up this morning with my back in spasm. After Dan brought me a muscle relaxer and pain medication, took me fifteen minutes to pry myself out of bed. I finally managed to hobble down the stairs at 7:20, long after we're usually beginning our Sunday morning routine.

I helped with an event at church on Friday night and ended my three hours volunteering with hauling garment racks through the building, with a back that was already unhappy with how I'd treated it this week. By this morning, my body had said "Enough!" and I knew I wouldn't make it through a worship service, much less make it into the building with my granny hobble. So the girls and I stayed home.

When I have days where my pain is high, I struggle with my lack of productivity. Like any "good" American who was brought up right, I want to get things done.  My days feel frittered away when I rest. There are so many projects I could do! So many things in the house that need cleaned! It's so ingrained into my being that I get annoyed at getting tired at the end of the day. I just want to go, go, go. Yet, my body just won't let me go at the speed I want to go all day everyday.

I had noticed a few weeks ago there was a pattern to my fatigue, at least the really hard days anyway. It had happened enough times that I began digging into the reasons why -- I go so hard Sunday through Wednesday that come Thursday I. Can't. Move. I end up sitting at my dining room table most of the day, doing the bare minimum to get by until the kids go to bed. And as soon as they're asleep, you can find me snuggled up in my blanket with my cat, dogs and husband, finally resting my worn out body and watching Netflix.

 As I began realizing the pattern, God began speaking to my heart about rest. I am absolutely terrible at it, even when I don't feel well. Give me all the meds so I can get back to my breakneck pace as quick as possible, please. But God, ever so gently, as always, began to work in me.

If you look at Genesis 2:2, even God, our Almighty Father, Creator of Heaven and Earth, rested on the seventh day! Why then do we feel we have to constantly be productive? It's humbling to realize my standard for myself has been so ridiculously malaligned.

I've been trying over the past few weeks to go slower on Sundays. It's not easy, y'all, but my body and my soul have been soaking up the slower pace. Today, the girls and I baked fresh bread just for fun. Lorelai and I snuggled on the floor and she was delighted at my fake snoring when I pretended to sleep. Now we're sitting in a quiet house while the boys pick up some home project supplies for another day this week.

My body is mending. My soul feels as though the sun has broken through the clouds. And in the slow and quiet, I am able to look at my home and the week behind me and see all I have accomplished and rest.

Welcome to the Little Golden Cottage

Did you guys know I did a year of interior design school?

The year was 2008. I was working as a medical transcriptionist, which I enjoyed doing, but I longed for something more creative so I began design school. But, as is my M.O., I felt bogged down by the "rules," by the thought of catering to a client's desires instead of artistic inspiration and truthfully, until recently, I struggled with devoting time to creative endeavors because they just aren't holy enough. 

That's ridiculous, isn't it? RIDICULOUS!

I've spent the last year digging deep into myself, into who our Heavenly Father created me to be. It's been a year of soul work -- some joyous, some painful -- but a year filled with encouragement, epiphanies and sometimes moments of incredulity, "You want me to do what?!" 

But one of the biggest takeaways for me of this last year has been my identity as a creator. I love beauty. I love taking furniture that's been discarded and giving it new life. My heart rejoices at learning to watercolor. My soul sings when I master a new bread recipe.

I, this worn out, frazzled, stay-at-home-mom, was created in God's image, and what is He? He is THE creator and in me, he instilled that same love of beauty and creation. What could be more holy than using this gift he's put in my heart and hands?

If you follow me on Instagram, I'm sure you've noticed a shift and in this little corner of the world, as well as in my home, shifts are happening too.

I can't wait to share with you the soul work God's been doing in me and the creations that are an outpouring of that.

Welcome to The Little Golden Cottage.

Falling down, failure and unwillingness to admit defeat

Thursday morning, I went to a yoga class for the first time. Once a week, I do yoga at home and I've been practicing off and on for years. I specifically chose a Vinyasa class because it's slower movements, but it was still HARD.

The warmer my joints get, the more wobbly I get. I came home with bruised and battered knees and I think this is likely what precipitated my wrist dislocation on Friday.

When we adopted Michael and Lorelai, we committed to them that they'd never live in an institution again as long as we were alive. I had no idea when we chose to adopt them that I had Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and perhaps the story would be different if I did know. I often wonder if God shielded me from a diagnosis for this reason.

Maybe you're having a hard time with a goal, something you're heart has been chasing after, but you just can't quite seem to get there. I want to tell you this, my friend...

I fail a lot. I quite literally fall a lot.

But I keep getting up and trying again. Why? Because I have these two little people, who will someday be big people, who depend on me.

My friend, do not let your failures define you. Let your tenacity, your unwillingness to cry "uncle!" be stronger than the voices saying you'll never succeed. When we fall down 999 times, we get back up each and every time.

And each time, we'll get just a little bit closer.

A year of self care

I read something awhile back about self care that resonated with me. I don't remember exactly how it was phrased or who said it, but the general concept was this  -- a glass of wine or an indulgent meal, a budget-blowing shopping trip, or a day vegging out with Netflix isn't self care, it's damage control.

I am the queen of going hard.

I will fund raise $30,000 in nine months to bring a child home (three times in four years, no less).

I will exercise for 90 days straight and eat only plants to lose 20 pounds.

I will decide I need to rip up carpet, paint of floor and walls, and decorate our 600 square foot master suite in three weeks' time.

I am really good at going hard, but I work so hard that it's unsustainable and eventually I crash, and when I crash, I crash as hard as I go.

I began this year with a list of things that I wanted to do. Some of it's hard work, like getting back into shape after an exercise hiatus when we adopted Charlie Joy, some of it's fluff, like buying a gel nail kit and doing my nails more often.

For exercise, I started the year with the goal of doing nine Beachbody challenge groups. It's the exercise program I used last year that gave me incredible results in a short amount of time. My gut instinct was to hit the ground running and work as hard as I possibly can. I've done this before -- I know I can get back into great shape in two months' time -- but I remembered what my actual goal was and that is to finish the year in good shape.

As part of this challenge group, I've been listening to the audiobook version of Jon Acuff's Finish over the past couple of weeks and it's revolutionized my thinking. The tagline is "Giving yourself the gift of done," and the general premise is making our goals not only attainable, but sustainable.

So back to those goals... As hard as I want to go, I know I can't sustain working out seven day a week and whole foods, plant based every. single. day. I'm a mom of four kids and life happens! So what am I going to do when I have days like yesterday where school gets cancelled and I can't fit a workout into my day? I'm going to take a deep breath and say that missing a day isn't the end of the world if I am making this a long-term goal and I'll do what I did today, get out of bed and pick up where I left off. After all, I am 13 workouts closer to my goal than I was on January 1st. 

So this year, I am not making a resolution, but I am committing to myself to care for myself, to take my time in reaching my goals so I don't burn out. 

Self care is more than getting to that healthy weight or fitting into a certain pair of pants, it's giving myself the tools to not only reach my goal, but to sustain my goal once I get there. 

One step at a time. One day at a time. 

A vulnerable confession

I'm going to be really vulnerable with y'all. This hard stuff to talk about, but important stuff to talk about.

I have been in the grip of depression for the past two months. Through a confluence of events -- isolation because Charlie's scared to leave the house, fracturing of relationships, loss of community we never thought we'd lose -- I've let myself slip into this pit of loneliness and grief.

This past 12 to 18 months has rocked the foundation of my being. My faith in God has never wavered; I believe in his sovereignty and his faithfulness to the depths of my soul. He's called me again and again to step out in faith and again and again, he's been there when I've needed him.

But my the places I call my home -- the church, my friendships, my whiteness --  have been unseated.

My faith has been questioned.

My intentions have been picked apart.

My commitment to children with special needs, including my own, has been doubted.

And it's left me wondering, where do I belong anymore?

Throughout the past two months, I've found myself with an abundance of quiet and solitude and I've wrestled with this question. I've grieved over this question.

If the church, or my friendships, or my own skin aren't where I belong, then where do I belong? And the answer hit me: Jesus.

I belong with Jesus.

Friend, I want to tell you now, if you are hurting, if you are struggling too... there is more to this than our broken, human selves; our broken, human institutions; our broken, human relationships.

There is Jesus. Bigger than our hurt, than the four walls of your church, than racial division, than political parties. He is everything.

As I wrestle, I keep hearing him whispering to me... "Though you do not feel at home yet, you will." There is hope. There is hope because of Him.

As I wrestle, these words from Isaiah 43:19 continue to come to mind:

I am ready, Lord. Use me as you see fit.