Elizabethtown

Something's Happening here...

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 02:23:00 +0000

We are almost set to send off our i800a. In the adoption world, this is our preliminary immigration paperwork. Basically, we are petitioning the US gov't to allow us to adopt a child from China. Once we get the go ahead from China regarding our dossier and the like, we will then repetition them for adopting our specific Charlie. (Insert plea to all young peoples to NOT get an alcohol possession ticket because it will become a giant thorn in your side when doing things like this. It will require calls to clerks of courts, emails to lawyer friends, and letters overnighted to specific court houses because these tickets get wiped out of systems and then you'll also have to explain again and again that you were an idiot college freshman.)

Also, let it be known that God is at work through many many friends of ours. Our living room is slowly becoming stacked to the ceiling with items for our yard sale. And we haven't even finished emptying the attic of all the stuff donated by our families. Henry's preschool even donated all the toys they decided to get rid of to Charlie's yard sale. Once again, what a joy it will be to tell Charlie of all the folks who loved him here.

In addition to dropping off toys, clothes, furniture, books, and electronics, my friends are also volunteering to help at the yard sale. A family is going to host a lemonade stand because they want their kids to be a part of making an orphan a son. My buddy Ann has requested to be in charge of all the weird people that inevitably show up at yard sales.

With each price tag affixed to an item, I am reminded that it is not just our family that God is growing, but His Kingdom. This is what God does. He uses people to love one another. He sets the lonely in families. He does not leave us as orphans, but adopts us into the largest, loudest, most loving family in the world.

We are grateful.

Clearly, there is room for one more kiddo in this sleepover bed. And to top it all off, when Grace requested Henry sing to her, he broke out with the following song, "My Charlie lies over the ocean, My Charlie lies over the sea..." and then Gracie joined in to finish it up:
"Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my Charlie to me, to me!"

Apparently, Sloan thinks he's a celebrity

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Tue, 29 May 2012 01:28:00 +0000

So after a day at the pool, we ended it with getting some ice cream. Good old fashioned 31 flavors, Baskin-Robbins. And because I was 437 calories below my targeted caloric intake thanks to 45 minutes on the crosstrainer, (anyone else addicted to the My Fitness Pal app?) there were 2 scoops of Lemon Custard with my name on it.

When we arrived and placed our orders, BR was empty. By the time we sat down with our ice cream, the place was filling up. By the time we left, it was packed. As in 37 people were now in line and filing out the door.

Sloan looked around and said, "Elizabeth, why you gotta go tweeting my location."

Thanks for your continued prayers

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Tue, 22 May 2012 20:55:00 +0000

I cannot express to you how much y'all's emails, texts, and FB messages have meant to me. To know that our boy is being prayed for around the clock. This is good because the picture we have of him from over the weekend is just so sad to see. His head has been shaved (typical in an orphanage to prevent lice), his clothes are filthy and falling off his body, and because they don't use diapers, his pants are split so the orphans can just relieve themselves whenever they need to unfettered. He is still my precious boy, I just desperately want to cuddle him and let him know I have diapers and Oreos in my purse.

I cannot post any pictures of Charlie. But I can post a picture my buddy Laura posted on my FB wall. J'adore.

Lost in Translation

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 21 May 2012 17:28:00 +0000

Sometimes there is more than just the Pacific Ocean between us and our boy.

For example, our son's diagnosis on his referral isn't even a medical term in the United States. We think we might know what they are attempting to say, but even that is cryptic because his actual medical information doesn't even match up with that. For example, let's say your child was diagnosed with asthma. You would expect to see things like "wheezing, shortness of breath, and crackling lungs" on her chart. But what if your daughter's dx was clearly stated as asthma but the file read "breathing normal, no signs of wheezing, oxygen levels normal"?

What we do know is that he is delayed in his motor development and possibly speech. Profoundly by Chinese standards. Within norms by US standards. And considering that he has been institutionalized his entire life, we are not surprised.

But also there are just some things that us Americans say and value that are a far cry from the way it is done in China. I think sometimes I forget my son is in a Communist country. For example, on his referral there is a section that tells us he can pick up a pill with his fingers. I understand this is a measure of his dexterity, but can you not have my son playing with pills?

We had the opportunity to recently ask questions of his caregivers. I asked if he was able to play peek a boo or does he look for things hidden by his caregivers. Basically, I was wondering if he had learn object permanence, a typical question at a 12 month check up. They responded that their caregivers do not hide things from their children.

I did ask what his favorite foods were. Apparently he and Gracie are kindred spirits already as his favorite foods are bread and cookies. (Note to self: find out if the sell Oreos and graham crackers in China.)

I also asked what his favorite toys or books were. They responded as they were unsure as he has not been exposed to these things.

Y'all, we gotta get my boy home. Forget about praying for funds, let's pray for his paperwork to move along swiftly. We've got to get a Thomas book in our boy's hands STAT.

My Great Big Adoption Yard Sale

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Thu, 17 May 2012 21:22:00 +0000

SATURDAY, JUNE 9th from 8-12.

Corner of Smoketree and Poplar Ridge Roads.

If you come before 8am, expect to pay full price!

100% of proceeds will go to our "Bring Charlie Home Fund!"

Folks, it's happening. What might be the biggest yard sale of the season. We've been collecting stuff from friends and our parents for awhile. This is super fun when you don't have a garage. Our attic is now full and the ~~junk~~ fabulous retail items are now spilling over onto the second floor landing, random nooks and crannies in my living room, and (embarrassingly) under a giant blue tarp on our front porch. (Stop judging me. The tackiness is for an orphan people!)

Stuff like this makes me equal parts energized and itchy. Energized because I love the pricing and collating and haggling. Itchy because it is like living in the midst of an episode of Samford and Sons. (Which I suppose is fitting since my name is Elizabeth.)

As soon as I'm done hosting book club on Sunday, I will go into full on "my living room is now a sorting and pricing and storing station" for the yard sale. Our church had a GIANT yard sale to provide preschool scholarships for refugee children and because the peeps on the preschool board love us and Charlie already, they graciously let us glean from the yard sale leftovers. Large items have already been placed on Craigslist. We are selling our extra "shed-fridge" tomorrow. Apparently, we will have to do with less beer and ice cream to bring Charlie home.

HOW CAN YOU HELP?

Do you have junk in your trunk? Or closet? Or under your bed? Are your kids' toys multiplying? We will gladly accept donations to sell as small as an ice cube tray and as large as a king sized bed. It is important to have lots of $1-$5 items as well as furniture, strollers, etc. If you need to meet me somewhere for a hand off, we can arrange that.

Have some card or folding tables? If you are willing to loan us tables upon which we can arrange things for sell, please label them and we can arrange a time for me to come and snag them up.

Do you want to really shape up your bum and work those quads? Help me lug stuff down from the third floor into my living room. Remember, I have Prosecco and many hands make light work.

Do you love waking up early and driving to my house to hang out? Yeah. Didn't think so. But I promise that there is a Dunkin' Donuts less than 5 minutes from my house and if you stop there on your way, there will totally be donuts here on the big day for you to eat while you come and help out at the sale. We will need peeps to watch for shoplifting, haggle, etc. And if you've never worked a yard sale, I encourage you to come. I can guarantee you'll run into at least one person looking for guns, one man looking for LARGE women's shoes, and a woman who claims she is only "browsing" at 6:30 am. For reals. It is like all the folks who hang out at clubs with Stefon.

HELP ME MARKET! Post about it on facebook. Tweet about it. Just please don't use our street number. Simply list the cross streets. Trust me, I'll have signage everywhere.

Our goal is to raise $2000. We made $1700 with Gracie's adoption yard sale. So it is completely doable.

Fear not, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you.

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 14 May 2012 19:15:00 +0000

So last week was our 9 year anniversary of our first date.

On our 4th "first date" anniversary, our darling son was sprung from the NICU and we got to bring this little guy home...

I guess God thought he had to up the ante in the whole "reminding us He loved us and that He saw our hearts" game. And did he ever.

Our waiting is no longer in the abstract, folks. WE HAVE BEEN MATCHED WITH A REFERRAL AND WE ARE ACCEPTING IT!!!!

For security reasons and that it hasn't been logged in and the like in China, I can't share too many details here on the interwebs. But I'm sure if you snag me in person I'd be happy to fill you in on all the amazing things God is teaching us through our son Charlie and even show you a picture of the cutest little Chinese boy you have ever seen. I'm not kidding. The Chinese name the orhanage gave him means "handsome and outstanding." So of course he is a Phillips.

As for now, I WILL show you a picture of what I've already purchased for him to send him in a care package. I plan on sleeping with it so it'll have my scent and then sending it across the sea to my love. Because my little boy was born in the year of the TIGER! ROAR!

Please join us in praying for our tiger. For his health. For his caregivers. For him to sense that Jesus is near him. That somehow he would now know that he is just breaths away from no longer being an orphan but a son. He will turn 2 right around Christmas. It is our BOLD prayer that he be home in time to celebrate his birthday and Christmas with his family. With us.

My darling Charlie, "Fear not...I have called you by name; YOU ARE MINE!"
Isaiah 43:1b

I kissed a boy 9 years ago today (Alternate title: We Will Always Have Montreat)

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 09 May 2012 21:38:00 +0000

May 4, 2003 (Actual entry from my journal)

Lord, help me to be patient. Forgive me for thinking it's all about me. Thank you that it's not. Lord, I do so want to be married—to love and be loved in a tangible way. Forgive my constant discontent. Forgiving me for seeing this week as a week to find a man rather than to learn more about You. Redeem my heart and thoughts. Thank you that even my sorry, misguided motivations are a reflection of your continued wooing of my wayward heart.

But really, God, as I pray for a husband and reflect upon the men you HAVE brought into my life, I figured it might be helpful if ~~You~~ I at least knew what I was looking for.

WHAT I AM LOOKING FOR IN A MAN:

· Non-negotiable items: A man after God’s own heart… (Except without the whole David adultery/murder thing)

· Primary Desires (aka…what I’m really looking for):

o Funny

o Tall

o Good looking

o Easy Going

o Intelligent

o Gentle

o Passionate (about something, anything, me)

· While I’m asking you might as well know this is what I want, but I realize that it is not a perfect world:

o Wealthy

o Athletic

o Good cook

o Nice butt

o Likes to travel

o Parents still married to one another

I may have repented of viewing the week as an opportunity to meet men, but let’s be clear, I still viewed it as a way to meet men. In light of this, signing up to take pottery and scrapbooking were a poor choice. But there were some times we were all together to play games, worship, and just mill about.

Lee was tall and had a mop of curly light brown hair. And when I say he was tall, I mean T.A.L.L. Like NBA tall. Point and stare tall. But he spoke with a sweet Southern twang and often talked about the kids he coached on a basketball team at the Y in Suffolk, VA. I noted that Suffolk is about an hour’s drive from Richmond. Completely reasonable distance. With one glance, I noted that Lee did not wear a wedding ring, and that empty ring finger totally seemed to cancel out his giant-ness.

There was also Scott. Scott was boyishly handsome. He had a goatee, long brown hair (which he was growing out for locks for love---AWWW!), and played the guitar. He was a youth pastor in Florida. Also no wedding ring. But Florida? That’s a long way off. But, Scott had the bonus of palling around with my friend from high school, Grier, and her husband, the uber handsome but wedding ringed, Rich. Scott seemed like a possibility as I could get to know him while “reconnecting” with an old friend.

And then there was this other guy. I never could really catch his name. He was tall, had dimples, wore a Gamecocks baseball hat, but didn’t seem to really be there for any reason. From what I could gather, he wasn’t a Pastor of any kind. He didn’t know anyone I knew, he didn’t stand up and talk about Jesus or working with kids, and I couldn’t quite tell whether the ring on his left hand was a wedding ring or a class ring. But he seemed to work the meeting rooms with ease, gliding in and out of conversations. He also was followed around by this dumpy, albeit busty, girl named Jamie. Oh, and this guy had a breathtaking heiny.

And while I’m a sucker for a guy with a good Matthew McConaughy accent, and completely a sucker for a guy who can play the guitar (and let’s be honest, were Matthew McConaughy ever to play the guitar and sing to me I’d probably explode), there was something about this guy with the dimples, nice butt, and salt and pepper hair that I just couldn’t shake. (Or maybe that I wanted to shake?)

I followed “the Butt” around, eavesdropping on conversations. I was stealth. If he was playing washers in the lobby, I brought my book to a nearby couch. If he was playing cards at a table, once again, my trusty journal and moved. It may have appeared that I was being very studious. False. I was being a spy.

My first lesson was that the Butt was sarcastic. And, quite possibly, a complete jerk. There were all these college aged girls who were there and they were wearing their sorority letters. Somehow it got out that I used to be in the same sorority that they now were in and they wanted to do the handshake and all that jazz. Apparently, they did not get the “I’m reading my Bible and learning to serve Jesus and am too cool for sorority crap now” memo. They were also drawing way to much attention to my sleuth-ness and I didn’t want to be made. The Butt was apparently friends with one of these Zetas. His first words to me were, “Dude, build a bridge and get over it. Why you gotta be a Zeta hater?”

I sunk into the chair and pulled my journal up to my eyes. I wanted to die. I retreated into the anonymity of my hooded sweatshirt. Great. The guy with the nice butt who may or may not be married and is being chased around by that frump-a-dump thinks I’m a total no-fun wench. Suh-weet.

After more reconnaissance work, I garnered the following information: his name was Sloan (a girl’s name really), he lived in Florida (boo!), he owned a Tuxedo (bonus!), he owned several pairs of cufflinks (not really helpful information in the least), had a degree in Hotel-Restaurant Management from the University of Houston (Go Cougars?), and presently lived with his 95 year old grandmother (Awww!). It was also clear that this Jamie chick was smitten. I couldn’t tell if Sloan was aware of this at all. But there were two things I was sure about: I wanted to get to know Sloan but I sure as heck was not about to chase him around or fight this short girl for him. Spying in a hoody notwithstanding, I did have my dignity.

When I wasn’t spying on Sloan, I was not having the pottery experience I had envisioned. I considered myself artsy. So I expected to, upon my first time astride the pottery wheel, create magic. (Perhaps I also had visions of Patrick Swayze?) But I couldn’t even center the clay correctly. You were supposed to slap it down in the middle of the wheel, wet your hands, then crank the wheel, all whilst holding your hands firm and still. The swift whir of the wheel and the constant pressure of my hands were supposed to form the clay into a cone. When it was a smooth cone, you were supposed to simply put your thumb in the middle, slowly pull up on the sides, and voila! You have a vase!

Um, yeah, not so much.

I couldn’t even slap my ball of mud down on the wheel correctly. Nor could I steady my hands properly. I was trying to steady my elbows on my knees, hunch over the wheel, and will the clay to center. But my boobs kept getting in the way and my hair kept falling in my face. So I would put my hair behind my ears, getting clay on my face and hair, meanwhile, my lump of clay would go all wonky and once, defying all odds and the forces of gravity, flew across the pottery porch. (It actually was a screened in porch overlooking a lake. Imagine if Christians went to the camp featured in Dirty Dancing. You now have an accurate picture of Montreat.)

My instructor Anne kept telling me to be patient. To be willing to mess up. To not worry about what it looked like but to risk it going wonky. She reminded me that even once the clay was brittle, right up until it was placed in the kiln, it could be dunked back in the water and made new. It could be reborn over and over and over.

“Are you talking about this clay or my heart?” I asked.

Anne laughed. “Both, I suppose. But either way, nothing will be made if you don’t get the wheel going. Be brave! Be bold! And for goodness sakes, relax.”

By Wednesday, with half the pottery class having already finished their beautiful communion sets and me with one little puny cup, I was weary. Sweaty, covered in clay, I forgot to take my apron off as I walked back to Assembly Inn. As I crossed the road, my buddy Grier’s Volvo station wagon pulled up. Her husband, Rich, was behind the wheel.

“You look like you need a beer,” he said.

“You have no clue,” I replied.

From the passenger seat, Grier chirped, “Hop in! We’re going to a bar in Black Mountain!”

And so without even caring that I was smelly and literally covered in mud, I slid into their backseat. Next to Scott. Hmmmm…..

Over beers and games of darts, we hung out at The Watershed. Rich, Grier, and Scott were three peas in a fundamentally Liberal pod. While I would have been content to drink my beer discussing music or pop culture, the three began discussing their disdain for President Bush and the war in Afghanistan. I’ll be the first to say I’ve had many a political discussion with Rich and Grier, usually over a glass of wine and with them it is no big deal. Yes, they are certain that George W. Bush is the second cousin of Satan and that if you don’t recycle you might burn in hell (actually, I don’t think they believe in hell…), but they also are genuinely open-minded--willing to listen to the other side of an argument, able to point out areas of agreement and the like, and actually able to laugh about our differences of opinion. And my political leanings are far more middle of the road than theirs. Scott was pretty certain that the genocide in Darfur and the war in Afghanistan were President Bush’s fault, and the fault of people who drive gas guzzlers.

I told him that my Jeep Grand Cherokee handed brilliantly in the snow.

Needless to say, it was not a love connection. (Though he did end up moving to my hometown and marrying a girl with whom I went to high school.)

But at least I now knew where the nearest bar was. Always important.

By Thursday morning, I decided it was now or never in terms of getting to know Sloan. There was just something about him. I wanted to know him. And be known by him. I didn’t need it need it necessarily to be romantic, but I could just sense that behind his gregarious personality was a depth. Perhaps I saw a bit of myself in him.

That evening, there was a square dance. (This is a church camp. Of course there was a square dance!) I borrowed my roommate’s blow dryer and straightened my hair. I borrowed make up. Why I didn’t bring a blow dryer or make up to a week where I was so obviously going to be spending my time chasing boys is beyond me. I wore my one shirt that had a collar. I had, in fact, packed it for the square dance. Embarrassingly, it was a cowboy type shirt. Pink and brown paisley, complete with pearly snap buttons on the flap pockets across my chest. Not really a man catcher shirt, unless you counted that it DID sometimes unsnap.

I did not see Sloan at the square dance. I got up and went to the bathroom so I’d have reason to scan the entire barn. If he had been there and noticed me, he would have thought I had a bladder problem.

After the disappointing square dance, there was a party. The kind of party that churchy types throw with the intent of it being mimicked by youth groups. There was some sort of magic carpet ride optical illusion. It was hailed as the coolest thing I’d ever see.

It was not.

After exiting the ‘magic’ carpet ride, I sighed and said, not really to anyone, “Oh my gosh, I don’t think I can handle Jesus camp anymore. Anybody want to go get a martini?”

“Dear Lord, yes,” someone behind me replied, “but I don’t have a car .”

I turned. It was Sloan. I tried not to pee in my pants. I offered my Jeep, and, in fact, made him drive to The Watershed. And in my CD player was probably the worst ever music for a guy to hear in the car of a girl he just met—Liz Phair. And not new pop Liz Phair. But old, folky, man-hating Liz Phair.

To add insult to injury, we arrived at the Watershed to be told that we were in a dry county. The bar served beer, but no booze. I would not be having a martini. We ordered 2 draft beers.

In the dimly lit bar, we took opposite sides in a booth. And as I drank my liquid courage, it dawned on me that this was a date. Not any date I would’ve planned on purpose, mind you, what with me wearing an Xrated cowboy shirt, someone else’s make-up, and in a dry county no less.

Perhaps it was in acknowledgement of this date’s badness, but we began to spar with one another about our unfitness to actually be on a date. I told him I hadn’t been on a date in over a year. He confessed he was unemployed. I just recently moved out from living with my sister and her five kids. He lived with his elderly grandmother. I’d fallen in love with the wrong guy and moved to Colorado to find myself and didn’t find jack. Subsequently, I’d instated the 3 date rule. If I didn’t know you were “the one” by date three, I was moving on. He had been married before. I was tired of just hooking up. I wasn’t in middle school: I didn’t need to kiss to figure out how to do it or pass the time. The next guy I kissed would be my husband.

Looking back, I think the only thing that was normal about our first date conversation was that every time he smiled, I blushed. I couldn’t help it. My stomach was in a knot. I felt as though I was living an episode of The Wonder Years, and I was the Kevin Arnold to his Winnie Cooper. Had I been watching this conversation occur on television, I’d be yelling at my screen self to shut up already and button my shirt.

I told him how I had always been best friends with the popular girls, but not really popular myself.

He found this hard to believe.

“No really. I was the one who the guys came to for advice. How can I date Meg? Do you think I have a chance with Dana? I was always the buddy to guys, never the date. Or if I was the date, I was the girl you could ask if no one else could go. We’d have a blast, but I’d know you really were looking for someone else.”

He readjusted his baseball cap and tilted his head. “Hmmm…I’m pretty sure I’d look for you first.”

I shook my head. “You’ve never seen Meg, Kate, Dana, or Beth.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “I see you.”

Wait, What? Was I the Winnie Cooper here?

I excused myself and went to the bathroom. Resting my hands on either side of the small sink, I looked in the mirror to see if I could see what Sloan was talking about. Sweat was beading on my forehead. I pulled my shirt away from my body, trying to fan myself. Of course, all my snaps busted. It made no sense. This guy lived 600 miles way. What was I doing? What was he doing?

What in the freaking world was God doing?

I returned to the booth and I’m fairly certain I just sat there staring at him. His blue-green eyes, his wasted on a man super-long eye lashes, his dimples. I watched his lips moving and I imagined shutting him up by leaning across the table to kiss him.

“Elizabeth,” he said again. “What is that look?”

Um, it’s my please shut up and kiss me look. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. It’s nothing. Just no one has ever looked at me like that before. It’s not a bad thing.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The bartender warned us it was last call. We’d been sitting in that booth 5 hours.

He drove us back to Assembly Inn, listening to more man hating, foul mouthed Liz Phair. I knew it was late, but I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want the night to be over and for tomorrow to go back to normal, me chasing him around while he chatted with that Jamie chick. I wanted to keep looking at him. He held my hand as we walked across the parking lot and back to the Inn. It was all I could do to not skip from excitement, pee in my pants, vomit from nervousness and pounce on him all at the same time. About 10 feet from the door I declared, “I’m not tired. I’m not ready to go in yet.”

Praise God he received this invitation as it was intended. He leaned down to kiss me. I was self-conscious because I’d been drinking and was cotton mouthed. In addition, it had been awhile since I’d kissed anyone. My legs shook and I laughed.

“That’s not the response I was hoping for,” he said.

I felt horrible. “No, no. It’s not you. I’m just nervous. None of this makes any sense to me.” Didn’t I just tell this guy that the next guy I kiss is going to be my husband? Argh.

We walked from the brightly lit parking lot to a picturesque gazebo next to the pond. Yes; there was a gazebo, by a pond. Complete with swans swimming. It was idyllic and romantic, save for every few minutes the swans would make these strange noises and water would shoot up behind them.

“What is that?” Sloan asked.

Giggling, I said, “I think the swans are farting.”

“I don’t think swans do that,” he replied.

“No, I’m pretty sure all animals fart. I mean, all animals poop.” Dear God, Elizabeth! What is your problem? I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to talk about farts and poop on a date!

I was cold and he gave me his shirt, leaving him just in an undershirt. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. I could tell he was cold as well, so I put my arms around him. We kissed again and once again, I laughed.

I apologized. “No, really. It’s not you. I’m a nervous laugher. When I get too much of any one emotion, my body’s response is to laugh. I’ve laughed at a funeral before. It’s just a release I guess.”

“Oh-kay?” He didn’t sound convinced. But he didn’t stop kissing me either.

I told him that my biggest fear was that he’d tell me “we’d always have Montreat.” That this night, with its nervous confessions and gazebo kissing, would just be some romantic summer camp moment. But that I sensed it meant more. However, I also was aware that he lived in Florida and I lived in Virginia.

He didn’t say much, except as the sky began to pink with dawn, he told me he’d look for me. “I’ll look for you at breakfast. Or really, whenever I enter a room, I’ll look for you first.”

I made certain to be at breakfast first. I didn’t want to have to awkwardly want to sit next to him only there be no room. And what if he didn’t save a seat for me? I saw Grier and Rich in the breakfast line.

“Hey,” Grier said. “I looked for you last night. Where did you run off to?”

My eyes grew wide. “Oh my gosh, I need to tell someone. Sloan and I went to the Watershed and I felt like I was in middle school and I was so nervous and I made him listen to Liz Phair and then we kissed in the Gazebo and I laughed and there were farting swans and he said he’d look for me first and I think I might be in love with him.” I breathed.

Wait. What did I just say? Did I just say I was in love with him?

“Really?” Rich asked. “Sloan?”

I was still in shock with what I’d just admitted. We sat at a table. Within minutes, Sloan entered the room. “Oh dear God,” I said. “Grier, pretend we are deep in conversation. We are deep in conversation…”

“We are deep in conversation, “ she said back to me without missing a beat.

Still looking at Grier, I said, “Now, Rich, tell me, without actually looking at him, what is he doing?”

“He’s looking around. Well, actually, I think he was looking for you because he’s walking over here.”

Oh. Dear. God.

*******************

That afternoon’s pottery class everyone else was oohing and ahhing over their beautiful things they’d sculpted, caressed, and created. We were sifting through things that had been fired. I had made a sad little communion set—the chalice about the size of shot glass atop a poorly constructed stem, and a platter large enough for a dinner roll. It looked like something a 5^th grader would make for Mother’s Day.

Anne encouraged me to sit at the wheel again. But my mind was everywhere. I was upset about my stupid communion set. I was confused about Sloan. I was scared about Sloan. Scared that what I’d said to Rich and Grier was true. I’d already fallen in love with the wrong guy before and had sworn to myself that wouldn’t happen again. I was too old. I didn’t have it in me. Hence, the three date rule.

Anne and I sat across from one another at a pottery wheel. “Okay, Elizabeth. I’m not going to let you leave my studio so downhearted. We’re beginning again. Let’s throw some clay down onto the bat. Now close your eyes.”

I hesitated. “If I can’t center it with my eyes opened, how am I supposed to do it with my eyes closed?”

“YOU aren’t going to center it. You can’t. You are going to remain still. The wheel is going to center it.”

I put my clay on the bat. I closed my eyes. I felt Anne’s hands atop mine. “OK, Elizabeth, with your foot, start the wheel.”

This is ridiculous. It’s just pottery. Who cares if I can’t throw a pot? I pressed the pedal. Barely.

Anne, said, “That’s it. But we need more speed. And more water. You crank up the speed, I’ll get the water. Don’t move your hands. Just rest. Let the wheel do the work. Don’t be afraid of messing up. Don’t be afraid of the what if? You must have faith that the wheel will do its work. You must have faith that my hands will not leave yours. And for goodness sake, crank the wheel. If you do nothing, nothing will happen.”

Through my closed eyes, I began to cry. I could feel the clay beneath my hands. Wet. Firm. Centered. From time to time, I’d feel more water flow down my fingers.

“Okay, Elizabeth. We are going to begin to pull up. Slowly. Allow my hands to lead your hands, and yet, above all, you needn’t move much. Once again, let the wheel do the work.”

I felt her fingers gently press down on my fingers, slowly turning my centered ball into something. I opened my eyes. My eyelashes were stuck together. Through tears I looked at Anne. She was smiling, intently looking at what we were creating. I don’t think I even thought to look down at what we were making.

And I knew.

I knew it was risky to love Sloan, but that without a doubt I did. It made absolutely no sense, except for the fact I was certain God had His hands on mine. If I just sat there, doing nothing, nothing would happen. But if I trusted. If I trusted. Perhaps Sloan wasn’t the one, but he really wasn’t the One I was being asked to give my heart to.

“Look,” Anne said. “Look at what you made because you trusted the wheel do its work.”

I looked down. It was lovely. A vase. It had a wide bottom and thin sides that fluted ever so slightly at the top. The perfect size for pencils, or kitchen utensils, or a loose bouquet of yard flowers.

“But I won’t be able to finish it myself. It’s the last day,” I said, crestfallen.

“Let me finish it. I’ll glaze it for you and you can get it the next time you come to Montreat.”

I would come back to Montreat. If only to pick up this pottery. My little monument to trusting God, and subsequently Sloan, with my heart.

That evening, we had our final worship service. I’d looked for Sloan everywhere, but once again couldn’t find him. Someone told me he’d gone to Black Mountain for dinner with one of the people from his youth team. The speaker was discussing how everyone always pictured Jesus as a”nice guy”, but that Jesus was more. That He often entered into people’s temples, meaning their hearts, and tossed the tables around. That Jesus walked alongside us when we were blind, and opened our eyes to His mercy and grace. We were asked to pair up and walk around the room, then come take communion. We were to discuss with our communion partner what tables had been turned and how our eyes had been opened during the week. I felt someone behind me grab my hand.

I turned. It was Sloan.

We walked in silence, staring at each other. I remembered what I had prayed for earlier in the week and recognized, in shock, that God had actually heard my prayers. It was too much. We approached the celebrant reverently. We were before the youth pastor that had encouraged Sloan to come on this trip as a preamble to his helping out with the Youth at his church.

“Come and see that the Lord is good, “she said.

The Lord is good, indeed.

It was the last night of the conference. Some people had packed up already and were leaving. Everyone was in the common room, laughing, playing washers. Rich and Scott were playing their guitars and people were singing.

“I need to talk to you,” Sloan said to me. It sounded ominous. If he told me “we’d always have Montreat” like I was some summer camp girlfriend I was going to throw up.

I had much to say as well, and so we meandered around the Inn, hand in hand, looking for somewhere quiet. Along a corridor, we saw an empty room. Its occupants had left the conference early.

“I know it’s a bit inappropriate, but I really don’t see anywhere else. You wanna just go in there?” Sloan timidly motioned to the door.

“No, it’s fine,” I said. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be doing.

We each sat on one of the double beds, facing each other.

“I need to tell you something,” I blurted out. “I think you’re the person I’ve been praying for.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“And I think you’re the person my parents have been praying for my entire life.” This seemed safer than just confessing that I’d fallen love with him and was pretty certain he was the man I was going to marry.

“Ummm, what?”

Perhaps not actually safer. Perhaps a little creepy. I jostled my knees up and down as I sat on the edge of the bed. “Ummm, I think you are the man my parents have been praying for?”

“I don’t follow,” Sloan responded.

Dear God, this isn’t better. “Well, my parents have been praying for me to meet the right guy since I was born.” Please do not make me explain it any more clearly. I will probably explode. As it is, I might pee myself.

“Oh-kaaay? That’s. Kind of. Weird?”

“You have no idea,” I countered.

He sat next to me. He took one of my hands in his and placed his other hand on my knee. Dear God, please don’t let me pee myself when his hand is on my leg! He leaned in to kiss me, and as his face was inches from mine, he whispered, “I know this makes no sense, but I am in love with you. Hopelessly.”

I began to cry. I was unexpectedly aware of God’s love for me as when Sloan’s lips touched mine. All those years whining about being single. Those countless prayer requests to friends, “Please bring me a boyfriend!” The laundry list of things I wanted in a mate. And God had heard my prayers and dreams and had, in Sloan, said to me, “You have not dreamed big enough. You have sold my love for you short.” God had not simply brought me someone. He had, in fact, created each of us with the other in mind.

And here we were, in a dimly lit room, nervous knees touching, kissing.

Sloan pulled back, and looked at me. He was waiting for me to say something in response. I wanted to shout at him, “Yes! I love you too! I have loved you since you first called me a Zeta hater, but I was scared and then God gave me courage!” But I did not want him to think I was telling him I loved him simply because he said it to me. So instead, perhaps because I’m an idiot, I said, “Thank you.”

He sighed, falling back onto the bed. I turned to look at him. His eyes were closed and he’d taken off his ball cap. It rested in his fingertips then fell to the floor. I curled up in the crook of his chest and arm. I could hear his heart quickly beating. I traced his face gently with my finger—his eyebrow, his nose, his lips. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

“I love you,” I whispered. “And not I love you, too. Just I. Love. You.”

He closed his eyes again, smiling.

Adoption Update

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 07 May 2012 19:28:00 +0000

So we've made some headway with our adoption paperwork. We are in the final rounds of our homestudy, just waiting for it to make it through multiple levels of bureaucratic approval and a few more papers need to be filled out and signed.

So now we are beginning our Waiting Child Special Needs paperwork and tomorrow we have our first phone call with our Dossier Specialist.

In an effort to not have a panic attack, I am attempting to be like Anne Lammott with all the paperwork. As a child, Lammott's brother was overwhelmed by a report on birds. Apparently, it was the day before the paper was due and he couldn't even start. Lammott's writer father suggested he not to think of the paper as a whole, but as the sum of many pieces. To take the paper "bird by bird." I cannot think of the forms and spreadsheets and notaries and state seals as an entirety or I will just.shut.down. So I just look at my check list and take it bird by bird, willing myself to not look at item 4c before I even complete section 2a.

I've also pretty much given up on Gracie being in panties full time until all this paperwork is due. If you are in Richmond, you will hear me talk about this a lot. Sorry. It's because I'm trying to convince myself that this is okay she is in pull-ups.

We have also once again asked to be matched with a particular child. I'm equal parts hopeful that he is ours and hopeful that a family with their Dossier already logged in China gets matched with him because I want him out of China. Now.

I think I believed when we made the decision to adopt a special needs child that would be that. That just the choosing to obey God would be the difficult part.

But following Jesus isn't a "one and done" item on a checklist. Being God's child isn't just getting your name in a book and them continuing on your way. It is a relationship, a dance, a quest, an adventure. The "in between" times are perhaps more instructive than the grandiose mountaintop experiences.

I suppose I forgot the invitation of my dear Savior-- Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me. Luke 9:23

So it is a good thing I had to write up a letter as to why we are doing this in the first place. It's not because there's this adorable little boy in a yellow ducky jacket eating a graham cracker that I want to snuggle. It's because the words I wrote at the beginning of this journey still hold true:

"I want my family to be aware of its need for Jesus. I want us to never get so self-sufficient that we forget who is the Great Provider. I want for all of my kids to know what real love looks like—a love that doesn’t count the cost of suffering, a love that chooses to be uncomfortable for the sake of another, a love that values joy over happiness, redemption over ease, reconciliation over smoothness, grace over rightness, resurrection over complacency.

And, there’s also this:

When I was lost, broken, spiritually paralyzed, and an enemy, Jesus came for me. He left the comforts of heaven and came to the chaos. For me. And he was not content to just forgive. He was not content to just make me right before the Father. No, He adopted me. He gave me a family. He gave me an inheritance."

Put a Ring on it--Stella & Dot Adoption Fundraiser

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 02 May 2012 16:05:00 +0000

Mother's Day is coming up. Do you want to know what I got my husband for Father's Day? I bought my own mother's day present.


This is my mother's day present. The necklace. Not the woman. Of course, if she does laundry and potty trains, she will be what I request for Christmas.

And you can too. AND you can do all of his while helping to bring an orphan home.

WHAT?!?


I'm a little obsessed with these earrings.

The little sister of my kids' fairy Godmother is a Stella and Dot stylist and graciously offered to throw me a Charity trunk show. The monsoon rains meant for a poor showing at my house last Sunday, but you can still have the opportunity to buy some bling with a good conscience knowing that roughly 20% of all sales will go straight to our adoption fund.

So maybe you should not only put a ring on it, but a necklace and bracelet too.

Here is the link to my trunk show:http://www.stelladot.com/style/trunkshow/dbff9f9b-7c26-11e1-ad30-005056b55330

How rockin' will these bracelets go with my necklace? (No. I did not get all of them. But I wanted to.)

If you order by May 6th, all in stock items are guaranteed to make it to you by Mother's Day.
The party closes on May 14th.

Also, I think if you order your mom one of those fabulous charm necklaces and tell her how you helped bring an orphan home by giving this to her...you will affirm to her that she really IS the best mother around for teaching you the importance of motherhood.

Again, click HERE to shop my Charity Trunk Show!

Five year Interview

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 16:02:00 +0000

Favorite Color: Light blue

Favorite Book: the Bible

Favorite Food:Pizza

Food that is yucky:Spaghetti with Sauce

Favorite Restaurant:Angelo’s

Favorite Sport:Soccer

Favorite Show:Thomas and Friends

Favorite Movie:Wall-E

Favorite Toy:Thomas trains

Favorite Game:Super Mario Galaxy 2

Favorite thing at school: Playing on the computer

Favorite Season:January, it’s the first one.

Favorite Place to Go:Our condo at the beach.

Favorite thing about Mommy: We like to play puzzles.

Favorite thing about Daddy: His pancake flipping skills.

Favorite thing about Grace: That she’s my sister.

Favorite thing about myself: Jesus is in my heart.

If I could go anywhere in the world, it would be: Disneyworld!

When I grow up, I want to be: a sailor, just like Daddy.*

When I was little I used to: Be in Mommy’s tummy.

Three words to describe me are: Awesome, Giggly, and Expert.

My one wish for this year: For Charlie to hurry up and get here.

*Ummm, Sloan is in sales. He's not a sailor. But this was Henry's answer. Awesome.

Angry Birds Party

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 01:27:00 +0000

On Saturday we hosted Henry’s 5^th birthday party. I attempted to convince Henry he really wanted a party at Monkey Joe’s or the pool, but he said, “No, Mom. We can invite more of our friends if we have it at our house. It will just be easier if we stay here.”

Easier for whom?

But I do so love an at home birthday party. What is the point in having a house if not to share it with your friends and celebrate the life that God has given you? I mean, why have a dining room table that seats 12 adults comfortably if not to squeeze 22 preschoolers around it? (Of course, my dining room isn’t large enough for the table with the leaves in it, so we had to put it in our living room.)

He wanted an Angry Birds party. So I googled “Free Angry Birds Printables” and was able to find and personalize this invitation.

My buddy Melissa made 2 dozen cupcakes which I added Angry Birds Rings to, while Henry and I made this heck of a cake.

For activities, I made a green pig piñata. It was our Spring Break activity.

Tips for making a piñata. Figure out how you are going to hang it before actually making it. And DEFINITELY before stuffing it with 15 pounds of candy. Also, only do three layers of paper mache. You might worry that it won’t be sturdy enough to withstand the whacks of kiddos. False. 5 layers will be akin to making it out of airplane grade aluminum. And it will take parents wielding their children as bats to break it down.

We also had an egg hunt (because we were trying to help those birds out!). The eggs were filled with little toys and trinkets. I figured between the cupcakes and candy, toys were in order. Otherwise the party favor would’ve been Type II Diabetes. Each kid could find a dozen or so eggs. While we found our eggs, it began to rain. (We were racing against the threat of thunderstorms, so I was worried about missing what was Henry’s biggest desire for the party—the water balloon fight.)

And how should you best end an Angry Birds party? By launching water balloons at three giant green pigs. (Because what is the point of having teenage cousins if they can’t be targets at your 5^thbirthday party?)

Oh, dear Henry. You have been a joy since you were just a blob of cells in a photo. Since you were the wiggler kicking me in the gut while we watched Ninja Warrior from our hospital room. Since you fought your way out of the NICU and into our home. My darling Henry, you fully deserved that Courtesy medal you won at your soccer game.

Two more days until you are a whole hand. When did that happen?

Redshirting

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 19:37:00 +0000

Tomorrow is kindergarten registration in Richmond.

But we aren’t going.

Yes. Henry will be 5 on April 25^th and the cutoff is September 30^th.

And no. It’s not because he isn’t smart or is socially backward. (Though his teacher did mention he struggled with staying on task during clean up time. Yeah, that’s not really a developmental issue. I’ve met his parents, and they struggle with that as well. And just focusing in gen…hey! Is that something shiny?)

Nor is it because I want him to be some ginormo child who makes the Varsity soccer team in 9^th grade.

Truth be told, the fact that our decision to hold him back is raising eyebrows is a bit of a shock to me. I grew up in North Carolina and went to a small private school. There were 52 kids in my graduating class. Out of those kids, I can count at least 14 that were older spring birthdays. Having boys 6 months older was my norm.

So yes, part of our decision is that I don’t want Henry to be the last boy to go through puberty or get his driver’s license. That stuff matters. If you think a child’s physical development has nothing to do with their social or spiritual or educational development, than, well…I’d place a large bet on the fact that you’ve always been the average size or body type.

And to be clear, the idea of my son being 19 when he heads off to college is a lot more settling to me than him being barely 18.

Also, there is a gentleness to Henry that I want to keep intact. He tends to seek out the kids who are lonely or shy and befriend them. He will be a good oldest kid in the class. And there’s a roughness with some of the boys his age that, well, quite frankly, I want to separate him from.

A few months back we were at a playdate with the child Henry considers to be his best friend. Henry hugged his friend and said, “Hey, I love you! You’re my best friend.” His friend pushed him away, told him that boys weren’t supposed to hug or say I love you. Henry cried and we still sometimes have to talk about the situation. I reassured Henry that his friend was wrong. That if you love someone, you tell them. But that if someone asks you not to hug them, you have to respect that.

At the end of the day, we are holding Henry back because it is what is right for our family. Next year is going to be a big year for us. Gracie will go to preschool for the first time. She will be in school on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Henry will go to a long day PreK (9:20-1:50) Monday-Thursday. I will have 6 hours of uninterrupted time with no children!!!!! (Sloan asked me what I was going to do with my time. I promised him that at least once I would be purchasing some bon-bons and watching stories on TV.)

And sometime, Lord willing, Sloan and I will be travelling to China to bring back our youngest child, Charlie. Henry and Gracie will be staying with my sister and this way she doesn’t have to worry about getting Henry to school everyday. And once we return with Charlie, it will be nice to have some time where Henry is home with us during the day. He is going to have a new little brother that needs his sweet gentle spirit to teach him what being in a family is all about.

A Real {holy} conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:30:00 +0000

I debated about posting this.

It is simultaneously a private matter and something I want to shout from the rooftops. But I am posting this not for you dear reader, but for my son. I want to give permanency and weight to the conversation that happened while kneeling next to his sister’s bed. Because in addition to this blog being a place for me to write, vent, and just be, it is also the closest thing to a baby book that my kids are going to get. (Much to the dismay of my mother.)

So readers, my prayer is that this installment of a real conversation blesses you. I pray you stand alongside me and marvel at God’s work in my family.

****

We were reading our bible story, as we do every night. The story was Jesus’ ascension. We’ve read it countless times. Henry’s bible—Sally Lloyd-Jones’ the Jesus Storybook Bible—poses the question at the end of the story—“‘How can Jesus be with us and leave at the same time?’ they (the disciples) wondered.”

The story ended and we were about to move on to Curious George and the Puppies when Henry asked, “Mom, how CAN Jesus be with us when he is also in heaven?”

“Well,” I said, trying to reach back into my semesters of Systematic Theology and distill them into something for an almost 5 year old, “it is true that Jesus is alive in Heaven seated at the right hand of the Father. But it is also true that Jesus is here with us as well because of the Holy Spirit.” As I type this, I humbly confess that what I said was true and correct but also that it doesn’t really clarify the issue. To be clear, I’m not quite certain of all the logistics. Thankfully, Henry helped me.

“Are you talking about how Jesus lives in your heart and in heaven?”

“Yes! That is exactly what I meant to say. Jesus lives in heaven and in my heart.”

He placed his small hand awkwardly on my chest and then leaned his head in whispering, “Jesus, Jesus.” He sat up. “Is Jesus in my heart?”

I cleared my throat. “Well, have you asked him to be? Jesus knocks and knocks on the door of everyone’s heart, but he isn’t rude. So he only barges in if he is invited.”

“Oh.” He cocked his head to the side and bit his lip. “I don’t think I’ve asked him into my heart. How do you do that?”

Tears welled up my eyes. “Well, you pray. You say something like, “Hey Jesus! I know that my heart is broken and I can’t fix it. I sin and need you to rescue me. Will you come live in my heart?”

He sat upright. He was very serious. Or as serious as you can be when it is April and you are in your Christmas pajamas and your little sister is telling Jesus themed knock-knock jokes as she hurls herself off her rocking chair over and over again because Mommy is otherwise engaged.

“Ok,” he said, “I want to pray just what you said. But we should kneel and say Dear Jesus and not Hey Jesus.”

“Okay, you pray to Jesus however you want. He loves to hear your voice.” So I knelt next to my son and listened to him pray the sweetest prayer. The prayer his Daddy and I have been praying to hear for over 5 years.

“Dear Jesus, I need you. Sometimes I sin and am selfish and don’t obey Mommy and Daddy. Will you come live in my heart and save me? Amen.”

Then he looked at me, BEAMING, and said, “Give me a high five, Mommy. Jesus is in my heart!”

High fives, indeed, my son who is now my brother. High fives, indeed.

Happy Easter!

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 02:18:00 +0000

If you don't want to see a bunch of photos of my adorable children, then you should probably skip this post.

Our little bunny who got her face painted at our neighborhood's egg hunt.

Bucketheads!

Surveying the loot!

I have chocolate!

2nd Annual Cousin Egg Hunt at my sister's house! (aka how we get the kids out of the house while the meal is being prepared!)

I just love this picture. Taken by my very talented niece, Rachel.

This year's Easter was sponsored by seersucker.

A scholar's parrot

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 03:44:00 +0000

This past Sunday, Sloan and I spoke in a Sunday School class about the Orphan Care ministry at our church. And like most times I speak about how God has worked in my life, it ends up different than I expect. Invariably, I expect to really bless people. I expect to go in and cause tears and have people stand up and shout, “Blessed are you amongst women! Hallelujah!”

Ahem.

This has yet to happen. Instead, what usually happens is I cry, Sloan says a few things and then people end up blessing me.

This Sunday was no different.

Sloan and I spoke at the beginning of the class and then stayed for the lesson.

They were first discussing what is our primary question we all have for God. And we all pretty much agreed that is was simple—we want help. We want to be fixed. We want all of our suffering to stop.

Then we went to Scripture and read from Mark 9:14-17. This would be the section of your Bible probably titled “Jesus Heals a Boy with an Unclean Spirit”.

To paraphrase…Jesus and some of his disciples have just been on a mountain and done the whole transfiguration thing. Then they rejoin the disciples and there is a crowd. The disciples have been trying to heal a boy to no avail. So there is some arguing about their legitimacy and power. And then there’s the Dad of the boy, probably wishing everyone would stop pushing in and just let him get his boy some help. Jesus swoops in and says “How long am I to bear with you? Bring him to me” and finds that the boy is mute and has what we would probably diagnose as epilepsy. He’s always had it and it has caused him other injuries. And then the Dad says, “If you can do anything, have compassion on us!” And I love this part…Jesus says “IF? All things are possible for the one who believes.” And then we have what is easily my most favorite prayer in the Bible “Lord! I believe! Help my unbelief!” So Jesus speaks to the unclean Spirit and heals the boy. But to be sure, at first everyone thinks that the boy is dead. The healing looks like death. Seriously, Scripture says the boy looks like a corpse. But then Jesus takes the boy’s hand and helps him up.

I think in the past I thought the whole “Lord I believe, help my unbelief!” prayer just sort of hung out on its own in Scripture. I never saw that it was the beleaguered prayer of a Special Needs Dad. This broke me.

It also broke me that what Jesus considers healing may look like death to me. Frankly, I don’t really like that. But there ya go. That’s Easter. There can be no Jesus taking my hand and helping me rise if at first things don’t die. There’s no getting to Easter morning if we don’t walk through the agony of the cross.

And there is the dang rub. I just want a basket of peeps, peeps. Not the agony.

And then, because the Sunday School teacher really wanted to hone in on my own self-worship and unbelief and the fact that what I really want God to be is a Grandpa who gives me everything I want—he gave us the following poem to discuss in small groups:

All this flashy rhetoric about loving you.

I never had a selfless thought since I was born.

I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through;

I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, reassurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,

I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin;

I talk of love—a scholar’s parrot may talk Greek—

But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

-C.S. Lewis

Father God, I believe! Help my unbelief. Break me free from my prison of self. I confess I desire the world to revolve around me: Such a short orbit. Enter in. Call out my unclean spirit. And just when I’m certain that I am dead, take my hand again and tell me to rise.

Team Awesome

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 20:30:00 +0000

Henry joined his first team. A soccer team. We picked a league (i9) that stressed fun, learning, and sportsmanship as well as had the practices and games back to back on Saturday. I kinda feel like having multiple practices a week for a 4 year is ridiculous. He is mighty #8.

We knew that some girls from his school played with i9 and Henry wanted to be on their team so I made those requests when we signed up. Little did I know that Henry would be the lone boy on the his little team. When I heard they would get to pick the team name, I was worried my darling son would soon be a Pink Lady or a Pretty Princess. I joked with one of the other moms, "If you're going to be the Butterflies, can you at least be the Fighting Butterflies?"

But not to worry, Henry and his teammates picked a fitting name for their amoeba that would be chasing the ball on the field: Team Awesome. I asked Henry, "Awesome what? Awesome players? Awesome game?" He said, "Ummmm....just Team Awesome. Awesome everything."

Sounds pretty much right.

Henry's sweet temperament does not have him as the most aggressive player on the field. If anybody fell down, he was the first to go and help them up. If he happened to be near us, he would give us a thumbs up. If the coach blew the whistle, he gave us a thumbs up. At one point in the game, he came and gave me a hug. It's not that I want him to ignore the kids who get hurt, but come on, perhaps maybe just shout over your shoulder, "Hope you're okay" and maybe at least moderately pay attention. I mentioned this to a father the next day at our church's Egg Hunt as my son was reserving a pink egg for his friend Libby. He confessed he was the same way as a kid. Seeing as this dad is now a judge, I'm okay. Henry can learn to be more competitive as he gets older. Or not. People tend to respond well to being given a thumbs up.

Of course, when we asked him what was the value of the week, he said, "I don't know. I wasn't listening very well."

The value of the week was listening. Clearly we didn't win the medal. But if ever the week's value is wandering around the field aimlessly staring into the distance, he will be a shoe-in.

(If you can't tell which one is Henry, he is in the far distance. You know, the one running in the opposite direction of everybody else.)

Movement(s)

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 22:32:00 +0000

There have been some movement(s) in the Phillips’ house in the past week.

Primarily, we had some progression in our home study. We had our home visit last week. This week we have three more interviews. Tomorrow, I get to “dig deep” into the traumas of my formative years. Sloan “digs deep” Friday morning, and then we get to discuss our marriage in depth Friday noon.

So that should be fun.

Pray for me. I understand the whys as to why our case worker wants to discuss it, but I’m so over it that I'm afraid I’ll be blasé about it. Or that I’ll spend two hours bubble snot crying. I sent our case worker several blog posts (like this one and this one) that I’ve written about the issue in hopes to head her off at the pass, so to speak.

Secondly, we’ve had some progression in the potty training of Gracie. We decided to sort of half-heart it for now until Spring Break so that I’m not constantly washing the car seat. We want to just put her in panties and not look back. But Gracie did not get this memo.

It was the afternoon before our home visit. I has spent the day furiously straightening, dusting, mopping, and vacuuming—regretting not getting our cleaning lady to come on her off week.

I was walking in the living room when…squish. I had stepped in a heaping pile of warm poo. In my house. You know, in my pet free house. Then there was a brown blur running the lap that is our kitchen, living and dining rooms chanting, “Stinky poopy! I naked and I stinky poopy! POOPY!”

I was dumbfounded. I didn’t really know what to do. I was not prepared to deal with human excrement on my living room hardwoods and then pittered pattered poopy footprints across my sisal rug. Also, let it also be known that my FitFlops are heretofore labeled my “$h!tFlops”. Had they not been black patent leather and the only flops I can wear with my plantar fasciitis, they would’ve heretofore been called trash.

The next day, about 5 minutes after our case worker left our house, Gracie pooped on the kitchen floor.

Awesome.

Dear Jesus, Thank you for the movement in our adoption of Charlie. As to the movements with Gracie, that’s not really the kinda movement we need right now. Or ever, really. Amen.

Team Peeta

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 17:46:00 +0000

I wrote a longer post this morning while I was getting my car inspected, but for now, I simply want to declare unequivocally that I am on Team Peeta. And to be clear, I'm not even sure how anyone else could be on Team Gale.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, just carry on and maybe pick up a copy of The Hunger Games trilogy. You'll finish it in less than a week because you will shirk all other responsibilities to finish it.

To be sure, both Gale and Peeta love Katniss. But Gale's love is self-serving, while Peeta's love is selfless. Gale is a hard man. Peeta is light and lovely and, for the love of Peeta, the boy bakes cheesy bread! I couldn't stand Gale. And I hated Katniss when she was with him. His love for her hardened her, made her selfish. While Peeta's love softened her. But in a way that allowed her still to be strong and vibrant. And if you find a man whose love allows you vulnerability and vitality, well, he's a rare keeper. And again, let's not forget the cheesy bread!!

Oh, there's also the fact that I've had a pretty big crush on Josh Hutcherson since 2005's Little Manhattan. It could be because of this...

Sloan Phillips in his youth...

And a young Josh Hutcherson...

And so now the cast to the Lifetime Network movie of my life is complete.

I'm Not a Circus Performer, People

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 18:35:00 +0000

Lately I’ve felt like a tight rope walker.

Teetering as I struggle to maintain a work-life balance. I understand that everyone struggles with this. I watch Sloan struggle to make sure he works to support his family rather than have his family support his work. I listen to friends who work outside the home struggle to make sure their children know they are important, maintain sanity, and run a household, all the while making sure they keep their bosses happy. So you’d think someone who is a stay at home mom would have no trouble here. But the struggle is, well, my work IS my life. I can’t choose between my family and my work because they are interrelated. I can’t just kick back and relax because there are loads of laundry to be folded, shopping lists to complete, forms to be copied in triplicate for the dossier, bills to be paid, frames to be painted, friends who need meals made for them, and with the nice weather we’ve been having, parks to visit, and sprinklers to run through, which of course, only increases the amount of laundry that will inevitably be folded. Whoever started that whole sitting on the couch and eating bon-bons rumor needs to be shot.

I repeat—there are no bon-bons.

Add to this that we are entering the seventh level of toddler hell, aka potty training, and I want to cry.

Add to THAT that we are stuck in Home Study Limbo and I am crying. I can’t really talk about how mad and sad and frustrated we are with our current adoption situation without sinning.

Moreover, I am falling off the tight rope as I attempt to have a good balance of serving others and being insular in my family’s life. I want us to be others’ focused, but in doing so, I’ve dropped the ball entirely on serving my kids.

And my mind is jumbled. I think my constant multi-tasking between cooking and cleaning and email and home study and preschool and having to get all new siding on my house and consignment sales and trunk shows and Plum Panda business and my daughter’s obsession with stripping naked and washing her hands in the toilet has completely left me incapable of just doing one thing to completion. I'm so focused on all the balls I have up in the air that I'm completely running into the folks living with me. And let's not talk about how I've completely failed at giving up soda for lent.

#lentfail

So I’ve been attempting to reboot my brain because it just-won’t-stop-thinking or processing information in manic fashion. The other night I was tossing and turning because I was fearful that in training Ugandan soldiers to stop Kony (a necessary thing) we were just arming a Ugandan government that is equally guilty of crimes against humanity and it just seemed an awful lot like arming the Taliban to defeat the Russians. Seriously. This is the kind of crazy I am dealing with.

So I’m stepping off the rope. I'm letting the balls fall.*

Everyone tells you that when you bring your adopted child home you need to circle the wagons and just be a family. To drop out of all your activities and just focus on loving one another for about a year. Oh, how I long for that year!

So I’m circling early. Because in the end, the WHAT I’m doing in my service is of little importance if I’m confused about the WHO. When I am patient with my daughter as she hides under my pillow and BREAKS ALL OF MY MAKEUP all over my bedspread while I pack to go out of town, I am serving Jesus. When I take the time to fix bacon and eggs for a little boy who loves them so much rather than just serving up a bowl of Cheerios so I can work on more Plum Panda stuff, I am cooking for Jesus. When I put down my Ipad and my paintbrushes and snuggle up with Sloan on the couch to watch New Girl, I am sharing the love of Jesus.

When I cease the striving, I can trust. And receive much grace. And I’m reminded, it is not the type of service but the One being served who matters. And I am not the Savior of the world or my family. Hallelujah!

So if you hear crickets around here for awhile, it’s because I refuse to tightrope or juggle anymore.

*That's what she said.

Trying to find comfort in a rod and a staff...

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 19:08:00 +0000

It has been a hard week.

Gracie is going through some things and it seems people keep wanting to give me advice on how to “handle” her. But you see, a) you handle problems, not people, and b) last time I checked, none of the people giving me advice have ever parented an adopted child of another race who was born addicted to cocaine, heroin, and meth. And so we pray that this is just the terrible twos and not our daughter’s abstinence syndrome finally rearing its ugly head. Sometimes I forget that I am already a special needs Mom.

But God understood that for me to better love my daughter I needed some perspective. In His tender mercy, instead of wallowing in frustration with my erratic toddler, I have been catapulted into grief. Swallowed whole by the loss of a dear loved one in my extended family. And the loss of a dear friend’s son who was also friend to my sister’s family.. All in the same day.

And I know that I do not grieve without hope. That the glory of Easter morning has robbed death of its lasting power. This is fact. And yet, I am living in the midst of the “not yet.” I am reminded that this world is not my home. I am just a weary, weary sojourner.

I am ever grateful for Lent. For a time when I am already cognizant that it is for these very things that Jesus came. But oh, how I long for Easter! How I long for the day when I can see His face clearly, when his fingers will wipe my eyes, and there will be no more death or dying or cancer or widows or orphans or kids born with diseases or syndromes or mourning.

For now, I pray and sing that the ancient words of Bernard of Clairvaux will be wholly mine:

O sacred Head, now wounded, with grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded with thorns, Thine only crown;
O sacred Head, what glory, what bliss till now was Thine!
Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine.

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered, was all for sinners’ gain;
Mine, mine was the transgression, but Thine the deadly pain.
Lo, here I fall, my Savior! ’Tis I deserve Thy place;
Look on me with Thy favor, vouchsafe to me Thy grace.

Men mock and taunt and jeer Thee, Thou noble countenance,
Though mighty worlds shall fear Thee and flee before Thy glance.
How art thou pale with anguish, with sore abuse and scorn!
How doth Thy visage languish that once was bright as morn!

Now from Thy cheeks has vanished their color once so fair;
From Thy red lips is banished the splendor that was there.
Grim death, with cruel rigor, hath robbed Thee of Thy life;
Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor, Thy strength in this sad strife.

My burden in Thy Passion, Lord, Thou hast borne for me,
For it was my transgression which brought this woe on Thee.
I cast me down before Thee, wrath were my rightful lot;
Have mercy, I implore Thee; Redeemer, spurn me not!

What language shall I borrow to thank Thee, dearest friend,
For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end?
O make me Thine forever, and should I fainting be,
Lord, let me never, never outlive my love to Thee.

My Shepherd, now receive me; my Guardian, own me Thine.
Great blessings Thou didst give me, O source of gifts divine.
Thy lips have often fed me with words of truth and love;
Thy Spirit oft hath led me to heavenly joys above.

Here I will stand beside Thee, from Thee I will not part;
O Savior, do not chide me! When breaks Thy loving heart,
When soul and body languish in death’s cold, cruel grasp,
Then, in Thy deepest anguish, Thee in mine arms I’ll clasp.

The joy can never be spoken, above all joys beside,
When in Thy body broken I thus with safety hide.
O Lord of Life, desiring Thy glory now to see,
Beside Thy cross expiring, I’d breathe my soul to Thee.

My Savior, be Thou near me when death is at my door;
Then let Thy presence cheer me, forsake me nevermore!
When soul and body languish, oh, leave me not alone,
But take away mine anguish by virtue of Thine own!

Be Thou my consolation, my shield when I must die;
Remind me of Thy passion when my last hour draws nigh.
Mine eyes shall then behold Thee, upon Thy cross shall dwell,
My heart by faith enfolds Thee. Who dieth thus dies well.

Repost from Plum Panda because it's so freakin' great...

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 15:40:00 +0000

Dinner party for 8*

Bid on a fabulous dinner party for 8! Enjoy a delicious, homemade meal and great wine at a dinner party in your own home!

This is a GREAT deal. What a fun couples night this would be! And how many times can you honestly say that getting dressed up and drinking some vino will help bring an orphan home?

It should also be noted that Sloan and I make WONDERFUL dinner companions. Not a requirement, just sayin'...

*If you want to bid on this item, you must do so on The Plum Panda's page on Facebook. I'm willing to accept bids via email, but I cannot assume responsibility for you "losing" the auction because I will not be able to keep you in the loop for the auction. If, however, you aren't a fan of The Plum Panda on Facebook and you desperately want this, a large donation to our adoption fund COULD possibly work. (You can "like" The Plum Panda on facebook in the little box on your righthand sidebar ------>)

THIS AUCTION WILL CLOSE NEXT SUNDAY AT 8PM.

Starting with a bid of $80, choose between a pork or chicken entrée, to be served with an appetizer, 2 or 3 side dishes and dessert. The meal will be delivered to your home in disposable containers. One bottle of red wine is included. The first wine to be included is a 2000 Stags Leap Cabernet Sauvignon , which retails for about $60 (though in a restaurant it would cost between $100-120). [Cost: $10 / per person]

Starting with a bid of $140, add the additional options of lamb or beef for your entrée and an additional bottle of red wine. The second wine to be included is the Livingston, which retails for about $95 (though in a restaurant it would cost between $150-$190). [Cost: about $17 / per person]

Starting with a bid of $200, your meal will arrive on serving platters. You will also receive service during the meal and a light clean-up of the meal.

[cost: about $25 / per person]

The highest bid wins!!

Other notes:

· Menu adjustments can be made at the buyer’s request

· Date to be mutually agreed upon between buyer and chef

· Wine options are fixed

· Contact me with any questions!

Sample Menus

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Smoked Salmon Dip

Roast Loin of Pork with Fennel, Carrots, & Potatoes

Haricot Verts with Shallots

Homemade Foldover Rolls

Chocolate Ganache Cake

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Olive Tapendade with Crostini

Roast Lambs with White Beans

ProvenVal Tomatoes

Mesclun Salad with Mustard Vinagrette

Lemon Meringue Tart

Semi-Open, Part Three.

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 16:46:00 +0000

Before I finish this section of the story (really, this story is ongoing, so it is simply at the end of one chapter), I think I oughtta give you some context. When I wrote Wednesday’s piece, I edited out the section that reminded you of what I said in part one: we typically send out birthmother updates around Gracie’s birthday. Maybe I’m just assuming y’all all remember her birthday is October 22^nd?

Anywhoozie, to put this on a timeline, we sent the 2 year update to GBM at the end of October and received our first letter from GBM on November 11^th. Which, ya know, was about 5 days after we realized we were going to adopt again.

Wha?

Yeah. That is why we were really confused. Perhaps we thought we were supposed to adopt from China, but maybe God was just opening up our hearts to be ready for something else, something a little closer to home? You may remember some cryptic posts from that era, like this one or this one.

We heard nothing back from GBM. We set up a special email account for her so that she could communicate with us without going through Bethany if she felt like it. We tried the numbers she gave us but were never able to connect.

So we waited.

While we waited, we began our paperwork for the Chinese adoption. We mentally gave GBM the deadline of Christmas to make a move. Because we couldn’t just hover in limbo when we weren’t even certain if any of the information in her letter could be trusted. We did, however, learn that GTHS was in the custody of the grandmother and not GBM, like she had stated in the letter. With that knowledge, I was able to breathe in and out again, knowing that GTHS did have an advocate and someone to love her. I could take down my “Tween Room in the Attic” board on Pinterest.

Christmas came and went. We continued to pray for the twins. That they had been placed in a loving family. That they knew we existed. That the twins were out of the hospital and healthy. That if they had no one to advocate for them some case workers would try their hardest to find us and that the Bethany case workers would give them our information. We learned that at some point in the summer a cryptic phone call had been received that could have possibly been about the twins, but no follow up phone information was left and the case worker at Bethany, wanting to protect our privacy, did not volunteer our information. Therefore, we told all the case workers at Bethany that they could give out our information to anyone working for the Department of Social Services.

And then we sort of went about life. We’ve been fundraising and stressing about finances and getting the boys’ room ready and longing for Charlie.

Then, about two weeks ago, my orphan care group at church hosted the head of Henrico County’s social services to talk about foster and respite care in the Richmond area. After his talk, I spoke with him briefly about our situation. I asked him if we had any rights and if the case workers would be bothered if we called. He laughed. He said that while we didn’t have the same rights as a biological family member would, social services ALWAYS wants to keep biological siblings together. He also told us that twins, much less twins born premature, and even greater still twins born premature born addicted to drugs that were ethnic minorites would be VERY hard to place. And then he said, “Trust me. We long for people to call us and say they want to advocate for these kids. It rarely happens. Of all the stuff we see, being called by someone wanting to love a kid is NOT a bother.”

Hmmm….

But where to even begin? The town where GBM lives is a suburb of a larger city that is comprised of 5 counties. And each county has its own DSS. So I just started googling. I randomly picked a county and called the first number that mentioned foster care I could find.

A woman answered and I said, “Hi! My name is Elizabeth Phillips and I live in Richmond. So this is strange. My adoptive daughter was born in Charlottesville and her birthmom lives in your area. We have reason to believe that last Spring she gave birth to twins prematurely and that they were taken into foster care. Do these kids have someone to love them? Are they still alive? Have they been shuffled back and forth between GBM and some foster family? I mean, we are right now pursuing a special needs adoption from China, but those kids are our daughter’s half-siblings and if they don’t already have a family, we want them.”

I said all of that before I took a breath. Or let the other person talk.

Well, wouldn’t you know that the woman listening to me ramble on was the case worker of the twins. Her first words to me were, “Are you serious?! I am so glad you called! We’ve been wondering about your little girl and where she was. I am the twins’ case worker and I can tell you all about them. They’ve been with an amazing foster family since they left the hospital and that family will begin the finalization of their adoption this Spring. I know they won’t mind me telling you all this because they are so amazing.”

And y’all, the case worker undersold the twins’ family. They. Are. Rockstars. The twins will be the youngest kiddos in a large family comprised of biological kids, as well as kids adopted both internationally and domestically. The case worker told me what the family had named the twins and I thought to myself “OK, these peeps are believers. You don’t name your kid that if you aren’t a Christian.”

I gave the case worker all of my information to give to their family. The twins’ family has ZERO background information on GBM or photos so I have begun to compile a little file for them. The adoptive mom of the twins and I have been able to connect via Facebook. I was right, she loves Jesus and adoption and laughing and, according to the info section on her blog, she also has a penchant for putting her foot in her mouth. Oh, and did I fail to mention that she and her husband know the pastor of my church because…..wait for it…He was their youth pastor?!?

I cannot tell you how ecstatic I am to know that we now have a safe connection to folks who share Gracie's DNA. There was a tiny part of me that was miffed that we weren’t able to be found to parent those twins. I was frustrated with the case worker that didn’t bend the rules to give out my info. But what is true is that God is sovereign and I am not the right mommy for the twins. So I need to repent of any bitterness that I may feel about that. If God had meant for us to parent them, we would’ve. He intends for us to be family to them, just not immediate family. I may or may not have already picked out what I will be sending them for their first birthday. Auntie EJ has a great ring to it.

This whole process has also convicted me of believing that it was all up to me, that if I did nothing, no one would. I guess I thought that Sloan and I were the only ones out there loving orphans. That we were the only folks willing to accept hard placements. That God was putting all of his “Love the Orphans” eggs in my basket.

Ahem. (Also, have you met me? No one at any time for any reason should give me a basket of eggs of any kind. I can only keep up with my children because they make noise.)

Folks, God doesn’t need me. It is his love for me that draws me into His heart and mission. And he’s not about to let my sin or bureaucracy or a dingy orphanage get in the way of Him being close to the broken hearted, of being a Father to the fatherless.

Just as He fought for Henry when we almost died in the hospital, just as He fought for Gracie as she struggled to come off the drugs, just as He fought for the twins to have a loving family where they would be treasured, He fights for Charlie. Charlie is not alone in that Chinese orphanage. He has Jesus beside him. To whisper to him that he will not leave him as an orphan.

Sweet, and tender Jesus, hold our Charlie tight. Tell him we are coming. Place us in his dreams so that we are not strangers. His bed is ready. And so are we.

Semi-Open, Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 19:39:00 +0000

In our most recent letter to GBM, we wrote that if she was sober and was healthy, we would be willing to consider a more open relationship, that we would be willing to drive to where she was, along with our case worker, to meet her.

Within a week of receiving that update and its accompanying photographs, we received our first letter from Grace’s birthmom (GBM)!

I was sitting in carpool line about to pick up Henry when my friend and Bethany pregnancy counselor, R, called to tell me they had received a letter from GBM. Did I want her to mail it to us?

“No! I-want-you-to-read-it-aloud-to-me-and-then-I-will-drive-really-fast-to-the-office-to-pick-it-up. Oh, yeah, I’ll probably pick up Henry from school first, ya know, since I’m here. And perhaps hit a drive through. But read it to me. Read it to me. WHY ARE YOU STILL BEING QUIET; HURRY UP AND READ IT TO ME!”

I will not share all the details of this letter here, because they are not my story to tell. GBM shared that she was excited that we were willing to consider a more open relationship and gave us her address and ways to contact her. Though, because of the advent of caller ID and the like, having her phone number isn’t really helpful. We called her from Bethany. She hung up on us. My guess is that she was hoping we would call her directly or give her our phone number. At the present, even though we share a daughter, she is a stranger to us. While we feel like she is family that simply is not the case. It doesn’t make much sense to give a stranger our home phone number, much less a stranger with a history of addiction.

We also received the most precious letter ever from G’s tween half-sister (GTHS—not to be confused with DWTS or SYTYCD). She included a picture of her dog and mentioned all of the physical traits she shares with Grace. It was written on a typewriter. I don’t know why this fact moves me so. I imagine GTHS sitting at the typewriter, knees bouncing, reversing and marking xxxx’s through her misspellings, perhaps chewing on a pen, trying to tell the little sister she has never known outside of her mother’s womb that she loves her and thinks of her often and I break. She also included her most recent school picture. She is beautiful and is prominently featured on our refrigerator. We pray for her daily. She has the same shaped eyes as Gracie, but in an ice blue. Her hair is silky and blonde, with a red feather extension. She favors my tween niece Rebekah.

Through the letter of GBM, we learned that Grace had two more siblings. That, at least biologically, Gracie was now a big sister to a set of twins. A set of twins that were born extrememly premature and had been taken into foster care.

We were confused. Was Grace’s birthmom telling us about the twins because she wanted us to have them? What about China? Was God calling us to adopt these twins and not a child with special needs? Was He calling us to do both? And what about the 10 yr old little girl? Were we now adopting three kids? Would we have to transform the attic into a living space for a tween? Would we need to move? Would I ever stop trying to second guess Jesus? Would I, for at least 30 seconds, stop asking my husband what the heck was going on? Did social services even know we existed? Wouldn’t they want to keep siblings together? Did we have rights?

Or what if they had been placed with a family? I was guessing that a bi-racial set of twins with addictions born extremely premature would be a difficult placement. (Though to be fair, we didn’t even know the race of the twins. It obviously didn’t matter to us.) Were they healthy? What issues, if any, had GBM passed onto them? What about the risks for just being born 12 weeks early? Did they need foster parents? Would Grace’s birthmom relinquish her rights or would she fight for them? Would we fight her for them?

I kept asking Sloan what we were supposed to do. And he kept telling me that we didn’t have enough information to make a decision. I called several friends and asked for their wisdom. Not a single one of them told me what to do. Everyone basically said, “Whoa. This is big. I don’t know what God is doing. But He is doing something.” My friend Ali texted me, “I’m hearing wait and watch.” (Note to self—make at least one friend that will feed my crazy. Let’s all pretend that I hadn’t already begun to decorate a nursery for twins. Let’s pretend that I didn’t name them and give them ADORABLE nicknames.)

So. Not. Helpful.

What I wanted was a burning bush or some respected older person in my church to call me and say, “While having my quiet time, I thought of you and I wanted to tell you that I will buy you a minivan and help you decorate a nursery for those twins.” Instead, I got a 4 year old son who was telling me that he wanted a brother to share bunk beds with.

What I wanted was to call GBM and for her to tell me how wonderful I was and how healthy she was and how she wanted me to raise all of her children and go on tour like some singing family in a painted volkswagon van. What I got was a husband out of town on business and unwilling to entertain my ever-growing list of “what ifs” while on the telephone.

What I wanted was to know how much of this letter could even be trusted. What I got was a God so big and yet begging me simply to trust him.

What I wanted was to know the end of the story and perhaps have a hand in writing it. What I got was a Savior reminding me it wasn’t even my story to begin with.

But wait…this story isn’t over yet…

Semi-Open

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 20:10:00 +0000

As I’ve been mainly focusing here on our current adoption of Charlie, I haven’t mentioned at all what has been transpiring in Gracie’s little world of adoption. This is the first of a couple posts to update and educate some folks on our semi-open transracial adoption.

We have what is called a “semi-open” adoption with Grace’s birth-mother (GBM). That basically means we have her medical background from the Bethany pregnancy counselor with whom her birth-mother worked to select us and place Gracie. GBM, along with her drug counselor, initially chose us but was then told we were unavailable because we were already in the process of securing the placement of Emma Sloan. She then chose two other families, both of whom refused to accept Gracie because of the vast medical needs she had and the risks associated with the health of GBM. But as you may remember, Emma Sloan’s birthmom chose to parent on day 9 of our 10 day waiting period, and so we were then asked to consider Grace.

The semi-open adoption agreement through Bethany also requires things from us. For the first six months, we had to supply Bethany with a letter and photo at each post-placement supervision visit. So, of course, I supplied LONG letters and about twenty photos each time. Since the finalization of Gracie’s adoption, we are simply required to do annual updates. Each year, around Gracie’s birthday, we send a letter for GBM and photos to Bethany. We also tend to include something for Grace's tween half-sister.

Birth-mothers can choose whether or not to receive the updates. Many times, a birth-mother refuses the updates, but then, after a few years, asks to see the files. I do not believe this is because the birth-moms are suddenly gripped by regret, but that, having waded through their grief of placing a child with an adoptive family, they are finally able to see the blessings they chose for their child. They want confirmation that it was and continues to be the best choice.

GBM and birth-grandmother have always wanted the updates. And our first Christmas home with Gracie we received via Bethany a Christmas card full of photos. We have pictures of GBM as a baby, child, teenager and adult. She is lovely. Silky straight dark hair (though there did appear to be a permed stage in high school), almond shaped brown eyes. If you saw her high school pics and mine, you would think we could pass for cousins. Seriously.

We have pictures of her half-sister as an infant--they share the same chubby cheeks and pudgy toes. We have pics of Grace’s birth-grandmother riding an elephant. We have pictures of Gracie’s biological great-grandma sitting cross-legged on the floor of a house in Japan eating noodles with chopsticks.

Mostly this semi-open relationship has been one-sided. We send letters and photos and hear nothing. Gracie’s birthfamily does not know our last names, nor where we live and only because Grace was in the NICU for so long do we know the GBM’s last name. I once googled her name to try and locate her (much to the fear of my case worker). Yeah, I was able to locate her location via longitude and latitude, but not her street address. Given the fact that I can barely read a map, this was less than helpful.

We do so desperately long to have a relationship with her. For the sake of Gracie’s school aged-half sister still living with her and her grandmother. For the birthmom’s sake. So she can see the redemption that has taken place in our daughter’s life. So she can see how even in the midst of all the drug haze, God was and is for HER. That God loves her. Not because she chose life and chose us, but because God adores her. That He chooses her. That he longs to adopt her.

I do not want her to simply be my daughter’s birthmother. I want her to be my sister. In addition to sharing her daughter, I would like to share a Savior. I want to be able to look Gracie in the eye and tell her that she will get to spend all of eternity getting to ask each and every question she had here on earth.

I do believe it would be helpful for Gracie to know her birthmom. To have her as a resource for questions. But the truth is, because of the wretched disease of addiction, this will most likely NOT be able to happen. It just wouldn’t be helpful for anyone for Gracie to see her birthmom when she is strung out. So we pray. For healing. For sobriety. For redemption in the land of the living.

Dropping Soda and picking up Latin...

noreply@blogger.com (Elizabeth Phillips) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 19:31:00 +0000

So I really dropped the ball this Lenten season. I sort of forgot about it until yesterday, when at lunch, a friend asked me if I was giving something up for Lent. I asked her why and we discussed our own motivations for “fasting” from something—be it a food, beverage, or routine. We both agreed that food could be tricky. Because giving up something for Lent is not about dieting for Jesus. But food IS tangible. We hunger. A lot. And that hunger can point us to our deepest hunger—union with Christ. And all too often we settle for so much less than God’s grace. We settle for the comfort of a Hershey’s kiss, a glass of wine, an additional friend on Facebook, or a Downton Abbey marathon. The objects of my affection are not in and of themselves bad for me, but my dependence upon them is a pathway to death. If I give my heart to created things, there will be nothing left to give to my Creator.

And typically during Lent, I’ve been more successful when I’ve committed to doing something rather than foregoing something. Our first year of marriage, Sloan and I committed to praying together every day during Lent. And it became a habit. But a Lenten fast isn’t about quitting bad habits or success—it is about being drawn into the heart of Jesus. So something that perhaps sets me up for loads of repentance is just the thing.

So in my usual fashion, this year I will be giving up something: SODA and committing to something: Daily Lectio Divina. (Full disclosure, as I type this I am drinking a Diet Dr. Pepper. I didn’t select this until today, and I like it because it will force me to be more intentional and really is just an inconvenience but one born of habit, ease, and comfort. And my own comfort is a pretty big idol in my life. If I could constantly wear flannel and elastic waist pants, I would. Giving up soda will be uncomfortable for me. Obviously. So I’m having my Fat Tuesday soda today. Deal with it, people, I’m not a Pharisee.)

Lectio Divina is an ancient monastic approach to the reading of Scripture. I studied it in Seminary and its odd form and counter-productive approach to union with Christ struck me to my core. Lectio Divina isn’t about reading scripture for comprehension. It isn’t even about learning, per se. It is about entering into the very heart of God and resting there. Its four components—lectio (reading/listening), meditatio (meditation), oratio (prayer), and contemplio (contemplation) are free formed. So it is a bit awkward at first. There are no questions to answer, sentences to write, word studies to complete, or pronouns to circle in a text. There are simply words and phrases to repeat, listen to, say aloud, write down, an respond to.

I have chosen this because what I desperately crave is Sabbath. At our church we sing a hymn with the words “Jesus, I am resting, resting in the joy of what thou art.” I don’t even know what those words mean anymore. I don’t know what that would look like. I’m struggling to have patience with the Lord in our adoption, which is spiraling into a short fuse and impatience with my children.

I crave to rest in God’s lap “like a weaned child in its mother’s arms.” (Psalm 131:2) I will be coming alongside others in my church using my church’s Lenten Blog and guide. With scripture, accompanying paintings and songs, I will be attempting Sabbath. Perhaps for the very first time in my life.

I’m kind of afraid. Which is a perfect way to approach Lent.