the barn dance and grace

before i had even climbed out of my car, i could hear the music of their young voices.

as i came closer to the barn, there was no doubt a party was just inside.

light spilled from a couple of small windows up high.

laughter spilled from every weathered, white board.

life.

this old barn held a hundred or so teens for a school dance. a little bit of country. a little bit of crazy. plaid shirts and cowboy boots and kids with a whole lot of foot stompin joy -- square dancing inside on the second floor.

i stopped to photograph the barn before going in ...before realizing i also had tears spilling unexpectedly. 

all this life contained. this wonderful, beautiful life ... just inside.

i was only a mama sneaking in to snatch a few pictures of my teens. they gave me permission. "sure mom, you can stop by and take some pictures." they didn't mind me showing up for a few minutes ... as long as i didn't overstay my welcome. i know the boundaries.

but i could hardly walk through those doors with dripping nose and weepy eyes. that would be a whole different story, right?

so, why the tears?

i could have blamed it on the cold, october wind -- this is minnesota after all. but if i'm honest, it was just that kind of day. a day full of unexpected emotion. so much had crossed my path in the past 12 hours -- from the very beautiful to the very hard.

so much to rejoice in. these kids inside this barn dancing --- whooping and hollering in the unfettered delight of good fun.

and my 16 year old son, tyler, who had passed his driver's test only a few hours earlier. a milestone. another opportunity to rejoice. something basic, but big. this boy who is so careful to do everything correctly in the car right now. i sat next to him and we drove home with that piece of paper tucked away in his wallet. the pride spilling and untucked. my son, who, as a toddler, always wanted me to hold him ... now driving me home. checking his mirrors. signaling his turns.

it wasn't just his milestone -- but felt a bit like mine, as well.

you know the joy of watching a child achieve -- a first step. a small trophy. a big fish. a home run. a driver's license.

this stuff. these barn dances and these milestones. homework at the kitchen table and pizza delivered for dinner and a tiny girl in her pink ballet leotard spinning and the dog barking and the washing machine swishing and orange leaves falling ... all of it good. ordinary. beautiful. gifts.

if i let myself stand outside and take it in from a distance, it does cause my heart to skip, to swell, to beat -- to gasp in gratitude. to give thanks. and sometimes, yes, to weep.

especially on a day like this where i had the opportunity to hear about harder lives. hard living.

earlier -- before the barn dance and the license appointment and the ballet class and the pizza delivery -- i attended a women's luncheon and heard stories of other teens. teens who have different kinds of lives. teens who don't have a whole lot of foot stompin joy. kids who might not have a mom or dad to encourage them on a test. kids who maybe haven't ever had the pride of a milestone met.

this luncheon was in support of the ministry, treehouse, which is dedicated to caring for at risk kids. kids who don't have much of a home or even much hope. treehouse cares for kids who have nowhere to turn.

the kids at treehouse come from abuse or neglect or all types of bad stuff. kids who turn to drugs, sex, violence. kids who never had a chance to be kids.

and i'm outside this barn on a cold, minnesota night overwhelmed with the mixing of country music and easy laughter. because standing there listening i am still hearing the video that played at today's luncheon. i'm thinking about the faces and the stories of kids who don't know what it feels like to dance with their friends in a warm, white barn on a thursday night in october.

and my heart breaks.

my heart breaks for the kids we pass every day of our lives. dozens. hundreds. kids who are broken and hurting. lonely and lost. kids who are cutting. drinking. running. kids who believe they have nothing to give. kids who are one step away from giving up altogether.

kids who are hurting themselves or hurting others.

kids who are just hurting.

this morning, tyler woke up with the anticipation of his driver's license.
this morning, one of tyler's classmates lost her mom to cancer.

tonight there was a barn dance.

and what played in my mind standing outside that barn was this:
      ---------- not everyone dances.

 not everyone in our world dances. and that's where those tears came from.

this sweet, 10th grade girl whose mama is now gone. she's not dancing tonight.

these desperate kids who have suffered all types of hurt. they aren't dancing tonight.

sometimes in our whooping and hollering we forget that not everyone's attending the dance.

tomorrow, the entire high school will go out and work in different service projects across the city of minneapolis. they will rub shoulders and shake hands with broken people. people who don't dance.

it will be amazing. the students will come back with stories. they will come back zealous and on fire to help others ... to reach out ... to do good ... to make a difference.

but first they (we) (i) must remember: not everyone dances.

there's so much pain in this world. i don't get it. i don't understand why my two teens get to be inside that barn dancing tonight and why other teens are on the outside hurting. i don't get that. i don't know how to make sense of it all.

but i do want to remember that when i get a glimpse of this goodness ... it can never be taken for granted. it's nothing i deserve. nothing i've earned. nothing i was owed.

it's grace.

the fact that my kids can dance or drive or anything ... is grace.  all grace. only grace.

this sweet girl who lost her mom to cancer today. that could have been us. when i got my cancer diagnosis a couple of years ago ... we didn't know. why was i given the chance to sneak into a barn and photograph my kids dancing tonight?  why was this woman taken from her family today?

why are some teens dancing and other teens desperate?

these aren't questions i can answer quickly ... but i still think they need to be asked. even when the answers aren't easy.

even if the tears are awkward and untimely ... we need them.

we need to remember not everyone's in the barn. not everyone's laughing along with us. it's easy to forget that sometimes, isn't it? in fact, we don't always want to think about it. it's much nicer to pretend we're all having a good time. i get it. i'm like that too.

and then God breaks my heart and reminds me.

standing outside a white barn in minnesota,  He makes me remember.

all is grace.

only grace.

grace.

“and from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.  ~ john 1:16

don't get mad, get even {grace words wednesday}

don't get mad, get even. 
okay, so it's not {exactly} biblical.
but i like it.
and, on occasion, it works.

like last week when i removed all the light bulbs from my teenage daughter's bedroom and bathroom. nine of them. taken. gone. hidden away.

total darkness.

i hadn't been plotting this cold-blooded act of parenting. there was no plan. no premeditation. in fact, it was kind of a light-bulb moment when the idea first turned on in my brain.

after being gone most of the day, i had grabbed a stack of laundry and carried it down the hall to her room. and there, no less than six hours, from her morning exit, i found at least seven of her lights beaming brightly. the afternoon sun streaming through the windows mixed with the blaze of bedside lamps was, for a moment, almost blinding.

and in this brilliant flash, i saw red ... and then i saw the cha-ching-cha-ching of dollar signs.

just this past week the electric bill had arrived.

it wasn't pretty ... and i was pretty done.

her dad and i have repeatedly asked her to turn off the lights before leaving for school each morning ... and for some reason, this request hasn't sunk in.

she's a bright girl. gets good grades. varsity athlete. tall. seems socially savvy enough. but there's been this disconnect with her light switch for a long, long time.

of course i had to share this moment on
facebook.  =) i love all the "likes"...
most of them from parents who get it! 

often i feel as if i just repeat myself.

over and over and over. again.

flip the switch on and off ... on and off ... on and off.

perhaps you know this cycle of which i speak.

if you're a parent, i'm sure you do!

we nag and needle and remind. we ask and plead and push. we jump on that merry go
round of parenting which spins us round and round with our easy expectations and simple requests ... and then hurls us off into a mud puddle of failure and frustration when our kids seem to ignore our wishes.

i am not the first parent to ride this wheel of bewilderment, and i'm sure i won't be the last. but still ... we get to a point when we feel like we either have to do something drastic or blow our cool. i've gone the blowing-my-cool route before, too .... not especially pretty.

so, standing in her room with an armful of clean clothes, i decided instead of getting really, really angry ... i'd get really, really resourceful.

instead of getting mad, i'd get even.

last year my friend, paige, told me that was her husband's motto in parenting. "don't get mad, get even." (you need to know that paige and hank have 6 kids. by the way, i always get the best ideas from big families -- i think it's quite often a matter of survival). hank's simple motto stuck with me.  i've thought of it several times since our talk last december.

... son leaves his new tennis shoes outside in the rain. they get wet -- he must wear them.

... another son fails to bring his soccer jersey to the laundry room in a timely manner -- he gets to wear a dirty, smelly jersey at his next game.

... daughter forgets her homework back at school -- she gets a poor grade and misses her recess.

it's called natural consequences. and they're good for our kids.

in fact, i think they're great for our kids. way better than mom or dad running around ranting and raving about light switches and wet shoes, right?

but these examples above, let's be honest, they are rather insignificant, right? kind of small potatoes really. i'm not sure my boys even care if their shoes are wet or if their soccer jersey stinks to high heaven.

there are other, larger kinds of consequences to poor choices or bad decisions though.

last week in our prayer challenge one of the words was righteousness. and i have to tell you, it's one of those big, hairy, ugly, even kind of uncomfortable words. none of us are righteous on our own, and yet we are told multiple times in God's Word to "practice righteousness," to "live rightly" or to "make right choices."

we can't earn our righteousness, just like we can't earn our redemption or salvation.

but, that doesn't mean we don't have choices. we do! and with those choices there will come reward or their will come wrath.

uh-huh, i said it. i did. i used the wrath word.

if you're like most people, you want to talk a lot about the reward, but not so much about that wrath thing -- reminds me of five kids i know. it's no surprise how we can verbally belabor a good grade or a great serve or blue ribbon ... but when we need to address an unfortunate action or a  mistake or a bad choice or just some plain, old sin all of a sudden the room empties out.

it's how we're wired. i'm not saying i'm surprised. i get it. i, too, love the crowns and compliments and kudos. i much prefer those things to consequences and condemnation.

who doesn't?

but here's the deal, sweet friends, psalm 7:11 clearly tells us, "God is a righteous judge." and, like it or not, the last time i checked, a judge deals with both -- sweet reward and dire consequences.

"and now the prize awaits me--the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will give me on the day of his return." ~ 2 timothy 4:8 

"for the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth." romans 1:18

there will be a day of judgment. God will return and He will judge us according to our lives. we will have to give an account. crowns of righteousness will be rewarded, just as the wrath of God will be revealed. this is not my opinion, this is what God's Word says. it's a big deal, friends. i know it's not a nice, warm, wednesday morning, feel good kind of discussion, but sometimes we just need to put away the fluff and the feel good stuff. we need to stop making excuses. we need to be reminded that what we do does matter.

i stole my daughter's light bulbs to get her attention. (and i'm really hoping it worked).

is God trying to get your attention? our attention? my attention?

has He taken something away or maybe even made things a bit dark? is there a chance that He is trying to make a point in your life?

thankfully, God's motto isn't: "don't get mad, get even." if it was, we'd all be in a boat load of trouble! i can't begin to imagine what that would look like in my life.

but God is Just and He is Holy and He does demand our attention and obedience.

what message is He sending your way today?

i could leave this right here. and it would be probably be enough to ponder for a while. but, i want to go back to that courtroom scene i mentioned earlier ----

God is the judge.

and we -- all of us -- sit in the hot seat clutching our collection of dirty deeds and dark secrets.

we deserve wrath.

deep inside, we know it.

and, what's more, we know we haven't got a case.

it's desperate. hopeless. a surely condemned situation.

but then Jesus enters.

He sweeps into the courtroom, coming right for us, and asks, "will you let me sit in your place?"

we have a choice -- yes or no.

if we stay in our seat, we suffer God's judgment.

but ... if we say yes to Jesus and surrender our seat to Him. He takes our place. He takes our sin. He takes God's wrath ... and He leaves it -- all of it -- nailed to the cross.

He, the one who knew no sin, covers our unholy, awful, ugliness with His beautiful, beautiful righteousness.

what we could not do for ourselves, He does for us.

and that's grace.

beautiful, undeserved, freely given ... grace.

a crown of righteousness or the wrath of God? which do you choose?

{grace words:
righteousness * grace * light * crowns}

Jesus -- it is in your mercy that you grab hold of us. it is in compassion that you demand our attention. when we are making choices which lead to dire consequences and even death, you are not silent --- sometimes, you even shake us up a bit. Lord, shake us free from our sinful ways. remove what you must to grab hold of our hearts. it's a scary thing to pray ... but we want to be all ours. we desire crowns of righteousness which come with surrendering to your Spirit. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

if you desire to go deeper on this topic, i'd encourage you to read through romans 8. i've included a piece of it here below.

There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. 2 For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death. 3 For God has done what the law, weakened by the flesh, could not do. By sending his own Son in the likeness of sinful flesh and for sin, he condemned sin in the flesh, 4 in order that the righteous requirement of the law might be fulfilled in us, who walk not according to the flesh but according to the Spirit. 5 For those who live according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the Spirit. 6 For to set the mind on the flesh is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace. 7 For the mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God, for it does not submit to God's law; indeed, it cannot. 8 Those who are in the flesh cannot please God.
9 You, however, are not in the flesh but in the Spirit, if in fact the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him. 10 But if Christ is in you, although the body is dead because of sin, the Spirit is life because of righteousness. 11 If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through his Spirit who dwells in you.
12 So then, brothers, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live according to the flesh. 13 For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live.   ~ romans 8

don't forget to head over to BECKY CRENSHAW at THE WORD OF GOD AND A CUP OF JOE for her sweet grace words this morning! she's writing about a rendered heart ... 

every birthday grace

another birthday has come and gone.  it was not  supposed to be a momentous one, nor a milestone.  i imagine anything past 40 is, at best, only tolerable.  i certainly wasn't giddy like when turning 13 or 16 or 21.  i don't feel like i did at 30.  not even like i did at 40.  i'm not sure exactly what 43 is supposed to feel like.  43 just seems to be 43.  not much to talk about,  except that i think this year it is different. i think, from this year forward,  any and every birthday must count more.   i am just not sure i can ever again take one for granted.  i am not sure i can only tolerate the coming and going of this day.  not after my past year.  this year, i have to believe, has taught me to treasure things.  to treasure each birthday -- to treasure each day.  i'll be honest,  that doesn't always happen -- not even with cancer under my belt.  i still live life some days forgetting it is a gift.  forgetting to give thanks.  forgetting to marvel at the miracle of mere breathing.  like an old testament israelite, i am.  always forgetting. always forgetful. too often flippant and frivolous and foolish.


a year ago i turned 42, and i'm fairly certain at some point on that november day in 2010 i did a little wondering.  i wondered what the year ahead might bring.  i am kind of like that.  i don't mean i had deep, deep dramatic contemplation --  just simple, casual considering - wondering.  i can tell you this, i would never have guessed cancer.  there wasn't any room for it in our home, no room for it on the calendar.  but in my 42nd year, it arrived just the same.  ready or not here i come, it cackled in my ear.  i found out immediately that 42 was pretty young in the cancer arena.  my age wasn't a plus factor. it wasn't something to brag about.  the younger a person is when getting this ugly awfulness, the more agressive it tends to be -- the more serious the situation.  not that we are any more prepared for cancer after our 65th birthday, but it seems at least a little more in line with the body's natural decline.  but at 42 there is a whole lot of life ahead..a few extra decades of good health needed.  at 42 it seemed appalling.  at 42 i still had a bunch of kids at my breakfast table every morning.  not one of them ready to head out on their own.  not one of them close to independence.  i mean, sure most of them are able to handle their own homework assignments and lunch box packing and bed making.  they can find their own shoes and socks and toothbrushes -- even bella!  i've always kind of prided myself on raising capable kids.  even though i am a stay-at-home mom, i am careful not to cater.  but the bottom line was~is, they needed me.  they need me.  they need me to keep having birthdays.


i sit in the oncologist office every few months now, and notice how young i am.  i guess i should probably try to turn that into something good -- glory in it a bit. let my ego be fed by being the most spry...wearing the cutest shoes...having the longest hair...dialing the coolest phone.  but so far that hasn't exactly worked.  when i walk through the cancer building and into the oncologist office it feels like a place of the old, the sick, the disappearing.  it is contemporary in design: lots of glass and chrome and great lighting.  big windows.  everything clean and pleasing and sharp.  but i haven't walked through its great lobby without sensing decay.  there is a certain hush to its hallways. is this too morbid to write?  perhaps. but it's true.


in those first weeks of my diagnosis, i had some pretty fearful thoughts about my future...about the birthdays i'd see...or miss.  initially, i didn't know much about my prognosis.  all i knew is i was seriously scared.  i'd wake in the middle of the night begging God to make my body healthy again.  begging Him to allow me to continue as wife and mother and me. healthy and whole.  i promised all kinds of things --even crazy things-- if He'd guarantee that i'd someday see my children graduate from college and get married and have babies and be happy.


one afternoon early in the diagnosis, a few friends gathered together to pray.  one of those friends was beverly.  beverly was diagnosed with breast cancer the month before me.  here we were two women, both with breast cancer, surrounded by a group of friends in the family room of bev's home..all of us on our knees before our God. praying. pleading. petitioning.  when it came beverly's time to pray, she literally choked out her words.  "Lord, let jody and i be around to see and know our grandchildren....to hold them."  i hadn't ever thought much about my grandchildren before this.  (let's be clear, i am in absolutely no rush).  but the words of her prayer seared themselves into the tender places of my heart.  yes, that is exactly what i wanted.  to grow old. to grow grey.  to hold the children of my children.  the blessing of it all seemed suddenly so enormous and wonderful and precious. incredibly precious.   i didn't want to be thinner or faster or richer...i just wanted to be around to (someday) hold my grand babies.    there was no guarantee.  there never is.  cancer or no cancer,  not one of us knows what the future holds.  not one of us truly knows if we'll be around for the party or pain or plans of the future.   "we are all terminal, just some of us happen to know it."  i don't know who actually said that, but a friend shared it with me not too long ago.  i had to laugh.  it is true.  like it or not, it is truth.


"show me, o Lord, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.  You have made my days a mere handbreath; the span of my years is nothing before you. each man's life is but a breath."   (psalm 39:4-5).  


really?  do we truly want to know "how fleeting is my life?"  i have always wondered about that verse.  i would have told you, "no!"  no, i don't want to know how fleeting.  i kind of liked my numb, busy, hustle and bustle.  i was really comfortable in my kind bubble of happily ever after.  i didn't think much about it -- that is before cancer.   but in this psalm, david doesn't just stumble across the information, he asks God for it.  he asks God to tell him how fleeting is his life.  is it possible david knows if he got it...if we get it...it might actually mean something.  if we truly, truly know our days are a mere handbreath  might we make something of them.  make them count.  now.  today.  would we live this day different if we knew tomorrow might not be ours?  would we be kinder, slower, softer?  would we hold more and harp less.  would we give more and grumble less?  might we sit longer, sing louder, love harder? might we?


a few weeks ago my friend, kelly, asked if she could plan a birthday luncheon for me.  her words were, "we have so much to celebrate this year."  she sent an invitation and gathered some girlfriends together and we met today at a place called grace.  my favorite place.  and we celebrated another year.  some might look at my last six months and ask how i could possibly celebrate all of that awfulness.  i would tell them,  i have more to celebrate today, more than ever before.  walking through these past painful months has shown me, in abundance, how much there is to celebrate.  so many of these women sitting around the table today have had their own challenges this year.  a couple of us have battled cancer, some of us have battled kids, anxiety, depression, fear, finances, failures...that is only the short list. but at the end of it all is grace.  grace to face another day.  grace to get another birthday. grace.   there's this old hymn which i sang as a young girl and still sing as an aging woman.  it means so much more now.

grace, grace, God’s grace,

                                       grace that will pardon and cleanse within;

grace, grace, God’s grace

 grace that is greater than all our sin.

                      ~ grace that is greater than sin

pictures from our lunch today.  do you see the window behind the table?  
where true grace is truly found...for all of us.

grace

dearest bella grace ~


grace.  i'm so pleased we added that name.  of all things we call you, grace is most perfect.  each and every day our girl of grace. our girl of beauty.  bella grace.  beautiful grace.


one year ago tonight, i lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, in a land faraway.  the next morning we would meet you. i wondered what this long, awaited day might bring.  you, of course, and that seemed everything. but what else? what else might it unveil?  we had planned and pursued and pondered for a full year.  it seemed impossible to be on the cusp of such a moment.  under blankets deep with anticipation, i lay.  incredible thrill.  stirred grace.


but i stared at that ceiling with a hint of fear and uncertainty.  the sly what ifs began to whisper along the tired hallways of my head.  subtle doubt began to creep in close and tight.  what if something went wrong?  what if something was wrong?  what if you turned away?  what if you were afraid?  what if... wondering grace.


i fell asleep that night in china praying.  praying and praying and praying.  i prayed for you.  i was  worried about your confusion and your fear.   had anyone prepared you?  would you have even the smallest understanding as you shifted from arms of orphanage to arms of family.  i prayed for grace.  Lord, shower this tiny girl with great grace. allow her to know no fear, only a sense of being finally found.  found grace.


but even lying there, on the other side of the world, with my swirling thoughts, i was certain.  certain God had ordained every step of our journey.  certain God had orchestrated every detail of your adoption.  certain He had written your days...my days...our days together...in His book.  lovingly recorded, before even one of them came to be.  including tomorrow.   tomorrow grace.


our first night with you was washed in the wonder of new child things.  we sat captivated by the joy and delight of everything.  bath and story and song and bed.  we held you to us and whispered, over and over, our love.  you fell asleep in your daddy's arms that first night. whispered grace.


a mere one year ago.  tonight you sleep in a room down the hall.  i listened to you climb up the backstairs just minutes ago.  as you came, i heard your soft "good nights," to brothers and sisters - like you've been bidding them "good night" forever.  it sure seems so. natural and normal and every evening.   good night grace.


i heard you in your room brushing teeth and slipping into pajamas and giggling about something silly with daddy.  like you've been doing these nighttime things forever.   i heard a story read and a prayer prayed and a kiss given.  and i came and joined you both.  all cuddling on your bed.  all marveling at the moment. all remembering this past year.  and i sang you your goodnight song, amazing grace.


how could we have known a year ago what we'd feel tonight?  it is too big.  too vast.  too deep. we are overwhelmed with our love for you, our bella-girl.  overwhelmed with God's goodness. His faithfulness. His glory.  His gifts.  abundant grace.


soundly sleeping, i check on you.   like i do,  every single night for the sheer pleasure.  not for worry, but for the wonder.  to see our girl asleep and quiet and home.  picture of peace.  a corner nightlight casting soft shadows.  still, steady, soundless.  wordless, i watch for a moment more.  mother and child and God.  because in this quiet place, i know of His presence.  silent grace.

and so tonight, i lie in bed staring up at a ceiling,  again.  home one year.  here.  you sleep softly just rooms away.  and prayers are whispered deep with thanksgiving. hands and heart are full with sweetness dripping.  moment is caught and remembered.  treasured.  and all of it... God's grace.    


love,  mom

reality check in the kitchen

this morning i had a reality check. 

it was the kids' first day back to school and it was that blessed time for all school age children: morning.  

kids, husband and woman were all scrambling around the kitchen....getting breakfast, packing lunchboxes, checking backpacks, arguing over socks, feeding animals -- yes, a typcial, blissful morning in the mcnatt home. 

as i stood there hovering over the assembly line of turkey and cheese sandwiches...i froze with the thought, "where in the world would an 18 month old child from china fit into all of this?" i pictured myself, for a moment, with a toddler on my hip in the midst of our morning mess. i wish i would have kept my panic to myself. instead, however, i voiced it out loud to rick. it was like that tube of toothpaste illustration. once it's out, it's out.  there's no taking it back. he looked at me, i looked at him.  he looked at me, again. 

umm....yeah, we could only imagine. 


okay. alright. i get it. that was a scary, but necessary, step in our process. i know for certain God gave me that image to keep my idealism in check, my head out of the clouds and my feet planted firmly on my (dirty) kitchen floor. just in case i was getting too far ahead with the "idea" of adopting, He, in His perfect timing, brought me face to face with what the "reality" of adopting just might look like. i don't necessarily want to see it like that. i'd prefer to doodle her name in my journal and imagine her hand in rick's hand...i want to wander through the toddler section at baby gap and pick out a pair of mary jane shoes for her tiny feet. BUT, the reality is we will most often have a chaotic kitchen, a hurried morning, a frantic exit... and in this mess, we will have a toddler. a little sister. a daughter. a child for whom we will never be enough. we will not be calm enough, capable enough or prepared enough. THAT is why we depend on Him. He is more than enough. "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (~ 2 Corinthians 12:9) in the confusion of my morning madness i hear my Father's voice assuring me of His presence even in all this. especially in all this. 

and then i see her on my hip.