seriously check out his shirt. It was so juice covered that it was unsalvageable

The kids and I were out picking strawberries at one of West Michigan’s most popular U-Pick spots, DeLanges Redberry Farm.  The strawberry picking was fabulous and the kids and I enjoyed time with family as we ate berries straight from the field and quickly filled our box with 14 pounds of sun ripened sweetness.

They brought me their best finds and ran up and down the rows, all while staying close by and declaring: “I love berry picking day!”

When we’d filled our box with bright red berries, we grabbed a green wagon and headed to the shed to pay.

As I pulled the wagon through the grass I surveyed my children, they were giddy and sticky beyond belief.  Caedmon was nearly dyed pink from berry juice and as I approached the shed I wondered if his clothes were salvageable.  What a way to go… a t-shirt lost to a morning of sunshine and berry juice.

As I paid for our haul, and asked the farm worker about pectin while the kids ran around, engaging fellow pickers in line.

Just as I was finishing up, I noticed that the kids were getting into the flags that were used to mark the rows which had already been picked.

“Guys!  Put those back and leave them alone!” I called out as I walked toward them.

Noelle started to obey, but Caedmon grabbed two flags and started running away from me in defiance.  (Defiance is his thing lately, he’s two)

I chased them down and made them help me put all the flags back, or at least I tried.  Honestly, I was tired and ready to get back to the car and a tall bottle of water.

As we headed to the car, a middle aged man approached me.

I was trying to keep the kids close, my hands full of berries while when he spoke up:

He shook his head at me as he told me: “You know, your kids are misbehaved.  Very misbehaved.”  

I was shocked.  I said the only thing I could think of which was a confused and sarcastic: “Thank you.”

My shock quickly turned to a line of painful questioning:  Do I have poorly behaved children?  Was their excitement over flags the result of bad parenting or just a normal kid reaction?

I had no idea as I was standing in line paying for strawberries that someone was using that three minute window to evaluate my parenting, and find me lacking.

I loaded the kids into the car and drove them home in tears. I knew that I shouldn’t let the words of a random stranger impact me in the slightest but they played upon my biggest fears.

Am I doing this parenting thing poorly?  Not striking the right balance between discipline and grace?  Will they fail at life because of the start we’re giving them?

I called my Aunt who had been with us at the farm and asked her if we had really made that poor a showing at the berry patch.

She assured me that my kids were sweet and that I was fine, yet still it took the better part of the afternoon to get over the unsolicited words of that random a-hole.  (lets call it like we see it, eh?)

He had no place to judge me, lacked the necessary data to pronounce judgment on my parenting.  One can’t take a three minute window of children’s behavior and use it to pronounce parenting failure.

Snap judgement sucks, but the more I thought about it the more I wondered, how often do I do this?  Do I take chance encounters and turn them into opportunities to judge and brand random strangers?

Of course I have enough tact to keep it to myself, but that doesn’t excuse the my inner bad behavior.

Don’t we all see each other out and about and think that we know so much more than we really do?

Don’t we paint big pictures of each other in our minds based on a square inch of information?

I’ll be honest, I do.  I judge people, in my mind, all the time.  Constantly really.

Gag… I’m sick of it, I hate it, I want to weed out judgement and replant grace.  Fields of sun-ripened grace all juicy and sweet.

Perhaps the best way to identify my own nasty thoughts is to to find myself brutally and unfairly judged.

It’s like a bucket of cold water you don’t want to pour on anyone else.  This awful incident is cause me to blossom into a more graceful stranger myself.   So I suppose… thank you random jerk.  I guess.

Have you ever been completely and unfairly judged by someone who knew nothing of your life?

Do you struggle with judgmental thoughts as well?  What is helping you implement grace?

He regularly walks up to his sister and smacks her on the head with a smile and he often grins at me while he runs toward the road, I running toward him on the wet grass screaming.

He’s also quite “type A” and so the wrong cup, fork, shirt or seatbelt routine can set him off and result in two minutes of screaming and a trip to time out.

Over. A. Fork… for the love.

All that is difficult to bear but what really causes my momma heart to ache is the pulling away that goes along with this independent streak.  He wants nothing to do with me.

Every request for a kiss or hug is met with an emphatic “no way momma!  no way!”

If I pick him up to kiss his face he wiggles and whines: “get me down!  No!”

When we go out and attempt to walk holding hands he refuses right out. He will just sit down in protest until I drag him away by both arms out of pure desperation.

When I buckle him into the shopping cart he screams for a solid three minutes because he wants to sit in the “big basket” so he can “eat all the foods.”  Which is exactly what he would do given the choice.

I’m sure so much of this comes along with the typical “quest for autonomy” that every two year old embarks on, but for me?  It feel like I’ve already lost him forever.  The snuggly sweetness is almost gone and I wonder if it will ever return or if I’ve already lost him to the “all grown up” place.

A few days back we had a particularly rough day with him, complete with defiance, dragging and tantrums.  To get through the insanity I picked up an afternoon iced coffee.

This was a mistake.

By the time we got everyone cleaned off and tucked in, my body was exhausted but my mind was buzzing, wide awake.

Hours after everyone had drifted off I sat at my keyboard, writing and crying, because life just seemed hard and you guys?  I was really tired and really low on little boy snuggles.

So I did the only logical thing I could think to do at 12:15 AM, I snuck into his room and sat next to his bed, rubbing his back through the slats in his crib.

The cat followed me in and began to sing his obnoxious song and woke up my “not so baby” boy.

I can’t say that I was sad about this.

We moved over to the rocking chair and I held him close to me for the first time in what felt like years.

I cried into his little shoulder as he wiggled on my chest, trying to get sleepy comfortable.

Then, from somewhere completely other a voice blew through my mind

“Yes, I do love you this much.”

In that moment, God showed up to answer a question that my heart had been asking in a deep and wordless place.

Because, you see, lately there’s been this rift in my walk with God and I struggled to truly don’t believe he has the time for “us.”  I find it hard to imagine that the God of the universe wants my time, that he could get anything out of my small, weak presence.

I believe that he is a loving
I believe he provides and sustains
I believe that he is for me (for the most part)

But I honestly can’t get to a place where I believe that he’s all that into me.

That he truly desires my company.

I want to believe it, because it seems lovely and peaceful, but in my brain God is a workaholic father with better things to do than meet with me for a cup of coffee while I spill out the junk right down to the cobweb corners of my mind.

But in that rocking chair, I thought maybe… just maybe this is what we’re both aching for.  A tearful, late night closeness.

Maybe God does ache for me, as I do for this independent little man who thinks he smarter than me.

Maybe that’s exactly the nature of our relationship, I’m the one running away grinning and he’s the one chasing, intervening, ensuring that I don’t get hit by a car.

But if I could give up the game, grow into myself, see what is right in front of me… it would transform everything with a sonic boom of glorious … something.

Oh how I hope it will.

Happy Father’s Day love.

Since the day we read that positive pregnancy test you’ve been a more committed, loving and dedicated father than I could have ever dreamed up on my own.

You “go there.” You get your hands dirty, you’re all in.  Which is just as it should be, but far too often not how it actually is.

Before Noelle arrived we went to Babies R Us to shop for a “daddy diaper bag” because you wanted to be the sort of Dad who is prepared and comfortable taking his ruffly pink baby girl out on his own

And when she arrived?  You were smitten, and it was gorgeous beyond belief.

I still remember being overwhelmed by breastfeeding and laying on the love seat miserable while you googled and educated yourself about proper let down and promptly gave the breast pump a tune up.

And then, far sooner than either of us had planned we had another one on the way, a boy. We laughed and cried about it and when my mom died at the tail end of that pregnancy we knew somehow that this little boy would help bring the joy back.

And he did.

I remember no softer season in our lives than the brand new Caedmon days, stuck inside during a week long ice storm, reading, snuggling and reveling in the bliss of being the four of us.

You’re the center of this family and when we all start to fly off the handle, you rein us back in.  You’re our warm, calm safe place, the steadfast glue to my creative and crazy.

I’ve been playing with this post all week, trying to figure out just exactly how to say “Happy Father’s Day” to the man with whom I’ve had two kids, three cross country moves, 7 desks and a thousand crazy ideas.

 I figured it out last night when I walked out into the garage and saw you putting together your new grill in the dark.  You couldn’t get the lights working, fuse issues, so you were wearing Caedmon’s Car’s headlamp and singing along to Pandora as you carefully put together your new prize, bit by bit.

I couldn’t help but laugh and kiss you and make dirty, grill-related innuendos simply to make you smile.

I’m in love with you and this family we’ve been given.  I’m all joyful tears about the fact that you’re my partner for life.

You astound me. Wherever you find yourself, in the messy, broken, non-ideal stuff of daily life you survive and then you take it a step further… you make it better… you thrive.

And you bring others along with you.

So happy Father’s day to my love.

The guy who makes the best Gluten Free Chicken Parmesan.
The guy who’s been to the bike shop 3 times this week to get his daughter’s bike working. The master of the splash pad.
The maker of the popcorn
The assembler of new toys
The changer of batteries and diapers.
The reader of the directions
The fryer of the bacon
The pastor of our children’s hearts… and mine.
The always encourager
And the best man I know in real life.

The one I am daily flattered to be on the journey with.

Happy Father’s Day my love, my Kel. Now go grill the heck out of something… you’ve earned it.

Today we’ve been given a window seat to a story of unspeakable, miraculous redemption through the words of Lauri Coombs.  Lauri’s story is one of raw, real redemption, the sort that is brave and obedient beyond belief.  So please enjoy Lauri’s words and then encourage her warmly when you’re done, because we’re hosting beauty and we shall be beautiful hosts, eh? 

Close to thirteen years ago, I sat on top of a houseboat next to my dad watching the sun set behind the towering canyon walls of Lake Powell. Dad half-heartedly joked about how he was getting older, and I was sure to poke fun at his old age. I was twenty at the time, and my dad was only forty-six.

He was certainly not an old man by any standard.

We sat there for quite some time, talking and just enjoying one another’s company. Yet as we sat there, we had no idea the sun was not only setting for day, but it was about to set on our time together here on Earth as well.

Upon returning from an extended vacation a little more than a week later, I was stunned by what I was told. “Laurie, your dad was murdered last night,” I was told.

Truly, I have tried to come up with words to adequately convey what this terrible moment and the weeks and months that followed were like, but I’m not sure it’s possible. It was awful, to say the least.

After the funeral, I sat next to my boyfriend, now husband, Travis on the grass at a park, my mind reeling and attempting to make sense of my new reality with little success. Anthony, the man who murdered my dad, was a mere five miles away in a jail cell.

I thought of Anthony.

I thought of my dad.

It all felt so meaningless.

Inundated with confusion, grief, and anger, I softly began to speak. “They say that everything happens for a reason,” I said to Travis with my head down, playing with a blade of grass. “But how could there be a reason for this?”

I wasn’t looking for a response, and Travis didn’t have one.

Nothing made sense to me. I couldn’t wrap my mind around what had happened. My dad had been murdered.

He was gone.

At the time, I felt like no loss could compare to the one I just experienced. Yet, since then, I’ve learned that loss is something that is common to us all. Whether it’s the tragic loss of a parent, a spouse, a sibling, or your child; or it’s the loss of a job, your home, or perhaps even your identity––we all experience loss to one degree or another in our lifetime and none of it is easy to face.

The rhetorical question I asked Travis shortly after the death of my dad, is one we all find ourselves asking at some point. How could there be a reason for this?

The question is valid.

It’s okay to want to know that the losses we experience ultimately have purpose. No one wants to go through tragedy, trials, or loss for no reason.

When I lost my dad, it all felt like such a waste, and I wasn’t able to see how any good could come out of such a horrific tragedy. Yet, I have since been amazed by God and just how faithful He is to the promises He makes.

Romans 8:28 tells us, “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to His purpose.”

Rest assured. God will work ALL things for good for those who love Him.

Nine years after my dad’s death, I began corresponding with Anthony, the man who committed the murder. Jesus was calling me to not only forgive my enemy, but to love him as well.

Of course, I had no idea how to do this or what it looked liked like to “love my enemy.” But through much prayer, each step to be taken became clear as Anthony and I worked through the innumerable issues at hand and worked toward forgiveness.

All the while, I allowed God unhindered access to the pain and bitterness that had taken root so many years prior, and He was faithful to heal.

Throughout this two year process, I truly witnessed the impossible happen.

Both Anthony and I were transformed by the grace of God.

Anthony was brought to a place of complete, true repentance, and he was set on a new path bringing glory to Jesus in prison.

And I was set free. Freed from the pain and the bitterness rooted deep within my soul. Freed to truly live without sorrow. Without fear.

It was nothing less than a work of God. Jesus brought good out of evil, love out of hate, and peace out of despair.

So, I would like to encourage you today to seek God in your pain. Bring your wounds to the Healer and allow Him to turn your loss into your strength.

We serve a God who redeems our losses. He is faithful and wants to set you free.

 To read more about Laurie’s journey toward forgiveness, read Freedom Through Grace or {Redemption} “Your Testimony May Have Saved a Life!”

Laurie Coombs is a writer who encourages others to forgive others and to follow Jesus wherever He leads. She lives in Reno, Nevada with her husband, Travis. They have two little girls and are in the process of adopting from Ethiopia. Be sure to visit LaurieCoombs.org and connect with her on Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

The sort when you want to tell total strangers that in light of your current circumstances you are terribly clever and intelligent.

The sort you want to tell a friend about, because it’s hilarious so long as you’re not in the middle of it.  So let’s have a coffee date shall we, and I’ll tell you about “that day I had.”

It will make you feel better about your life and I’m okay with this.  

The day started with a marriage spat, which set both Kel and I on edge.  He took the kids to the zoo and I headed off to the coffee shop to get some work done.

Afterwards I wanted to hit up Barnes and Noble to crack out on some new books.  But, I knew that browsing would turn to buying, which wasn’t in the budget.

But the library was free so I decided to head there.

But, wait. I didn’t yet have an area library card and to get one I would need a new, Michigan driver’s license. This would require a trip to one of the worst places in the world, the Secretary of State’s Office (DMV).

So, I returned home to get the proper documents to get a new license so I could get a new library card.

There was a line out the door but I decided to brave it, I was kid free and I needed to jump this annoying hurdle so life could go on.  So I waited in line to take a number.  When I got up to the desk the lady checked over my documents and promptly told me that I lacked “proof of presence.”

I almost sassed off and told her that I was present… and that was proof.  But I refrained.

But she smugly sent me back home for either my original birth certificate or a passport, because my current documentation was inadequate.

I want to give up… but I was going to finish this dang it so I drove home to get my birth certificate, grabbed a little lunch and headed back with steely resolve.

Halfway there I realized that in the act of getting lunch I’d left the bloody birth certificate on the counter at home.  I plopped my head on the steering wheel so loud that the horn made a short, angry honk.

I turned back around, AGAIN and walked back into the house AND grabbed my BC off the counter and drove back to the office…. again.

Walked in, took a number, waited… read my book.. waited… people watched… waited… and finally it was my turn! I walked up the the desk breathless… and I GOT. MY. NEW. LICENSE!

So, off to the library with me!  I giddily strolled the aisles and searched the catalogs, collecting books for our family.

my library haul

While I was there I signed the kids up for a summer reading program and told the Children’s library all about my friend Hannah’s upcoming children’s books.

I walked out of that library feeling like the queen of the world and toting many titles that I was sure would have been wait listed.

Just one more stop to make before I could head home and put my feet up on the couch with a book just before a planned stroll with a friend.

I breezed through the store collecting all the necessary ingredients for our enchilada dinner and even remembered a few things we were running low on.

Nothing was standing between me, a new book and a glorious evening.

I checked out and headed to the car, but wait… my keys…. where were they? CRAP!  I franticly searched through my bags, hoping that the keys would be there but alas, no.

I called Kel to tell him that I was going to stroll the store and try to find my keys.  He told me to keep him informed, but just as we hung up my phone died.  Double Crap.  I walked up to the service desk to see if anyone had found my keys, the service clerk told me that yes they had and placed them in my palm. Hooray!

Just one problem, they weren’t my keys.  (insert expletives galore)

I walked up and down every aisle, twice, and my keys were no where to be found.

So I went back out to my locked car and just stared at it.  Now Effing What? My only choice was to walk back inside, borrow their land line, call Kel and have him wake Caedmon from his nap to bring me a spare key.

Or sit on a bench and cry.

Just as I resolved myself to this, a stranger rolled down his window and asked if I was okay.

No, I wasn’t okay, I was having one of “those days” and nothing seemed to be working.

He offered his phone and his wife offered me a ride home.  They were in town with both kids in tow, on vacation from Up North.

I decided to go for it and I loaded my condensating groceries into the back of a stranger’s black Denali, thanking them profusely as I gave directions to our house.

They dropped me off and helped get my groceries to my front porch, God bless them.  Angels that family…

I had just changed clothes for my walk when my friend Rebecca arrived at our front door, along with her kids on bikes.

Noelle wanted to come along and ride her new bike so we got her ready and opened the garage to discover that her new bike had a very flat tire.

Of course it did.

So she sadly consented to just walk with us and as we left the driveway Kel called out, asking me if I had bought the enchilada sauce… you know… for the dinner he was making.

“Nope! I forgot!  Because it’s today and of course I did!”

So that’s my bad day, and my keys were locked in the car by the way.

What’s one of your worst day stories?  Everyone has em.  

So I dove in and never looked back.  And I went through a lot of hand soap just in case.

My cooking started small and simple, chicken breast with McCormick seasonings, steamed vegetables.

I remember the first time I made a big roast for my family.  I got up at 4 am to turn on the crockpot and sprinkle a packet of lipton french onion soup mix over top the meat.  Then I went back to sleep feeling like a low level super hero and woke up again at 9 to the smells of Sunday dinner on the way.

As I continued to cook, I gained skill and tried new things. Yet, somehow the only chicken I ever worked with was boneless, skinless chicken breast.  Thighs, legs and whole birds scared me to no end, I preferred the sanitary comfort of the pre-packaged breasts.

As if the breasts are the only part of a chicken?

Then, one evening, not too long ago, I shared a meal at my friend Jenni’s house and stood in awe as she pulled a whole, perfectly roasted, lemon pepper chicken out of the oven.  We were soon gathered around the tabled enjoying it with buttery chunks of roasted onion and mashed potatoes.

It was the best thing I’d ever eaten on a weeknight.  I was hooked, I had to learn to roast a chicken on my own to replicate the homey deliciousness I’d enjoyed at Jenni’s table.

So one night that next week I decided to go for it, whole bird anxiety aside I would conquer this personal, mountain.  That first bird must have been good because I’ve been in the business of roasting chickens ever since.

There is something honest about working with a whole bird.  When you’re massaging butter into bumpy skin and stuffing lemons and garlic into a cavity you can’t deny that this used to be a live neck bobbing, seed picking chicken.

It has dark meat and veiny, bloody, bony parts about it which don’t look anything like the sanitary packaged breasts you’re used to.

It’s a process, roasting a whole bird, it takes planning and thought. It can’t be tossed into the oven on a whim, but it must be prepped and roasted until the oven thermometer says it’s time to dig in.

And after you’ve sliced it apart and picked all the acceptable meat from the bones it you can boil it with onions, carrots and celery and come up with bountiful stock. As you pick through the colander after straining out the stock you can get your fingers dirty once again as you hunt for tender meat which can only be found by sifting through the bones of the bird.

There is nothing quite like taking a chicken full circle: from raw, to roasted, to stock and then picking out simmered morsels just before you toss the whole business in the trash bin.

The other day I was picking a chicken (like one does) and thinking about my people.  At some point in the bones and boiled onions it occurred to me that the sort of relationships I want to cultivate can be well summed up in the process of roasting a chicken.

I want to be involved with the whole of people, not just the sanitary parts that look attractive under cellophane.

Because life is made up of dark and white meat, the messy flaws and the laudable talents.

The depth of flavor of living is brought out in the boil and when we go through the heat and are married together like bones and broth.

I don’t want boneless skinless friendship, do you?  I want the dark pieces that are mottled with blood, I want to be there on funeral and new baby days, rejoicing and mourning.

I want people who love me in spite of my odd operating manual and I want to do the same in return.

I want to nourish my people, mind, body and soul with roasted chicken and real, bloody, beautiful living.

Last night my daughter snuck out of bed for the 17th time and begged to snuggle with me on the couch.  As we laid there, bed time long past, she began to chatter about love of all things:

“Momma I love you, and I always love hugging you.  And you know what mom?  People who love each other can make bad choice and still love each other because that’s what love is.  You just always love.” 

And then I cried and kissed every bit of her face because “from the mouths of babes” doesn’t even begin to describe the profound truth she’s found in four years of living.

You take your sanitary living, as for me, I will take the bones.

I’m a producer, not the hollywood kind with boatloads of money but the sort who hits the ground running and doesn’t stop until she’s half asleep but not yet in bed.

About a month ago I got a much needed massage and the therapist asked me about my relaxation techniques.  “What do you do to relax?” 

“Oh well every afternoon while the kids are resting I watch TV and crochet or catch up on blogs and writing.”

“Right but when do you still yourself and release your tension and just “be?”

“Uh… never, yeah my hands are constantly in motion all day long, I don’t know how to sit still.  I read sometimes.”

“But you’re still doing something?”

“Yeah, always… always doing something.”

I’m a goer, a doer, a producer.  I like to make and create with food, yarn, paint, fabric or words and I feel that a moment that passes without production is a moment wasted, squandered.

Yet lately I’m coming to realize (yes somehow it took me 31 years) that this rhythm of constant production is draining me on a deep, aching level.

I always plan for double duty; driving and making a phone call, sewing and catching up on TV, cooking and texting.  Even when I play with my kids I make plans to do something else simultaneously, which is crappy of me. I rarely feel like I’m fully where I am, rather always living some sort of half life here and there.

I need only turn to the first book of the bible to remind myself that I’m completely ignoring my operating manual.  The world was created with a rhythm of dark and light, work and rest, a time to produce and a time to stop production, to recharge that which has been drained in the busying and creating.

Even those who create must renew their resources, God did…. so where exactly do I think I’m getting off? Hmmm….

I know better, I’ve always known better, sabbath is a command that God takes pretty seriously but as a ministry family we do a terrible job at taking a non-Sunday day of rest.  Everything always seems like an opportunity to get ahead in life but these days I’m pretty sure that all of this “getting ahead” is putting us way behind, robbing us of depth and beauty and … peace probably.

I’m pretty sure it will make me twitch at first but sometime tomorrow I’m just going to sit on my deck and… nothing.  I’ll invariably start to imagine shapes in the clouds and hear at least two of my neighbors mowing their lawn but this stilling is going to take practice and I want to start in.

And I have a feeling that in the stillness, in the rustling of trees and the buzzing of the mowers… that God just might Show. Up.

We sat together on the curb, denim buns snuggled against each other on cold the cold concrete as we watched the parade go by.  As it passed we chatted about every detail that struck her four-year-old fancy from the white walls on an antique tractor to the rows of flutes and clarinets in the middle school marching band.

As she took in the parade with wonder I reflected on a parade we shared not so long ago, just this past Christmas in fact.  As my mind wandered my eyes filled up with grateful tears that trickled down my cheeks and screwed up the last minute mascara job I’d done in the rear-view mirror of our mini van.

Kel was working the night of that first parade so I found myself wrangling two preschoolers on my own.  Caedmon wouldn’t sit in the stroller and my hips ached for the weight of holding him.  Noelle was running, always evading my grasp. At one point we lost her for five minutes only to find her a half block away sitting with an unknown family.  I felt completely undone by my inability to keep my two children content and safe.

All my friend’s children were staying close by, content to gather candy and wait as Santa made his way down Main street.  But my daughter?  She was like a whirlwind I couldn’t control, a danger to herself and source heartache, anger frustration for me.

Just a few weeks earlier we’d received the diagnosis which simultaneously shed light on her behavior and broke my heart.  Just a few days before Thanksgiving, while the turkey was defrosting in the fridge, I found myself sitting across from our pediatric psychologist as she went over my 3 year old daughter’s test results.

She told me that Noelle’s inability to focus and her delay in fine motor skills, as well as the test results from us and her teachers indicated a solid ADHD diagnosis as well as some likely Sensory Processing Issues.

As our session came to a close we knelt together to pick up the toys that my daughter had scattered across the office floor and she attempted to reassure me:

“It’ll be okay, cut yourself some slack…. raising Noelle is more taxing and exhausting than raising a typical three year old.  Oh and don’t be too afraid to put her on medications someday, or even sooner.  I know you don’t want to, but it may make things so much easier.”

We drove home and I spent the next few weeks in a daze of heartache, grieving my daughters extra challenges and all the hurdles she’d need to jump over to succeed in life.  I was terrified to tell anyone for fear that they would start to view Noelle as a problem, that they would develop a prejudice and distain without getting to know her sweet heart.

At this point in the article you may think… come on Leanne it’s just ADHD, 1 out of every 10 kids have it.  It could be so, SO much worse.

And you’d be right, it could be so much worse, but you have to understand that an ADHD diagnosis ruled my life as a child. I was constantly seen as a problem, a challenge in the classroom.  My teacher’s distain for my behavior created a stigma with my peers and friendships were hard to come by.

I was convinced that the verse: “fearfully and wonderfully made” didn’t apply to me

I scratched myself out of family pictures with a thumb tack, convinced that I was the source of everyone’s problems.

I wound up in the hospital on suicide watch the summer after my Freshmen year, because to me death sounded better than another year at a high school where I was mocked and a total outcast.

So when our Doctor said ADHD….  I didn’t know what to do, how to deal, how to move on….

The last thing I want for my children is a lonely childhood where they feel like a problem or an outcast… a life spent wondering if they’re worth their skin…. if they’ll ever be good enough for the world they find themselves in.

And so while most parents would bounce back quickly from an ADHD diagnosis… I sank into fear and grief and that night at the parade felt like a prediction of our future, a life of controlling her impulses and resenting my friends for their “normal kids.”

But, after a few weeks my inner mama bear woke up and my wounds of grief turned into a steely resolve.  After all, if mercies are new every morning than surely Noelle’s future could be different than mine.

It was then that I started reading, google, asking, wondering and researching what was working for ADHD families and what wasn’t.

Just after Christmas we decided to try a gluten free diet to see if it would help Noelle’s hyperactive, impulsive behavior.  I was nowhere near ready to put my three year old on a psychostimulant, we weren’t done learning who she was and I didn’t want pills to forever change her development.

I’m not trying to evangelize you on GF diets for kids with different learning styles, but for us the gluten free approach has been a miracle.

At first I wasn’t sure if it was working, but then my friends, family and church workers began to come up to me and tell me that Noelle’s ability to engage her environment and pick up on social cues had done a complete 180.

“Whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
“She was always sweet, and we always loved her, but to see her sit and listen to the story and ask questions is amazing.”
“I wish more parents were this proactive.”

So to me these past six months have been a miracle where I find myself able to connect with and share life with my gorgeous, curly haired mini-me.

I’m not saying all of our problems are solved or that this is the only way to manage ADHD in kids.  I’m just telling you my story, my mother’s heart for my daughter and my little miracle through the story of two parades

Our drive up was blessedly uneventful and we were met at our new home by a dozen friends and family who helped us unload and unpack in a flurry of cardboard and bubble wrap.

Then we began the process of organization and settling in, which involved rotations of working on the house and leaving it to take in the pure Michigan awesome we now find ourselves in.

We bought a membership to the John Ball zoo and I created an epic playroom in the basement.

Kel did a stint on a construction crew and I went back to my former job at Century Driving school (one day a week.)

Noelle turned 4 and we filled our house, (twice!) with friends and family to celebrate four years of our beautiful Noers.

Then Kel accepted two (TWO!) jobs with the Michigan Methodist Conference and we planted some Kale and Zucchini in the side yard.

So…. yeah?  Wow.  Bring on the JUNE and with it hopefully some much needed routine and rhythm because I don’t think two of our May days were quite alike and to be honest I could use some same-ness.

Great Reads & Word Discoveries:  This has been a terrible month for reading.  From blogs to books I have been absolutely MIA and it’s been a struggle to even keep up with email and messaging.  There is too much to do all around me and I’m cracking out on nesting and cozying into our new digs.

But I pick my way through Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver.  This was my first novel by Kingsolver and I found it… okay.  I had to force my way through it and the endings were not shocking, I could have predicted them from the first page.  All that to be said I didn’t hate it so… there ya go.

On the TV Screen:

So we are nearly caught up on Dr Who and I have to say that I’m now a self proclaimed Whovian.  Not only that… but Matt Smith is “My Doctor” (Every Whovian has one) and I am now comfortable coming out of the closet with that confession.  I held a torch for David Tennant for so so long but Matt and I?  We “get” each other, I even love his chin… and that’s true love.

Also… we met Ted’s Wife on HIMYM, we met THE MOTHER!  How did we feel about this? Are we excited, disappointed?  As for me, I need to know more. But one evening Kel pointed out… Check out how much we already know.

Also over the last week I started Parenthood and I’m already both addicted and smitten.  The Asbergers diagnosis alone had my heart strings pulled to tear inducing tautness.

Favorite Bites:

This past weekend I attended the Renew and Refine Retreat for Writers (which was awesome and I absolutely recommend) and Jason Berg prepared the most fantastic fare you could imagine.  Every meal had a fresh farmer’s market feel to it and it re-centered my culinary aspirations.

Overall I am loving the start of summer food and the weekly trips to the farmers market.  I stopped at a farm stand this past week for some freshly snapped asparagus and rhubarb which I turned into the best rhubarb crisp I’ve ever had.

Oh and I made 10 lbs of potato salad and I even shared with you my (not) super secret recipe.  

Non Verbal Creativity (craft-crack): If I had to be honest with you, which I do, this is where most of my time has been going lately.  I’ve spent the month of may in serious nesting mode trying to get our new place to feel like home.  I’ve made valances, a play tent, curtains and some wall art.

I started painting a dresser for Noelle and I also learned how to make a granny square afghan.

I’m awash with half-completed projects and disorganized closets.  This is all to be expected, but that doesn’t mean that it’s my favorite.

Oh but look!  I made an orange floral skirt out of some sale fabric and one of Kel’s stained white T-shirts.  Total cost on this was under $10 and it has an elastic free yoga band at the waist which means it’s comfortable and fancy all at the same time.  #winning !

Miscellaneous Love: 

Le Creuset 8-Quart Covered Stockpot (I’ve joined the Le Cruset owners club!)
The phrase “craft beer” which can be found all over West Michigan
The Holland Farmer’s Market and the abundance of farm stands.
Ghirardelli Sea Salt Soiree -  I always have it in the house so I can nibble at will.
Biggby Coffee, especially the Holland one at Chicago Drive and Waverly.
Constant hang out and play date invitations
Laying on the couch with the widows open, snuggled up to Kel at the end of a busy day
Our neighbor girl Summer, who stops over to play with Noelle.

On The Blog: 

Most Popular Post: Crap, I’m a Sexist - “Outside I portray equality, share-care and few gender stereotypes.  Yet my mindset is stuck on June Cleaver when it comes to personal expectations.” 

Runner up: What Oklahoma Gave Me: A Beginning - “ I’m so thankful for these walls, this start, and I can’t help but grieve the end of this chapter. It was grace beyond grace in these walls and right now I’m finding it hard to walk out that leaded glass door for the last time.

But hope is on the journey. This is one beginning giving life to another, I know this full well.”

So that’s my May… I think… it’s been a weird month so I’m probably missing something.

So now it’s your turn, what have you been into, up to… all about? 

This post contains amazon affiliates links, clicking through will result in your supporting this blog and all the work that goes into it.  

As I drive the tree lined roads of my hometown, my mind flashes back to the days I when experienced these streets not from the driver’s seat but from the back seat of the mini van.

Back when I was the little one with small control and big questions.

Now I have big control, or at least big responsibility, and the questions have only grown and gained weight.  Losing both my parents so quickly stole all my rights to feel like a kid and left behind the awful realization that I can’t “go home again.”

I know that I’m the parent now and I know that the home I’m cultivating will become my own children’s childhood, with all it’s wonders and perhaps all it’s resentment… but still I want to be the kids sometimes, to go home.

Don’t we all?  Don’t you?

Most of the time I love my motherhood and I love being the woman of the house… but sometimes?  I want to curl up on my mom’s lap and feel her flannel nightgown against my tear-stained cheek.

I long to confess to her that there are moments when I don’t feel like I can do it.  And would she tell me it’s okay?  And would she please run her fingers through my hair, just a little while longer?

I want ask my Dad why our mini van sometimes shimmies when it’s changing gears, I want to know that he’s there with his dolly to check things out should they go awry.  I want to serve him a plate of balsamic pork tenderloin and listen to all the ways he loves his grandchildren.

I’ve moved back home and realized that this Orphaned adult thing is so much harder when you’re constantly driving past the spots where it all fell apart.  The house, the train tracks, the cemetery.

I ache for them as I begin to create some of the same memories we made with my own children.  I can’t bring myself to visit their graveside yet.  Not even on memorial day.  There are other spots where they are no longer alive that I must deal with first.

Sometimes, in the middle of the day, sometimes in the middle of a task I fall onto our bed exhausted and pull my knees up to my chest and I feel way too big and not nearly brave enough.

I don’t want to be the mom today, I want to be the one in the backseat on my way home to a container of Dannon yogurt and an afternoon of reading Baby Sitter’s Club books on the top bunk.

I want my smallness to be okay for a while, I’m sick of being the largest nesting doll, the one keeping all the others safe and secure.  

I long to be tucked away sometimes, oblivious to the big world that must be weathered and tamed.

Then yesterday, as I laid there on my bed, in my ball I found it…  the exact thing I needed.  I found myself held, gently and powerfully by a Father God who, lately, has seemed to me a provider from afar, a workaholic papa with no time for my small and shaky trembling.  

And I know that he didn’t change or move, that it was always, will always be me who wanders.

I never doubted him, I never wondered if he left me… I’m just more comfortable with Provider God
Corrector God
Judge-God with the unmeetable standards

The Daddy God?  The one who is okay with my smallness?  I can’t find his nap nearly as often as I need to.

Then yesterday in a gift of great grace and mercy we found each other, for a few moments in between lunch dishes and nap time, between the busyness of my life… and he scooped me up and reminded me that I will always be his baby.

Always be smaller
Always be weaker
Always be loved
Always be held.

I’ve been told many times that in the absence of my parents I would need to come to rely on the relationship with my heavenly Father, my only remaining parental connection.  This advice never comes from fellow orphans, but always from the lips of those trying to say something clever and comforting.

And I’ve wanted to flip them off, because they don’t know what it’s like to long for a hug from your mom and dad, to have them at birthday parties flipping burgers and washing dishes, spinning little girls in twirly dresses and posing for photos.

Papa God does much, but he doesn’t do dishes or burgers.  For this I need my parents.  

So I’ve resisted.  I’ve wandered.  I’ve convinced myself that I can’t go home again so I may as well get over it, ditch the longing, lose the parental need.

But the longing for home is tattooed on my heart, it’s standard issue to every soul, isn’t it?

And yesterday, in an exhausted heap, half dressed on my un-made bed I went home.  Just for a moment.

But I think I remember how to get there, I only need to still and be small and he scoops me up and rubs my hair.

And no he doesn’t do burgers, but he does want me… just for me.. and I think that may be our road home.