She’s been having a rough time lately. There’s a behavior chart at school, with colors that correspond to her behavior. She has a “fish”, and there are six different “lakes” her fish can land in. The sparkly blue lake means the fish had an exceptionally good day. The blue lake means a good day. The yellow lake means a not-so-good day. The pink lake means a crummy day. The red lake means we won’t even get through the day before Mommy Fish is hearing about the day, and the green lake…well, let’s just say you’d be better off floating belly-up by the time you get there.

I pick her up from school every day and can tell as soon as I see her – and she sees me – what kind of day she’s had.

One Fish, Two Fish, Bad Fish, Blue Fish.

Her head hangs and her eyes avert and instead of running to greet me, she takes small, slow steps, and my heart sags, and I think, will this week/month/semester/year ever be over?

I arrange to meet my dear friends Bill and Nancy for lunch, friends I have been longing to see, and just as I drive up, her teacher sends me a text:

Olivia bit someone at recess. Hard. It did not break the skin.

I’m shocked and sad and beyond bewildered. She’s done so well all week, worked so hard at behaving and keeping that pesky fish in the right lake, and here, right here in the home stretch of the week, the month, the semester, the year – she bites someone?

I don’t understand.

I see my friends long enough to say a quick hello and they send me off with a sandwich and some fresh wisdom, questions to ask, and I call my boss, drive to the school. She’s sitting in the office, waiting for me. Her eyes search mine. I tell her she’s in BIG trouble. She has to know how wrong this is. She has to know she cannot do this again.

Mommy, are you mad at me?
I’m very upset.

Mommy, do you love me?
I do love you. I love you just as much now as I ever have.

We drive home and I ask her if she understands what it means for Mommy to have to leave work, that there are things I was counted on to do today that now cannot get done because I had to come and pick her up because she bit someone. She cowers. We sit on the couch, right where we sat two weeks ago and had a long talk about lying. I ask her the questions Bill suggested, and she tries to answer. She tells me it was H’s idea, that H said they should play a game, and the rules of the game are: you have to fight the people you don’t like. T hugged her and was squeezing her, and she doesn’t like T, so she bit him. This is not the first time she’s done something out of line to impress H. I’m liking this friendship less and less every day.

I tell her about Carrie in Mrs. Watkins’ 1^st grade class. Carrie was the preacher’s daughter, and she was pretty, and she was popular, and I wanted to be her friend. She had lots of friends, though, and nothing really set me apart, nothing made me special enough for her to want to be my friend. Nothing except for the fact that I was smart. I was smart, and I was really good at finishing my worksheets before all the other kids finished theirs. She told me she’d be my friend if I’d do her worksheets for her. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was cheating. And I knew if we got caught, I’d get in BIG trouble.

But Carrie was pretty and popular, and I wanted to be her friend.

So when she slipped that first worksheet across to my desk, I started writing.

I got two worksheets in, and my conscience was eating me alive. I told Carrie I couldn’t do her worksheets anymore – it was cheating, it was wrong. She needed to do her own worksheets. She put her head in her hands and pretended to cry. I got scared. I was afraid she would stop being my friend. I asked her if she was okay. I asked her if she was mad, if she was still my friend. She didn’t answer. So I told her I’d do her worksheet, but only this one last time, and after that, I wouldn’t do them anymore.

Later that day, Mrs. Watkins brought me a worksheet. She asked me if it was my work. It was my handwriting, and we both knew it was my work, but it had Carrie’s name written at the top, scrawled over the place where mine had been written and (very poorly) erased. I don’t remember if I lied or owned up to it, but either way, the truth was out. We both got in huge trouble – at school and at home.

And that was the end of my friendship with Carrie.

I tell Olivia this story, and her eyes look at me wide. I suggest that she spend less time with H, and that she certainly not go along with any more of H’s games or ideas, especially if they involve breaking the rules and hurting others. She nods.

We discuss the consequences of her actions, one of which is naptime this afternoon. She asks if I’ll tuck her in. As I pull the sheets to her chin, she asks again.

Mommy, are you mad?

I tell her, again, I’m upset. I’m concerned, and I want to figure out what it is that’s causing my daughter to have such a difficult time behaving at school. She suggests that perhaps I have the wrong daughter. I tell her that she is precisely the daughter I want and am meant to have, and that I love her and we’re going to be okay.

She’s sleeping within minutes, and I cannot abide the sight of her closed bedroom door. I already feel so far from her. I can’t get to what’s going on in her little head and heart, and I’m terrified that this isn’t just a phase, that there’s something really wrong that I can’t diagnose and she can’t explain, and with all those walls, we don’t need another barrier.

So I open her door and kiss her forehead, nuzzle her cheek and whisper that I love her, and I’m not going anywhere, that we’re going to figure this out together, and everything is going to be okay.

While she sleeps, I rack my brain, think of all the things I could be doing to cause this – I’m on my phone too much, I’m tired too often, she’s not getting enough attention, I’m feeding her the wrong foods, I’m neglecting her soul – until finally, I realize.

There are no perfect mothers, and at the end of the day, as lovely and wonderful as they are, our children are still – just like us – flawed little humans, living in broken skin.

But we don’t have to get stuck there. Because all of us together – mothers and daughters and fathers and sons – have a high priest who can empathize with our weaknesses. One who has been tempted in every way, just as we are – but did not sin.

Jesus.

And now He’s sitting at the right hand of the Father, and He’s the way to that deep, deep well of mercy and endless storehouse of grace.

So I’m running break-neck for that throne, and I’m carrying her with me all the way.

Fall + soup + roasted poblanos straight from Nana’s garden. Need I say more?

Roasted Poblano and Hominy Chicken Chili

2 Tbsp butter
1 onion, chopped
1 Tbsp garlic, minced
1 can northern beans, drained
1 1/2 cans of hominy, drained
4 poblano peppers, roasted* and chopped
1 can Ro-Tel
1 large roasted chicken, deboned and cut into cubes
3 cans of chicken broth
2 tsp smoked sea salt crystals
1 tsp cumin
1 Tbsp paprika
2 Tbsp chili powder

Melt butter in a large stockpot or Dutch oven. Add onion and cook over medium-low heat for 10 minutes, or until onion softens. Add garlic and saute for 1 minute. Add all remaining ingredients and stir to combine. Bring to a boil; cover and reduce heat to simmer. Let simmer 30-45 minutes until meat and vegetables are tender. Garnish with green onions, and, if you like, cheese and sour cream.

*I used the roasting tutorial from This Gal Cooks for my peppers, and it worked a treat!

“Remember not the former things,
nor consider the things of old.
Behold, I am doing a new thing;
now it springs forth,
do you not perceive it?
I will make a way in the wilderness
and rivers in the desert…”
Isaiah 43:18-19

When I graduated from high school, my parents gave me a hope chest. It was a tradition they had decided each of us girls would have. Now, for those of you who may not know what a hope chest is, a young girl is typically given a hope chest so she can begin to store things she may need when she marries and sets up house. For example, if a beloved grandmother passes and leaves the granddaughter her silver, it goes in the hope chest. If you get fancy graduation presents like a lovely set of knives or some beautiful dishes, you don’t dare waste those treasures on your college apartment. You put them in the hope chest. On any day before you either become a bride or receive rock-solid confirmation that spinsterhood is your inheritance, you had certainly better resist the temptation to crack that lid and use anything once it’s stored away. Simply put: you fill the hope chest with what you hope to use in the home you hope to have once you’ve found the man you hope to marry. This business of a hope chest has hope written all over it. And at the tender age of 17, I received it in that spirit alone.

Traditionally, a hope chest is cedar because it is also meant to store linens – heirloom tablecloths, quilts, doilies, etc. And cedar is the best protection against those pesky hole-eating moths. Well. I’m no traditional girl, and when it came time to pick out my hope chest, cedar just wasn’t going to cut it. No. I had to have a fancy-pants, über-trendy rattan chest from The Bombay Co. It was the first piece of furniture I had ever owned, and I loved it. I was at least smart enough not to cart it up to my dorm room with me, but when the time came for me to have my own apartment, that baby moved in and I doted on it. I didn’t have much to put in it, but I knew why it was there, and it somehow helped me hope for a godly husband, a beautiful home.

In the winter of 2004, I decided it was time to move to Little Rock. Without going into detail, it was a hasty and ill-advised move, but I was stubborn and bent on having my way. And my way was a gorgeous, historic downtown apartment. A handful of faithful friends showed up in the January rain to pack me up and move me across the river. About halfway there, I looked behind me at the truck carrying my hope chest. The tarp in the back was flapping, and I thought about pulling over to ask the driver to secure it. But I had a deadline to meet and we pressed on. My next glance in the rear view revealed the lid of my beloved hope chest lifting up and flying through the air into the stream of I-67’s oncoming traffic. The caravan pulled over and searched, but the lid had flown off too far back for us to see, so I sent everyone else on while my mom and I circled back in my car to search.

I can still see it in my mind – the lid lay splintered in the median, in at least 30 pieces, completely ruined. I was devastated. To make matters worse, as we pulled over to look at the lid, we were rear-ended. In my brand new car. And my mother was injured. I was inconsolable, she was hurting, the lid was destroyed, it was cold and raining and I knew I had done something very unwise by taking this gorgeous downtown Little Rock apartment. Even then, in my spirit I felt the warning, something telling me I was pushing too hard this time, flying too hard against the wind, but I ignored it. After filling out an accident report and deciding to leave the shattered lid where it lay, we joined my friends in Little Rock. I walked into my new apartment and saw my beautiful hope chest sitting in the corner, sad and lidless. My heart literally hurt. It was mine and nice and beautiful and now it was broken, and how could a girl properly fill a hope chest with no lid?

Not long after moving into that apartment, I began to wander. I made destructive choices. Immoral choices. It started slowly – it typically does – and before I knew it, I was years-deep in hopeless, Godless living. I spent my treasure for moth and rust and laid none by for safekeeping. And every time I looked at that busted hope chest, I felt my shame. I felt my brokenness, my poverty, my lost purpose. It held accusation for me at every glance.

You used to be whole. You used to be beautiful. You used to be pure.

It was only after I returned to the Lord that I started to find a way to put the lid back on that chest. I don’t think I was conscious of it at the time – in my mind, I was just trying to salvage a piece of furniture. Years back, just after the accident, my dad had visited The Bombay Co. to inquire after a replacement lid. But thanks to my unique tastes, I had chosen a chest that had been one of a very limited stock and was no longer produced. I spent hours scouring eBay and Craigslist in hopes that I would find a chest like mine. Nothing.

I finally resigned myself to the fact that this thing would never be a hope chest again, and I got creative and decided if I could have the right kind of lid built, I could convert the chest to a window bench that would add some additional seating to my living room and maybe provide some blanket storage. I started talking to my dad about it, and he came and picked the chest up at Christmas two years ago to take it back to his shop and work on it. Then things got busy, life stepped in, and we found ourselves with more important things to worry about than converting hope chests to window benches.

I had all but forgotten about the bench until one Wednesday three weeks ago. I was folding a blanket, and I remembered my hope chest, and my heart sank. Would it never be repaired? I felt so sad. I started to call my dad and tell him to just forget about it, just put the stupid thing on the curb and throw it away. But I knew that wasn’t what I wanted. Deep, deep down, I knew that I still yearned for its restoration. I also knew that restoration was next to impossible. There was just no way this thing would ever even come close to looking like my hope chest again. But I’ve always been one to hope against all odds, and I guess this was no exception. Besides, even if I was willing to give up on the chest, I knew that, for whatever reason, this was important to my dad. And even if he was taking his time getting it done, it would really, really hurt his feelings if I told him to scrap it. So I kept silent. Didn’t mention it. And went on about my business.

At this point, it had been at least one whole year since Dad and I had even discussed the hope chest. Two years since it had gone with him to the shop.

Two days later, Dad called to ask if I was home. I told him I was almost there. He said, “Don’t sit on it.” What an odd thing to say, I thought, but if you know my dad, you know he just says funny things sometimes, so I laughed and went on. A few moments later, I walked in the door of my house, and there it was.

I couldn’t believe it. He had finished it. And not how I’d asked him to, either. I’d asked him to make a recessed, cushioned top, something that might even be permanently affixed so it could be a bench instead of a chest. I had asked him to change this thing’s purpose. And he had refused. He made it another lid, and he gave me back my hope chest.

For years, that hope chest has been an empty, hollow reminder of my wandering, my sin and my shame. Of my detour. A detour that I thought couldn’t be righted again. For years, it has whispered regret and failure and loss. And here it is, sitting in my living room, completely and fully restored.

It doesn’t look exactly how it looked when it was given to me sixteen years ago. It is even more beautiful to me now than it was then. Because now, it tells my story. Now, it whispers redemption. It whispers beauty and restoration and wholeness and it sings of His great, great faithfulness. It tells me that He does not leave us broken. He does not leave us empty or hollow. And when we come back to Him and meekly say, well, maybe you could just use me as this kind of woman now instead, since I ruined my chances at getting to be that kind of woman?

He. says. NO.
You are not ruined.
You are restored.
You are whole.
I have set your purpose from the beginning of time, and it stands.
The lid is SHUT.

This isn’t a topic that I’m given to just generally broadcasting about, but I’ve been fielding a fair amount of questions about my single status lately (at what age do people stop trying to set you up with their relatives and friends – or maybe even your own relatives (I love you, Aunt Susie, but a step-cousin is still a cousin!) – and can I hurry up and get there?), so I thought perhaps an explanation was in order.

Dating.

Most of my friends and family know that I was in a serious relationship that ended early last year. And while it was a necessary ending, it was a particularly painful ending, and one that could have threatened to send me reeling into all manner of craziness. There, but for the grace of God, went I. Several amazing people stepped in and spoke grace and strength and truth and peace and comfort during those days, and I emerged stronger and more whole than I’ve ever been.

One of the more common reactions to a painful breakup is to go right back out and start dating again – preferably finding someone more handsome who has loads of money this go ‘round, right? (wink wink)  Seriously, though, it happens. Folks get their hearts broken, and they think a new person can help it hurt less, so they hop right back on the crazy train. I’ve done it myself scads of times. This time, I just happened to have one very serious advantage. The thought of dating again made me physically ill. Problem solved.

But then the autumn came. And I started to wonder – am I ready? I mean, maybe I am…funny how all it takes is a little wondering and then POOF! in walks Mr. Opportunity. Or, in my case, he called and asked me to lunch.

It was, hands down, one of the very worst dates I have ever been on.

I should clarify that this man seemed perfectly nice and normal and what have you. We just did. not. click. I mean, in that painfully obvious we-aren’t-clicking-and-our-food-hasn’t-even-gotten-to-our-table-yet kind of way. I’m so glad I can laugh about it now but my mercy me. It was awful. The whole thing was a nightmare – from the getting ready to the awkward silences to the walk up the porch steps and the clumsy sideways hug and him saying, “I’ll call you soon!” and me thinking, “Really? Why would you?” and him not calling and me thinking, “How dare you not call me!” and oh. Listen.

I hate dating.

I enjoy being in a healthy relationship. I just hate that first bit where it’s all awkward and nervous and clumsy. Still, all of the awkwardness and nervousness aside, this verse from Song of Solomon just kept running through my head during the days after that date: “Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you: do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.” (Song of Solomon 8:4) I just couldn’t shake it. I began to think beyond this one date and onto the broader landscape of my life. And honestly, it just didn’t make any sense to add dating to the mix right that second. So I decided that it was no longer a question of readiness, it was a question of availability, and, for the next few months, I was not available for dating. I felt like there were already so many areas of my life where I’d been called to serve the people I love, and I needed to be singular in focus. Which meant I was choosing to be single on purpose.

It should come as no surprise that within one month, our lives were changed drastically and unforeseeably. It has absolutely nothing to do with my marital status, but it does have a very real impact on how my daughter’s life will be shaped from here forward. It’s a private matter, so give me grace for the withholding of details, but rest assured that all is well, and this can be a very good thing for her. Still, change is change, and we have needed grand amounts of space for the adjusting. I am so grateful now that I decided, back in December, to lean into my singleness and embrace it as a gift from the Lord during this period in my life. I’d always heard people say that if you are single right now, you should thank God because that is His provision for You in this moment, and His provision is always a gift. I’m not gonna lie to you, I thought that was a load of hooey. But I was younger then, and I had very different ideas about who God was and how He operated. But now…well, now I see. It was a gift. That horrible date and the ensuing charge from Solomon’s Song…a gift. A gift that freed me so I could be ready to turn on a dime when our lives changed and my daughter’s future needed my full attention. A gift that meant I wasn’t simultaneously trying to nurture a new relationship and navigate this massive new and permanent reality for me and my daughter. It was all a gift.

Someone asked me recently if I really believed, to my core, that God has a plan and is interceding on my behalf, and that it’s okay to be alone for a while until the person He provides comes along. How I loved answering that question. A thousand times yes, was my reply. My, do I ever believe that. I love answering that because I spent so long knowing that I should believe that but not quite being able to fully get there. And my choices reflected just that. But now, I’m there. And I can tell you all day long how wonderful it is to be here, and how much peace there is, but I bet you’d receive it in just about the same way as I did all those years: Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Keep talkin’, lady. There any cute single guys here?

So I will just tell you not to lose heart and not to lose hope. It truly is okay to be alone for a spell – you never know what He has in the works. At the end of the day, I remember this: my Father knows my heart, and I know that He is unfalteringly good. And He loves me. And that is enough.

Thank You for making me a mother.

I know it isn’t quite how You’d planned. And yet, You keep blowing ashes into beauty, grace upon heaping grace, our falling all piled up into this one magnificent mound You’re molding into glory.

I love this mothering job You’ve given me.

You knew how alone I felt. How lost in this wide world of connections. How some days I wondered when someone would arrive whose business it was to be my person. 

And so You took my ashes, my pain, my wandering, and You made something stunning. I’m still not sure how that works, that miracle of redemption. But I’ve got proof that it does. Ten fingers, ten toes, my hands, my smile and two big blue eyes to stare into mine.

And You settled me.

I found myself thinking, the other day, What if…

And I know there are some mothers out there who can’t see through to tomorrow’s new mercies, and the What If’s are their only grasp at dreams, and they may like the idea of how their lives could have turned out, but let me tell you.

Not me.

You saved me when You gave me this daughter. I was having such a hard time finding Your love. I had no idea what Your heart really looked like. But then this one day in September, my own heart began to shift. And there I was with a mother heart. There I was the parent who dotes on her child, who would give anything, do anything, cross any distance, brave any terror, sacrifice any comfort…for the beloved child.

As You have shown me how to be a mother, You have shown me how to be the Beloved.

You showed me Your heart by giving me a bit of it for my own child, and I haven’t been able to help but believe You. So I don’t want to imagine my life without her. Because when You gave me her, You gave me more of You. 

Thank You for making me a mother.

She had a bad day today. And I am re-learning how to count gifts and number graces in the middle of chaos and her teacher texts me to tell me she’s sending home a note. It’s the first note in months, the first note since before the landscape began to change. And I’m tempted to explain it away and point at this or that, when really, there’s nothing to blame but sin. And no one to blame but every single one of us.

I sit through a meeting and send little droplets of venom sailing south, annoyance at a project not complete months past its due date. It’s not until I’m driving to get her that I realize I’m annoyed with myself for not seeing the project finished. And I’m tempted to point at someone else, to put it on a less tenured set of shoulders, relieve myself of the responsibility, when really, there’s no relief in that. And we’re all to blame anyway.

I walk into her classroom and her first question aches.  “Mommy? Are you mad at me?” She knew her teacher had called me, knew I’d gotten a note. I had driven across the river asking for wisdom in responding to her, especially in this season, and there she was dreading my drive, too. I’d had a thought, crossing that river, that sin is sickness. And if sin is sickness, shouldn’t we be reaching in with healing hands? I tell her I’m not mad. I tell her that we’re going to be okay.

We drive, but not in silence. I play whatever music I can find to soothe the moment, to guide my heart. David Crowder croons, reminds me, He never lets go. It seems like an odd choice for the moment, but this song has always comforted me, always reminded me of God’s great, great faithfulness. I say thanks out loud, almost verbatim the thanks from Ann’s toast story, and we drive to the grocery store, and I look for every opportunity to speak kindness. I normally crank and mutter my way through these aisles (somehow I’m always fighting the throngs for the perfect head of lettuce), but tonight I slow, deliberately, and try to move on in gentleness.

We get home, and I have a plan. Dinner, bath time, a story, and bed. And we’ll talk. We’ll talk about the day and what went wrong and how it can go right tomorrow. So we talk over chicken and carrots and cucumbers and she tells me a little bit about why she did the things she did, and how she thinks she might do better tomorrow. Later, I’m tucking her into bed and she says it.

“Mommy, you know that song you played? The Never Let Go song? Well, I was thinking, that tomorrow…tomorrow I won’t let go. I’ll just hold on and be good and not let go. So I can be nice to my friends. Because today, I was holding on but then I let go and I fell. Here, let me show you…” 

…and she takes my arm and holds on real tight. And I take her hand off of my arm and put it in my hand and explain to her what the song really means, that even when we can’t hold on, He holds on for us, and that we can all stop trying so ever-loving hard to hold on to a Father who’s got the whole world in His hands. And she smiles.

“I’m really glad you told me that, Mommy. I really like that song.” 

So I tuck her in and ask her if she wants me to sing, and she does. And she takes my hand and holds it up, in front of her night light where stars glow bright on our skin, and we sing it together, how He never lets go.

Never Let Go
The David Crowder Band

When clouds veil sun and disaster comes
Oh my soul, oh my soul
When waters rise and hope takes flight
Oh my soul, oh my soul, oh my soul

Ever faithful, ever true
You, I know, You never let go
You never let go, You never let go
You never let go
You never let go, You never let go
You never let go

When clouds brought rain and disaster came
Oh my soul, oh my soul
When waters rose and hope had flown
Oh my soul, oh my soul, oh my soul
Ever faithful, ever true
You, I know, You never let go

You never let go, You never let go
You never let go
You never let go, You never let go
You never let go

Oh, my soul overflows
Oh what love, oh what love
Oh, my soul fills with hope
Perfect love that never lets go

In joy and pain, in sun and rain
You’re the same, oh, You never let go

I simply must confess – I love snow. I know that many have had a hard time being without power in this storm, and I do not love that. (Kudos to Entergy and all of the workers from far and near who gave up snow play dates and vacations and the like to help restore power.) But I so love the image of sparkly white blanketing the grass and trees and cars and streets, the excitement of staying up late, waiting for the first few flakes to fall. It’s magic. Pure magic. I kid you not, when fall sets in, I start praying for snow. Olivia joined me in that prayer this year. Clearly, she is hard to resist. I’ve never seen so much glee on her face.

Last year, Christmas had us running in circles and by the end of it, I was so exhausted that I decided we would start spending Christmas in the Rockies at a ski lodge or maybe hop up to Boston to see the Joneses. Either way, we would be in snow country for Christmas. We wouldn’t spend hours shopping for unnecessary presents, I wouldn’t bake until my apron was worn thin. We would just go somewhere and enjoy being there together, us two.

Well, we didn’t make it to Boston, and Liv’s still too young for the Rockies, but we still had a simple, snowy Christmas. A peaceful one. I didn’t agonize over gifting, and I didn’t cook a single thing I didn’t want to. And because we kept things simple, when it was time to help my sweet sister with something, I was ready. To me, that is one of the greatest gifts – to be called on to help. So, because I didn’t fill my schedule up with one thousand things I thought were expected of me, I had the privilege of being there for someone I love – and being fully there.

Being fully present this Christmas was the gift I received in exchange for years of Christmases past spent aimlessly scurrying about. And you can bet your stockings I’ll remember it every Christmas future.

Come in, — come in! and know me better, man! I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me! You have never seen the like of me before!
– Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I’ve been quiet over here. A fog descended two weeks ago today and I’ve honestly had a hard time driving all the way through it in search of hopeful words. So I battened down the hatches for a bit. Give me grace for the stillness?

December 20, 2012
My daughter is alive, my home is still standing, there is food on my table and money in my bank account, but my heart. My heart feels empty and sluggish. There’s chaos at home and chaos in Connecticut and I wake up thinking about all those parents who are waking up and realizing that it wasn’t just a bad dream and feeling that reality land hard and heavy on their chests. And I ache. In my ache, I reach for my daughter, and I don’t feel relief, I feel guilt. I feel more sorrow.

I can be such a hideous steward of these gifts of family and provision.

As I think about those twenty, and how young they were, how tender and innocent, and how senseless was their killing, I hear: do you know how many children died of hunger yesterday?

16,000.

How many of us have been left feeling so helpless and wishing that we could have been in Newtown on Friday, wishing that we could have saved at least one child’s life?

I tell Livi that some kids got hurt on Friday, and she says, “I know what we can do. We can help them. We can send them some toys.” And I think that we cannot help them, they’ve flown heavenward, and then I remember the 16,000.

From my home in Arkansas on Friday, I couldn’t have done a thing to help the Newtown children. But I can help the children across the world who woke up hungry this morning. Whose skin stretches tight over ribs aching for something to stick to them. Yes. I can help those children. It may only be a drop in the bucket, but if that one drop lands on one pair of parched lips, it will help.
Christmas morning, Olivia and I will open the catalogs and we will find ways we can help.

December 28, 2012
Christmas morning, we flipped through Compassion International and World Vision’s pages of goats and chicks and water filtration systems and as I struggled to explain why someone anywhere would need a live goat and what hunger is and what poverty is, and I waited expectantly (and a bit irrationally) for my daughter to choose a profound combination of goats and ducks and a quarter of a cow and say something deep and resonant about the world, we stumbled upon a page that gives you the option of sending toys to these same children to whom the goats and such come. Naturally, sending a goat was immediately and irrevocably out of the question in her little mind. And so this season’s theme of keeping the story simple carries on, even to Christmas morning: some kids are hurting. Toys will make them hurt less. Let’s send them some toys.

And so it is. Toys we will send.

Happy birthday, Jesus.

The blog is silent tonight, for obvious reasons.

Sleep in heavenly peace,
sleep in heavenly peace.