You’re not my real mom.

I have a friend who is working through the incredibly glorious and painful process of caring for a newly adopted daughter.

On the good days, she would tell you about the unspeakable joy that comes when the barriers of blood and DNA dissolve in the baptism of true family that comes through love.  On the hard days, she has to endure the incredibly violating pain of watching this little human look at her and reject her love as insufficient because of that DNA.  The oceans this mom has crossed, the scars she bears that declare her love and evidence her intention – all are dismissed as inadequate.

Ask nicely

“Want loud!  Want Jesus Better loud!” – That’s how my favorite 3-year-old asks me to turn up the volume to his favorite song in the car.

“Ask nicely, buddy!” – That’s what I tell him.

“Please-may-I-have-Jesus-Better-loud -please.” – That’s his response.

The cuteness doesn’t really translate when you read that because you can’t hear the ridiculousness of his voice, but trust – it’s totes adorbs.  And no one in their right mind would say no.

Waiting

He’s good at waiting.

He’s been doing it since before the foundation of the world when He dreamed this whole thing up.

Waiting for the fullness of time.  Waiting for the moment of redemption in a billion different stories.  He’s waiting now.

He’s waiting for me to turn back from the pigpen, waiting for my shadowy figure to appear on the horizon, waiting to fling up His robes and run toward me.  He’s waiting for me to turn off the TV and open the letter He left me to tell me to assure me that I’m not alone no matter what it looks like.

toddlers and trash

Let me paint a little picture for you.

I’m sitting outside at a coffee shop/bar.  It’s one of those perfect Austin days (as long as you can hold your breath so that the allergies don’t silently destroy you).

A man just propped open the patio door with his body, making room for a chunky toddler to waddle out.   I’m not good with ages, but i’m guessing this little chubster was around 2.

Here’s hoping

The other day, a 3-year-old pointed me and said ‘Jesus!’.  After I made sure that Jesus was not physically in the room, I realized he could see the tattoo on my back that says ‘j’espere’.  (P.S. can I tell you that this kid is obviously a genius because he is three and he knows what the word ‘jesus’ looks like on paper) (P.P.S. my tattoo doesn’t actually say Jesus though, so he’s not like a super genius.)

J’espere may look like Jesus to the untrained eyes of a 3-year-old, but it actually means ‘I hope’ in french.