Jesus reveal Yourself to me as long as it doesn't hurt

Last Thursday I found myself in a place I had hoped not to be this soon again, my neurosurgeon's office. As I sat there in that crowded waiting room though, something amazing happened. A SINGLE conversation. Not between two or three people but amongst all of the occupants of that small room. In an attempt to drown out the emotions I was not dealing well with and because I am an observer by nature, at first, I merely listened as a husband and wife shared their experiences of being hospice caregivers. However, since missing my gma was one of the emotions I was trying to suppress, I found myself drawn into the conversation quickly as the words to "my" song came thundering back to my ears and heart - "Jesus be near to me. Let me know you are here. How I need you to be near to me."

 
Like a wound that must be debrided in physical therapy, I felt the bandage I had attempted to put on my heart being ripped off so that the hole that had been left could be dealt with a little more. After listening for a few more minutes, I tearfully thanked these two very special people for serving families, not just patients, in their time of greatest need. My heart's cry had been answered in the most unusual way - through two complete strangers - reminding me that even when I don't feel Him close, Jesus is ALWAYS pulling me near to Him. 

But that's the thing with me. I want Jesus to be near to me and make me feel better. Unfortunately that's also the image we've portrayed to the world - Come to Jesus and all will be well. I often forget that it's in the inconveniences & pain that He's getting my attention. I want to be safe and unburdened and happy. But it's in the pain that He shouts the loudest. Not because the pain is what He has for me but because it's the pain that makes me listen and look for Him more. 

In C.S. Lewis' The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, Peter, Susan and Lucy are having a conversation with Mr and Mrs Beaver about Aslan. The children are under the impression that Aslan is a man when Mr and Mrs Beaver step in. Mrs Beaver informs them that, "Certainly not......Aslan is a lion - THE Lion, The great Lion." To which safety immediately becomes a concern for the children. (I mean, they're about to meet a lion. Who wouldn't be concerned!)

"Safe?" said Mr Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But He's good. He's The King, I tell you."

So often we want Jesus to be near to us as a safe little baby, born in a manger, over two thousand years ago. But that's not all of who He is. He's good. He's The King. And he wants more for us. He wants us to grow and become more like Him. He wants to use all of the inconveniences and letdowns and scary moments and pain to draw US near to HIM. That's when our hearts' cries are answered and we find Jesus being revealed to us in a new way, unlike anything before, because He is good. He is sovereign. He is King.

Today my son caught an interception because yours could not

There are many concerns homeschool moms have as they raise & educate their children at home. Socialization is NOT one of them. Fifteen years ago when we began this journey in life that may have been a little more true, should one think ideal socialization is linked only to the time spent in a classroom. But today, even if one thinks far beyond that box, it isn't a lack of socialization homeschoolers have to be cautioned against, it is the opposite - over socialization. Activities must be weighed with both academic & personal interaction/relationship building as beneficial factors. Enter football.

Our middle guy is an athlete in a family of nerds. He's pretty much the typical middle guy - quiet, unopposing, peacemaker, compassion driven. So when we found a local homeschool middle&high school football team, he was over the moon. He found a place where he belonged - not that he didn't belong with us, it just wasn't as forced.

Two years of middle school ball with amazing godly coaches & he was finally beginning to gain more confidence in his physical abilities. He was leading by example & looking forward to varsity ball. I had caught a few names & even fewer faces - you try doing a lineup when all you ever see are facemasks & jersey numbers! And so here it is - OUR first year of varsity ball. That taller, skinny, fast kid was now dwarfed by these Goliath type Amazonian men who were breathing fire & aiming to break him in half with their glares. Ok, I jest! 

Everybody who's ever played ball knows this fact - FRESHMEN MUST PAY THEIR DUES! So unless you're one of those Goliath Amazonian types or as good as JJ Watt, you're going to do a whole lot of practice followed by a whole lot of second string play. Having just lost a pretty big class the previous year, a smaller - let's call it "concentrated" - team meant most of our guys would have the opportunity to play both sides of the line though. 

There's something to be said of team sports & the family mentality you develop as you join together with people you otherwise wouldn't hang out with on a daily basis. If the homeschool community is tight knit, sitting & watching these young men grow together as they take that field every Friday night to face the giants on the other side of that line builds bonds that rival a newly built family that you cheer on, struggle with and face defeat with head on. So with that, we set out for the National Homeschool Football tournament in Florida with a little less than a winning record. 

I'll never forget the 11hr drive there, alone, with my kids. I had never set out to do anything like this before without my parents, without my husband. So finally driving up in that driveway of the retreat that was hosting the tourney, I felt a relief. I was once again with my people. But almost as soon as the relief washed over me, a deep grief gripped my entire being as my dear friend, A, met me at my car to deliver the news. 

The undertone of our trip to tourney this year would be the loss of one of our precious player's dad. Unbeknownst to me in my little red pathfinder driving away, less than an hour from our hometown, a phone call had been received that a long, hard battle with cancer had taken one of our dads. The young men that had made it ahead of us were somber as they waited for the team van to arrive that carried their teammate, their friend, their brother. I pulled my own player aside & through tears told him the devastating news. 

And though I have always made a point to not tell the story of others, I will share with you that this young man, L, told Coach S, our conditioning coach, that the way he wanted to honor his dad was to continue on and play in his name. Our baited breath that night dissolved into tears of mourning as the van pulled in a little while later. I watched these young men surround L, unsure of what, if anything to say. All they had to offer him was their presence, so that's what they gave. Very few words were spoken, unlike Job's suckie friends in the Bible. I watched this team of boys become men that night as they faced together the worst that life has to give. Loss. 

With determination and purpose, L was on FIRE for our game the following day. You could see it from the sidelines in the way that he carried himself. He would lead our guys into a win, the first win at tourney in our team's history. But what many missed at the end of that game was the heart crushing sight of the help L received from Coach S in taking his pads off, normally a dad's job. We moms stood there sobbing as we were privy to this moment of tenderness & love. 

L stayed with us the next day, our team building day with a light practice & some play on the beach. Coach S, Coach F & Coach P then drove L to the nearby airport for him to make the flight home to be with his mom & sister. But he left his determination & purpose with our boys. They would play in the championship game the following day in L's name, in honor of Mr K.

L is an upperclassmen - my Jay, a freshman. Aside from occasionally being Chemistry lab partners, these two frequently subbed for each other on the field. With L at home in mourning, Jay would find himself in a place where he loved the extra play time but upset by the way he got it. Every time he took that field today, he knew that it was because L could not. The weight of the situation on his 5'9" 120lb soaking wet frame was very heavy. And every time that he took the field, I thought of J, S & L at home and my heart hurt a little more each time I saw my son playing the game that he loves. 

So when today's game came down to the wire with us up by less than a touchdown, we all knew exactly what was at stake. The march downfield by the Blue Angels had us all on pins & needles. With seconds left on the clock, they passed the ball with their last play. And there he was, my excited, heartbroken freshman, playing cornerback. Jay was in place about our 5yd line and caught the ball to end the Angel's march & the Lions season. Win. Lions. 

Watching these young men overcome a season of injuries & adversity with a win was exhilarating. Of course we were jumping up & down, knowing exactly what this win meant. But when my freshman finally made it off the field & over to me, he removed his helmet & with tears streaming down his face said three words, "Mom, but Levi."

We both had the same thought. The same reaction. Gratitude coupled with deep grief. It was because of L's loss that Jay had been on that field. It was because of S's loss that Jay's siblings were dancing around like nuts. It was because of J's loss that my son caught that interception. 

A simple trip to tourney in Florida gave birth to many more life lessons than any of us set out to learn. I wish that I had words to offer J, S & L that would comfort them in this time but words simply escape me. I do know that Mr K would have been thrilled to know that these young men rallied around L & they dedicated the entire trip to both of them. But I also know that because of Mr K's deep faith in Jesus, that he would have wanted our boys to play in a way that honored God. I can tell you that they did. Through the deepest loss of your lives, please know that God was honored. Our family will remain changed by L & Mr K. I will always remember why my son caught the interception that yours could not. 

Caregiving, one year later

Perhaps one of the hardest things for me to experience this past year has been all of the memories social media keeps reminding me of on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong, some of the pictures are hilarious. I smile at posts about the babies that were born or the accomplishments that had been made. Some days I've had my own football reel of highlights. But peppered in amongst all of that, there have been reminders of each & every single blog I wrote last year, both for escape & to share our family's story. These are gut wrenching for me.
The irony that my beloved WR/K/TE's first varsity football homecoming game is also the anniversary of gma's first Homecoming has not escaped me. In recent days, I've found myself having a little more difficulty coping, at least without tears. My hallelujah is just tired.
Being the hands, feet, heart & soul of Jesus, here on earth, is a demanding & overwhelming task at times. My physical body feels this fatigue that sleep just can't relieve. My mind & heart worry constantly that this momma, the one I am now, is the only momma my kids will have from now on or the only one they'll remember. Not the one who could spin any situation into a reason to give God praise. Not the one who saw creation new, everyday, in a vibrant array of colors with the wonderment of a small child still, but the one who seems to be missing a color, seen through the dull glasses of Homesickness. Not the one who seemed far more emotionally stable or at least didn't cry as much.
As the memories of the snarky, gray haired woman replay in my newsfeed, heart & mind I see:
Gma&momma dancing that first night after she fell as we tried to figure out how this all was supposed to work.
Momma curling her hair with the systematic smoothness I don't think any of the rest of us could have had.
The smile on her face when Aunt Suzie called her from the hospital.
Aunt Birdie showing her how to work the tablet so she could escape into solitaire for hours.
Hummingbirds, Dr Stanley, cheese & garlic pepper oatmeal, purple satin nightgowns.
Her reaching to Heaven the second to last night we would have with her, no doubt preparing us.
I hear "Thank you Jesus."
But I also see:
The pain, the nausea, the weariness.
The last interaction I had with her, begging me to let her go, slapping at me in pain, as momma tried to clean her up a bit.
And I feel like my hallelujah is broken. But maybe that's just it - It is meant to be.
It's widely known that hallelujah means "Praise ye the Lord." But perhaps what isn't known is that, in the Greek, it is an imperative verb conjugation. That means it is a command. "You, wherever you are, whatever you're experiencing right now, no matter how you feel, PRAISE THE LORD."
In my brokenness, I've felt a peace & a comfort that I just can't explain to you. In my weariness, God tells my Gma P to say to me, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you & your momma do," words Gma B would say that calmed my tired heart. In my darkness, God gave me a little girl who never fails to draw pictures with little sayings like, "In the rain, I'll look for rainbows. In the darkness, I'll look for stars." In my sadness, I hear, "Thank you Jesus" and I'm snapped back to words of praise.
The hallelujah I had before was yesterday's hallelujah. It wasn't meant for today. Today, in my brokenness there is a different hallelujah, a different reason to praise Him. One that sees gma in that beautiful great white throne room Revelation tells us about, with her true love, Jesus. Telling him face to face, "Thank you" over & over again. Singing with the saints who have all gone before us, "Holy, holy, holy are You, Lord, God Almighty." Just about the time my hallelujah is worn out, weary & done, God gives me a new song. Because that's just how faithful he is.

He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God. Psalm 40:3a

Sing to the Lord a new song, for He has done marvelous things. Psalm 98:1a

Chores, lies & a beautiful princess

All I did was ask a question she'd heard many times before - Who are you? Maybe it was the circumstances. Maybe she was just ready to tell me. Either way, I'm glad she did.
Last night as Brian and I sat in the livingroom discussing a problem common to every household - chores - unbeknownst to us, our precious, sensitive little Piggy laid a room away taking in every word that was being said. I must have gone on for close to 45 minutes just telling him about how little help I had been getting, how it was causing my back to hurt so badly by the end of the day that I needed my pain meds, how I just couldn't keep it up. You know the general mom stuff.
I stopped long enough to take a potty break when I took the few steps of a detour to her doorway. My initial thought was, "Why is she still awake at 1130? She knows better & should have been asleep an hour ago." But thankfully before my mouth could open, following my frustrated brain's lead, my eyes caught a glimpse of a tear as she sat there, frantically writing away.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm writing myself a note," she choked through the tears & kept on writing.
I walked through the doorway & over to her bed. I leaned down to find out what could possibly be so important that she was still writing. I was obviously still frustrated. My hardened heart instantly shattered as I read the lies my daughter had written about herself.
"Dear future self, I hope that I'm being helpful. I want to say that I hope I'm not a bratty, sneaky, cry baby anymore. I'm sloth-like, sassy, lazy, useless & a careless jerk. I'm a thief & a mess-maker......"
No words. There was nothing I could say to this precious little girl who heard what was being said, internalized it then translated it into something far worse than I could ever have imagined or said. I turned and walked out but quickly returned with the beaten up, paper stuffed, marked & remarked Bible she'd seen me read from before. I knelt down beside her bed & placed it between us. She laid her pencil down & stared straight head, avoiding eye contact with me. I took her hand and began to read to her, through my own tears - For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in that secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
"My precious girl, this is who God says you are. You are fearfully & wonderfully made. He knew long before today everything that would happen. He even knows what you will & won't do later. But you know what? He loves you so much & thought you were so worth it that he sent Jesus for you anyway. These things aren't who God says you are. Who does God say you are? Who are you?"
And there it was. I know the images she saw in her head when I asked that question because they were the same ones I saw. It was a smaller version of herself, laying in that hospital bed last fall with her great grandma whispering in her ear the question that had been asked so many, many times before. I could see that grey hair fall down around my little girl's face as gma cupped it with those delicate, wrinkled hands. Gma drew her so close that their noses were touching. "GiGi, I'm a child of The King." Then they giggled, kissed each other's cheeks & laid there until I sent her home for the evening.
But tonight, my Hope whispered it to me, "Momma, I'm a child of The King."
I took her note from her. "That's right my sweet girl. All those lies that you heard before, the ones you wrote down, none of those are who you really are. So I'm going to take this. You are a daughter of the Lord, the Lord, the compassionate & almighty God. Who is slow to anger & abounding in love. How do you know?"
"Because momma, I asked Jesus to come into my life."
Woah! Wait. A. Minute. "You did? When?"
"At Bible study one night. When Ms Adcock & Ms Soltman were my teachers."
My wheels started turning. That was THREE YEARS AGO. I grinned. "Can I tell you a secret? I already knew. I didn't know when, but I knew. I've seen Jesus in you. Like when you love on people that others don't. Or when you cry on vacation because someone you don't even know was made fun of by others. Or when you helped to take care of Gigi everyday like you did without complaining. I knew. And another secret? Gigi knew too. She & I had already talked about it. It was one of the last conversations we had. When you love Jesus, others can see there's something different about you."
All I did was ask a question she'd heard many times before - Who are you? Maybe it was the circumstances. Maybe she was just ready to tell me. Either way, I'm glad she did. A night that began with my complaining exposed the lies my daughter was beginning to believe about herself and ended with a resounding answer -
She IS a child of The King!

Unexpected Joy

I just stood & stared. What in the world was that little piece of red in amongst the grow up weeds? Growing up in the east Texas country, red on the ground typically meant only one thing - the dreaded East Texas Coral Snake! My danger radar shot through the roof until my eyes began to focus more - this was only a single red flat something or other. No black. No yellow. No tubular body. With this new found confidence, I braved it enough to bend over to have a closer look. JOY?
What I at first thought was one of the most poisonous creatures known to all Texans turned out to be a dirty, entangled, old Christmas decoration made out of nothing but simple foam. It seemed as though this once useful little object, that brought purpose with its presence, had been discarded & abandoned. I snapped a few pictures of it where it laid, then picked it up & moved it to a place with more traffic so that others might be as puzzled by its placement as had I.

My momma texted me tonight, just like she does every night to tell me that she loves me. Only this time her text included, "Jeff said he's coming to church tomorrow. He's bringing his trumpet to play a few songs. I told him to play one for me. I love you very, very much."
You wouldn't think a little text about a trumpet would bring me to my knees. But it did.
My little brother towers over me by nearly a foot at 6'9". He towers most people though. He's a gentle giant who quickly learned that sports just weren't his thing. Oh, but the talent he's been given to play that trumpet. I hear him occasionally, playing on his front porch. The sweet, old hymns he plays are music for my heart, as they are for many others. I stop whatever I'm doing & sing with him from a football field away, a fact he's never known.
For Christmas, as far back as I can remember, momma & my gmas only ever wanted one thing - to hear Jeff play. That's why the text from momma took me back for a moment. The last time I sat & watched my brother play was October 19, the night before Gma B went home.
She had teetered that day between fretfulness & being completely unresponsive. When my husband walked through the back door that night in tears, the news he gave only added to the grief I was trying to handle. His cousin, Tonya, had been found that day, unresponsive & the Drs gave no hope for her. I was devastated. Out of all of his cousins, I was the closest to Tonya. We sat there in the silence for a while until we heard the music beginning to play on the front porch. It was Jeffrey. With that same old trumpet. Momma, my cousin Erin, and I walked to gma's room. Her tent of a body was still there & so we sang to her. The music, those words of those songs brang us all the peace & comfort that God could give us. It was almost more than I could bear.
But that would be the last time I would watch my brother play, as he offered the only thing he had to give, and God magnified it into something so much greater.

In the morning, I'll sit with my friends, some that live inside & some that live outside. I'll attempt to hold a straight face as my brother plays, bringing peace, comfort & joy to my heart again. I'll think about that JOY I found, dirty & in the weeds this week . How it had been a part of a kit intended to make something simple into something fabulous. How God gave me his joy to make my life fabulous & complete, even when life just keeps on coming. How that joy has gotten overgrown by the weeds of life & battered by the storms that are still raging on around me. How it is frequently discarded & abandoned when my eyes fail to focus on the one who is in control. It's dirty & needs to be brushed off. It needs to be put up in a place in my life so that others can see it & wonder - What in the world?
I never would have suspected that these memories, a simple foam Christmas decoration & a talented trumpet player would bring me to this place. But it's so like God to do something completely unexpected just when I need him most.

Sweetest Name I Know

A few weeks ago while we were visiting family in Garland, I mentioned that the Spanish church we were sharing our space with that week sang songs that I knew. It was then that I was told the songs that I had grown up with, singing Sunday to Sunday, were new to a lot of churches. These hymns that seemed to have fallen by the wayside within the English speaking church had just recently been accurately translated into Spanish. I remember thinking how awesome it was that though our words sounded different, our hearts were saying the same thing.

I spent the evening with my Aunt B today. In a year of firsts, today we soberly realized that this day was the first day last year that life as we had known it was winding down. A year ago today I watched my momma & my gma dance for the first time. But today, for the first time, I reflected on all of the details lost in the blog post I wrote last year.
Momma & gma danced because gma had fallen that morning. We were sure that she had broken her recently healed hip as the telephone cord jumped right in front of her, tripping her up & causing her to take the tumble she wouldn't recover from. I remember the anxiety of the day. I remember waiting for the x-ray machine to come to the house - that was such a God thing. I remember watching my daddy & my brother pick her up & carry her to the bed. I remember the moaning & the pain that caused. Then we watched as they picked her up again to move her back to the couch when we couldn't get the machine in the bedroom for the privacy had she requested. I remember the dark walk home that night. The first of many more to come.
But today would bring out something from deep inside me that I just didn't expect. The whirlwind of emotions I felt in the weeks & months to come have been closely rivaled by the emotions I've felt leading up to today. But for the first time in a week, I woke up this morning without that sense of dread I had been feeling. For the first time since last fall my first thought was - Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. The trio of words that were spoken from that hospital bed more times than I can count. For the first time this morning of all days though, I finally remembered gma saying them. 
In a year of firsts, it's funny how the little things come back to you. It's almost as if through all the pain God translates something you took for granted & makes it fresh & new to bring you that indescribable comfort only He can give your heart. In a year of firsts, there has been tears and laughter. There have been phones picked up & put down only to remember she wouldn't answer on the other end. There have been voicemails replayed over & over in those quiet, lonely moments. There have been memories revisited and new celebrations made. In a year of firsts, I find God being just as faithful as He was when He walked us through all that would unfold.

Tonight as I walked home, checking the fairy lights along the way, my words were much different than I had expected them to be. I found that it wasn't just my heart speaking, but my voice singing because in a year of firsts God continues translating my pain into something new.  ~  There's within my heart a melody. Jesus whispers, sweet and low, "Fear not, I am with thee. Peace. Be still. In all of life's ebb and flow." Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Sweetest name I know. Fills my every longing. Keeps me singing as I go.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

All I have to give

I have always hated the term "mission trip". If you take the two words on their own by definition, you get a combined definition of a journey taken for the purpose of a task or activity. But when you dig a little deeper, you find that "mission trips" have traditionally been short term vacations with a purpose including time set aside for designated projects & activities that all make us feel super good about what we're doing for these poor people, complete with a photo montage so that you too can feel good about what I'm doing. Don't we all feel so good about what we're doing for God now? I bet he is just waiting to congratulate us. If only my arm was a little longer I could scratch my own back instead of merely just patting it. - Ok, so I added that last part for myself but seriously - look at what we in the western church call "mission trips".
So please, please, please do us both a favor & don't put me in the awkward place of telling me face to face that you're going on a mission trip. My questions would probably start with - So, how are your neighbors doing? What do you know about the culture in the place that you're going? Did you know that there are folks in our own hometown who sleep outside & that you don't have to go to _________ to "minister to" them? What does "ministering to" people even mean? When will you return to that place? Are you investing in each other's lives or merely going to "save" theirs?
Now, before you begin to get offended & start pointing fingers, please finish hearing me out. Eight years ago, I went on my very first, and last, mission trip. Eight years ago, God knew I needed a safe place & he took me to Garland, Texas to find it. In an old Gold's Gym, God met 8 heart broken adults & 9 kids in the body of one of the spunkiest little white haired ladies I've ever met. Through her, Jesus loved on us. Through the other staff members, God has taught me what the church is supposed to be like. Through the kids that would come to eat at the state's free summer lunch program & the teenagers that came to serve community service, God reminded us again what unconditional love looked like by splashing it across their faces. That summer, I had nothing to offer them. Nothing. They gave me so much more than I could have ever given them. Ever.
And so, year after year, we have returned to Garland, not on mission trip, but to reconnect with our friends, our brothers & sisters, who live here. I've got at least 4 years worth of duct tape name tags stuck to my bathroom wall as a daily reminder to pray for my boys. It's so humbling to be in a place where these elementary aged boys have people shuffle in & out on a weekly basis & yet they remember me. "Miss, didn't you have a mustache last year?" (I dressed up like King David everyday.) "Miss, didn't you put gummy worms in chocolate pudding them dig them out with your face that one time?" "Miss, can we make slime again this year?"
So when it came time to begin preparing for getting to visit with my boys, there were a lot of questions I had to ask myself. Can I go & trust that God is in control with everything that's going on with Gma P & Aunt S? Will I be able to physically do this? How can the schedule be arranged so that I can teach both the boys & the girls? But there was one question I dreaded most of all - What will you do when there's no call Wednesday night from gma asking how things are going & then praying over speaker phone for not only those of us who drove 4hrs to get here, but those at home, those who walk here, those who came to eat lunch, those who didn't AND what will you do when she's not there to take down the list of boys names & pray for them this next year?
In a room with 7 children & 3 other adults, I admit I cried myself to sleep last night. You see yesterday, we talked about how God can take our broken hearts & fix them into something new. Just about the time that those 30 boys were about to get rowdy, I smashed a beautiful red plate with a hammer. They were shocked. I asked them if anything had ever broken their hearts & watched those very active bodies sit still as I sat down on the floor in front of the stage where they were seated & told them about my gma. I told them how my heart had broken & how sometimes it still felt broken. I told them how gma loved them even though she never got to come meet them. I told them how she prayed for each of them by name everyday. It got really quiet. "But Miss? You'll see her in Heaven again one day, right?" I smiled. "Yes, and so can you. She'll love to actually meet you there."
Yesterday I realized, these boys have people who come through all summer long & want to convert them into little tiny Jesus lovers. They know all about Jesus & his 12 friends that went everywhere with him. They know about a short tax collector & a tree....which incidentally wasn't part of anything I had prepared....but anyway.... I have nothing more to offer them but myself. To be silly with them & wear a mustache. To fake the "Eww...gross" when we make slime on Friday, which also wasn't in my plan. To ask them & listen when they tell me what was for lunch. (I wish I could run downstairs & play soccer with them, but that's just not in the cards for me this year.) And to ask them again on Friday for their duct tape name tags so that I can pray for them again this year. I'm sure my momma will pray with me since gma's waiting for us.
These boys & girls don't need somebody announcing their wonderful plans to take a purpose-driven vacation. They don't need somebody to come in & re-invent the wheel of Bible school. They really don't even need me to tell them about Jesus - they have heard about him. They just need me to love them like Jesus would and that's all I really have to give them.
There are faces that I miss incredibly this year - some who have aged out, some who have moved on, some who are out of town for a while. But this is NOT eight years of mission trips for me & our birth children - this has been eight years of being completely invested, giving everything I am & everything I'm not. Eight years of boys. Eight years of laughter & tears God has given me. Eight years of watching them grow up a week at a time. Eight years of God writing their names on my heart. Eight years of spending a short week with our friends from a different town. Eight years of watching God grow & use the many staff members we've come to treasure & love. Eight years of being fully committed to loving & praying for them year round.
Until God tells me otherwise, I will continue giving them all I have to give, which is just myself. But because of Jesus, myself is just enough.