Treasuring. Pondering.

One year ago, I was on a plane bound for Ethiopia and filled with anticipation. I was mere days away from cradling my Lucia Mihret. And even though it is going to sound obvious and trite, I am going to say it...I cannot believe it's been a whole year. There aren't enough words or available minutes [until I'll need to fall asleep] to describe all that has happened. Simply put, I became a mother all over again.

It was unforgettable and significant in ways that, once again, words won't sufficiently describe. So here are a few pictures.

Just look how far she's (we've) come since that first feeding at the guest lodge in Addis...

   














It's all grace, really. God has been so good.

In several hours, Lord willing, we're all going to wake up eager and giddy. Ready to celebrate the greatest gift we've been given, Jesus. And another, too. Namely, the four of us being together on Christmas morning.

"But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." Luke 2:19

Merry Christmas from us.

"Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

("Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost.)

magnificently humble.

Not until a similar December, four years ago, when I gave birth to my first child, did I really start to imagine her giving birth, there. Mary, in a stable in Bethlehem. There is something about giving birth during the Christmas season. A time when we remember and meditate on the baby born over 2,000 years ago, our servant king, precious Savior, Jesus Christ. For me, Tessa's birth brought the story closer to my heart. Mary's experience seemed more real and tangible.

Last year, I travelled far away from the familiar snow, ice and evergreen of this season in Michigan. Into a land similar to the one Jesus was born into...I went to Ethiopia. Much closer to Bethlemhem than Grand Rapids! I went there to receive a child. Little Lucia Mihret. Her name means "bringer of light and mercy." How fitting! And so, again, meeting my child during the Christmas season brought the story closer. All the weariness of travelling helped me identify with that Mary once again.

It's incredible. All the pieces of the magnificently humble story of His birth. 

The brilliant star. The angel's announcement. A stable. A manger. Strips of cloth. A smattering of odd visitors.

"It's still a mystery to me, that the hands of God could be so small...
how tiny fingers reaching in the night
were the very hands that measured the sky."

Still a mystery to me,
how His infant eyes had seen the dawn of time
how His ears had heard an angel symphony
but still Mary had to rock her Savior to sleep."

(from "Here With Us," performed by Joy Williams)

Tessa and I have been talking about His birth. We marvel at those who believed, then, that tiny Jesus was the promised Savior.

Mary.
Joseph.
The angels.
The shepherds.
The magi from the east.
Simeon.
Anna.

And there were others.

And we believe today! He is our hope and our salvation. And He arrived into the world as a small, helpless newborn baby. Hallelujah!

The best part...He is coming again! His next arrival will be anything but small...

It's Tuesday.

And I am learning that I don't have a grasp of what it means to be blessed.

Is it strange that I know less and less as the years pass?

I had always assumed there was a list or something. With certain things on it...realized dreams, brilliant accomplishments, places travelled, children birthed, degrees earned, people met, flaws abolished...

I don't have a grasp. There is so much more.

My assumptions are being swept away with a gentle breeze. And here I am, realizing that I don't understand.

And I am thankful.
Because my original thoughts about the list were rather bland anyway.

Well, perhaps not bland.
But, limiting nonetheless.

okay...one more.

just one of the two of them.

11 months.

It's been 11 months since we passed court and Lucia became our daughter. It's about 30 days early, I know, for celebrating a year anniversary. However, we saw friends earlier today. They're in a time of waiting for their own court date to take place. Looking forward to traveling and holding their little girl for the first time, possibly in December. They have this longing to stay calm and to trust in the midst of great uncertainty and their longing is familiar. In truth, much of their story is reminiscent of ours.

So, I am recalling all that took place now. A little early, yes. Early is okay though. It has been a truly amazing journey.

I wrote about our trip to Ethiopia last January. I've been skipping & scrolling through my words tonight. It's really good to remember those short, life altering, days.

One little story I don't think that I shared last winter has been playing through my mind lately.

Walking (barely) off the last airplane...into the Gerald R. Ford Airport...Rob with Lucia in his arms and dragging all our bags...me with nothing (as I felt like I was going to fall over)...a crowd of people waiting...in the middle of them all, Tessa...

She came running to us. I noticed her little wrists were adorned with new bracelets. One with the letters, "T-E-S-S-A," and the other, "L-U-C-I-A." Tessa held our her arms to us. Rob asked her, referring to Lucia of course, "Do you know who this is?"

Tessa answered slowly, "My. Sis. Ter." And she reached a gentle hand to Lucia's cheek.

Each syllable was drawn out with emotion. She was smiling from ear to ear.

This morning, at Tabernacle, Pastor Marvin asked us to think about a time when we were awed by God. He mentioned several of his own. When he first knew Jesus as his Redeemer. Being called into the ministry. The birth of his children.

I thought about that moment in the airport. On my knees, next to my husband and my two daughters. All four of us, for the first time, together. After so many miles. It was one of those moments. Time was still. I was in awe of all God had done to bring our little family together.

I was in awe of Him.

Just the memory of that moment.

I am in awe of Him.

Thoughts on being separated.

One of my dearest friends, Kendra, called yesterday to tell me that her mother had died. It was sudden, very unexpected.

I didn't know what to say. I kept blubbering, "I love you. I am so sorry."

Later, I prayed for her family. For peace. For the Spirit to pour out grace and mercy. Encouragement. Strength. Understanding. For them to be overwhelmed by God's love. And by His amazing truth.

That He has redeemed us through the work of Jesus Christ.

Death's sting is gone. Amen! It's gone!

"Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" -1 Cor. 15:55

My friend's mother, Mary Claire, has departed from her many grandchildren, two daughters and their husbands, a son and his wife, and her very own loving spouse. I can only imagine the countless other family members, church family members, and friends. All missing her today. All grieving and remembering. Laughing and weeping. Together.

Mary Claire taught me how to make strawberry jam. It was a fourth of July weekend a few summers ago. Kendra, Lindsey and I were gathered at her kitchen island, hulling the berries and pouring the sugar. The jam was delicious. But the memory is sweeter. Especially today.

So, I am thoughtful. I continue imagining all that Kendra and her family must be feeling and saying, believing and wondering. It's difficult to imagine.
My heart mourns with Kendra. With her children. And her husband.

[Kendra, I love you. I think of the relevancy of our discussions lately. Pursuing a "kingdom-like perspective." He is coming soon. What great hope we have in Christ!]

I am also thoughtful of the others I've known. Who have departed and gone ahead. Especially my Grandpa.
I was sitting at my parent's kitchen table a few weeks ago. We were talking. And I thought, we should ask Grandpa about this... Suddenly, I realized, we can't. He's not living next door anymore. We can't pick up the phone and call him. So I grieved again, for a moment.

We've been separated. And the separation is difficult and strange.

I wrote this poem on the day my Grandpa passed away. I thought I'd share it now. In memory of Him.
And of Mary Claire.

Today, it seems applicable to both of them.

"And the sun was just arriving

that morning the two travelled

down the path

to say goodbye

though neither knew

that it would be goodbye

and then it was

and the sky began to weep

for a man who had lived

and love

and gave

and was loved."