Journal from Ethiopia 4/2/18

This morning I was thumbing through a journal that I wrote the last time I went to Ethiopia. Since so many of my friends and family will never get to experience what I experience when I go there, I thought maybe it would be appropriate to share this writing from April 2, 2018.

Monday, April 2, 2018

It is the wee hours of the morning again, and I am sitting on the bathroom floor so I can have enough light to write but not so much to wake up the kids. The jet lag is still really messing with me.

This morning we will drop Alem off in Wuchale and say goodbye. I can't imagine how hard this is going to be. She has asked if we are coming back and if we can bring our older children back next time.

My mind is swimming with ideas: Facebook posts I need to make, money I need to raise, places I need to speak. Yet what do I say? How do I convince people how much help is needed and how much is within their financial ability, yet not convey that life is hopeless in Wuchale? Because it isn't. The Holy Spirit is in Wuchale. He is working! It is our job to be His vessels for the blessings He wants to pour out on His people.

I have discovered that one does not visit rural Ethiopia to go on a vacation. It is far more likely that you will go home exhausted and emotionally wrecked. It is likely your heart will be broken into a million little pieces and that the Holy Spirit and the people you meet will bind it back together, sealing up the broken spots with love and memories. And you will return home, secretly looking forward to a long, hot shower and American food, but also with a feeling of purpose and vision and passion.

You will go to Ethiopia with some degree of the white savior complex, no matter how hard you have tried to shed it. You will return with the understanding that our simple help will not save one person, let alone a community or region or country. You will realize that your job as a Christian is not to save anyone from their circumstances, but instead your job is to simply love on people. You may have a way to help, which is good, but it is Jesus' power to save and His alone.

You will come back humbled because in all those times when you have felt sorry for impoverished people, you neglected to realize that sympathy is not what they need. You'll realize that in feeling sorry for them, you somehow thought of their lives as lesser, but in visiting them, you are blown over by the love, the feeling of community, and the power/endurance they show in daily living.

Yes, in some ways you will recognize that the Western way of life is wealthy monetarily, but rural Ethiopian life is rich in other ways. You will start to recognize the poverty in your own life--whether emotional, spiritual, or physical. And you will learn to give thanks to the people and for the people who profoundly influence you.

Yesterday morning I went to church with a Mekane Yesus congregation here in Dessie. The service was over two hours long, and I recognized only a few words: hallelujah, amen, Yesus, amesat genalem. BUT the enthusiasm during worship? The church filled from front to back, not back to front. Hands were in the air, praise leaders' eyes were closed, focusing on God. The church service was loud and alive.

Remind me again who we think of as poor.

Finding Peace in Parenthood

This morning I was rolling a skein of yarn into a ball as I was listening to contemporary Christian music stream through my Echo device. The Holy Spirit chose that odd few minutes to remind me of a time when I was struggling.

Back in 1998 I was working as a high school teacher in a small northwest Iowa town 18 miles south of my home. I had two small children, Caleb and Kaylee, whom I of course loved with a kind of love that I really had never known before. As my husband and I raised these two, we were both working full-time and I was pursuing my master's degree in education. At the time I was also completely overcome with anxiety.

I could hold it together during the day. I really could. Teaching would encompass eight to ten hours a day, then I would go home and spend my remaining hours on homework for my own classes and on my tasks as a young mother. I was proud of my productivity, proud of my job, proud of my family life.

Still, a recurring dream would haunt me many nights. My house was on fire. There was little time to get out, and I had two children to save, on two opposite sides of my house. I had to pick one. Before my decision was ever made, I would wake up in complete panic. Hours later, I would remember the dream and fret the whole 20 minutes to work. Whom would I save? Whom would I save? Whom would I save?

As I've grown older, my anxieties have eased. Now when I wake up at night, it is more often because I naively had a caffeinated beverage the previous afternoon. I still worry, but now I worry about my teenagers' decisions but also understanding that their mistakes are to large degree, out of my control. Of course,  I also have my teenagers who roll their eyes at me, laugh at my angst, and  overdramatize my worries to the point of absurdity. For example, if  I'm worried one is late from school, my youngest may agree, saying, "Yep, he's probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere."

But today—this beautiful spring day—the Holy Spirit decided to remind me what happened before my long-ago nightmares finally ended.

I gave my kids over. I remembered my six-year-old son and two-year-old daughter were never to be mine but for a season, so I relinquished them to Jesus. On those anxiety-fraught drives to school, instead of begging God to bend to my will, I asked for the strength to bend to His will. Whatever is in Your plan, God, I praise You. If You choose to gather my children into your loving arms, I know there is no place safer. Not my will, but Yours be done.

The nightmares stopped, and I regained my life and my joy.

Why did the Holy Spirit remind me today of what happened so long ago? I've been worried about my children, about things that are out of my control. I am reminded because again, I need to hand them over, to recognize that I am not the God of the universe. I can't predict the future, how all my concerns will turn out. But I know God hears my prayers, and I know He hears yours too. It is time  let God be God, and be reminded that I can find peace just by being in His presence. 

Driving--Oh No!

On Monday my 16-year-old son obtained his restricted driving permit. He has been driving with me for two years and back and forth to school for one year, so this transition should not be so difficult as it is. We have had all the appropriate discussions regarding how to act if he is pulled over by a police officer, how to get from one place to another, how to be conscious of others as he is walking through a parking lot.

Today this son of mine went to the Mission Impossible movie without me. Over the last months we have talked about appropriate and inappropriate movies, ratings systems, and--for goodness' sake--even the unhealthiness of movie popcorn, which we always get in a size large, lots of butter. After the movie he is heading to the mall where he intends to buy a pair of shoes with his own money. He called to verify how much was in his account as he was waiting for the movie to start. (Responsible, right?)

He is a good kid. He really is. But he is still a kid.

I am scared.

As a mom of teenagers, I run the risk of being over-protective. I have the means to be the mom-spy of mom-spies. I can verify location, spending, grades at any time of the day. I can even verify whether he brushed his teeth this morning. Or I could just require him to spend all his time with me. On the other hand, I can also be under-protective, and be blissfully unaware, confident my child makes all the right decisions. I do not know where the line is between the two.

If you were to press me, you would find that pride is part of my issue. Not only do I want my kids to make good decisions for their sake and for their future, but I want them to make good decisions so I have no reason to be embarrassed. That's a selfish but painful truth.

I will never forget one mom's comment the day of her son's suicide, saying she had tried to live a life with no regrets, and at that moment, she had the biggest regret of her life--the regret of not knowing. So I try to be all-knowing, all-present, and all-powerful. There's only one problem with that. I know only One who is all those things, and even He lets us make mistakes, then learn and turn from them.

I know what I need to do. I need to place all my kids at the feet of their Creator and let go a little. Today in my Bible time I read Ephesians 3: 16-19: "I pray that out of His glorious riches he may strengthen you with power so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge--that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God."

Today I pray that my kids will grow closer and closer to Christ, the they will feel the Holy Spirit with them as their guide. I pray that I can let go just enough to let my kids make their own mistakes, but that when they make them, they will know just how deep and high and wide and long the love of Christ is. If they know that, I have done my job.

Lettin' It Go

Every day I wash somewhere around 400 eggs for my son's egg project. Some days I actually find it a relief to go out to the egg washing area, which is nestled in the corner of our machine shed. There I hit shuffle on my favorite iTunes playlist, turn the fan on, and get into the rhythm of feeding the egg washer two and three eggs as I remove the clean eggs with my other hand from another chute. It takes about an hour, and sometimes it is nice just to be alone for that long. When I'm finished, I load the cases of eggs into our commercial-sized refrigerator and return to the noise of  three happy preteen and teen boys.

Today as I was loading the eggs into the fridge, I glanced at the boxes that I had put in there previous days.

Now, when you look at the next picture, you absolutely must hear this Psycho music because I promise that this is the music that played through my head when I saw the eggs.

Yes. My refrigerator has decided it wants to be a FREEZER.

My first thought raced back to the Great Chicken Massacre of 2015, when my dog not only decided chasing chickens was fun, but also that they were delicious.

That day I cried not because I care about chickens. (I know I should, but they still creep me out sometimes.) No, I cried because the 25 chickens that we lost represented a number of kids in Ethiopia who would have been able to eat and stay in school.

But I didn't cry. Not this time. Why? Because I've worried too much, and I have decided to let it go. (Please tell me you clicked that link because...well, the song is so appropriately from Frozen.) Truthfully, that's just part of the reason. (But that was cute, don't you think?)

The truth is that I have worried about the farm economy, I have worried about our chickens getting the bird flu, I have worried about getting the chores done when we are busy, and I have worried about the summer heat getting to the birds. And not one of those worries matters because I choose to have faith that God is behind this project. If He isn't, we would have had a fun time getting eggs from 100 chickens and would have said "That's enough" three years ago. If it wasn't God's plan, we wouldn't still be getting calls and messages from new subscribers, and I certainly wouldn't feel the joy I do when delivering your eggs to you. Most of all, 76 kids would not be benefitting from your donations if God were not behind it.

So today I threw out ten gallons of broken eggs, frozen from my refrigerator's little foray into freezerdom. But I counted my blessings for the 2,340 chilly but still intact (and of course, delicious) eggs that will be enough to meet our subscription numbers tomorrow morning.

Tomorrow your eggs probably won't be in their cool patterns because today I hurriedly repackaged them, minus their cracked-up neighbors. I trust you will enjoy them just the same. And thanks for being on this journey with us, friends.

Biruk's Egg Project: A History and a Request

Two years ago our family started out on what seemed like a simple mission project: to buy a small number of laying hens, to provide those eggs to customers in exchange for donations, and to send those donations to a mission in Wuchale, Ethiopia, where two of our sons were born.

God always has bigger plans.

A History

Following their adoption in October 2013, Biruk and Tadesse frequently expressed concern about kids from their hometown of Wuchale. It was then that Biruk came up with the idea for the egg project, and life hasn't been the same since in the Van De Stroet home.

Grandma and Grandpa Van De Stroet donated a small old shed for our first chickens.

At first we laughed and thought we were overwhelmed with eggs.

Still, we found ourselves getting more and more chickens in order to satisfy the demands for farm fresh eggs.













Shortly thereafter, Biruk and I began speaking to local groups and churches about his vision to help children in Wuchale. Our mission became threefold:

1. To provide assistance to the EECMY mission in Wuchale through donations and sponsorships, but also to empower residents of Wuchale to build their own means of supporting themselves.

2. To educate others about the differences between first and third world countries.

3. To motivate others—no matter their age—to make a positive difference to those living in poverty, remembering that God can turn small offerings into big blessings (and those blessings flow in both directions).

Following a trip to Wuchale by our Ethiopian friend Abel, we were able to identify the EECMY mission there as a viable conduit for our funding and purpose. Already established in Wuchale, our new friend and missionary Melaku had plans in place to help the community, and he identified a number of ways Biruk's Egg Project could assist. Biruk decided that he most wanted the funding to go toward helping kids who were in need.

Individual sponsorships began. Sponsorships provided educational materials, food allowances, clothing allowances, and medical care. Later we also added general food assistance to the community because it was experiencing a drought.

While sponsorships were getting started, word spread about the project. Interest grew, and our flock of hens grew. What started out as fifteen minutes of washing eggs at the kitchen sink soon turned into an hour, and we began egg subscription services and weekly deliveries to Canton, SD residents and businesses.

We began looking for a small commercial egg washer and after a number of months found one made at Gibson Farms in Ohio. This sure beat washing eggs by hand! We also found someone willing to sell a used Pepsi cooler so we would have adequate space to refrigerate the growing number of eggs.

In the meantime, we knew and understood our responsibility for fiscal accountability, so we asked our friend and social worker Meselu to travel from Addis Ababa to Wuchale to check on the work that the mission was doing. Meselu, who has such a gentle heart for kids and our project, was able to meet Melaku and a few kids supported by our project.

What a joy it is to us to see videos of the kids sponsored by your donations to this project!


Meselu was able to visit with Tadesse and Biruk's Ethiopian mom Alem as well, and Melaku had been able to visit with Alem earlier. She gave her life to Christ during that meeting! Alem is doing fine, and we look forward to seeing her again.

Because of the incredible demand for eggs, we added another small henhouse, then eventually remodeled a larger shed to accommodate a large number of hens. Today we have 600-700 hens. (No one has volunteered to count them for an exact number.) Now we collect 40-45 dozen eggs per day, which is enough to fill a regular kitchen's refrigerator every single day.

Biruk does not handle the chores. It is beyond the amount of time and strength he has. (Don't tell him that last part.) In the summer Tadesse and Elijah feed the chickens (It's better than lifting weights, we say), Jerome and extended relatives do upkeep on the buildings and nests, and I collect and wash the eggs. Biruk continues to act as spokesperson and as biggest motivator to us all.

Sponsorship has expanded to include a new group of high school students, and we are excited to start a new initiative for Biruk's Egg Project. Melaku recommended that we buy hens for our sponsored kids' families as a means for food for themselves as well as a means of income. This picture speaks for itself, doesn't it?

We have learned so much—about chicken raising, of course—but more so about the tremendous support of our community and about the way blessings have a way of flowing backwards. We intended to be a blessing to others but wound up being amazed by God's perfect timing, the willingness of His people, and the perseverance of our brothers and sisters in Christ halfway around the world.

Our days are full. Our cup is overflowing. Our God is good.

A Request

A few people have asked how they can help besides subscribing, and we have the following ideas:

• Pray for the project's mission, and the children, families, and mission staff in Wuchale.
• Spread the word about the project. Our best marketing comes from our subscribers who tell their extended families, friends, and neighbors. Ask us for some business cards for you to hand out to interested people.
• Keep your eyes peeled for another large pop cooler for sale and let us know if you see one.
• Volunteer to be an egg washer occasionally. This job takes one to two hours per day and allows your to get your feet wet--and your hands dirty--with our project.
• Be a church coordinator and gather subscriptions from your church. We can deliver there and you can collect donations for the project.
• If you have experience in marketing, entrepreneurship, law, chicken farming, or ministry, volunteer to be an advisor for our project. Sometimes we have questions that we would like to bring up among a group of interested experts.
• Volunteer to deliver eggs to your place of work or a community you visit weekly. 
• Volunteer to deliver eggs to Canton subscribers occasionally (time commitment: three hours).

We are thankful to you because our egg project would not be successful without you.  Message us if you have questions about the project. We would love to give you more information.

Don't forget to follow us on Facebook!

Watch a KDLT video about the project.

**UPDATE: In 2017 we established a board of directors and were granted 501(c)(3) status through the IRS, which enables our subscribers and friends to donate money that is deductible on their income taxes. Our sponsorship numbers increased to 76. With any extra eggs we have, we support other nonprofits in our area.

Knowing Renato

His name is Renato, and he was three years old. His eyes radiated joy, and for my daughter who has spent the last two months in Haiti, he symbolized love as he daily reached his arms to her and said, "Big hug!"

Renato died last night on his way to the hospital, in the arms of his young nurse. Renato was an orphan but is now standing next to his Father, at the throne of God, impoverished no more. Renato's life was not in vain.

When you complain about wait times in your doctor's waiting room, I want you to think about the many Haitian children who die because they don't even have access to simple medical care. When you hug your children at night, remember to count yourselves blessed. When you lift up the handle on your faucet and fill up your glass, think of the millions of people around the world who have no access to clean drinking water. Count your blessings, but don't stop there. Find a mission and commit yourself to contributing to it and praying for it.

Don't feel guilty. Do something.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God."
--Matthew 5: 3-9


Donate to the Touch of Hope Mission here.

SaveSave

Vulnerability, Part 2

Sometimes people comment on how my writing feels real to them, and to me there is no greater compliment. I haven't always been that way—quite so willing to share my missteps and my embarrassment, so I thought I would fill you in a little on why I am the way I am, why I wear my heart on my sleeve and perhaps sometimes place myself in the precarious position to be teased, misunderstood, or even ridiculed.

Many years ago, following and actually even a little before the birth of my oldest child, I went through a period of months where I sunk into a pretty deep depression. I questioned my worth, my direction. My whole outlook was maybe not bitter toward others, but self-loathing. I could see the value in others but not in myself. No matter what I did, it wasn't good enough for the measure I had set up for myself. Really, my hormones had probably gone haywire, and it resulted in a spiritual and emotional battle neither my husband nor I was prepared for.

Not only did I feel lost, but I was in hiding and ashamed. My husband knew, but I hid this spiritual starvation from my close family and even my closest friends. That turned out to be the worst thing I could have done.

Following the healing I received (by the grace of God) and the excruciating pain of grieving my brother's suicide years later, I realized that far too many people feel alone: alone in humiliation, alone in pain, alone in sadness. Much of this isolation comes because we refuse to talk about the very things that matter.

I live in northwest Iowa, an area infamous for the prim and proper persona, where supposedly hair is perfect and makeup is always done before one leaves the house. This is where our kids are always kind and generous, where our houses are dust-free, where our husbands make enough money to make us comfortable but not so much as to call ourselves wealthy. I live in an area where happiness is not only valued but expected because our lives are just so—well, perfect. But you see, all of  this is just a facade which we hide behind because the struggles are here as much as they are anywhere else. We just hide it well. From my estimation, that is a sin of pride.

As I realized that people around me (and if I'm honest, I as well) were hurting from all their perceptions of their neighbors' perfection, I realized that we were being stripped of our joy, and I came across Brene Brown's Ted Talk "The Power of Vulnerability." My friends, it turns out that her research shows that one of the characteristics that allows people to feel joy is their release from perfection, their willingness to be vulnerable with others. And really, isn't recognizing our own vulnerability the only way to see our need for the grace supplied by Jesus' death and resurrection?

Slowly and by measured steps, I have been pursuing vulnerability. I am trying to lift up even my worst traits, the characteristics I'm still working on, the missteps and humiliations, and trying to realize that God can use me even with them, in spite of them, or even because of them.

Don't you think it's possible that our awesome, mysterious, wonderful God can take even those moments and make a lesson out of them? What if your moment could be an inspiration to others? What if it reminds them they are not alone? What if God can use you even in the midst of heartache and pain? What if your vulnerability that is eclipsed by joy can be a change agent for those around you? What if your mess-turned-message is the most important sermon they will hear this week? What if your remembrance of pain allows you an empathy to see others as God sees them?

I am seeing and feeling the truth of it. When I have less to hide, I can have more to give.

Today I encourage you to watch the TED Talk linked above, and I ask God to show both you and me those places where our vulnerability may open the eyes of another to God's incredible blessings of true joy.

Me---A Little Too Vulnerable

Sometimes I wonder if God puts situations in front of us for entertainment value—His, not ours. Or maybe my jokester brother is up there in heaven saying, "Would you please put Tami in this situation?" since he is no longer here with us to make us laugh. I'm teasing, of course. There is no biblical reasoning to say that God plays with our minds.

Today is laundry day. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. questioning whether my boys had clean clothes to wear to school. So I got up and began washing, drying, and folding. I don't mind, really, because I am an early bird anyway.

But today isn't just a simple laundry day. Today I was excited to attend a little birthday party at Laura's Lattes in Canton because one of my close friends just turned 50. Our close knit group of friends doesn't get together often enough, and I miss them.

Anyway, because it is laundry day, I did what any sanity-loving mom does and grabbed the jeans I wore yesterday (for just a few hours) off the floor and pulled them on quickly before I ran out the door. When I reached Canton I stopped at the local pharmacy to buy my friend a present and card, and then was on my way to meet them.

Now, you have to realize one thing. My friends are smart. And cool. And accomplished. One of the first things my friend Nancy said to me was, "Have you been writing?" Accountability—I like that in a friend. One of the last things I said as I left was how I am lucky to have them as my friends. These three friends and I have been laughing and encouraging each other for close to 25 years.

After our two hours of visiting, I hustled out the back door to get home. As I approached my pick up, what I saw on the running board just below the driver's side door stopped me in my tracks. A bunched-up pair of navy blue underwear lay there, looking an awful lot like the pair I wore yesterday.

Uh, yeah. Yesterday's underwear which were likely at one point inside the pant leg of yesterday's jeans which I. Was. Currently. WEARING.

So of course my life flashed before my eyes—or at least my life of the previous three hours. I imagined myself walking through the pharmacy, gracefully trailing my navy blue underwear behind me. Or I thought of myself standing in line for my chai latte at the coffee shop, other patrons' mouths agape behind me and the baristas pointing and giggling as I went on my way. 

Following my brief pause, I grabbed the underwear, threw them into the pick up cab, and laughed maniacally all the way home, likely frightening passersby. I also called two of my sisters-in-law and related the story (I will probably be getting underwear for Christmas for the next ten years). I texted my friends, too, but none will admit to finding my underwear and placing them on my pick up. I don't think I'll ever look the coffee shop baristas in the eye again.

I figure God needed to give me a little humble pie today. Or maybe He thinks I need to die my hair red. Or become a missionary to Africa. Regardless, I got the point, God. No need for a repeat lesson.

All in the Numbers

I have an aversion to numbers, a problem I discovered when in my high school algebra class. Even though I understood geometry quite a bit better, high school was the end of my positive relationship with math. Since then, I have enjoyed posting a number of memes on my social media pages:

The irritation I felt toward numbers didn't end in high school. By the time I reached graduate school, I had to study just enough statistics in order to better understand educational measurement, margins of error, and standard deviations. From there I had to decide whether my master's thesis research would be quantitative or qualitative. Quantitative would have involved collecting data by measurement and then analyzing that data. Qualitative meant exploring human behavior through interviews and observation. I chose quantitative. Just joking.

Numbers followed me to work as well. As I taught high school English for a number of years, I noticed that a gradual shift was happening away from the beauty of literature and creative writing to progress measured by the means of standardized testing. Later, in my marketing work, I learned about ROI, PPC, CPC, all terms related to the number of dollars a business earns or spends. With our farming business, our banker would come out once a year to tally our long, middle, and short-term assets and compare them to our long, middle, and short-term liabilities in an effort to calculate our net worth.

Numbers had become not only a part of my life, but a focus. I had bought into the philosophy that numbers defined me, and unfortunately, through the years I have somehow subscribed to the saying that "If it can't be measured, it doesn't exist." Worth had to be measured.

You see, I weigh myself almost daily, thinking that the number on the scale is an accurate representation of whether I am attractive. On my bad days as a stay at home mom, I sometimes look at my lack of personal income as a failure to contribute to our family's needs. Just as foolishly, I notice way too often how many likes my Facebook status just received. The effect? Many times I have become disgusted with myself because my numbers in various areas of my life don't always add up to what I want them to.

So this morning I did what every Christian should do when faced with a personal dilemma. I looked to my Bible. Surely numbers can't be as important there.

This was the first thing I found:

There you go. A whole book written about numbers. And I thought, you have to be kidding me.

Still, though I am no Bible scholar, I know it well enough to know that the census of the Old Testament and the measurements of the temple and Noah's ark are really not the crux of the Bible message. Nope, the Bible message can more accurately be explained by 5 + 2 ≠ 5,000 but 5 + 2 + J = 5,000. A number of times in the Gospels (Matthew 14, Luke 9, Mark 6, John 6),  we are told the story of the five loaves and two fish and the feeding of the 5,000 people who had been listening to Jesus but were hungry. The disciples asked Jesus how they were supposed to feed the followers, and Jesus took the meager offering of five loaves and two fish, and He made it enough—not just enough, but with some to spare. Now, we can view this as a ridiculous amount of redundancy in the Bible; after all, the story is repeated four times. Better yet, we can see it as something so important that it is repeated four times just to make sure it sticks. What we come with is not enough, but what what we come with plus what Jesus provides is more than enough.

You see, we can keep measuring ourselves with our imaginary yardsticks. We can keep counting. We can keep setting that standard of success just a little bit higher, knowing that the carrot will keep us moving forward. Or we can understand that when we bring what we have, what we have been blessed with, to the table as an offering to our God, He will make up the difference.

That's a whole lot more encouraging than algebra, isn't it?

The Big Fix

This morning as I was getting out of bed, I was thinking about how to spend my spa gift card that my mother-in-law and father-in-law gave me for Christmas. Rather than the massage I had planned on, I mentioned to Jerome that I wondered whether a microdermabrasion could get rid of a scar on my nose. Jerome said, "But I don't even notice that scar."

I laughed and said, "That's just because you love me."

His response: "Right. Isn't that what matters?"

How true is that? When we first brought Tadesse home, I noticed the space where his front teeth were missing every time I looked at him. It's funny, though; I hardly notice it anymore. Then again, I love him. I see the crinkly nosed smiles. I see sparkle in his eyes when he is trying really hard to portray toughness. 

Movie Madness with the Van De Stroets

Last night my family went to the movies. Now, in interest of full disclosure, I'll let you know that I had planned to go with just my daughter to Mockingjay as sort of a girls' night out. However, since our sons had been asking to see Annie anyway, Jerome took them to the musical (there's irony in that) at the same theater.

Because I hate standing in last-minute lines for popcorn (and one has to buy popcorn), I asked Jerome to drop me off a little early so I could get the tickets and stand in line. After all, I love movies so much that I hate even missing the previews. Biruk and Tadesse went with me to help me carry the food and drinks and so they could spend a couple of their quarters on the video games before the movie started.

Response Requested

Yesterday I wrote about how I made the mistake of using a disciplinary system that was inappropriate for my kids and how learning to love my kids first, before expecting any kind of good behavior, really made a positive difference in our family life. Then I explained how God also loves us no matter what.

There's always more to a story than first meets the eye, isn't there? Every fight takes two. Every relationship takes commitment from both partners. Yesterday I wrote my blog on my phone while waiting for one of my sons at an appointment. As I drove home, I decided that I needed to write a part two, the rest of the story.

Learning to See Beyond Red

Back when we first brought Tadesse and Biruk home, we struggled so much to communicate. Behaviors that were acceptable in Ethiopia were not acceptable here, and without the language to explain it, we struggled. There were the big things like hitting and kicking, yes, but also a myriad of smaller behaviors like sitting on a stranger's car or grabbing a toy a sibling was playing with. 

We made a mistake—one of many, in fact—in those early days of our time together. Knowing that elementary teachers use a card system of green, yellow, and red to indicate when a child was doing great (green), when one was starting to show patterns of misbehavior or sometimes pushing our buttons both figuratively and literally (yellow), as well as when the child had really messed up (red), we decided to try it. Once  a person's red card was up, he or she lost allowance for the week. Even without the benefit of a common language, my two new boys understood very quickly how the cards worked.

Defaulting to Joy

When I was a kid, probably more specifically a teenager, I remember my mom constantly reminding me to smile. It drove me nuts. Why smile when I wasn't feeling happy? I had a whole rainbow of emotions: indifference, irritation, satisfaction, boredom, insolence, curiosity, contentment. According to my teenage self, only happiness called for a smile. The rest just didn't matter, and I could keep my countenance on any random expression.

The older I've become, the more I've realized how right she actually was. For your viewing pleasure, I Googled scowls and came up with these beauties:

What I Need, When I Need It

When preparing for Tadesse and Biruk to come home from Ethiopia, one of tasks I really enjoyed was purchasing the shoes, clothing, bedding, and a few toys that I anticipated that they would need. One part was difficult, however; we were advised not to start them off with all the items that our other children possessed. After all, the possessions of our other children took years to accumulate. Caleb, Kaylee, and Elijah earned and saved their money to buy electronics and toys. Relatives gave them additional gifts for their birthdays and at Christmas, resulting in bedrooms almost bulging in kid stuff.

When Tadesse and Biruk came home from Ethiopia, we consciously provided them with everything they needed but allowed room for them to acquire the things that they wanted.

This is more difficult than one would think. How many pairs of shoes do little boys need? Tadesse and Biruk went without shoes until they went to the orphanage in Wuchale. (Can you imagine getting used to shoes at the ages of eight and eleven?) We purchased them three pairs each: two pairs of tennis shoes and a pair of church shoes.

When November rolled around and the weather turned colder, I was perplexed by a demand from Tadesse, who was learning basic English: “Mom! Shoes, me! Shoes, me!” I would take him to his basket of shoes and show him the three pairs that I had purchased. He kept insisting, “Shoes, me!”

So I did something I can do pretty well. I became frustrated. To me, this son of mine was expressing ingratitude. I had bought him three (high quality!) pairs of shoes, and he was already nagging me for more. The nerve.

The weather that week continued to worsen, and after a few days, I finally realized that Tadesse was just asking for snow boots. When I explained that I would get them soon, he was satisfied. Still, as a parent who provided for him, I was exasperated that he was asking for more than what I had already provided. I wanted him to trust me that I would provide exactly what he needed precisely when he needed it.

I am much the same as my dear son Tadesse. The other day I purchased a National Geographic magazine called Best of Europe: 100 Must-See Destinations. I paged through it, thinking of dreamy vacations in gorgeous locations.

Now, I have had more travel opportunities than many; I took five of my students on a ten-day, four-country excursion through Europe. I visited Mexico and Canada with my parents. I went on a short-term mission trip with my in-laws to Haiti. I went to Ethiopia not once, but twice. Yet my travels still seem to whet my appetite for more. 

I mentioned the magazine purchase to one of my friends, who said, “Just pull a C-note from the money tree, Tami.”

This was a much needed wake-up call because if I happened to have a money tree growing in the back yard, I am quite confident that I should not spend that money traveling. Or buying myself the granite countertop I’ve been thinking about. Or buying a brand new Suburban.

I thought back to Tadesse and the shoes. I had provided and sacrificed for him, yet when he asked for more (even though I had planned to provide him with those snow boots), it somehow hurt that he was asking for it.

I need to trust God to provide for me—just what I need, precisely when I need it. 

The world is filled with hurting people who don’t have shoes or the means to provide their families with shelter. I am buying National Geographic magazines highlighting exotic travel locations.

There is something wrong with that, and there is something wrong with me constantly pining over things I don’t need. At least I know just where to go to get the help needed for me to change.

Heavenly Father, thank you for not only providing for my needs, but for blessing me with incredible experiences and people who love me. Help me, Lord, to be grateful and content with what I already have. Amen.

This Is It

Our house is chaotic. While there's a TV blaring in one room, there's an argument going on in the next, and someone's listening to music in the next. Quiet, meaningful conversations usually take place in one of two locations: in the bedroom right before bedtime and in the car away from most of the distractions.

One day when we were alone together in the car, Biruk asked me why I adopted him when I already had three kids. I thought on that a moment, and simply said, "God told me to." Now, I don't have any more direct line to God than the rest of you do. I pray. I try to listen but am often left wondering. I've never heard God speak to me out loud, but I've experienced some series of coincidences that seem like pretty good indicators of what God wants from me.

And so it was out there. I didn't tell Biruk that I was sad because I only had three kids when I wanted five because I wasn't...and I didn't. I told Biruk that I loved my kids and that when Jerome and I kept coming across Bible verses about adoption, we decided we were meant to adopt. I told him that I knew I would love as many kids as God placed in my home.

A few nights later, as is Biruk's thoughtful custom, he questioned me more: "Mom, why are you here?"

Suddenly I felt emotionally naked. How did he know? How could he have figured out that this has always been my question, that my brain was a confused jumble of Am I supposed to be teaching? What am I missing? What is my purpose? Who does God want me to be? Is it to be a stable wife to my busy husband? Is it to write something that inspires? Is it to be a good friend? Who am I, anyway?

In that very moment, the answer became clear. I looked at his trusting brown eyes and said, "Biruk, I'm here because I was supposed to adopt you. I am here so I can be your mom."

He was easily satisfied with that answer and wandered off about the house to do something else. Later that evening, in the quietness before bedtime, he said, "Mom, I know why I'm here. I'm here to help the people in Ethiopia who don't have enough to eat."

Sometimes as moms and dads, we think the mark we make needs to happen at work. We need to make a name for ourselves, make some decent money, earn the respect of others. We forget that those we influence the most are those within our own homes, those God has entrusted to us. 

Tonight when you kiss your kids goodnight, why don't you tell them why you are here? I'm guessing it's what you need to say and probably exactly what your kids need to hear.

Blessings, friends.

Vacation Perfection

This morning I am writing my blog from vacation, from one of my favorite spots: Leech Lake in northern Minnesota. We're over halfway through our week here, where my mom met my dad over fifty years ago, and where we have taken periodic family vacations as far back as I can remember.

I love the sounds of the loons and the lap of the waves on the beach, especially as I'm sleeping. I love the sunrises and the sunsets. I love the giggles from the kids as they swim, kayak, and tromp around the cabin and the laughter from the adults as they play cards into the evening. I love watching my brother-in-law taking pictures of every bird he spots. I love sitting around the fire with my sisters and mom as we chat and read. I love feeling the tug on my line as I fish, and I love the warmth of the sun. If you haven't figured it out yet, I love everything about this place.

The problem: it's hard to go back. Even before we'd left home, I felt this uneasiness because I knew that just when I would be getting used to the feeling of being here, it would be time to go home. Home isn't a bad place to be; it's just that this setting is idyllic. It's the stuff songs are written of.

Here, one can be a kid or an adult.

Here, I don't have to pay attention to my calendar because frankly, this is what it looks like:

Is it possible that that this is God's way of hinting at what heaven will be like? Do you suppose an angel is standing there with a checklist, something like this?

Yes, I'm being facetious. 

While I can't stay at this lake forever or pack my life in a box and move it here, God promises me (and you) a place even more peaceful, more joyous, more complete. While I have a lot I want to accomplish and experience here during my life, it brings a certain serenity to know that this vacation is simply a taste of what is to come.

"Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him.  They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. 5 There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever." Revelation 22: 1-5

Pink Security

When Jerome and I were married, his mom gave me something that was precious to him a long time ago: a security blanket. A pink security blanket. This morning at 4 a.m. I woke up Jerome and told him that I had a blog idea. (Can you believe he tolerates this? Neither can I.)  I reminded him of his pink blankie and decided to push him a bit: "Do you suppose your parents were hoping for a girl?"

He laughed, of course, and said, "Even then I was man enough for pink.”(He also let me know in no uncertain terms that the blanket started off white.)

As the story goes, Jerome was so attached to his blanket that his mom had a terrible time getting him to give it to her so she could wash it. Eventually she had the idea to cut the blanket into pieces and wash one piece while he walked around with the other. This was the reason why his blanket, which we still have, is a mere 18 inches by 18 inches.

Jerome and his security blanket remind me a little about us and how we hang on to our past.

Every one of us, at one time or another, has had an issue that has brought us to our knees. For me, it was the tragic death of my brother. For you it may have been your parents’ divorce, your alcoholic relative, your own addiction, a serious ongoing medical issue, an absence of friends, depression, or lack of purpose. Every one of us has had an issue. No one seems to sail through life trouble free.

What really gets me is how we grasp on to these problems and hold on as if they were feeding us instead of holding us back. I’ll admit that these problems are really quite useful at times. When we have a hard time at work or make some kind of mistake relating to a friend or loved one, it’s handy to reach into our back pocket and pull out past hurts. Those hurts explain everything. They even vindicate us sometimes, helping us and everyone else to understand why we are the way we are.

The trouble with that is that we know we have a God who washes away even the dirtiest of secrets and deepest of sorrows. We know that when we come to Him in humility to express remorse for what we’ve done wrong or to express exhaustion for how we’ve suffered at the hands of someone else, He can wash all the gunk and grime off and give us new life. He can help us to start over, to mend friendships, to even change our own outlook. He is the God of miracles.

Yet in our confusing, human way, we hold tight. We give God the credit to forgive but not the control to take over.

Isn’t that getting old?

I wish that when we handed God our troubles, they would disappear from our memories, but they don’t. Jerome’s security blanket is packed away in our storage room in a Rubbermaid tub of childhood memories, but it’s just not as important as it once was. My brother’s suicide still haunts me at times, but more often than not, when I think of him, I think of his infectious laugh and all the ways I’m thankful he was in my life.

Instead of holding on to the tiny pink blanket of our fears, God wants us to reach out for Him, to hand our lives over. And that’s when new life begins.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!” –2 Corinthians 5:17

Planting Seeds

This morning instead of going to our regular worship service at Bethany, my family hopped into the Suburban a little earlier than normal and headed to Newton Hills State Park for the 9:00 outdoor worship service. Even though we live so close, we only get to this worship service about once a summer.

Today was Biruk and Tadesse's first time ever visiting the state park, and as I settled down on the bench and got ready to listen to the beginning praise music, Biruk said, "Mom, who plant all these trees?" First, I simply answered that God had, but when Biruk pointed to all the cottonwood seeds floating down under the canopy of trees, I knew I needed to give a more complete answer. 

Earlier this week, Biruk and I had sat in our friend and pastor's office. Biruk had some really tough spiritual questions, questions I knew the answers to but didn't feel like I could explain adequately. So while Tadesse was at his daytime baseball practice, Biruk and I plopped ourselves down across from Pastor Al's desk, and Biruk peppered him with questions.

He asked him if salvation can be taken away, whether someone can ask Christ into his heart but then not be saved later because he had changed his mind. I had tried to explain that some people ask Christ into their hearts but don't really follow what the Bible says, so Al explained that there is a difference between a believer and a disciple of Christ. A believer understands and accepts that Christ is the Son of God and that He died for our sins. A disciple tries to live by the example that Christ set, and a disciple shares the good news with others. He went on to explain through the parable of the sower, how not everyone who hears about Jesus will come to know Him as their personal Savior. We figured out together that Biruk is concerned for those he left behind in Ethiopia, those who have maybe heard of Jesus but who don't know about forgiveness and grace and eternal life.

This morning as the worship service began, I noticed Biruk's arms waving in the air as he tried to catch cottonwood seeds. Inside I chuckled and reminded myself how nice it was to be at an outdoor service where distractions like this were not as—well, distracting. I saw Biruk toeing the mulch under us and gently placing one of those cottonwood seeds in the hole. Just a few seconds later, he noticed a tiny green weed growing out of the mulch, and he looked up at me, asking me if that was the tree he just planted.

I continue to be amazed at the faith lessons that God puts right in front of me.

As we walked up the trail following the service, I tried to continue Al's lesson: that even though all of these seeds were falling and how we can tell all sorts of people about Jesus, the seed has to be just right and the soil has to be just right in order for a tree to grow or for someone to accept Jesus into his heart. I explained that we are supposed to keep planting even though we really don't know if this particular one will grow.

Like Biruk, I tend to want the seeds I plant to sprout immediately and to bear fruit. I ask "How many days?" not aloud like Biruk does, but I do wonder. When will I be able to see the fruit of the small seed that I've tried to plant but that has been warmed, watered, fed by the Holy Spirit?

My little boy Biruk has a heart of...believe it or not, I was going to write gold, but my fingers typed...God. And that's true. Through the conversation with Al and subsequent conversations, I finally realized that this eight-year-old wants to go back to Ethiopia sooner rather than later. He wants to tell Ahlem (his mom) and Yeshiwork (his sister) about Jesus Christ so that they can go to heaven someday. His words? "Mom, my mom save me. Now I need to go back and save her."

When I was eight, I was playing with kittens and trying to make forts and riding bike around the section. This little boy is being a missionary.

I am being blessed right here, right now by watching this boy grow, learn, and bloom. Thank you, God, for the seedlings You've planted right in my home. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of it.

Something Beautiful

This morning I took my somewhat customary stroll down the driveway with Elijah's dog Shadow. As she frolicked about and sniffed at every snake hole she could find and I listened to my iTunes playlist, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the morning: how the sunlight penetrated the clouds and seemed to come down in single rays to the ground, how the shadows fell gracefully on some parts of the Sioux River bluff while others were illuminated, and even how the grass and dandelions danced in the breeze.

I see something beautiful every time I go on a walk, even every time I look outside.

When I look at people, I don't always see beauty. Sometimes I see through my Coke-bottle judgment glasses. Sometimes I see stubbornness or laziness or dishonesty. Sometimes I see manipulation or disrespect. Granted, there are those people whom I'm impressed by constantly, but like a personality editor, I have the propensity to spot little inconsistencies in character. That, my friend, tells you more about my character than about those whom I am judging. For the record, I do the same thing with myself.

It's hard for me to imagine a God who loves us regardless.

I am amazed by a God who loves us before and during everything: before failed marriages, during parenting mistakes, before brushes with the law, during alcoholism, before our faith, during our weakness.

In my humanness, I cannot understand, but I am thankful for a God who does. God can and does work through our weaknesses: "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me" (2 Corinthians 2:9).

Where we start, God does not leave us. Rather than be complacent with our problems or judgmental of others' issues, we need to see through the rose-colored, blood-soaked, redemptive eyes of Jesus Christ. We are not alone. We are not worthy; we are made worthy through God's sacrifice of His son. Once we truly understand this (and I have a long way to go), I have a hunch that we will see beauty even in all people.