Category Archives: weekends

It was always good.

A few months ago my husband said something to somebody about relishing the times when Lucia was a little baby (even though she was screaming all the time), because they were lovely and quaint and we’ll never get them back.

I remember so vividly how I just looked at him like he was an alien when he said that, because I couldn’t have felt more differently.

But I think I finally know what he meant.

I’m not sure, but I think there might be some great misnomer out there that life with children with special needs is abominably hard and painful all the time rather than also delightful and sweet and radiant and good.

Like one might assume that being in the hospital all the time sucks, and it really, really does, but then again, it also creates these long stints where we get this built-in family time and we really talk to each other and love and care for each other.  Our memories might be punctuated by hospital stays, but they’re also punctuated by moments we got to know our kid better and our love for her became fiercer.

Or what about the moments in between the screaming Lucia did as a newborn when she collapsed into our chests or fell asleep with her head in our hands?  Or how even though feeding her seemed to be practically killing her, walks in the fresh air were a balm to her soul?

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Baby Lucia and I on one of those early, perfect walks in the woods.  My photo.

I think what my husband realized even more than me is that the hard months that came very quickly after Lucia’s birth, the challenging diagnosis, and all the hospital stays can’t, don’t, and won’t crowd out the truth or mar the delight we have in her and the fondness with which we always think on her and the family she has made us.

There can be, and there is in life, so much that is distinctly and perfectly good even when it’s hard and rotten and difficult.

This year when I looked back to my very first post of 2016, when I started sharing Lucia’s journey and ours alongside hers, I was struck by the words I used to describe it all:

“My husband and I have become parents to a precious child with profound special needs.  It has changed and will change our life forever.  And it is good.”

It is good.  It has always been good.  

There was the truth right there, writ all over my announcement to the world of who Lucia is and how our life has been and will be with her.  Do I often wish that we could heal her wounds swiftly and eliminate her pain?  Of course!  Do I pain to see her struggle to do simple things and sometimes just survive?  Why yes.  Do we all not know what to make of some of these challenges and decisions sometimes?  Precisely.

But does God, in all of his infinite wisdom find her so perfect and so good that there’s not a question in my mind that we are distinctly and deeply blessed?  Definitely.

“It was good,” God said when God made all of creation.  And he meant it.  Though life may be flawed and time may bring wounds and pain and hardship, all goodness is transcendent, true, and from God.

And I am deeply thankful to see and know Lucia in all her goodness, one day at a time.

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Some 2017 smiles.  My photo.  Happy New Year!

 

 

Quiet in Advent

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This clever sketch with its caption, “A nativity scene without Jews, Arabs, Africans, or refugees,” has been circulating on social media.

This season I’ve been intentionally quiet, quiet mostly in the mornings but also quiet on the blog.  This Advent, I’ve tapped back into my practice of Lectio and Centering Prayer.  I’ve been reading the prophetic scriptures from Isaiah and the journey to Bethlehem in Luke as the Syrian city of Aleppo crumbles, lives are lost, and great fear reigns throughout our world.

I haven’t known how to respond to all the darkness, have you?  

I should speak out, I think, say something like Isaiah, the prophet, reminding us how to follow a God who is not of this world, a king who is not violent, but gentle and humble and an outsider.

Is silence surrender in the face of such great evil, especially in a season that proclaims resounding joy, reconciliation, and peace?

I strive to work for justice in fits and spurts, donating, signing petitions, calling my congresspeople, but in the mean time, in a faraway land from where our savior was born, I hope that my silence meets God’s faithfulness.  You see, what I have always found so powerful about centering prayer is that I’m not doing anything–and that’s the point.  Because if prayer is just one more thing that we do, let alone one more thing that I presume to muster of my own wisdom and accord, then it is anything but a holy offering or a right relationship to God.

And so as we wonder how to respond, I wonder, whether as always, if it isn’t less about us and more about God–God’s saving action in the world?  I am patient in this season to listen but not to listen without responsibility.  I listen and trust and charge God with all God is always doing to offering healing, respite, and reprieve.  And I wait for God to give me the words, the actions, and the steps to be an instrument of peace this Advent season.

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My little setup at the new home.  My photo.

If you’re interested, there are over 30 posts in the category “Centering Prayer” on the blog.

Here are also a few posts from past Advent reflections and practices:

This Advent, Share Joy.

Advent and Breaking In

Advent: Reorienting Expectations

Thinking on Advent

Mary’s Song: Advent Expectations

God can take it

God, making weakness holy for over 2014 years

Finally, I’d be interested in hearing from any of you who are struggling in waiting this season.  It strikes me that waiting and silence feel particularly cheap in a season where this so much violence and need.  What is God teaching you?  Where is God leading you?

 

Thanksgiving (in an election season)

A couple days ago I talked with a friend who has a daughter who faces similar special needs as Lucia.  It was refreshing to speak with someone who has such a kindred attitude toward celebrating his daughter’s life, despite the challenges and the hardships.

However, as we drove home from the hospital after a successful surgery with Lucia yesterday, I reflected that in so many ways this attitude of understanding our children’s lives as cause for celebration rather than burden is bolstered by the support systems we share.  My husband and I are so thankful to live in a state that invests in Lucia’s care, to have insurance, that despite its shortcomings, generally covers all that she needs, and to have friends and family that love Lucia unconditionally, pray for her, and care for us!

It is difficult to imagine how we might view Lucia’s disability if with every medical intervention we had to also sweat the finances or insurance coverage or if we had to worry that someone caring for her didn’t have the proper resources or training.  These are the very important supports that often go unstated in the words I write about Lucia, and this morning, I am thankful for them.  I am also deeply prayerful that families who don’t have such support will find it in gracious lawmakers, caring social workers, more humane insurance policies, and more state programing for kids and families with special needs.

The pending election in this country may seem positively incongruous with this month in which we aim to practice gratitude by naming our blessings when so many, like the ones above, go unacknowledged.  But this morning, I began to wonder what it might look like to practice a spirit of gratitude despite the strife and division in this country and the world.

How would our attitudes toward one another shift if we were to focus our attention on all that we in America have to be grateful for, what we are grateful for in the candidates we support, or what we are grateful for when it comes to the provisions of our country and state (rather than only so very critical of)?  Thanksgiving invites us to pause and offer God the praise that God is due, and as we can see, this in and of itself, in an election season can be very powerful and countercultural!  Could such thanksgiving invite us to more civility and less hate?  Could it remind us of our common human needs, desires, and goodness?  Could it point us back to God when our human ways are frail and flawed?

I realize, perhaps more personally than many this election season, how dire and in jeopardy such supports for people with disabilities are, and I do not discount these challenges, but I wonder if gratitude is still an appropriate way to reflect on the hardships in the midst of the blessings.  After all, God has taught me so much about how to experience blessings despite the challenges as we’ve gotten know Lucia!

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Photo credit.

So this morning, I am thankful for…

The amazing nursing care provided through Medicaid in the state of New Jersey, for my daughter, Lucia, and the opportunity for her to attend a school come February that will meet her special needs.

All those working to welcome refugees to the abundance this land and its people can provide.

A country free from war and where so many live free from poverty, hunger, and despair.

A presidential candidate who has made disability rights a platform in her campaign.

Students at a historically black college who protested a KKK speaker in their auditorium and people protesting a pipeline that will disrupt Native American lands.  Thankful for those who lift their voices, use their bodies, and engage in brave, peaceful protest for those in need in this country.

A democratic country with peaceful elections, robust debate, and freedom of speech.

All those who love Lucia so well, celebrating rather than mourning or pitying her life.

What are you thankful for this morning?  What countercultural words do you have this election season?  Feel free to link up with this post and write your own #thanksgivingforelectionseason.

 

 

 

 

A house that talks

I went away for my birthday last weekend and returned to find the walls of our house, previously bare, covered with photos and artifacts from our travels and pictures of that lovely girl has become the source of so much inspiration on this blog and to her parents.  My husband and his parents had to work around the real plaster walls to adorn the place but it surely feels more like a home now that it did before I left.

A few months ago I wrote about how I’ve struggled with this big purchase, this acquisition if you will, but how the house has already brought us so much joy, and perhaps God means it that way.  And you’ll have to humor me for writing yet another post about the house.  But it continues to feel like an adventure, this getting to know the house, and its old ways.

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Lucia enjoying being outside in front of our house.  All photos mine.

For one thing, the house creaks and moans and groans and talks.  It’s kind of like another character in our lives; it does its own thing.  And it seems like people forgive that personality of old houses so much more easily than new.  A crack or a cranny or an angle or a blemish is just how she or he was made, rather than something necessarily to be fixed.  You work within the house’s constraints with more measure, because it has existed long before you and will continue to live on (hopefully) long after you’re gone.

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Lucia on a walk in the cemetery.

A few people have asked me whether it’s haunted and I’ve replied heartily, gee, I hope so!  Across the street a cemetery that initially spooked one of Lucia’s nurses (she’s from China and has a hearty respect for ghosts) has become a favorite walking place for all of us.  It’s the view we linger upon from our windows, that and a little church that’s no longer in service.  All these features can be kind of painful reminders of the lives lived within these walls and around this little town that cease to be.  But they can also remind us of our smallness.  Our small, small part in the grandness of God’s works throughout the ages.

You see, when we were looking at houses, we kind of fell in love and bought this house because of the way the sun set and the golden light glittered on the field out behind it.  Sure, we cared about the inside of the house, its spacious kitchen, and its accessibility for Lucia, but it was not as much about just who the house was but what the house held out before us that made us buy it.  Perhaps this is why old houses are so much more than the sum of their parts–they have storied pasts and thus, hold out before them artful futures, and we continue to feel blessed to live in the in-between space, where history is relished and dreams are conjured.

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Lucia and her dad on the porch.

We’re learning to live with the clunks in the night, but it’s so funny, whereas in our previous apartment we used to go all frenetic when the smoke alarm went off and might wake Lucia, in this house, we let the sounds live.  I think we imagine she enjoys and leans into the creaks and the clunks as much as we do.  They’re a sort of comforting reminder that the house has its own truth to be spoken in a world that can be so careless with the histories, stories, and lives of things that mattered to someone and will matter in the future.

So on a rainy morning like this one, I listen to the rain fall on the rooftop, place my feet on the boards that have been here for hundreds of years, and relish the little creaks that let me know that my weight upon it means something to this sturdy, storied house.  And I wonder how our lives lived will be added to its landscape, our little imprint figured into its much longer, illustrious, creaky history.

Who could have imagined?

Yesterday a woman who works at Barnes & Noble walked right up to Lucia and greeted her–she knew her but she didn’t know me.  One of Lucia’s favorite nurses, determined that she wouldn’t become isolated with our recent move to the country, regularly takes her on outings to book stores, walking trails, parks, and libraries, and this woman had read books with my child many times!

One day when I was working from home and a friend stopped by the house, Lucia was out on one of these excursions unbeknownst to me.  The friend was a little disappointed.

Lucia has her own social life, I chuckled.  Who would have imagined?  I thought.

Indeed, I think it’s easy given Lucia’s diagnosis, physical, and cognitive challenges to presume that she lives a limited life, but this is so far from the truth.  Precisely because we’ve been forced to rely on nurses, doctors, and therapists to help us care for our medically complicated child, Lucia’s social network has certainly widened beyond the typical two and a half year old.

At the outpatient facility where Lucia does her therapy she’s not usually interested in toys, but she always cranes her neck to see the other children running and jumping and shouting.  This morning Lucia’s nurse, having just returned from China, brought her a Chinese children’s book and Lucia cocked her head to listen as the two of us yammered on in Mandarin about her trip.  Several months ago, one of her nurses put her hair in Jamaican braids!

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Lucia taking a nap on the D& R Canal in NJ.  My photo.

I think about the incredible richness of the life Lucia leads and I am in awe.  Our minds, our predictions, our perceptions of life with disability often fail to see beyond the presumed downside of dependence, medical necessity, and constant care.  But Lucia’s needs have, in such a good way, forced us all to expand our very limited social circles and our very limited notions of what life with disabilities entails.

A month or so ago when I spoke on the phone with a parent advocate about Lucia’s impending transition out of the state’s early intervention program and into school, she compassionately yet inaccurately projected another presumption onto me:  “Oh I’m sure your heart is just breaking at the thought of her going to school all day, on that big bus.  I’m sure it is so hard to see her go.”

Perhaps it would be hard to see Lucia get on that bus if she hadn’t already been living her life so fully.  But knowing how much Lucia enjoys all of these people, adventures, and diversity in her life, my husband and I are decidedly eager and excited for her to start school.  Perhaps another thing all these doctors visits, nurses, and therapists have prepared us for is trusting others with our kid, knowing it’s so important to share her rather than shelter her from the world.

When I look in awe upon Lucia’s full life, I cannot fathom the wisdom of God.  This is precisely the life I would want for my child, and yet, who could have imagined this life in particular?  Who could have imagined this village that God has provided, this little social butterfly despite her lack of words and gestures?  Who could have imagined that it would take the world and its limitless possibilities to help us see how Lucia has expanded all of our lives?  Who could imagine that a life with disabilities could be so rich and nuanced and bold and grand?

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Every time I look at this photo of Lucia I can’t help but smile. (My photo.)

Well, God, of course.  

And thank God for that!

On enjoyment and spirituality

Can I confess something?

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Lucia and I on the patio, the leaves catching the first glimpse of fall.  All photos mine.

I really, really, really love our house.

That may seem like the most obvious thing to say.  I’m supposed to love it, right?  When you spend months and months anticipating something, it seems inevitable that your spirit would sigh a bit when you finally experience and live into what you’ve been anticipating.

Maybe it’s my Protestant ethic or my missionary soul, but it feels like a confession to make and it’s been a little hard to let me give in and love this house, because I have a hard time loving any-thing so much.  Things aren’t supposed to make us happy, I scold myself. Happiness should be intangible, inwardly grounded, yet that which sets its sight on lofty and pure ways–contentment in all circumstances.

But it just makes me so deliriously happy to share this place with friends; to sit on the porch and watch my daughter, despite her limited vision, explore the beauty of the trees and the dappled light and shift her head from one side to the other in search of birds and cars and sounds; to watch my husband cook for friends and for me in the light-filled kitchen; to linger on the porch into the evening enjoying being outdoors and in one another’s company; to work fervently inside my office these days and creep down to watch Lucia solider on in her therapies in her new room; and to dream about the times that will be had here, the way we can share and reinvent and live into and enjoy our space.

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Lucia on the patio and my prosecco and grapefruit juice ready to greet the weekend.

And suddenly enjoyment of this space, the way in which it invites me to hope and dream and pray, doesn’t seem so bad, so ill-advised, decidedly worldly, so spiritually vapid.  I find that my spirituality these days is constantly unfolding, being remolded and reshaped to see God in more places, and I think that is good.  I find that my Puritan tendencies that push back against my instinct to revel in this place and its grandeur cannot always be trusted.  Indeed, my own sense of what is good and pure and right can sometimes lead me astray, whereas Lucia, nature, sharing, my marriage, and life well-lived can be much better guides.

There’s no way I will ever shirk my missional aspirations, nor do I want to fully.  I remain convicted that this house is not a final destination or a treasure to be hoarded, but a beginning and a challenge that must be regarded with care, responsibility, and humility.

What will you do with this great blessing?  I often hear God asking.

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Exploring one of the lush country roads together.

And I am intent to respond, share it freely, use it to bless others, and remember that it is not my own.

But somewhere in there, I think God wants us to enjoy it, too.

That little pause

I’ve probably let you know in spurts that sometimes it feels like summer, the presumed magical pause for many of us, has been on overdrive over here.  With summer teaching for me, makeup medical appointments for Lucia, and moving for the three of us, it’s easy to see where the time has gone.

I’ve been blogging about this book draft that I’m eager to get out to publishers, and I’ve been a bit critical of myself along the way.  You see, I wish I’d had it out to publishers like in June.  That was really unrealistic, but you know how when you just want to get something off your plate and out into the world so you can move forward with other tasks and ideas?

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Photo credit: Terry League.

But yesterday, with the last class of the semester complete, no meetings on my schedule, and lovely light ahead of me, I had a free morning.  And instead of cramming it with burdened and anxious writing, I let my mind wander.  A colleague of mine had suggested another scholar who could be an interlocutor for me on the ideas of vulnerability, kinship, and need that are shaping my book.  And so I sat there for several hours without an agenda–I read and I wrote, dialoging back and forth with this other scholar about my ideas, without an end in sight.

And it was good.

It was good to be creative, to let go of the aims and simply pursue the thoughts and the ideas and trust that they would matter.  I think I eventually ended up with some insights that will help revise the little parts of my introduction that need revision.

But maybe not.

And the strange math of the week is that I still feel that I’ve accumulated something really valuable.  It’s the type of wild exploration that I’ve been begging my students to risk doing, despite the confines of their cramped summer semester.  “Dare to dream big,” I’ve said.  “Go for that big idea, take risks,” I’ve goaded them in their writing.

But I’ve got to live by my own wisdom.  I’ve got to carve space out for these creative pauses that excite, entice, and beckon without ulterior motives.  It’s the stuff of believing in the creative process, I think, but also believing in yourself.  Trusting yourself to manage this precious time that you’ve been given and valuing that good ideas need room to breathe, that a lot of the best stuff seeps out of us when we’re willing to work for it, wait for it, wrestle with it, and knead it a bit.

Another thing that I’ve been telling my students that I think goes hand in hand with these pauses is urging them not to turn in upon themselves and cower when the world rejects them.  I’ve told them that their worth can’t come from these things they think or produce or accomplish but rather who they know, trust, and love themselves to be.

And suddenly it makes sense to me.

If I truly believe that, too, then I’ll value and allow myself that morning in a coffee shop to simply think and wander because I’m not the sum of my accomplishments or my successes, but rather an artist whose thoughts and wisdom and goodness need to be lived out daily.  While I tell my students stuff like this all the time, I think it’s been a long time coming for me to admit that I’m a bit of an artist when it comes to words and ideas–that I’m a thinker and a dreamer, someone who likes to spin and sew and create with thoughts.

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Light pouring into my empty office in our new house.  My photo.

So thank you, dear students.  It seems I’ve learned something really valuable from you this semester.  It seems I’ve been reignited with the fire and excitement that comes from thinking.  It seems I’ve been given the freedom to explore again rather than put everything I do to a purpose, a publication, a deeper success.

And that feels good.

Thanks for giving to me this small, sweet truth.  And I’ll do my very best to honor it with a pause every once in awhile and believe in myself just a bit more.

Why luck’s got very little to do with it

“Your daughter is so lucky to have you as parents.”

It’s a phrase we hear quite often from kind people around us who must sense and feel how treasured our daughter, Lucia, who has special needs, is by us.  And I suppose they mean to compliment us, too, to tell us what every parent yearns to hear from time to time from his or her village–that all that work of parenting, the stuff that you do in the trenches doesn’t go unnoticed–that it’s not all for nothing, that even when you don’t feel like it, someone saw you doing a good job and took the time to notice it.

But especially when Lucia was really little, crying day in and day out from neurological and gastric distress, and even sometimes nowadays, phrases like these are often followed by a confession, something like, “I certainly couldn’t do what you do.”

When we were first learning about Lucia’s special needs, my husband confided in me how hard it was to hear words like these, well meaning though they were.  For him, especially, the notion that we were doing anything differently from other parents, or that we were different from other parents, smarted against the ordinary we knew ourselves to be.

I’ve also noticed that such ordinary phrases. not unlike “I’m sorry,” often have the power to divide rather than unite.  When I used to run off to far away places like Mexico or Puerto Rico or China and get to know Christians there, people used to tell me similar things, that they could never do what I was doing, that I was amazing, and that my life seemingly mattered more than theirs.  But that smarted against the reality I knew God to be creating: certain people are not better equipped, because it’s God who does the equipping.  I wasn’t more courageous or better or bolder, I’d had my own doubts and my own fears, and the words that conveyed that I was beyond those insecurities and inadequacies while others lived with them constructed a false reality, a world of dichotomies, a world in which some are quite extraordinary but others are not.

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Illustration by Giselle Potter that accompanied a recent article by Courtney Lund, a woman with a brother with AGS (the same condition as Lucia) in the NYT.

But here’s the thing: parents do extraordinary things for their children all the time, because love is a seeping, pervasive, unwieldy, extraordinary thing that causes us to do all sorts of things we never imagined we could or would do.  And I guess neither my husband nor I want people to forget that.  Sure, we feel encouraged to know that people see Lucia and we as a fabulous unit, but we also don’t want to exist in some weird, alternative special needs universe, where our family is abnormal or an anomaly, so much as one example among many examples of what love can do.

And that’s also what I’m learning.  I’m realizing that whereas it used to feel fundamentally uncomfortable to hear these words and these accolades, I can choose the way I respond.  And I’m beginning to love hearing them, because I get to respond by saying, “Well, we feel truly blessed to be Lucia’s parents.”  And that truth is one that I’m so blessed and compelled to say aloud–that despite the tears and the pain and the heartache, there have been just as many moments of elation, warmth, and joy.  I want people to see the joy and the delight that we have in Lucia, just as any parent has in his or her child.  Something about this response, perhaps like the response “I’m not sorry,” makes me feel that I have a bit more to contribute and to give to this world, rather than an ethos that sets me apart or above it.

Because the truth is also that my husband and I are in the trenches beside all of you, trying to sort our parenthood and do our very best, though our patience often fails us and our compassion can run dry.  But it’s our kids that keep us going.  It’s all our kids–the love that we have for them that is so much better than us–the people we become when we let that love lead us, the people that we are becoming that makes this all something more than luck that we’ve found one another, but rather grace that we get to love one another.

And that’s how I’ve begun to feel when I hear those words, “Your daughter is lucky to have you.”  I’m filled with humility and gratitude and grace, because it’s not so much true that Lucia is lucky.  But I know it to be true that it’s by the grace of God that we’ve been blessed with one another.

 

Virtual tea date

If we were hanging out this morning, I’d be sipping on my favorite casablanca mint tea.  When I’m under the weather as I am currently am, I can’t stand the thought of my beloved coffee; I finally understand what’s so comforting about tea-drinking, and yet, I confess that’s why I always feel like a bit of an invalid when I’m drinking it!

It’s been a whirlwind of a week, packed with teaching for me and unpacking for my husband, but having his family in town broke up the projects and made the follies more tolerable, I think!

One little joy of having his family in town is watching our nieces, especially our youngest, play junior nurse with Lucia.  I’ve noticed that when Lucia screeches and writhes for some unknowable reason and all our lips get a little tight and our hearts a bit anxious, Hannah stands by quite contentedly.  I appreciate that many children, including her, seem to know how to stand by when there are tears and pain and carrying on, perhaps placing a comforting hand or offering a kind sigh, but not trying to rush us others through their feelings.  What a lesson, I think, to be comfortable and at ease with one another’s distress, to be able to witness and hold but not press and prod, maybe offering the best consolation by just being human beings together.

That Hannah is a gem.

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Our evening bliss.  Photo by Evan Schneider.

I’ve begun to allow myself to look forward to all the things we will do in this house, like baking scones in the kitchen, hosting our first overnight guests in just a week, and enjoying more beautiful evenings on the patio.

I’m also hoping there’s enough room left in August for me to get my book off to publishers, put the finishing touches on a few articles, and maybe conjure a few more writing projects!  I’ve been trying to be better about setting and keeping writing goals, and I’ve been inspired by the progress of my students–it pushes me to be a better professor!

We are so thankful that Lucia continues to thrive in her new environment.  There is much to be figured out and much to pray for–she has equipment cliic on Tuesday, her IFSP next week, and we’ll be looking into what to do for school for her, but again, we’re so blessed to be in a state that creates possibilities for our child with special needs.  It reminds me that this anchor that we’ve put down here may yield some limitations, but it’s also what helps us keep our bearings and keep in view that many blessings we have.

…oh, and the Olympics!  I’m so excited!!!

What are you up to this weekend?

 

 

 

 

We bought an old house…and some Sunday links

We’ve spent the weekend moving into our new (but I really should say old) house!

Here it is and it’s older than the constitution!

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My husband and I in front of our new house.

The house was built circa 1785 and is part of this teeny crossroads historic town in the NJ countryside.  It’s been a huge ordeal just getting here as the move-in date was pushed back months and months due to repairs and negotiations.  Despite it being built so long ago, from all accounts it’s actually in great shape.  I can’t decide if it’s the best decision we’ve ever made or if we’re bats**t crazy, but a friend who knows us well and is pretty truthful grinned when I said that and replied, probably a little bit of both!

The best news is that Lucia really seems to love her big, light-filled room, there’s views of a gorgeous, historic church across the street, and I’ve already seen tons of butterflies, birds, and bunnies out here.  We’ve been really thankful not to be in a flood zone this weekend and for all the help from friends with meals and unpacking.  Can’t wait to get out and explore the area when things dry and would love to hear all your favorite links for home knick knacks and furniture!

But we’re settling in on this torrential downpour of a weekend, and with internet and a morning off from church, I thought I’d post some links, too.  Hope you’re staying dry and hanging in!

God can see in the dark!  Love this little reflection on one of my favorite psalms.

The story behind Michelle Obama’s DNC dress.

This cartoon by a man on becoming a father of a child with special needs was really powerful.

“Could Women Be Trusted with Their Own Pregnancy Tests?” The surprising history of the drug store variety!

23 Maps that explain how Democrats went from the party of racism to the party of Obama

I’m so excited for the Olympics, especially the gymnastics, but I couldn’t agree more with this blogger!

An issue that’s very important to me, and it’s vital that we recognize we’re not hearing much of the truth these days.

Ex-pat parenting in Jordan: I love this series!

My aunt who lives in Plymouth took it very seriously to teach me the ropes at young age; Still yearning to eat a lobster before the summer is over!

What are you up to in August?