It’s so easy to complain. That’s what I was thinking during the forty-five minutes I spent cutting hair that had wound itself around the brushes and rollers of my vacuum cleaner making it overheat and smell the way my hair dryer does when I get hair caught in the fan end. By the time I was finished, I had a giant hairball the size of my head in the laundry room trashcan. How gross! Poor me! Then I reminded myself how fortunate I am to have a vacuum cleaner at all or carpet or even such a surplus of hair! (Confession: Most of that hairball was mine. I have a lot of very long hair.)

If I board the Complain Train this easily then I am spoiled. I think most anyone who is reading this post can relate, at least to a certain extent. (If you’re reading this I’m assuming you have access to the Internet and the ability to read thereby defining you as wealthy by most of the world’s standards. Prepare to feel abashed.) It’s ridiculous the things that make me mad or give me the “right” (I tried to do quote fingers while I typed that but it didn’t work) to complain. So I started a list of ways that we are spoiled:
-When I unwrapped a cough drop the other day, the wrapper was printed with an encouraging message: “You can beat this!” It’s a cold not cancer. Am I really so weak that I need to hear from my cough drop that I’m going to make it through this nasal congestion?
-I hear commercials all the time for “Sedation Dentistry.” I find this hilarious. I hate getting plaque scraped off my teeth as much as anyone else but I don’t have to be knocked out to survive the experience. I just clench my buttocks cheeks together and bear it. That way I get a teeth cleaning and workout my glutes at the same time!
-When we go to a restaurant and the hostess gives us one of those light-up coasters and says that it’ll be thirty minutes before we’ll be seated, I internally go ballistic. It doesn’t show outwardly but I’m thinking, “Why doesn’t this place have call-ahead seating? I should be able to walk into any dining establishment, pass the suckers sitting on faux leather benches, and instantly get a table for five because I called ahead and said, ‘Save me a table! I am coming! You live to serve me!’” Why should we get seated before people who drove in their cars and physically walked into the restaurant before us just because we had the forethought to make a phone call?
-Remember when you scheduled your evening around television shows? You knew that if you missed The Cosby Show on Thursday night everyone would be talking about it at school on Friday and it would ruin your day to be left out of the conversation. I’m not suggesting that we miss out on non-TV related events because we don’t want to miss our shows, but now we have a million ways to watch those shows later. My kids can’t understand why the television at the beach doesn’t have a list of pre-recorded episodes of their favorite shows just waiting for them to watch. And they don’t get it when they can’t pause the show to go to the bathroom. “How did you live like this?” they ask me.
-I like to text. It’s a handy way to relay information without causing a big disruption to someone’s day. I am, however, afraid that texting has made us sloppy and lazy. It’s a lot easier to be misunderstood (IF YOU TYPE IN ALL CAPS I THINK YOU’RE YELLING AT ME) and disingenuous. I also have a problem with some of the texting abbreviations. (Ironically, “abbreviations” is a really long word.) I think it should be a rule that if you type LOL, you should actually laugh out loud. I picture someone sitting in the school carline, typing it on someone’s Facebook page without even cracking a smile. “LOL. Your cat looks awesome in that Darth Vader costume.” I would hold off on being literal with LMAO. Let’s not get carried away.
-When my kids struggle in school or don’t make the team I find myself wishing things were easier. Why is simplifying fractions not very simple for her? Why should he/she have this heartache or failure or setback? The truth is that if they didn’t encounter some bumps in the road every so often, they’d be spoiled rotten. They need to do things they don’t want to and be prevented from doing things they do want to. If I hired Rosie the Robot from the Jetson family to do all their chores, they’d fill up their time with activities not in service of their family. 
It’s good for things to be difficult sometimes. Difficulties are necessary for us not to be spoiled. It’s okay to be inconvenienced by others and it’s okay to have to slow down.  If I look at serving others as an honor instead of a chore then that giant hairball is a gift, so is doing the laundry, teaching a Bible class to toddlers, and being a room mom. I don’t want to waste anymore time being spoiled.


We received some aggravating news about our son’s pending adoption last week. While I waited outside the dressing room for my husband to try on some drip/dry pants to bring with us to Africa, I checked our email on my phone and found out that the U.S. Embassy in the Democratic Republic of Congo has added a step to the process thereby adding 3-6 months to our wait. It made me sick. In fact, I think I covered at least three of the five stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance) before we left the parking lot.
  1. Denial: My first reaction was “Maybe it doesn’t apply to us…Maybe we’re far enough into this that we can still go next month and get him…” As I logged onto Facebook and scrolled through fellow adoptive parents comments, I started thinking, “Maybe this information is wrong. Most of these other parents from other agencies aren’t aware of this change…” I nearly had myself convinced that iPhones don’t even get email and my phone is actually just a fancy calculator. Then Brent left the dressing room with his chosen purchases. Despite my effort to convince myself that the email was sent to us in error, I showed it to him anyway.
  1. Anger: When Brent saw the email he deflated. This man who I have seen cry only twice in the almost twenty years I’ve known him, teared up ever so slightly. It wasn’t much but I noticed it and it was effective. That shook me up and brought me back to reality. It also pushed me to the second stage of grief and I got mad. We discussed it briefly and Brent asked if he should go ahead and get the pants. I said, “Sure” in my best 10 year-old with a bad attitude imitation, so we went to the counter to pay. The hipster REI employee was over-the-top friendly as he tried to talk us into the $20 membership plan. He was like “Man, you’re gonna looooove these pants.” I almost asked him to take off her nerdy/chic glasses so I could punch him in the face. Anger was my only friend at that moment.
  1. Bargaining: As we walked to the parking lot, we sullenly discussed where we should go to eat lunch. Choosing a place to eat a) without our kids, and b) in Nashville would normally be a fairly pleasant task but beginning Jauary1st, I had pledged to fast from sweets until we brought our son home…that was assuming he’d be home in March. Upon entering the van, I told the Lord that I would continue with my fast—even though that’s the same as promising that I won’t eat another cupcake for six months and we were about to go eat at a place that is half bakery, half restaurant—if He would just try to speed things up. Bargaining with God is about as effective as bargaining with a two-year old—they’re both much smarter than me and it never works.

We pretty much stayed at Stage Four (Depression) for the rest of the day. Always one to overanalyze everything, I started asking myself why this latest setback was having such a negative effect on me. I decided I could attribute my utter hopelessness to two main factors:

Imagine that it’s late October and you’re eagerly anticipating Christmas just a few short months away. You get a call that Christmas is being postponed and they’ll let you know when the new date is but it’s probably going to replace Valentine’s Day. You think, “Hmmm…that makes it really hard to plan. Do I go ahead and put up the tree and the stockings? Maybe not. Constantly seeing the decorations might make our wait even harder to bear.” February rolls around and the Holiday Police—unseen people with tons of authority and no real reason to make Christmas easier for your family—say that they’ve discussed it and the decision has been made to move Christmas to May. They’re going to combine Mother’s Day and Father’s Day in June, which makes a lot of sense to them and only them. You say, “Wait a minute this is MY Christmas that I want to celebrate with MY family! I should be the one to make this decision!” But the Holiday Police ignore you and continue to make changes and empty promises until you begin to wonder if Christmas will ever come. That’s how it feels to wait on an adoption.

The other, infinitely more important reason for our frustration is that our SON is in AFRICA. It’s not a faceless, nameless child who is living in a land mercilessly damaged by wars and famines; it’s our boy. I never knew my heart could form an attachment this strong to a child who I’ve never heard or touched or held. It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing logical about it. The first time I held my biological son was minutes after he had exited my body—a place he had holed up in for nine months. He looked like his sisters and his dad, so I was obviously in love instantly. My new son shares no genes with me. I’ve never cradled him in my arms during late night feedings when the rest of the house is sleeping. But somehow God has sewn us together with an invisible thread and that connection makes knowing he is so far away so painful. Maybe it’s because I’ve prayed for him every day for longer than he’s been alive. Those prayers have tightened and tangled those invisible threads, strengthening them but often leaving miniscule cuts and rope burn. 

Nothing about love is logical but neither are the other great virtues—faith and hope. But logic is highly overrated. Faith can move mountains (I Corinthians 13:2), hope can give us confident patience (Romans 15:4), and love can buy us eternal life (John 3:16). I will choose to suffer this illogical love for our son as  I cling to a hope and a faith that defy reason. 

Oh to Grace Preview


    Amelia hadn’t seen another car on the two-lane country highway for fifteen minutes. She did see a tractor coming from the opposite direction, but the driver had turned down a rough road before she had reached him. Never one to enjoy visiting elderly relatives, she had known about this assignment for weeks but she had put it off. Now that she had a Saturday with no plans and no excuses, she made the drive to the nursing home.    As she turned into the parking lot, Amelia thought about seeing her Grandma Genny that last time. She had spent her final years in a nursing home much like this one. Remembering the smells of antiseptics and wet beds still made Amelia’s stomach turn. She also remembered how confused her grandmother had been and Amelia wondered if she would be able to get the information she needed today.
    She pulled into a parking spot and cut off the engine. After rummaging in her backpack in the front seat, she found and removed her tape recorder. She pressed RECORD and spoke into the microphone:
    Testing. Testing. It’s November 3, 2012 at 9:30 a.m. I’m sitting in the parking lot outside of the Dogwood Meadows Nursing Home. I’ve come here to interview my Great-Great Aunt Frankie. My mom told me that Aunt Frankie is a big talker so I’ve brought a recorder. This one has…two hundred hours of recording space—I hope that’ll be enough. The assignment from my creative writing teacher is to find an elderly relative and ask him or her questions about growing up. Then we’re supposed to compile all of our information into an essay that shows (sound of rustling papers)—and I quote—“a common thread throughout the narrative.” I’ve got a list of questions here but to start with I’m going to ask her if there’s a memory from her childhood that she thinks about every day. Then we’ll see where that takes us. Okay, I’ve got my coffee and my notebook. I’ve got to get this done before Thanksgiving break so…I’m going in. (click)

Chapter 1
Nobody in town could re-sole shoes like my daddy. Many a time I remember him comin’ home late of an evenin’ on account of that sweaty pile of shoes and boots in the back of his shop. Daddy always said that Nadine Henderson could make a pair of shoes last longer than what you’d think was humanly possible. She did wear a ladies’ 11 1⁄2 extra wide, so you could hardly blame her for keepin’ ‘em a good while. Why, she had to drive clear down to Nashville to get them big shoes! Anyhow, Daddy was workin’ at pryin’ up her cracked outsole when Little Jack came tearin’ in. He banged open the door so hard he knocked off the little brass bell that hung just above the header and it skittered across the floor like it were scared, too. I jumped off the barrel where I was sittin’ and pullin’ tacks off some old work boots. I scattered them bent tacks all over the shop, he scared me so. Daddy hollered at him and told him to speak up, but Little Jack could only stand and breathe hard. I still remember his big white eyes and his ribs pokin’ out the sides of his overalls. We was stuck to the floor, waitin’ for him to talk and then the words he spoke were like a bucket of ice water in my face. He said, “Mister Frank… he dead…yor boy…is dead.”     

     Matt had pitched hay since he was first able to walk. Left hand gripped above the right. Dig deep, swing high. He knew the rhythm of the motions like an experienced swimmer knows his strokes. He was a hard worker, but his mind wandered easily. He would allow his natural grace and athleticism to direct his pitchfork so he could think about the girl in town with the upturned nose and curly brown hair or the truck he was fixing or any other ideas that floated into his mind.     

     Lining the outside wall of the barn, there were tidy bundles of hay made during the hot, dry months of late summer, and Matt’s job today was to move the last of the old hay from the loft to make room for the new. With one final scoop, he heaved a forkful down just as the barn door opened and a shadowed figure entered.     
     Matt heard an unfamiliar cry of bewildered irritation. This was not one of his seven younger brothers or sisters who he had just cloaked in dry straw. This was a woman’s voice— young, most definitely annoyed. Matt slid down the ladder, his bare feet clutching the smooth sidepieces. In an instant, he was brushing hay off a young woman’s shoulders. She was in her early twenties, wearing a pale yellow dress dotted with yellow and green flowers. The dress had stylish puffed sleeves nearly as high as her chin and a nipped-in waist, flattering to her petite figure. Perched on her head was a lime green hat, bowl-shaped and perfectly suited for catching each tiny twig of hay. Matt couldn’t help but think she looked like some sort of autumnal queen with her golden crown. She noticed his amused expression as he regarded her hat, so she quickly took it off and slapped it against her leg. Her red hair spilled out of its hair pins, leaving unruly curls all about her forehead. One curl danced in front of her right eye. Matt was so struck by the force of her beauty and the afternoon sun streaming through her burnished curls that it took every bit of willpower for him to stay his desire to touch that red coil.    
     The young woman blushed, her cheeks coloring nearly the same degree of red as her hair. “I’m Anna, Ernest’s wife,” the young woman declared as she held out a small, white hand by way of introducing herself. “You must be Matt.”     
      Matt was struck dumb by her words. Sunlit dust swirled around them both. Was he standing in the eye of a tornado or still on the bleached pine floor of his father’s barn?     
      “Ernest has told me so much about you,” Anna said politely, with her best city manners. Matt stared at the small piece of straw glued to her red lips for what seemed like an eternity until he collected himself enough to speak.     
      “We didn’t ‘spect ya’ll ‘til tomorrow,” he said slowly. “I’m awful sorry ‘bout mussin’ up your clothes…Anna.”     
      Matt hadn’t intended to say her name just then, but with a pause, two syllables, and a warm rush, his words for this redheaded stranger held more meaning and emotion than all the conversations he’d had with the girls in town in his entire life.     
      “I told Ernest that I wanted to walk a little,” Anna mumbled, two hairpins between her teeth as she attempted to fix her tousled hair. “Maybe I should get on back to the house. Your mother said if I saw you I should tell you to come in and wash up for supper.”    
     “Yes’m,” was all that Matt could say. As they began to walk toward the house together, Anna introduced several awkward topics for conversation.
     “Do you like working on the farm?”
      “Ernest said he mostly worked with your father fixing shoes growing up. Do you ever do any shoe repairs up at the shop?”
      “No, ma’am.”
      “Ernest seems to like his job. He said you’re the one who got his truck running. Do you like fixing trucks?”
     “What’s that growing on the far side of the garden?”
     “They’re awfully big. Are they hard to grow?”
     “No, ma’am.”
     Their awkward, lopsided conversation continued in this manner all the way to the house, consisting mostly of Anna asking questions that Matt would answer with a shy, brief reply. As they approached the back porch, Ernest swung open the screen door to meet them. He advanced on Matt with a firm handshake and an arm proudly gripped around Anna’s waist. 
     As they stood facing each other, any observer would see two brothers with different physiques and tastes in fashion. Ernest wore a thin moustache perfectly resting on his upper lip. His hair was oiled to a fine sheen that complemented his dark eyes and lashes. He was several inches shorter than Matt, with a slighter build. His charcoal suit pants were neatly tailored to show off his trim lines. Looking at his brother, Matt realized that Ernest had made a calculated effort to impress his family, and as his mother beamed at Ernest, he realized that the effect was working.
     “Good to see ya, Ernie,” Matt said as he pushed his way through the group to enter the house. As he passed his mother, she nodded in the direction of the wooden stand just inside the door, where he saw a pitcher of water and a faded blue towel. His grimy appearance must have seemed more obvious than usual, compared to this prodigal in his Chicago clothes.
     With his long legs, Matt took quick strides to reach the room he shared with his four brothers. He splashed cold well water on his face and dried it on the towel, which was now more brown than blue. Then he used the towel to wipe down his chest and arms. He ran a wet comb through the golden hair on top of his head and used his fingers, then his palms, to smooth down the browner sides. He put on a shirt and his other pair of pants, and suddenly wished he had a mirror. If he had seen his reflection, he would have noticed a muscular man of almost thirty, tanned from spending the summer in the fields. He would have paused to notice how different his eyes were from those of his brother Ernest—his pale blue to Ernest’s deep brown.
     With no other reason to stay indoors, Matt finally re-emerged from the house to join his family. Even before he reached the door, he could hear the laughter that always accompanied one of Ernest’s visits.
     “No, Anna, he’s not dangerous. He’s just…”
     “Dumb as a bucket of rocks,” George, age twelve, piped in.
      “George, you hesh up. You know that Rufus Haskell can’t hep how he is,” said Momma. 
     “He just spends most of his days mowing the medians down by the square,” Ernest continued. “It’d be helpful to the city if his push mower had a blade in it!”
     Ernest’s southern drawl was still evident, but five years in Chicago had cleaned up some of the country words and phrases from his vocabulary, like the basket in a percolator sifts through the coffee and leaves behind the grounds. Matt imagined all the y’alls and reckons sitting there at the back of Ernest’s throat, waiting to be used, when he realized that Ernest was addressing him.
     “Matt, tell the one about Rufus and Miss Bennie Lee,” said Ernest. “Anna, you’ll get a kick out of this one.”
     “Nah, Anna doesn’t wanna hear that…” Matt mumbled.
     Shy as he was in public, in his family circle, Matt was known as the entertainer. He had a natural musical ability and he was an excellent storyteller. He could amuse his younger brothers and sisters, especially George, Frankie Jane, and Della Mae, for hours with tales both true and fictional. Though unaccustomed to having a stranger present during story time, Matt eventually cleared his throat and began the story.
     “Well, it seems ole Rufus was pushin’ his mower down by Vine Street, when he saw he’d gone off ‘thout his belt. He kep a-pullin’ his trousers up and pushin’ that dang mower and stoppin’ to pull his trousers up again. He’d put on his daddy’s ole trousers that morning and everybody knows that Big Daddy Rue was so big it was easier to go over him than go ‘round him. Anyhow, Rufus walked over to the school to see ‘bout getting some rope to tie up his britches. That just happened to be Miss Bennie Lee Waddle’s first day of teaching. She grew up in Alabama and had never been, well… formally intr’duced to Rufus Haskell. He walked up to the window closest to the teacher’s desk and pounded his fist on the glass. Miss Bennie Lee was scared nigh out of her stockins by this rough-looking bag of bones. She yelled to him, ‘What d’ya want?’ thinking he was a-comin’ for her pocketbook. Rufus yelled back, ‘I’s needin’some rope—‘bout dis long.’ Right then, Rufus held up his hands to show the length of rope he was a-wantin’ and he dropped them britches down to his toes. Poor Miss Bennie Lee fainted clear away and hit her elbow on the side of her desk on the way down. When the children came in for school that morning, they found their new teacher a-sittin’ on the floor and cryin’ like a newborn baby.”
     Though most of them had heard the tale many times, by the close of Matt’s story they were all wiping their eyes and holding their sides from laughing. Only Anna retained her composure. She was unacquainted with this folksy kind of humor and considered certain parts of the story to be inappropriate.
     “That poor woman,” she said, as much to herself as to anyone listening.
     “Miss Bennie Lee?” said Momma, “Oh, she got over it mighty quick. We’ve got some real char’cters in Morgan’s Hat.” She affectionately patted Anna’s hand. “Gad night a-livin’! I’m out here a-jawin’ with you younguns and your daddy’s gonna be home and hungry ‘nuff to eat the south end of a northbound skunk.”
     The screen door slammed behind her. Frankie Jane, not quite nine years old, used the change in subjects to begin her interrogation of Anna. She liked to tell stories just like her oldest brother Matt, but there was a definite difference in how they collected their material. Matt would sit back and silently watch people to form his stories, and Frankie Jane liked to interview them, often to the point of intrusion.
     “Anna, Della Mae and me wanna know ‘bout you. We heard you and Ernest met up in Chicago, but is that your home? I mean, where did you hail from?”

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