We met with Abe’s team this week and I hardly know what to write about it.  They were so kind, taking nearly 2 hours to answer our questions and draw diagrams.  This Hypertrophic CardioMyopathy is throwing us all for a loop and it is slowly strangling Abe’s heart.  And he has these freakishly large carotid arteries that prevent them from being able to go in and scoop out the tissue to make his ventricles less strangled, which is the only treatment for HCM, besides the meds he’s on, which aren’t working.  So the only thing that can save our boy is a transplant, which comes with it’s own set of problems: where to go and how to make it suck the least for all of us.  We have given our kids the abridged version: that Abe needs a new heart and that we may have to go to California or Boston or Ann Arbor to get it but that we will do it like we do everything: together, us 8 and 2 dogs and a white blanket named Black and a keloid scar named Steve.  We will do it together.  But first we wait for conversations to happen and scans to be reviewed that will tell us if he’s a candidate and then how long we might wait.  And if he’s not or it’s too long, he will go in and they will attempt a very tricky bi-ventricular repair and we will do that together too.  Us and the village that has texted and let me cry on shoulders and given hard and frequent hugs.  Our sweet office ladies at school who saw that the smallest bit of kindness yesterday would completely undo me, so let me be all business as we amended his emergency plan to account for the ridiculous amount of blood thinners he’s on now and the steps that will need to be taken if he falls and bleeds.  His teacher who emailed verses and encouragement even as her own heart is surely breaking.  Our fave principal who called and said, whatever you guys need from us, from us as a school and us as a family, you have it.  Just name it. To the nana and papa who heard me say that we will do it together, the 8 of us and said, make it 10 because wherever you go, we will come too so we can be your help.  Who offered to move with us to California so we won’t be alone if it comes to that.  How to even get my teeth around that bit of yumminess?  To friends and loves who have called and showed up and texted and who will continue to do so because they are our lifeblood.

We know this: that the Father who ordained that Abe be born in Inner Mongolia nearly 7 years ago with a bum heart that gets bum (mer) by the day, knew that where he actually belonged was here, at 9000, with a family who would move anywhere for him.  And who are learning themselves how much love costs, but that it’s always in the budget.  That the asinine rule of love math is that the more you give it away, the more you have to give and if Mr. Scrotenboer can explain that one then I will give him all the tea in china because it confounds me daily.  We are teaching it to our kids as the math you will actually use in real life, because let’s be honest: sine and cosine…almost useless.

So we would covet your prayers as we wait to hear if Abe is a candidate for transplant and then as we hit the ground running toward a new heart and a cure for this kid who would spend all his day playing sports if that was a job.  And as we process what this will mean as a family and work through the hard bits.  For unity in our marriage and protection for us two, who 23 years ago said yes to the good and the hard and had no idea, just no freaking clue, what that would entail.  For spring break.  Three months ago when we planned to go, just the 8 of us, to explore New Mexico for a few days before meeting up with every blessed member of my family at Breckenridge CO, we were given the green light and now they are very concerned about the pressures in his heart at those high elevations.  But they consider the whole child and know that this boy, whose greatest fear is being left behind, would shrink into a ball so small we wouldn’t be able to find him if we tried to make it a party of 7.  So we will go and we won’t hesitate to fly back with him if he can’t hack it at 7,500 feet.  Won’t hesitate for a second.  And ultimately are going with our team’s blessing and the number of Denver Children’s on speed dial just in case.  Would you cover that too?

this is me being real.



She called during the after-school hours, when the phone is cradled between ear and shoulder and hands are elbow deep in dinner prep and homework.  And she had to repeat it thrice because I didn’t hear first and then didn’t believe second.  Abram has been approved for a wish from the Make A Wish Foundation.  A mistake, I was certain because he’s healthy and we didn’t nominate him.  But Amy, a nurse at Helen DeVos Children’s Hospital who has taken care of him? heard about him? seen his file? did.  I have no idea who you are, but Amy…you are a gift to think of this blue spectacled boy.  To go far beyond your job and fill out the paperwork.  Such a gift.  I argued with Kirsten from MAW for a sec that surely Abe doesn’t meet the requirements, isn’t terminal, is at this very moment driving me nuts with his basketball in the kitchen.  But the criteria is Medically Critical and he is that on paper and someday his paper diagnosis will translate into his real life, already is in smallish ways.  And so I cried hot tears on the phone.  For joy at the thought of anything he wishes.  For the sadness of the reality of his health.  For the selflessness of a nurse named Amy and a group that seeks to bless sick kids with the incredible.  And then I told Dan and the three olders who all had to think a minute about what this all means and why I’m crying and if this is something we can even accept on Abe’s behalf.

They asked yesterday if Abe would know what his wish might be when they start hanging out with our family in a couple weeks to get their finger on our pulses.  I said I couldn’t imagine he’d be able to articulate something so abstract, but maybe?  And then last night as Grant, Dan and Abe were headed out the door to cheer our beloved Hawks on in districts, Grant said to him, “Beaky, if you could have anything in the whole wide world, what would you want?” and without hesitation and wearing his blue and gold jersey, he replied, “Meet Steph curry and break his ankles.” Which, is much less Tonya Harding than you’d think and more a slang for making someone stumble because you dodge them so quickly.

Still chewing on the fat of all this.  Have been assured over and over that accepting this wouldn’t take it away from someone else and am starting to view it for the great gift it is. No idea how this will all end up, but for now there is a packet of papers headed to 9000 with all the information we need to give Abe this incredible wish.  And next week when we meet with our cardiac team and find out what the next step is, I will be scanning name tags for Amy so I can squeeze her neck, even as I try to focus on the statistics they throw at us and the timeline they lay out.  Next week we will hold a printed model of our son’s heart in our hands and listen to the most dedicated, talented group of docs we know lay it all out for us.  Forgive me if I drift off half way through and think of my boy in his Warriors jersey maybe meeting his hero and it makes me stupid grin.  I have a habit of inappropriate emotional response in stressful situations, ask anyone.  Sometimes I think I should keep more of that stuff to myself, but

this is me being real.

dear younger me 4.

Sometimes I don’t even know how to prepare you for this life. I have enough words for several people but that might not be enough.  How to prepare you for a life that seems like it’s spinning out of control nearly all the time, when you are nicely ensconced in your teen years of just having fun and homework? How to tell you as you head off to high school or college that in the future people will storm schools with assault rifles and kill children by the tens? That you will stop watching the news because it makes you want to move your family to Nunavut and live on an ice floe there.  Except you hate fish.  That will never change.  How to tell you that the neatly ordered life you love will become a mosh pit of laundry and meal prep and fingerprints on window panes? And that you’ll mostly love it.  Except when you don’t, because your need for order in chaos will never change and so you’ll stay up nights vacuuming and organizing and putting the house back to rights after your children, who are human hurricanes, have destroyed it.  How to tell you that eventually you will have to stop living for yourself and lay it all down and that when you do, it won’t hurt like you think it will because you will be ready?  How to tell you, in these days of spending hours laying on your bed in your upstairs room devouring dry cereal and books, that a few minutes of uninterrupted time will become such a luxury that when you find it, you will suck the very marrow of it? How to tell you that your mornings will be taken up with hair and lunches and making breakfast that no one will eat and that you will find deep satisfaction in all of it?  That you will find yourself on a Sunday night, driving in your teenager’s new car to his school to pick up his forgotten homework after an afternoon spent in the frigid creek rescuing the bridge that washed away in last week’s flood and you will think to yourself that this has been the perfect day.  If you could insert yourself into NOW, you would probably hate it.  It it loud and chaotic and messy.  The phones you would love, but everything else?  Not so much.  You would walk around in a stupor reminding me that I swore I’d never make our kids eat oatmeal or fish and telling me I sound a lot like mom.  And then you would tell me that you’d rather be back with homework and Burger King after school and Showcase Cinemas on the weekends and that I can keep all this crazy to myself, thank you very much.  And I would smile and wish for a sec I could switch places and relive those sweet, easy days and then I would go back to unloading the dishwasher and telling Maggie to take another bite for the love of God and I would say, fine.  Out of all the places in all the times, there is nowhere I’d rather be than here with these people doing this work.  And that I have a meeting with the youth pastor of a local church this afternoon because these are crazy times and I need to at least explore getting strong young men and women in our public high schools so that our kids, who are hurting and confused, have someone to look up to and emulate.  That there is less proselytizing and more just loving people and entering in to hurt that is needed.  And that maybe, hopefully, that leads to the cross, as it should.   I would tell you that our work will become loving people and you will be confused, because you really only care about yourself right now, but there will be a day when you won’t and you will realize then that this family you have become obsessed with are the best thing, but they are only the inroad to a much bigger purpose: serving the world.  And because kids are who they are, they will bring the world to you and will drop it’s broken, nasty self on your front porch and you will take that world inside and clean it up and feed it something yummy with protein and you will get filled up right alongside.

Oh Megan, I can never prepare you for the life we are going to live and now, at 43, it’s just starting.  The kids are in school full time and you are hitting your stride.  Ok, sometimes you binge watch The Crown and shop online far too long, but mostly you are figuring it out. Making a total muddle of it somedays and nailing it on others.  That has not and will not ever change.  I can’t prepare you for this life because I had no idea, but it will be ours and it will be great.  I wish you would start now, noticing the lonely kid and going out of your way to love.  But you are embracing this hedonistic, self-focused stage of development and that’s ok, because it will add meat to your testimony.  So, carry on with your teenage years and know that it’s all going to be ok.  That this future life we will live will be messy and hard and practically perfect for us.  And that it will teach us Kingdom lessons that we desperately need to learn.  Can’t wait to share them with you.

this is me being real.


There is a grainy cell phone video circling the web in which you see whimpering children huddled together in a corner of a classroom at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School during the shooting last Wednesday.  There are whimpers as they wait.  Of course there are whimpers.  And then the swat team bursts in and tells them to put their hands in the air and they do.  And that sea of shaking hands wrecks me.

I have no answers.  I can’t explain what goes through a boy’s mind when he walks into a school of his peers and opens fire.  I can’t begin to imagine the agony of a family like the Hoyers, who waited and waited for word of their son, not hearing until 1 am that he had been killed, even as their hearts surely knew long before that he was gone.  The thought of mothers and fathers wrapping their arms around their babies who have been terrorized and will never be the same and the mamas and dads whose arms are empty…its all horrible and I can’t make sense of any of it.

I didn’t grow up around guns, but my kids have and my love did.  We have guns, emptied of ammo and locked in a safe in our basement.  They are taken out and cleaned, used for target practice and hunting.  Our kids have learned the language of gun safety since they were teeny.  They will teach it to their children, this right to bear arms for protection and hunting.  Someday one of my sons might walk into a gun shop and purchase his first handgun.  If so, I hope that he is put through the wringer.  That if he has ever had a mental illness, an arrest, any kind of brush with the law, any indication that he is even a smidge less than stable that the law will prevent him from getting his hands on a weapon.  We need this.  I’m not interested in a debate here, you can peddle that on any of about a million facebook posts right now.  I’m simply saying as a mother of children who have been raised to respect and care for guns, that there is no down side to making it harder for everyone to get their hands on a weapon.  If you are mentally healthy, you have nothing to worry about.  If you have a clean record with the police, you have nothing to worry about.  If you have never had a violent strike on your record, have never been accused of domestic violence, this won’t affect you.  If you have taken the necessary gun safety classes and have proven you know how to handle and store guns, you will be in the clear.

You will possibly have to fill out more paperwork, take another class and repeat it every few years, pay a bit more and put yourself under scrutiny, but there are 17 families in Florida who will tell you it is a small price to pay and they’ve footed the lion’s share of the bill with the blood of their children.  Please don’t insult them by supposing that having a few more hoops to jump through to get your hands on a weapon is any kind of imposition because they will spend the rest of their lives tithing their tears to a government that has refused to more carefully vet prospective gun owners.

If we have any response to this new tragedy, let it be this: that if our leaders find the balls to put stricter gun regulations before congress, we keep our mouths shut, even when we suspect it’ll cause us some small inconvenience.  That we not tantrum when they ask us to pay more, attend classes or even if they reject our application altogether.  If we have any response to this let it err to the side of grace and respect for the lives that have been lost already and the lives that will surely be lost if we continue on this reckless path.  If we have any response to this latest school shooting, may it be to never forget the names: Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Nicholas, Aaron, Jaime, Chris, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaqiun, Alaina, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, Peter.

If we have any response to this latest school shooting let it be to thank our teachers, who didn’t sign on for this job with their lives but who are daily laying them down to protect the precious children in their classrooms.  Who walk into school each day and mentally remind themselves of the action plan put in place should there ever be an active shooter in the school.  Let it be to pray for this nation that is so broken in this world that is falling to pieces.  And for our schools, which have become battlegrounds.  For the love of all that is holy, if we have any response to this latest school shooting, let it be on our knees, claiming this promise: “If my people who are called by my name will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sins and restore their land.”

dear younger me.3

I remember you in high school, wearing your short skirts and checking him out in Mr. Schrotenboer’s tenth grade algebra class.  He was adorable, you knew it, he didn’t, which made him even more adorable.  Your first date he will wear white girbaud jeans and a shy grin and you will melt.  You will stand at the door after he drops you off, wearing a stupid grin and whispering to yourself that you are gonna marry that boy someday.  You know almost nothing of romance or sex or how marriage even works but you are so sure he is the one.  Can I let you in on a little secret?  He is the one.  You will grow up and you will marry that boy and you will live happily ever after.  Except when you don’t.  Because there will be seasons when you wonder if it was a terrible mistake and you should have dated around more, held out for something better.  Lies.  He is something better, only you won’t always feel that way.

The shine is still on the penny in high school.  You’re playing at life without really having to live.  You imagine that you’ll both look the same, feel the same, act the same forever.  That this exciting thing that makes your skin vibrate will always do so and that the sight of him will always make you breathless.  Some days it will.  But there will come seasons when you only glance at him when he walks in the door, crying toddler hanging from your leg while you nurse the baby and stir the supper.  You will glance and nothing more.  There will come a season when you are so consumed by kids or anxiety or depression or work or or or that you will glance and nothing more.  You will look at pictures of the two of you in high school and you will long for those days of first kisses and stolen touch even as you lie in bed and ask him take his time but please don’t kiss you because you have an abscess on your gum and you don’t want him to burst your puss sack.  And had you said that to him in those first years of marriage he might have run for the hills, but twenty two years in he has seen you at your worst and has adored you there too.  He has watched you give birth four times and has born the brunt of your moodiness.  Nothing can faze this man.

Younger me, enjoy every cherry blossom-filled second of early dating because it is the sweetest, but know this: the rest is sweeter.  There will come a day when you honestly can’t remember a time you weren’t a pair.  You will roll over in the morning and look at your love and even though the years haven’t all been kind to either of you, you would make the same choice again.  And you do.  Every day of your marriage will be a re-choosing.  You will wake up, stumble into your bathroom, see the toothpaste on his sink and his whiskers on the counter and you will choose him again.  When he gives you the dreamiest earrings you’ve ever seen on Mother’s Day and his eyes are soft and liquid, you will choose him.  When he hold teeny babies in his strong arms and his eyes swim, you will choose him.  And when he hurts you deeply and you can hardly breathe for it, you will choose him.  Someday you will stand before Reverend John Guest, his English accent reverberating through the church, and you will promise to keep choosing this man for the rest of your life.  And even during those years when your children’s needs consume you both, you will know that choosing him is the best way to love them.  That they need to walk in on you making out in the kitchen sometimes.  That their security is wrapped up in finding you snuggling in bed on a Saturday morning and that they learn vital lessons about making it work when they hear you disagree and still respect and love one another.

Girl, you are making decisions now that will reverberate though the rest of your life.  This is a terrifying part of growing up: this adulting when you’re really just a baby, but he is one decision that is rock solid.  Together you will be rocked by six kids and two dogs and a keloid scar named Steve.   You will tear the house apart weekly, looking for a white blanket named black.  You will meet up in your closet and he will hold you while you cry bitter tears about one thing or another.  And you will hold those strong shoulders when he mourns his mom or the first time his son asks him about sex.  Your home will be sacred ground and a battlefield and a safe haven, all wrapped up and you will throw open your doors and welcome people in because what you’ve been given is grace upon grace, all heaped up and running over and you have only to look at the two of you to know it.   Young Megan, you know nothing now of sex and romance and marriage, but you will learn.

this is me being real.


*written some weeks ago, but still making me weepy today.

Today we sat across from a table full of people in the conference room of our beloved elementary school, screen full of numbers and goals.  They were so kind, so tentative, explaining the testing process to us and how Maggie fared in each category.  She’s behind.  Universally behind and the numbers didn’t expose anything we didn’t know going into that room.  But they were so sweet about it, almost apologetic.  She tries so hard and is the sweetest girl, they said.  She makes everyone around her happy; she makes us all happy, they said.  And so they finished highlighting what we already knew: she is behind.  Just that.  She is.  Most of her categories showing her to be at a 3.5 year level.  They laid out the findings like wares at a market, wondering if we’d buy, wondering how we’d react seeing it in black and white.  They were so kind.

At the end of the test-result section of an IEP comes the what-are-we-going-to-do-about-it phase.  But first, there is a box to be filled in with parent’s concerns and reactions.  This must surely be when these dear teachers and test-givers brace themselves for backlash, questioning, tears even maybe.  This is probably not their favorite part.  And we, as the people who loved her best, didn’t disappoint with the tears.  Lip trembling and emotion written across my face, I looked at that screen and said this, “You must brace yourselves at this point in the IEP for parents to be sad or angry or argumentative.  We are none of those.  Because what you need to know is that four years ago, when we thought we were adopting a little girl with cleft lip and palate, our agency sent us her medical file with the directive to read it, meet with at pediatrician who can consult on it and interpret what it will mean before we committed ourselves to her.  And that file?  It contained a comprehensive report by an American doctor who reported that Maggie’s head size was not compatible with brain growth.  Who believed she would be in a semi-vegetative state and would never walk, talk, potty train or be experience any kind of measurable cognitive growth.  She recommended that Maggie not be placed for adoption, but would perhaps be better placed in an institution.  And then she sealed it with her signature.  And our dear friend, a pediatrician, sat on our deck that warm summer day, tears in her compassionate eyes and Maggies file in shaking hands and concurred.  She was broken to deliver this news to us, that was clear.  And we were broken to hear it, spent six agonizing days wrestling with the Holy Spirit about wether he had called us to adopt A child or THIS child.  And then we signed. And when they put her in our arms, limp and lifeless, no expression on that blank face, our worst fears were confirmed.  I spent the first three days we had her sitting in a chair in our hotel room, dribbling formula into her little bird mouth with a spoon because she was too weak to even suck, her teeny body lifeless in my arms. So those numbers up there on the screen?  They are a miracle. And as far as we are concerned, her life began when they handed her to us three and a half years ago, so frankly, your findings are spot on.  You say she is operating at the level of a three and a half year old? That is because, for all intents and purposes, she is a three and a half year old, this 28 pound five year old girl of ours.  Which means she is exactly where she is supposed to be.  We are thrilled.  We will always be thrilled with the numbers because we signed our names on a paper four years ago, locking her in as our girl, knowing that medical science saw her abilities as zero, her potential as zero, her life as zero.  Those numbers up there? Miracle.”

For those of you warrior parents who have spent this fall at those brutal IEP meetings hearing findings that made you ache, take heart in this truth: your child is exactly who they are supposed to be.  Just totally, fully who they are supposed to be.  And wether they are cognitively or socially or emotionally nearly half their bio age or leaps ahead, matters little.  What matters is that they are home and in your arms and that it is forever.  Which doesn’t make the day to day any easier, holy smokes it doesn’t, but let it soak into your heart that perhaps our goal here isn’t to raise Rhodes Scholars, but to welcome in sons and daughters.  That family is more precious than degrees and belonging will matter more than any letters they accumulate behind their names someday.  So you sit at your IEP meetings, looking at those numbers and you want to throw out some of your own.  Numbers like how many days you waited to bring this child home, wringing hands and heart as the time dragged on.  Or how many dollars were raised by a community as committed to bringing your child home as you did, even when giving cost them dearly.  Or how many beats per minute your heart beat as you sat in that room waiting for a first glimpse, your heart like a drum in your chest.  Or how many people dragged themselves out to the airport at all hours to welcome you home, you and your precious new one.  Or how many nights it’s been since you’ve had your bed to yourself, unoccupied by a child who is sure they will wake up tomorrow totally alone and it will all have been a dream. Those are the numbers that matter. And you are killing it.  You are.  So here’s to you, IEP parents.  And those without them.  You are doing the hard, beautiful work that you have been called to do.  And you. are. crushing. it.  Carry on, brave mamas and babas.  Carry on.

break 2.

It is day seven hundred and ninety two of Christmas break.  I have put six hundred miles, at least, on my car driving Smalls to and fro.  When I’m not driving I stand next to the dryer in the back hall and swap out towels and suits for snow clothes, everything smelling of ambition and chlorine.  I have made more lunches for more kids than I can count.  I made soup last night in a sixteen gallon pot.  This is no joke.  Everyone over 8 has had at least 2 sleep overs, so we’ve ticked that box and we are done.  We’ve only taken two mystery trips because there are only small pockets of time between driving. but we have crafted until our fingers are numb to make up for it.  There are Perler beads in every corner of our living spaces and in cleaning out the art cupboard last week I found twenty pots of paint I won’t let anyone use and several small children, who I have sent on their way with twenty dollars and our address so they can write when they get work. No one got geranium red finger nail polish on the counter in the kitchen.  No one also drew a smiley face on the bedroom wall and fed the dogs a cookie.

My Shipt shopper asked if I was having a party this morning when he delivered nearly four hundred dollars worth of  resupplies, stepping over dogs and boots.  At this point I would gladly let almost anyone take over.  You want to start a snap streak with Kim Jong Un?  Go for it, but only if the next sleep over can be at his house.  I leave everyone under 15 for a few minutes each morning to get teenager to practice, which they have every day of break because they hate parents.  During this time I turn the radio off and listen to myself breathe.  Smell the soup, blow the soup, smell the soup, blow the soup.  My favorite jeans ripped up the crotch this morning when I bent to pull kleenexes out of Baxter’s mouth because no one throws their used Kleenexes away if they can help it.  I intended to be buried in those jeans and since break is prolly going to kill me, you can see why this is problematic.  I ordered a new pair and then texted dan to let him know he can now bury me in my bathrobe and long johns because it’s nine degrees outside.  But he has to include a bra because I don’t want to meet Jesus without one.

By the time dan gets home tonight I will have brought kids to and from three sleepovers to practice twice, home from Cannonsburg and to the barn and back.  There will be nothing for dinner because I only have the energy to make nothing.  It’ll be fantastic and everyone will love it.  They will instagram about how good it tasted and how amazing their mama is.  Kim Jong Un will see and invite them for a visit and I will say yes because  they will learn how to work and have respect for authority.  They can come home when we have a new president who doesn’t brag about how big his button is.  In the meantime I will be sleeping and ignoring the dryer which will be empty and will smell good.

Next week everyone will be back at school and I will be rattling around in this house with just the pups and I will hate it.  Ok, mostly I will like it, but by Wednesday I will be missing my people and these sweet days of long johns and cousin chatter and messes made by happy Smalls.  I will ache to hear Abe’s voice speaking “Netflix” (net-palicks) into the remote and having it tell him no comprende.  I will try to make time to lay on the couch each afternoon for a bit and will miss little people asking if I can snuggle them.  I will make what I want for lunch and eat it alone.  Ok, this I will love but still.  These days, they are so long but fleeting.  We have three more days in which to suck the marrow out of Christmas break.  Bring it.

this is me being real.


Last year we had a very short, one week Christmas break and we all groaned and complained and so they gave us two weeks.  Which we are calling Small Summer.  Even though it’s freezing and snowy and the pool is frozen solid.  Two weeks looms large at the start, but it’s swallowing us right up with it’s long days of hot cocoa and friends over and mystery trips.  Their favorite so far was treasure hunting, which it actually just antiquing with a fancy label.  I give them each a fiver and something to hunt for (a star! miniatures! something that glows!) and set them free with the warning that if they touch ANYTHING they will be wearing mittens for a week.  The teenagers love this.  The smell, the dust, the used everything. They love this so much they opted to stay in the car and snap about how dumb everything is.

And so break rolls along.  Lucy has worn her hat day and night for three days. Abe got a shirt with Mac n cheese on it for Christmas and hasn’t taken it off since. The tree came down the day after Christmas because by then I. am. over. it. and the kids used a can of gas and small matches to burn it in the yard yesterday.  Today no one has eyebrows and all evidence of Christmas is gone.  See ya.  Lucy had ten dollars burning a hole in her pocket and Peter discovered last night that I’d mistakenly bought crunchy peanut butter, which is the worst thing ever.  So I loaded kids up and took them for a late night Meijer run where I saw all my Shipt shoppers and wondered aloud about a branch of Shipt that involved people in green shirts coming to your house, picking up your kids and taking them shopping.  I would pay almost anything for that service.  Especially when someone has ten dollars to spend.  In aisles where nothing they want costs ten dollars. I nearly lost my soul.

The dogs continue to steal packages and run away.  Every Vos Small is outside as I type trying to earn ten bucks by finding the curtain hardware that was delivered yesterday.  It’s brass and beautiful and they must have loved it because they hid it well.  Also, they clearly have more bite strength than I give them credit for.  I have fed more kids this break than a soup kitchen and I’ve loved nearly every second of it.  If you are a social worker or work for CPS, Kindly stop reading.  Abe…he’s not nearly as disregulated as he normally is during the holidays.  But he has itchy balls.  And so his hands are constantly down his pants.  He is not our first child to engage in self-exploration.  Last time we followed the doctors directive to ignore it and let it run it’s course, which it did after years of embarrassing mishaps (oh gosh, he/she is doing it on stage! Not in church! I know it’s your company picnic, but Dr. Meier said not to shame him/her!).  Last time we followed the rules.  We will not make this mistake again.  So last night as I was shelving peanut butter and wiping sweat out of my bra, dan saw Abe, you know.  And so he responded with love and logic…”Abe, if you keep touching your penis it will come off and stick to your hand.  Then when break is over and you go to the cafeteria, you will ask the lunch ladies for a cheeseburger and they will see your penis hand and say, ‘Gross! No food for you!!'” I found this a very healthy way to handle the situation and have noticed he has kept his hands out of his pants since.  Also, he no longer likes cheeseburgers.  For those of you concerned that we actually said these words to our adopted son who has food issues, not to worry; he laughed as hard as we did.

Welcome back CPS and social workers.  For all you mamas who are planning fun activities every day-you are killing it.  For you mamas who are drooling on the couch, sure you can’t last another hour-you will.  You will rise and you will make all the cocoa for all the kids and it will be fantastic.  This is your hour.  Christmas break is our bone and we are sucking the marrow out of it.  Well done.

this is me being real.


We are watching my favorite Christmas movie, Arthur Christmas, after a mystery trip to carol at nana and papas and a drive to see the lights.  The snow is falling outside and everyone is in soft, warm jammies and dreaming of what they’ll find tomorrow.  I carried presents out of their hiding places this afternoon, silently chastising myself for not doing advent readings with the kids this year.  No advent readings, no candles, no straw to feather baby Jesus’ manger bed.  I bowed under the pressure of December.  The sign up genius’, the dishes to pass, the luncheons and gift wrapping and UPS shipment notifications.  These consumed my time and the rest fell to the wayside, enveloping me with guilt and shame.  And so I resolve to do it differently next year.  To let the baby reign and everything else fall away.  Or at least to have it more balanced.  Because if you strip away the trimmings and wrapping, there is only this: a baby.

Wether you are at the top of your game or just riding the pine, the baby came for you.  Wether you are loudly proclaiming Jesus or whispering quiet adoration or saying nothing at all, the baby came for you.  Wether you are having the best year of your life or you lay down last night wishing you wouldn’t wake up at all, the baby came for you.  Wether you have all your ducks in a row or exactly none of them, the baby came for you.  Wether you grew up in the church or have never darkened it’s doorstep, the baby came for you.  Wether you think you are someone to be proud of or someone who no one could ever be proud of, the baby came for you.

This baby.  He doesn’t see your ugly; he is blind to the wear and tear this hard world has put on you, that you’ve put on yourself.  He sees only the person you can become and he promises a roadmap to get there.  The baby is the only thing that matters.  Today and ever.  The only thing.  He came to bring life in a world that stinks of decay.  He came to bring peace in a world rife with terror and deception.  He came to save from a world hell bent on taking you down.  He is hope and light and truth and everything, everything, that is good and right.  The baby came for you wether you wanted him to have or not because the baby knew you and I needed saving more than anything else.  Knew we’d find ourselves desperate for a savior and so he came.  We’ve all spent the last month wrapping and baking and taking care of a million and five small details but there is only one thing that matters: what will you do with the baby?  This can go down two ways.  You can hold that soft downy head and in beautiful reverence slip a crown of gold or a crown of thorns on it.  And that headgear will change everything for you.  Crown him or crucify him.  What will you do with the baby?  Because on Tuesday we will wake up and all the trappings of Christmas will be gone but the baby will be there still, waiting to see what you will do.  Please, dear ones, choose rightly.  Maybe you spent yourselves nailing it with Elf on the Shelf this season, perhaps you busied yourself gifting free-trade chocolates and finding non-gmo snacks for Christmas parties or maybe you did it all right and focused on the baby.  No matter, tomorrow is fresh with no mistakes in it and I’m determined to kneel at that humble manger and crown that precious baby.  Join me?

Happiest Christmas loves!

this is me being real.

dear younger me. 2

Do you remember the day someone called you fat?  I hear her voice in my head still, shrill and mean.  She wasn’t out to hurt you, but she did.  Deeply.  We are 42 now and our body has some serious miles on it.  It’s not as strong and firm as it used to be.  But it’s carried 4 babies and bears lots of battle scars.  It has served us well, is serving us well still.  You will have this great period of about two years in your late thirties when you will try the naturopathic route to get off anti anxiety meds (this will, incidentally end badly, but you will retain the habits that are retainable).  You will eat cabbage and quinoa for months and you will be skinny and it’ll feel so good, even though you will smell so so bad.  But then life will interrupt and your old body will come back.  You will feel shame and disgust; will wear them like a yoke.  But something will shift eventually and you will come to some kind of peace in this skin of ours.  You will walk the dogs every morning, feeling yourself getting stronger and know that you might never be skinny Megan again, but you are happy Megan and that counts for something.  You will commit everyday to feed this body well most of the time and let the chips fall where they may.

That voice you hear telling you you’re fat?  It doesn’t own you.  Doesn’t define you.  You are so much more than a number on a scale or a size on a rack.  How you treat your body is precious, but what size you are isn’t.  I want you to learn this now, before you let that voice lie to you for years and years.  It will chide you as you step on the scale at your OB’s office, telling you that your burgeoning body isn’t beautiful, even as it swells with the miracle of life.  Lie.  It will mock you when you are on the beach with your babies; convincing you that you should stay just outside the frame so you don’t mess it up.  Lie.  It will speak to you of a husband who might not find you attractive anymore because you are no trophy, even as he tells you you’re the sexiest woman he knows.  Lie.  That damn voice will make you look around at every classroom party you go to, wondering how on bloody earth they do it and if their size makes them a better mother.  Lie.

Megan, there is one Voice you need to listen to and one only.  It will tell you that you are loved and a wonder.  It will speak of cloaking you in righteousness.  It will remind you that your citizenship is in heaven and that your work here is confined to bringing as many people with you as you can.  It will hang out with you on the couch in the small hours of the morning when all the babies are sleeping and it will confirm that you aren’t enough, but then in the lovingest way possible it will prove to you that The Voice is.  Enough.  And that you were never meant to be everything.  That wanting that is an idol you bow down to far too often.  Younger me, these are words I wish I could tell you when you are in middle school and wondering already how much size matters.  Megan, you have to believe me on this because I promise you it is truth.  Take care of your body, yes.  But the voices that tell you your size defines you?  They can go to hell.  Seriously.

this is me being real.