This small act of letting go, of non-response, would have felt impossible five years ago. I hate tension and naturally scramble to pacify aggression. I’m also sensitized to accusation, and my mind relentlessly spits out points, counterpoints and questions. I hated leaving his words hanging, unrefuted, as if their merit left me speechless.

Most of the time things flow smoothly with our exes and co-parenting, but we all still have triggers which run deep and can explode from time to time. As I sank into the tangerine chair, tears slid down my cheeks. No immediate act could truly lessen the pain of the new wound. I could only choose not to make it worse, not to pick up my own sword, and eventually, to forgive. I knew from much experience that forgiveness was the way to refuse this new wound permanency.

After the tears dried up, after my neighbor stopped by for some tea and silliness, my spirit began to lift. I finally picked up my phone, relieved to see the texts had ceased.

Then my eyes fell to the top of the screen, on his contact name, and my stomach lurched.

John the Great.

A few months ago, one of our mischievous little boys had been changing my screensaver and decided to also change the contact names of everyone in our family. And ‘extended’ family. Newton became Newton the Great. Papa – Papa the Great. And suddenly, my ex-husband had become Great.

When I first saw he had changed his father’s title, I immediately began to change it back. But I stopped. I chose, I willed, to keep it. To accept that mental signal every time his name appeared on my screen. To see his Greatness.

In that moment of wounding, I again longed to erase the title. But I knew it was still a choice, not a feeling. Even in pain I could choose the position of my heart. So many of these small choices have paved the way for real freedom in my life – things like speaking highly of him, especially to the children, or thanking God for the positive things he does and says, And so I kept it as it was and chose again, the way of grace, the way forward; a way that draws out Greatness in everyone.

I’ve also heard this referred to as ‘calling out the gold’ in someone else. It flows so naturally for me with my friends and loved ones, but real transformation happens in deliberate choice, when it’s often the hardest with people who have hurt you the most.

If you only love the lovable, do you expect a pat on the back? Run-of-the-mill sinners do that. If you only help those who help you, do you expect a medal? Garden-variety sinners do that…

I tell you, love your enemies. Help and give without expecting a return. You’ll never—I promise—regret it. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives toward us, generously and graciously, even when we’re at our worst.
Our Father is kind; you be kind.
Luke 6 : 31-36 THE MESSAGE VERSION

Graham Cooke refers to difficult relationships in our lives as grace growers, because they are regular opportunities for us to develop in character. These gifts are often abundant with divorce and blended families. There is a unique challenge in continuing to co-parent with someone you’re not married and committed to, and loving children transplanted into your unique family. The value of what’s at stake can often make situations volatile, and the person on the other side can feel like an enemy. But every conflict, every struggle, rises up as an opportunity to choose generosity and grace, no matter who is on the receiving end. These choices are carried out in actions, in words, and in attitudes. And they will bring a return, eventually.

Graham outlines a really practical exercise for this which I’ve summarized here if you want to dig deeper. Who are the grace growers in your life right now? What is just one active way you can choose kindness toward them today? Establishing that new upward direction can start with just one act: words that build up, choosing to overlook an offense, giving more than is required; the possibilities are endless. Your choices to do so will pave a way for you and for them and for your own unique life that is truly Great. You’ll never—I promise—regret it.

The post Great Again appeared first on Eat the Strawberries.

I became convinced that the answer was yes. But could it be done in a way that protected all the parties involved? The exes, the children, and everyone in between: this answer was unclear. So I began building and writing the blog privately, anonymously, to see what could be done. The children knew, but they were also very young. Ever-so-slowly I began curating our unexpected life onto the virtual page. I showed it only to a number of close friends, unsure of how or when it would ever be released into the open, but not wanting to forget the stories in the meantime.

Then the babies came, one after another, and the curating slowed. I breathed them in, my last little ones to nuzzle and nurse. I shelved the writing here, for a season or forever, I simply did not know.

But God did.

Recently the trip of a lifetime turned into the opportunity of a lifetime, and I was able to write a piece for my favorite publication, Darling Magazine. I love everything about them: what they say, how they say it, the culture they are creating. It was such an honor to contribute in any way to their voice. When the last edits were completed and they asked which url I’d like listed by my name and contribution, I knew the time had come. The blog would no longer be anonymous, the stories would no longer just be for us. But in that moment I also knew that I would not open that door without the full awareness and blessing of our children. Each and every one of them. Papa and I would tell them all about it, and they too, would have a voice. Just one veto from them would close the door. But we trusted that ultimately if God was behind this He would be the one to speak to their hearts, just as He had to ours.

When the day arrived, I scanned the room registering seven little pairs of eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Everyone here has been hurt deeply by divorce. We all know the pain, but we also know God, and have seen how He can bring goodness to anything. We each carry a story of hope, and hope is something so many people need that I want to share our story. I know we told you about the blog early on, but you are much older now, and the Darling article has given us an opportunity to begin to share our stories with others. We wanted to read to you some of what I’ve been writing, and give you time to respond. We care what you think, and how you feel about this.”

They nodded and stretched back into more comfortable positions. Gangly limbs sprawled out on rocking chairs, sofas, and carpet as I began reading their profiles out loud. The room overflowed with laughter and agreement,”Wow, that’s totally Wesley!” “Yes, Eliot still does that all the time!” and occasionally, “Can I have a different name..?”

The last character description was met with cheering, and encouragement, and praise. They loved hearing the story of Them. I continued by reading the most recent post.

It ended in a roomful of grinning faces, bubbling with excitement and cheering on the blog. But as my eyes scanned the room, I noticed one face obscured by a pillow. I sat beside him, lightly rubbing his back, “Are you ok?”

This broke the dam, and tears slipped across his cheek, pooling in the pillow ridge. No amount of prompting brought any words, there were only tears.

These moments break my mama-heart. Again. And threaten to dredge up all the hurt and offense that surely I’ve buried and forgiven a thousand times over by now. I am vigilant. I don’t let them emerge. But it takes muscle to stuff back the ‘What if’s’ and “How could they” and “Whys”.

As I continue rubbing his back, I look around to see that he is surrounded by quiet, loving stares. What is there to say? What is there to do? Even with a whole room full of people who would do anything for him in an instant.

One bonus-brother disappears into the bathroom and returns with Kleenex. After placing them in his hand, he sits at his brother’s feet and begins rubbing them.

The silent tears slow.

Another bonus-brother gets up from the floor and eases in next to the hurting one on the sofa. Without saying a word, he simply slides his arm around his shoulders, and stares silently off into the same direction. They sit there, the two of them, understanding.

The slow tears stop.

Wet cheeks are wiped dry. And the night continues on. We watch the movie we had planned, and the entire time, the boys remain connected. Comforted.

Even in the moments where the pain again rears its head, God’s supplies grace to remind me of the good. Grief is now divided and shared. Burdens are not carried alone. Hearts have been broken but hearts have also been put together. And God has indeed been doing what He promised; blending and growing, bringing unity and goodness.

Which is why when all was said and done, every single member of our family gave their blessing and green light for the telling of our story. The ones that cheered, the one that wept, and the one who pulled him close. They know and believe that even when life is unexpected and imperfect, the strawberries are remarkable, and worth sharing.

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The boys then turned to each other with nonstop chatter, faces flushed with anticipation.

“He’s going to be so surprised!”

“That poster is awesome! I hope he puts it up in our room.”

“Or the playroom.”

“Maybe I should wrap a pack of gum, too? I think I still have an extra.”

“Come on, let’s go finish our cards for him,” they stomped back up the porch stairs and into the house.

I stood still in the driveway for a moment, a perfect day, breeze blowing against one cheek while Sawyer nuzzled the other. I was practicing a new goal:

Being present.

We’ve come so far in these years, uniting two separate families into one. There are many moments I miss, but a few like this where I see the rich picture for what it is. One of the richest is their celebration for each other. It is never forced or manipulated by us; they genuinely love to celebrate every individual little person in our tribe.

With 10 people in our immediate family now, regular life is peppered with birthdays. We do birthdays more than haircuts or yardwork or some weeks, showers. It could get old.

How many different ways are there to make someone feel special? How many different kinds of cake can be eaten before it just becomes routine?

And yet without fail the kids rally every single time, authentically loving the one to be celebrated. The ones they share blood with, the ones they share names with, the ones they share a bedroom with, the ones they share only through the marriage of their parents. Every. Single. One. Ever since Newton’s delivery service began, they love to earn money in the weeks ahead and plan for what spectacular gift they can give from the neighborhood Chocolatier or the ever-affordable Five and Below: a store teaming with treasures like foam weapons, automatic card shufflers, and $5 t-shirts in perfect line with elementary-boy humor.

My favorite moments are not even in the excitement-build I experience with them or watching the glow on the birthday boy’s face as they surround him. It is a few minutes that happen during every birthday dinner, a dinner that each child plans down to the drink and napkins (which is special in itself when you are one of many). Tonight we will be having lasagna, mashed potatoes, root beer and cherry pie – all devoured, per request, without utensils. As we lick cheesy marinara off of our fingertips someone will naturally begin the ritual.

“Magellan, I love your generosity. And how you help teach me games. And how you never let Newton bounce me off the trampoline.”

“Yeah! He does that for me too,” someone else will chime in, and pick up the baton. “He always stands up for other people. Like on the playground this summer, how you made Alex stop picking on that new little boy. And even how you defend the bugs when Wesley tries to kill them! You are brave and kind.”

And on it will go, each child, each parent, each grandparent there, calling out the gold in the birthday boy. What they love, what they see, what has grown and blossomed in a year’s time. No repeats allowed. Everyone adds something. And everyone is eager to contribute.

Divorce is a thief and there are many things lost that can’t be replaced.

And at times sharing everything with so many weighs on them and stretches them. So I soak in the days of celebration – a stealth peek at the rich layers ever-growing and cementing underneath. Each separate person makes our whole greater, especially as they lean in towards each other. Every birthday meal, every table full of beaming faces, is an aerial reminder for me that there is indeed much to celebrate.

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Labeling can be damaging or restrictive; but it can also empower and provide context. This one is dead on for us. Rarely can we eat in a restaurant or book a hotel without a reminder that we are not Normal Size. When it was time to purchase a vehicle we had to walk right past all of the sedans and even the mini-vans. Nothing mini for this family. The giant, overfull Carmax lot had not one car to fit our family. Not one. We ended up with a Nissan NV 12-passenger van, which is still bursting at the seams on every family trip.

We turn heads everywhere we go. 20 feet stomping into the coffeeshop, a wave of bodies pouring out of the Big Black Van, loud voices filling the auditorium as we enter a concert. We’ve been asked many times if we are a youth group, if we are babysitters, even if we need help. But this is by far the most common question to me:

“Are these all yours?”

I hate answering this more than anything. Because yes, most certainly, they are all ours. Ours in the sense that we love them all, feed them all, drive each one to baseball , to violin, to the dentist, the doctor, camp in Wisconsin. For each we have cleaned up vomit, picked out lice, cheered at games, held in tears, admonished, praised, and raised up. Each and every one is ours.

But invariably the question quickly follows:

“You actually gave birth to this many kids?”

Well, no.

I’ve birthed 5 which is not a small feat – but no, I did not birth all 8. I am not the birth-mother of three of them. And I have great respect for the honor, and special place, that a birth parent holds. Does claiming them as ours negate that? I’ve wrestled with everything from embarrassment to shame to frustration in the throes of this question. And many times, second-guessed my answers. Because the follow-up always leads to more questions; more curiosity at our plus-size family, and how we came to be. So many pre-conceived ideas about divorce and remarriage are hard to fend off without over-sharing. But I’ve finally reached a conclusion, and peace.

Are these children all ours? Do I feel God has entrusted me with the care and raising of all 8 of them? Yes, without a doubt.

And if I can envision all 8 little people standing there while being asked, I know that they know the answer is Yes. Any other answer would break their little hearts. Would I draw a line, point to the curly-haired girl and the two boys with glasses as I shake my head no, No not these?

Of course not. Of course they are ours, every one of them.

So how we came to be plus-size might remain obscure. I may not be able to answer every curiosity. Especially in Chicago we will probably continue to be a fascinating sideshow. But I’ve become confident in our label, and in being uniquely whole, together.

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And yet again, my story goes:

But God…

When I least expected it, without any orchestrating on my part, I was given this amazing gift.

The caboose of our giant family; a tiny, baby girl.

Welcome home little one.

The post Our Unexpected Gift appeared first on Eat the Strawberries.

“Hey look! It’s Barry Allen!” Yelled Wesley, who then leaned in closer to Sawyer, “Or are you the Flash right now?”

The toddler grinned and nodded.

Curie thrust a school permission slip into my hands while Magellan bounded down to the basement to check on the progress of their lego project. Papa trailed last in the door and kissed my cheek.

“Wesley forgot his batting helmet, we’ll have to pick it up from his Mom’s before the game tomorrow.”

I sighed and nodded, “Ok – and John just let me know he’ll be out of town this Wednesday so the boys will be here after all. We should cancel the dinner.”

Upstairs Wendy began crying, awake from her nap, punctuated quickly by Newton on the drum kit.

I turned to Emily, “I’ll be right back!” and dashed upstairs to grab the baby.

Moments later when I returned, Emily was still sitting in the same place, smiling. We exchanged looks. One of my oldest friends, I knew her smiles well along with their many interpretations. This one seemed to say,

“Crazy, crazy life!”

I was the last of our college friends we’d have imagined living such a life.

We rarely enjoyed time together since she moved to China with her family, every minute of her visit counted. As we balanced babies and coffee out back to the deck, she shared an observation.

“When children are exposed to another language early on, it opens up new areas of their brains that would otherwise lie dormant. New synapses are created and begin sparking. That is what I see in your crazy blended-family life. New areas of your brain are being used to make all of this happen and run smoothly. The coordination, the communication, the self-control. These are not passive things, these are the powerful gifts developing in you.”

Her words resonated. Instead of seeing all of the details as difficult and taxing, I could choose to see our sometimes-crazy life as healthy stretching, like mental/emotional exercise or yoga.

As Lori White writes on Upworthy:

Being bilingual exercises your brain and makes it stronger, more complex, and healthier.

The pouring out was actually enabling us to become more, not less. It is such a kingdom principle, because his ways are not our ways, and often the thing that feels it might destroy us is the very tool that shapes us to become richer, stronger versions of ourselves. There are still times I doubt my ability to handle the constant complexity of our life. But He is a good Father, the very best, who only gives good gifts. He must know we have what it takes to steward the gift of this mega-family, with all of it’s relational and logistical spaghetti.

Perspective matters.

Every situation in our lives can be used to transform us for good, I’ve seen it first-hand now so many, many times. Believing that, and leaning in toward the good growth, impacts the process tremendously. So today when faced with another problem to solve in our ever-changing family landscape, from vacation scheduling conflicts to wounded hearts to forgotten gym shoes, I will lean into the creative Problem Solver. I will start from a place of gratitude, believing that I am gaining new synapses, new growth, new strength.

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Tomorrow we enter the courthouse again. More than five years have passed since I stepped into such a room to hear the proclamation of a judge over the content of my life. Much has changed. But I am reminded this week that our life circumstances will forever be vulnerable to a subjective microscope. At any point, our finances, our time with our own children, where or how we live, decisions as basic as trips and schooling and activities, can be laid out and dissected before a judge. Judges who don’t know us, or our children, or Jesus. They weigh the glimpses of information before them and rule as best they can.

That ruling can affect almost every aspect of our lives. Again I feel the free-fall and lack of control. This morning emotions surged to the surface, punctuated with words like fairness and justice. Panic rose as I remembered how fairness in divorce is something of an oxymoron.

I have zero faith for fairness.

So what do I have faith for? God and I have been going deeper with this question lately. When everything gets shaken, where does my peace reside? Do I believe that He is good, that He is alive and active and powerful – yes. Does He love me? Yes. Do these things translate into a guaranteed painless list of answered check boxes for all my desires?

No.

God and I have been wrestling this out for awhile now. Because I do wholeheartedly believe in His goodness, that He delights to give good gifts to His children, that He died to redeem all the effects of sin – not just poor choices that would separate us, but also pain and loss and suffering. That those things are finished and paid for; it was not a first installment, Jesus’s death was the price paid in full.

So how does that translate to life here and now? When he thought of me on that cross, paying the ultimate price, what did he see? Did He envision a world full of people with everything their hearts and eyes could imagine? Maybe the eternal answer is yes, in heaven it may very well be so. But what about here and now? I could definitely use a bigger house, 5 bedrooms. Maybe 6. Well, why not 7, or 8? And a swimming pool would be delightful. Indoor, as long as I’m asking. So a house big enough for each of our children to have their own room, and an indoor pool, and any number of other things. And now that I think about it, living somewhere warmer would be nice. With mountains, and ocean, and a city nearby. But plenty of money to afford to live there, to shop at Whole Foods and buy only local and organic. My list could go on – the perfect life. Could we all have a list like this, everyone in the world? Is the resurrection like the introduction of a magic genie lamp into our world, except the wishes are endless? For everyone, well everyone who calls on the name of the Lord?

That doesn’t really make sense to me either. So if the cross does not translate into a fair life, nor does it translate into a genie life, what does it actually mean for life in the days?

What resonates most in my spirit is this: I do have faith for fullness. We are now able to have the Holy Spirit alive in us, to become like Him. To not only live more closely with Him minute by minute, but also to exude Him more truly to others – to love Him and to love others well. What I do have deep faith for is that I can live intimately close to God through anything, and that I can become more like Jesus.

Which means in the middle of anything, it is possible for me to have:

Peace

Patience

Goodness

Gentleness

Kindness

Love

Joy

Faithfulness

Self-control

God calls this fruit. Not only because they are delightful; but also because they are results that must be cultivated. We are capable now of producing them, but they must be grown. In much the same way that my body is capable of many things, but only to the extent that I train or exercise it toward that end. My focus has been disjointed and distracted for awhile now, I have let these places go slack. I want to see them flourish again, and in new ways. I want to love and connect with the Source again in such a way that they become my natural environment. These things seem like true kingdom life, accessible to all wherever one might live or whatever one’s circumstances. What economy or illness or even judge can steal these gifts away?

I choose today a stance and life lived toward this vision and in close proximity to that Source. I will not focus on top-level outcomes or fairness which pave the way for fear, I will simply make known my requests to God and then leave them with Him. In peace. In trust. In rest. I choose to live above the circumstances, knowing that God deeply loves us and will never leave nor forsake us – and trust that all of His gifts are good. To some degree these can sound like just the right words to say. But I fully believe they will be followed in the days and weeks to come with examples of these incredible gifts in action, and why His higher way is of such great worth.

May He be with the judge tomorrow and help him to see rightly. May He give us favor and a way forward. But ultimately, may I end tomorrow closer to Him than I started the day, regardless of any ruling or outcome. At true rest in His goodness and love.

Just as grace trumps justice, fullness is a higher way than fairness.

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Of the many issues I imagined before we married, I had not even begun to grasp how much and how often we would grapple with the question of space. Its limits, its possibilities, how to stretch it, how to multiply it, how to organize it, how to share it, even how much monetary value to give it. And just as we figure out one of those pressing questions, it morphs into yet another – because some boy joined the baseball team and brought home bags of equipment, or began the cello, or we must find a spot for the keyboard before lessons begin. After 16 years in Chicago, I am used to living with space at a premium. Things my other midwestern friends take for granted, like double garages and entryway closets, I long ago laid down. I chose that these would not dictate the quality of my life or what city we chose to lay down roots. Little did I know what walking out that decision would look like many years later.

We bought this house nine years ago from an older couple, professors with no children, who had inhabited it for 25 years. They loved the old home and restored it in every way possible. Walking in the front door the first time I was greeted by amazing space and light. For us, and our three small children, it was perfect. Rooms for everyone, even an office for me. Someone prayed over me during that season, saying they saw a picture of the exact house we were about to purchase, many years out, full to the brim with teenagers.

Little did I know what that would mean.

Fast forward nine years and everything within has doubled. This sturdy old home now houses eight beds and a crib, eight desks, nine dressers, tables and furniture and dishes and food and coats to nurture nine living, breathing, running, eating, sleeping, breathing humans. I stood back the other night at our 10-seat table, that can’t be walked fully around when a chair is pulled out, and watched as a packed room of excited little boys shouted out numbers while waving cards wildly, chairs tipping over in the excitement – fully engaged in their favorite board game, Sentinels of the Multiverse. A family event request from our oldest on the day he turned 13. Our pioneer into the teenage years, the first of many, many more just on his heels.

The evening hours filled with riotous noise. Many eruptions of yelling and laughter and cheering peppered the game, as the baby watched on with great curiosity while his sister occasionally swirled him around or delivered him a new toy.

Eventually the heroes defeated the villains, and many hands scrambled to put away the game and return eight empty popcorn bowls to the dishwasher. The tired stairs creaked beneath innumerable pairs of feet that lumbered up toward bedrooms, lined with books and beds and belongings. But first six children squeeze into the tiny bathroom to brush teeth, taking turns to spit and elbowing each other to see who will protest first this night.

They retire to rooms that are full, no one has a room to themselves any longer. They step over a brother’s dirty clothes or baseball bag, they climb up rope ladders to the lofts that Papa built them. And then, they talk. And talk. And talk. There is always periodic grumbling about space; something new to be squeezed in, something lost, something stepped on or misused by someone else. But at the end of the day there is always this. The pains, and sweetness, of living in close community with so many other messy human beings.

A couple months ago someone was praying over me yet again. This time she saw a picture of a house, a different house. An enormous house, by a lake, large enough that every person in our family could have a room to themselves, with room left over for guests. My small mind could not even picture such a thing, but I quieted my heart and took in her words without judgement.

Our oldest, the teenager, was with me, and afterwards on the drive home he was quiet for a long time. Finally he turned to me and said, “Mom, even if that does happen. Can Wesley and I please still share a room?”

I know the doubling of our family has cost them many things, like a house where they don’t have to move three bikes out of the way to get to their own. But clearly, it has gained them many things as well, and I’m grateful for those reminders.

The post The Teaming Masses appeared first on Eat the Strawberries.

But anything can change with time. And our hearts certainly did. We both began to acknowledge a desire deep within to have a child together, and to have a child that would share DNA with everyone in our huge blended family. Maybe Curie’s eyes, Eliot’s laugh, Sullivan’s creativity – anything would be possible.

We wrestled with all of the questions, weighed the risks, rewards and costs. But mostly, we prayed. And God was faithful to answer, with a gentle invitation to More. Not a commandment, not even a request; simply a loving invitation.

After the divorce, through tears, I had given all of my baby and maternity things away. I had closed that door in my heart. And risking being more vulnerable, more dependent again stirred up a lot of fear for me. Again with our finances, our time, our space – could we add more? Could we handle more stretching? God’s gentle, consistent answer seemed to be yes.

So we embarked on whole new journey together, and many months later saw the sweet result of our answer to the invitation.

Welcome, darling boy. You can’t begin to imagine the love that surrounds you.

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“Wow, zuchhini huh?” John leaned in closer to survey the beautiful and distorted vegetable recreation.

Eliot bounced as he spoke, “Yep! Zucchini! And this is what I did in science..” He whipped solar system diagrams out of his camouflaged backpack, “and geography…and english…” the papers just kept piling up in front of us. We grinned at the onslaught of sudden show-and-tell.

I put my arm around his bony shoulders and squeezed, knowing how he enjoyed the individual attention, a rarity for one so far down in birth order. He soaked in every second.

He put one arm around my waist and squeezed me back, then his other arm sprang out from his side and wrapped around his father, pulling him in. Close. Awkwardly close.

I gave one more slight squeeze and then let go and stepped back. Reclaiming my space.

John stayed put, but with one hand began leafing through the buffet of work, “You are so smart Eliot. You do such great work, I love seeing everything you do,” he pulled out a particularly fiery picture of Jupiter and held it up to the light.

Eliot’s smile widened.

He turned his radiant face upward and said, “Dad, can you spend the night? Just tonight? Please?”

John and I both froze. Amazing that so many years later, so comfortable in the new normal, things still occasionally knock the wind out of us.

We both laughed nervously, John reached down tousled his son’s sandy hair. “No no, you know that’s not possible. But I love being with you. And I’ll see you again soon. Friday – just a few more days.”

Eliot looked back and forth between our faces, finally resting again on his father’s. “Please Dad! Come on, just one night! We’ll have a sleepover!”

John pulled him in for a long hug, answering with his silence.

When he unwrapped his arms from the boy, Eliot was still smiling. But less. The glow was diminished, his shoulders slumped now ever so slightly. “Okay,” he responded, “Friday.” The response of a boy who was used to his life, who had accepted it. And yet still dared to ask for what he actually wanted. Against all odds.

But that night he would sleep in the home he was legally bound to sleep in. And I would sleep there as well, with my husband. John would go home to his wife, and sleep with her. Everyone in their place.

His words, no his courage, echoed through my mind that night as I wrestled myself to sleep. Eliot could not even walk when John left, he certainly had no memory of living day in and day out with his father. And he loved every member of his ever-growing crazy tribe – the step-parents, the step-siblings, the half-brothers – all of them. A family and life not unlike the unwieldy zucchini structure. Yet still deep in his tiny heart he hoped for something else. Something he would never have. Two parents, his parents, under the same roof.

So should he have asked outloud for this, for the impossible? Is that not what I’ve taught and trained him to do, to search his heart, to ask with courage, to believe? Just that weekend at church, the speaker  again stirred us to a frenzy, “Nothing is impossible with God! Nothing!” and of course I cheered in agreement, surrounded by fellow cheerleaders. Certainly it was true. The Bible said it, after all.

Yet how do I say to those little rich brown eyes that everything is possible with God, except the things he wants most? Do I make up answers I don’t actually have, or do I teach him how to overlook the things that just don’t add up?

My dream for him, for myself as well I suppose, is a rich courageous faith that dares to take God at His word, even before we can get it all worked out ourselves. I’m not sure it’s possible to set parameters on risk. All questions must be able to be asked, all deep dreams of the heart free to be brought into the light.

God is not scared of our questions. In fact it’s very much the opposite; God-in-flesh not only welcomed them, he often answered with even grander questions. So tonight my faith looks like not having it worked out. Trusting enough to allow space for his honest questions, impossible though they might seem. Grateful that he feels safe enough with us to ask them out loud, maybe echoes of the same love from our heavenly Father who tells us to approach His throne boldly as well.

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