Music credit: Brooke Fraser (featuring William Fitzsimmons)

Car curving downhill, and there I see her- all white and bright against the leafless trees watching guard. She’s crossed the road and next to us, looks back before trotting off through the trees, gaining speed as I gain just a portion of perspective. “Two Mondays- I wonder what it means,” I think aloud to my wide-eyed passengers.

Miles pass on and notes begin, music filling the air between us. “I wike dis one,” our tiniest declares her approval. “Yes I know that You’re with me here, and I know, Your love will light the way,” singer declares. I like this one too, I say silently.

Nearing school, volume is lowered, prayers offered- declared really, over our fragile fold. Prayers of Mercy and health, Joy and Peace, for mountains to fall…As the car line advances and “Amens” whispered, my oldest questions, “But Mom, why do you want mountains to fall?” Her door open now, she gathers bags and apple, hustling to keep line moving. I turn and tell her, “I will explain it to you this afternoon- we can talk more then, promise.” I love yous exchanged and she’s off, as are we, back to the hill and hopeful eyes watching tree lines for another glimpse, another message hidden for us in creation. And given it all-the sacrifice and battle, the tears and wandering- it is the anticipation of a finished conversation with my girl about my God, an opportunity to actually parent and pour into and not merely pour milk for, that brings respite by way of a smile. Glimpses of Joy on a Monday- darting through trees, up and down hills, lighting the way, always looking back beckoning us to press on.

Love,

-Sarah

Learning to Love as Five from sarah richmond on Vimeo.

A visual compilation of Lulu’s first year home and our adventure of learning to love as a family of five. Love is a miracle. Let’s be a miracle. Song credit: Miracle, Sara Groves

To staying on course,

-Sarah

____

Some battles are birthed out of the slightest of strayed steps. Derailment doesn’t often wave a flag announcing its swift approach. You could be moving along at a decent pace, and in a breath be airborne, wheels having left tracks, bracing for inevitable impact. A few weeks ago, we had a Sunday morning at our house scattered with those wayward feet; a snooze button pressed just once more, a duel of wills over a child’s breakfast, a gas tank left on “E” and without warning or purpose it all began to unravel. Frazzled and late, we pushed and huffed and stomped out the door to church. Yes, church. That particular day we had to drive two cars as one of us was committed to serve during second service, so he in the vehicle on fumes and me in with the now sniffling, post-tantrum child, threw gears in reverse away from home, fully aware of the shaky, uneven tracks beneath us.

It is a 17-minute drive from our driveway to church parking lot, and it is safe to say I was stewing over the morning’s events for 15.5 of those minutes. Knowing all the while, the path to peace, the way back onto steady track, lay within my own hands. Hands that at the moment were clenched tight and tense around the driver’s wheel, as if straining to steer much more than the SUV I navigated. Hands that could so quickly pull away from another’s, in a fit of self-righteous animosity. As thoughts flurried about my mind, ‘How did we get here?’ ‘This is not how today was meant to go,’ the simple question arose from the mess.

“Do I want to be happy, or do I want to be right?”

Sigh. My grip loosens ever so.

If one were to look back over my life, my marriage, would the landscape be littered with the debris of derailment after derailment all in the name of being right, being heard, being without fault? Years and countless train wrecks later, it is on this Sunday morning, this 17-minute drive, I have a choice to make. Brace for impact, and choose to brood and blame my husband, my kids for this latest less than perfect. Or release those tightened fists and allow my pride to fall through open fingers, choosing instead joy. Seeing it in type, the choice isn’t even really a choice, but we all know the living, breathing story is hardly ever that clear.  Why is that? How is this even a struggle to decide – bitterness or happiness? When has choosing to be right ever made me happier? How much laughter has indignation ushered unto my lips? Where is joy when the path chosen is wide enough only for one and the bitter I carry with me?

“Do I want to be happy, or do I want to be right?”

The church in view around the bend, my decision settles. Still tardy for service, we unload and little legs scurry to keep my pace. I don’t say much to their sweet faces, but the few words of forgiveness we exchange are enough as we jog across the asphalt to the open doors of the church. I know by way of the tender eyes and loving grip around my arm, they have already forgotten, their hearts too small yet to hang onto the ugly. Having stopped in route to remedy the empty gas tank, the final passenger to our train rushes in behind as the kids are checking into their classes. “I’ll take them,” he offers. “You go find us seats.” No time to tell him of the 17-minutes or of my choice.

An usher leads me to two seats up front, and as I settle in, I close my eyes. I whisper prayer. Again, I choose. He slips in from the aisle next to me and exhales, having survived the last 45-minutes of rocky terrain. And as derailments are born from the smallest of missteps; it is the simplest of gestures that can steer us back to safety. This day, I chose joy. I slipped my arm through his and felt pride fall to the floor below. We exchanged looks and a sentence, and again it is enough. Bitterness and resentment denied in place of humility and submission to each other. And by choosing joy, joy is found.

We went on to enjoy one of the most beautiful days our family has ever shared. The impact of a simple acknowledgement, apology or act of surrender hit me that afternoon as we watched the kids run and play at our favorite picnic spot. From my place on a quilt in the middle of giggles and conversation with my love, I saw clearly how the day could have gone if history had repeated itself and joy was left out in the cold while being “right” became the path chosen. This moment, this gift of a day would have never been written, and happiness would have been passed over once more. But isn’t every day the opportunity to choose? Isn’t every situation, circumstance, trial, a chance for us to make the change and the choice for joy, or the choice to allow the wheels to fall off? I can’t say there are no more derailments in my path, but I can’t help but think the effect of joy chosen strengthens the very tracks beneath us, lowering risk for catastrophe, and motivating us to get on rolling.

Merriest of Wishes and Warmest of Smiles to you this night,

– Rob, Sarah, Emma, Asher & Lulu

With Love and Gratitude for your friendship this year,

-Sarah

With Thanksgiving, November 24, 2011

Hello beautiful friends-
It is about 9pm Thursday evening here in Addis, and I am sure many of you are sitting down to tables of turkeys, pies and family right about now.

Lulu is absolutely lovely. We have spent a few hours with her the past two days and she is us, we both recognize it and I think she does as well. We hope to share photos and video very soon and will as soon as we are cleared to. Speaking of such, as you will be sleeping tonight (or out shopping!) we will be appearing in court to finalize our intent to adopt. We are still praying for a miracle that our letter from the MOWCYA will be there in court tomorrow for our appointment. Thank you for praying with us!

Our time here has been a huge combination of emotions and been a journey of challenge at times but one we walk by choice, by faith, and as hard as it is to muster at times, with thanksgiving. I can’t even explain how being able to access email and Facebook intermittently has encouraged us. Usually there are many families traveling together on these trips, but it ended up that we have not had any other families along with us. So to be able to get online and read your sweet prayers and notes has been so incredible. It makes it feel less lonely, and that you all are on the adventure with us. We love you and have felt loved by you this week- so thank you.

During our visit this afternoon with Lu I was asking her if she likes music, because it’s kind of a big deal at our house. Rob pulled up a song on his phone and I sang along to her. I don’t know if the song he played was intentional or not, but after a morning of tears and frustration over this process and having to leave our crying baby in the arms of someone else, it was a song I needed to bring me back around to the truth. Hillsong United’s “Take Heart” was Lulu’s first official lullaby as a Richmond.
“Take heart, let His love lead us through the night, hold onto hope, take courage again…”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8MfBQ30Ta9w&feature=youtube_gdata_player

Happy Thanksgiving- your lives have filled ours with gratitude.

For a couple of years now I keep thinking life is surely nearing an exhale. I daydream of taking a breath from the backside of an ebb, and the hard will ease just a little…but still no flow has graced our door in a long, long time. What were once trials and desert-places in years past seem almost run-of-the-mill daily battles now, and as my friend Diana said to me recently, “this- is the new normal.” The hard-pressed, barely catch my breath, bone tired, blessedly grace-full life. The exhale deferred yet again. This morning as another day breaks and with it most-assuredly more desperate ache for peace, I muster strength to open eyes and soul to sing even just a whisper of Gratitude. Thankfulness for all that is bestowed, taken away, and the messy middle of every day. Hour by hour, my new normal.

“We are blessed beyond what we could ever dream

In abundance or in need

And if You never grant us peace

But Jesus, would You please . . .”

I know this family, and think you must as well. Just one year ago the Olsson family was deep in battle to bring their daughter Marra home from Ethiopia. A daughter Rob and I had the privilege of singing Happy Birthday to on Thanksgiving while we were in Ethiopia meeting Lulu. A small band of adoptive parents gathered in a family room at a transition home in Addis Ababa, singing to a child on her first birthday when she should have been home with her family. I don’t imagine I will ever forget that day. We couldn’t have known at the time that just a couple of months later we ourselves would be mired in battle for our girl, and Marra’s mommy Amy would become one of my closest and most-trusted allies in this sisterhood of motherhood to which we belong.

The Olsson’s beautiful Marra did make it home thanks to the tireless pursuit of a family pushed far outside their boundaries of comfort. Amy writes more about their journey here. Many would predict this would be the end of the story- the babe is home, all is well, the end. Who would ever sign up to do this crazy thing called adoption again, after all they went through? But it is not the end of the story when there are somewhere near 150 million orphans in the world, and families willing to run back into the fire out of obedience to the flame placed in their hearts. The Olssons are one such family – and have said “YES” to the hard road, the potential fight, the questions, the comments behind backs, the call to be Jesus to another child. You see, there is a six-year-old Ethiopian beauty who needs a mama like Amy to fight for her, to love freely, to sacrifice for her. And Amy is running toward that child at full-speed because she has first known the Love of a Father who fights for her, loves her without condition and sacrificed the greatest for her. If only the obedient response, and openness of hearts would be all it requires to bring this child home to the Olsson family. But we all know there is red tape and great financial expense ahead, and that is where we come in. Not all of us are called to adopt – it is NOT a perfect solution, nor is it easy, ever. But the Bible talks implicitly to the Church about caring for the orphaned. Caring. How are you choosing to care for those 150 million fatherless today? How am I choosing to care? Caring, is active and progressive and until the day God determines to bring us all Home, we are charged with the task of giving a rip.  If adoption is a seed planted somewhere in you, I hope you press into that and pray, pray, pray. If you know for sure it is not, my sincere hope is for you to find some ways to care, by praying, praying, praying. Specifically, I hope you will prayerfully consider caring for the Olsson family and the tiny six-year-old they have fallen in love with by way of a call and a photo. If 400 people donate just $20, their first goal is met in bringing their daughter home.  Here is a link to the Olsson’s story, and a facebook event link you can feel free to share: https://www.facebook.com/events/463806930337013/

And here is the direct link to their adoption agency where you can make a tax-deductible donation (PLEASE make sure to put Amy and Sten Olsson adoption in the “purpose” field):  http://www.westsandsadoption.org/ws/donate/

Thank you friends for reading, praying, giving and most of all caring. There is something unexplainable about knowing one more child has a family and community praying and loving her home.

In all Gratitude,

-Sarah

xo,

-S