We had magic soil.

That’s what you have when you live on a city lot in a house that’s almost 100 years ago, magic soil. We could grow almost anything. Once we got started planting, we found ourselves deep in the world of experimenting with gardening and it was so rewarding.

Fast forward to a move to a newer home closer to the outskirts of the city, in a suburban ‘hood characterized by vinyl siding, white plastic fences, and a deep devotion to lawn care, and we found ourselves in a different situation. The phrase “underground sprinklers” has both delighted us—look! you set a timer and your lawn gets watered!—and completely stalled out any of our gardening visions. Our bodies have grown just a little bit older and the aches of life have made dealing with a sprinkler system and very unmagic soil not as compelling.

Darn the way new developments are built, right?! Top soil is removed and presumably sold, and the new ‘hoods are left with clay. Booger.

But at some point, around seven years deep into suburban living, we started to take baby steps in the yard and it has brought us delight.

It’s a simple delight to wake up in the morning and want to survey your plant babies.

Gardening hat goes on, and a walk around the yard is called for.

Doesn’t matter that we live in the ‘burbs.
Doesn’t matter that we have a handful of plants we’re encouraging.
Doesn’t matter that we haven’t initiated our grandest landscaping plans yet.
What matters is new growth, aided by a few soil amendments, lots of water, and some glorious Nebraska sunshine.

We don’t have magic soil anymore, but plants are always magic if you have eyes to see them.

Flexible. Observant. Questioner. Big things come in little packages. A blessing. A mini me to her mama. A little sister. A big sister.

Precious.

Loved.

I skipped right past the onesie with “Mommy’s Little Sweetie” on the front. Onesie shopping is, apparently, like shopping for the perfect Hallmark card for whatever occasion you’re celebrating. One size truly does not fit all when you’re a foster parent.

I know from experience.

Years ago we brought home our first foster baby—a precious African American daughter—straight from the hospital. We stopped at a grocery store to get the right type of formula, and due to generous friends I did not have to pick out onesies. We had what we needed. The onesie this time is for a friend, and I felt a profound need to celebrate the homecoming of this little girl who may not stay at my friend’s house for long.

Fostering is some weird wacky stuff. It involves a thousand different emotions.

I want so badly to celebrate this baby girl because she is a HUMAN who is new on this earth. I remember exactly nothing from my own birth, but I know what happened: I was loved and wanted by my biological mom and my biological dad and my biological big brother whose footsteps I’ve followed in since the day I came home. I never considered my first car ride home as an incredible blessing until I peeked into the world of foster care. No doubt bio mamas and daddies love their children, but the reality is that not everyone is equipped to care for an infant’s needs. Sometimes one’s age or goals prevent them from parenting. Other times the ability to safely love and tend is masked by drugs or alcohol and long days of bad decisions, little family support, and hard obstacles. Regardless of the reason, not every child goes home with a family who rejoices in them.

Which is why I’m so proud of my friends who are loving children within foster care. And it’s why I am delighted to be able to pick out girlie onesies (OMG, the cuteness nearly bowled me over), and little teeny socks, and headbands to go on the curls on her precious baby noggin. Let’s CELEBRATE this child! She’s human. She’s beautiful. And she is SO LOVED ALREADY.

I wish everyone could feel that level of joy when they arrive in a home for the first time. This baby will come home to two parents willing to love her as long as she’s with them. She’ll arrive and greet a biological sibling who she crazily and beautifully resembles. She’ll be touched and fed and diapered by a whole crew of big foster brothers and sisters who have cheered her arrival long before she was born. What an amazing thing.

The hope of a foster parent is not in possession.

It is not in doing the right things and making all the connections.

It is not in being the better mother and father, in loving the most, in providing better than another person.

No, the hope of a foster parent is found in treating other human beings with dignity and compassion because God made them. God has made man and woman in his image and cherishes each and every person. If God loves people like that, who are we to do anything different?

Fellow foster families, keep on keeping on. We love you and we’re proud of you.

To God be the glory.

I stopped to sniff the lilacs and almost sniffed a baby bird instead.

I held my camera stretched out before me, lens angled down to hopefully capture Mama Robin’s eggs.

Got it.

I hear there is one tiny robin in the nest now, his shoulder blades still bare. I’ll let the neighbors and my Dr. Dolittle daughter check on the babies now. Time for Mama to have some peace. At least until I unhook our hose and scare her again.

Robin’s eggs are always stunning.

Spring has come to Lincoln, Nebraska.

I delivered a breakfast burrito and coffee this morning to Tina for her birthday. I haven’t seen her in months, though we talk from time to time, so seeing her smile today lit up my heart. Through the passenger side window I sang happy birthday and we squeezed hands—followed by some hand cleaner, of course—and that was it. But I know from Livia’s birthday drive-by last week that right now a smile and a gift means a whole lot. I felt sad and happy all at once driving away.

But spring has come. And I almost missed it! I don’t have many reasons to travel far from home and, to be honest, I get a little panicky considering that I may need to use a bathroom when I’m across town and what then? That sounds dumb to the average person who doesn’t mind popping in a store or restaurant, but alas, I’m not average when it comes to my health and I have reasons to be extra careful and thoughtful right now. Today’s drive let the beauty of spring sink into my soul and it. was. delightful. It was cloudy and raining but I could still feel the trees gently growing over Lincoln’s roads, changing an open sky view to one layered in green. A red bud here and there caught my eye, and there are these little round, white globe-like flowers in shrubs every so often that look like small hydrangeas. Getting out felt glorious.

I found myself talking to God on my drive.

I thought of my pregnant friends and prayed for them. I thought of my friends with new little ones and I prayed for them. I considered a friend who is house-hunting and asked God for the right space for her family. I asked for healing for the grieving and provision for our leaders. I asked for wisdom for myself in coming days. It was like a dam had opened and the space between me and God was clear.

Why was God nearer to me when I was behind the wheel of my Nissan Altima? I considered this because it felt confusing.

God is near to me, always. He is the constant, and I am the variable. And boy is life full of variables right now.

I had a rhythm in my pre-coronavirus life—as did we all—and the rhythm was a pretty healthy one. Livia and I would pray for our days and ask for blessings from God on our drives to school. Only recently did I realize that I hadn’t prayed for my husband’s work in weeks and weeks because, well, because I wasn’t driving Liv to school! My mornings used to be filled with meeting with people, going to appointments, checking off to-do lists, or studying in preparation for bible studies or talks. Of course all of that has gone topsy-turvy now and I find myself with very little reason to drive around town, no ability to be around people, and my goals have changed entirely. I have the same amount of time in a day, only now I fill it with assisting my teen in school work and tending to our house.

So while God is near always, I have changed. But on top of that, I have felt lower—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—than I have in a long time, and I believe that’s due to my extroverted personality. This whole corona situation has been a giant struggle bus for me and though I keep posting memes and notes and talking to people, there’s not a lot that makes things better. Each day is hard, some harder than most. Being inside my house, with the same two (beautiful) people, with the walls staring at me all day long, it’s just not a good setup for me. I am now needing to pay more attention to my mental health, in addition to my physical health. If I don’t actually DO something to lighten up my spirit, I might not ever get out of bed.

This morning, a simple drive and goal elevated me. I’ve felt fairly lonely in my extroverted struggles, but there it is: a change of environment and a reason to get out the door did wonders for me. Not only was I encouraged to see the beauty of spring in Lincoln, but I felt God’s sweetness and closeness in a way that has eluded me for weeks.

I am so blessed with a safe home to stay in right now, and I feel grateful that I am not working outside the home at all. My days with Livia and Jeremy are good ones. But they’ve also been very hard. It’s okay to feel both of these truths all at once.

Nothing is normal. Lots of things are normal.

That’s the weirdness of our current situation, isn’t it?

I just told Livia that she could do school in bed. I percolated a giant pot of coffee, made her an iced coffee, and hand-delivered it to her bedside. Certain she was taking longer to wake up because today is a school day, I decided to sweeten the deal. You want to do school in bed? She was down for that, and is now tucked away into what seems like a claustrophobic situation to me: pink curtains pulled closed, dark room cluttered with, well, all her belongings scattered on the floor, shelves, and closet floor, with her Chromebook on her lap.

It seems to me that such concessions are exactly the way I want to be treated at this time. A drink made with love, an understanding of the way I feel joy, and goals padded with grace.

Earlier I sat on the back deck, cool breezes crossing my face, and I listened to birds singing. It’s been a struggle for me to open my bible right now, but today I had it open to Hebrews 11. I’d read a little about faith, then look up and watch the newly-sprouting leaves sway in the wind, watch robins hop around the yard, smile at preschoolers following their moms on the bike path. Has there ever been a time like this? The slow pace? The worry? The future spreading before us that seems confusing?

My pre-corona life was a tidier mix of goals + freedom and I liked it that way. It was like a well-made bed—something I love to study and re-create in my own life. I like tidy hospital corners (thanks to my nurse parents). I like a soft and fluffy comforter on top. I like neatly stacked pillows—with matching pillowcases—tucked against the headboard. And if a chunky hand-knit blanket lands on top of the whole thing, all the better. Purposeful. Welcoming. I like a well-made bed.

To carry on with the metaphor, coronavirus came on in and royally effed up my bed.

It’s like COVID-19 decided I could still have the bed frame, but the headboard would be replaced by the scratchy wall, stucco. And sure, the mattress is present but it’s haphazardly thrown onto the frame, and oh, here, you can use the old sheets, you know the ones used for drop cloths for painting, as your bedding. We’ll top it off with the picnic blanket from the trunk of the car—complete with some dog hair, grass from the last outing, and perhaps a tick or two for companionship. And here’s the flattest and most stained pillow you’ve forgotten in the back of your closet. No pillowcase. Now, get comfy and sleep!

That’s what coronavirus feels like to me. A scratchy, paint-marked, glass-clipping, slightly smelly bed. I can still lay down and I’m more than welcomed to sleep, but it’s not right, not normal.

The weird thing is that I really like listening to the birds. I’ve had time to watch clouds float past and to really cherish this season of winter changing to spring. With one kid almost 16, I’ve had some freedom to slow down and for that I’m grateful.

But I don’t like the bed I’ve been given.

Not one bit.

In a few weeks I’m teaching a passage of scripture to a group of women, and honestly, prepping for my time with them has been a joy. Not an easy joy. More like a hard-earned, thoughtful, considerate, butt-in-my-office-chair-for-hours kind of joy. It’s the kind of learning and re-learning, assessing my language choices, returning to sources and then double-checking my references type of thing. More simply: it’s teaching.

God bless the teachers. They need it. WE need it.

Teaching is an enormous privilege, and as I prepare for an hour’s worth of teaching on Hebrews 10, I’m reminded of the many ways God has brought me to this point. I think of my training to become an educator. How many hours of classwork was spent on pedagogy, childhood development, professionalism, and dreams of my future classrooms? Not a moment of that was wasted—though I kind of wish someone could’ve informed me that I’d head back to working in the church and not so much towards middle schools. I think of the many many learning experiences in biblical knowledge… from scripture memory as a kid, to training at Horn Creek camps in high school, from some profoundly important teaching at Covenant College to my courses at Covenant Seminary… it comes flooding back at the moment I need it.

I found myself on my hands and knees this morning, digging through a seminary notebook for just the right answer to fill a question I had in my mind. I didn’t find it, therefore there’s a gaping hole until I can scratch that particular itch. But even as this knowledge comes flowing back through my mind, I’m aware that at some point in this process I will have to put my pen down. Or really, I’ll have to step back from the keyboard. I’ll have to submit the discussion questions. I’ll have to quit editing, quit questioning whether I’ve prepared enough, quit imagining all the things that I won’t get to say and I’ll have to commit. I’ll have to trust I’ve done the work and I’ll have to relinquish all I have and all I do to the work of the Holy Spirit.

“Faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.”

That’s my own translation of Hebrews 11:1 apparently. I haven’t seen the verse printed that way anywhere, but as a kid who grew up in the church and has spent her life there, this is the version that stuck. So there it is.

My hope is in Christ. I teach knowing that I am not enough to enlighten someone else’s mind, but the One who is will be at work. Throughout this process—and during each other time where I’m teaching God’s word—I trust all I do to the Holy Spirit. He alone has the power to enlighten, and he will be working perfectly where I’m working imperfectly. Having faith means taking a leap of sorts. It’s moving from a place of surety in one’s self to a place of surety in God and the work he is doing all the time. I’m trusting that “he who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it” (Phil 1:6). To God be the glory.