a son home

I’m there when he comes home. 

The bus stops and he’s grinning, each eager step a stretch the length of his leg, one arm steady on the rail, the other outstretched to greet my momma squeeze.

I'm crouching and hugging and I remember the mother on the news this morning, she wailed hysterics because her son is never coming home. And I remember a mother who watched from a distance as her Son hung from the tree, bled out from hands and feet. She watched Him die. But was she there when He ascended home?

Politicians fight power wars shutting down government funding to a mother whose son was killed in the very war that protects them. And now her son isn’t coming home.

Sons lost in war, a war on terror and a terror war among the things unseen.

Flesh and blood lost, one son’s body brought home and she can’t be there when they roll him lifeless off the plane. Another Son taken home after His tomb opens empty, and she prays faith in the promise that His Spirit will return.

My heart heavy I link my fingers through his and we take our time walking.

“Mommy, today we had gym and Mr. Armstrong says we can only wear tennis shoes, not Crocs.”

Washington, a stubborn mule, withholds death benefits to a mother, and can she afford to be there when they carry her son’s tomb onto American soil? Washington still gets paid. But who will pay for her son’s funeral? How will she bury the boy who lost his life?

And how does a mother grieve when her Son paid it all?

I tighten my grip on his hand. “Okay, buddy. I missed you today.”

Her son, he lost his life. And her Son, He gave His. And I walk with mine toward home, his words linger love to my soul, “I missed you too.”

Poop 'n pills

This is the crap worth blogging about (pun very much intended) . . .

Oh, Monday, will we ever be friends? When my Aquanet-banged sisters rocked Manic Monday, I had no idea how prohpetic their lyrics would be: It's just another manic Monday. I wish it were Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day. (I also had no idea how sexual the lyrics are - Google 'em, you'll see. I was in grade school naively singing about making noise in the bedroom. Geesh.)

Anyway, the mania today wasted no time as my 5-year-old nearly missed the bus (Rita, you said 7:17. That's very different than 7:15 when you're dragging three groggy-eyed whine-os to the bus stop). After barely getting Henry to the bus, I got the girls home and into the bathtub. I let them splash in urine water (Greta always pees the minute I set her in the tub) while I gathered laundry. As I was giving my worn-three-days-in-a-row cami the good ol' sniff test, I heard Harper ask a question that only a seasoned mother can decode, "Mom, why are there rocks in the bathtub?"

There's a lot of learned skills that come with motherhood, but one of our greatest is our ability to rapidly evacuate children out of a situation that involves soaking among floating feces.

Think high school fire drill, on 5-hour energy, minus the hippies who heed the opportunity to sneak into the vacant storage closet to smoke a doobie.

Get up. Get out. Get dry. And pose there just a minute while I take a picture for the Interwebs.

Of course Greta sensed my angst and streaked across the room, squeezing out one more "rock" before I could snatch her and slap a diaper on her bare bum. I think God must have started feeling bad for me because He delivered an ounce of grace with a towel perfectly positioned under the free spirit pooper to catch what I am convinced was her way of communicating, "Screw you and whatever plans you had for this morning. Now you gotta clean my crap outta the tub and wash this freshly-folded towel. Booyah."

I'd almost rather her smoking doobies.

After I swallowed any remnant of pride I still carried after five years of parenting, I pulled out the most efficient pooper scooper I could find, my hands, and lifted every single mushy turd outta that tub.

The poop situation wasn't over - Greta delivered a mess of a diaper during my morning jog in near-90 degree heat that left her wailing for the final 10 minutes of the jog. Again, I'm convinced the little blister butt was trying to communicate to me, and this time it was, "I saw you pound those chips and queso last night at dinner, run faster lady, run like ya mean it, RUN!"

Fast forward to the afternoon when I hopped in the shower for a quick rinse and my wannabe monkey pulled a chair from the dining room and pushed it to the counter, climbed up, pulled my weekly pill organizer off the microwave and popped three days worth of pills down her throat. Henry tipped me off when he noticed Greta had a "gooey mess all over her face."

Me: What kind of a gooey mess?
Henry: I don't know, but she's eating your vitamins.

Now it's my turn to evacuate the bath in record time.

I think the early morning sprint paid off (thank you, poop scoot) because I made it downstairs while baby girl was still pulling mashed up gelatin capsules from her pie hole. She handed me two half dissolved pills, and all I could think was, "Is this some sort of cry for help? Yo, look, third born, this is your lot in life, sista, you better find another way to get attention, because swallowing momma's herbal happy pills ain't gonna do nobody no good."

Sometimes when I am in distress, my gangsta comes out. So what if I grew up in the 'burbs? What are you saying? Nevermind. Leave me alone.

Fortunately this ain't my first rodeo, so I had poison control on the line and sweet Janice assured me that everything Greta consumed is safe, and I would receive a follow up call in 90 minutes to check on the baby.

Nevermind that my day had gone to crap, but whatevs, call back and check on the baby if that makes you feel better.

Geesh, did Janice not hear the part about the baby eating my HAPPY PILLS?

Even my hubs offered little support. When I tried to convince him that Greta's pill shenanigans were nothing more than a weak cry for help, he looked at me like I had lost my soul and said, "She's not even two. She needs help."

Humph. I see how it is now. Everybody gang up on momma.

But let me tell you. Motherhood is an intensive and brutish training ground for war.

In just one day, I perfected the poop fling and screaming baby sprint, all while surviving without mood-boosting herbal supplements. So if I were you, I wouldn't mess with momma.

Manic Momma will make you wish it were Sunday.

The Pink Room

She scratched the paper with her pencil, leaving us sick-hearted staring into her near dead scratched soul. Her self-portrait exposed her bound up, legs sprawled, humanity mutilated by evil incarnate. We listen because her young voice must be heard, but we cannot digest it. How do you swallow horror? I try to wash it down but the heartburn sears. She tells the rescue agency that she doesn't want to leave because her family needs the money. My throat chokes and eyes blur.

Jesus, please come back.

Last night Matt and I attended a screening of The Pink Room, a documentary that follows the journey of young girls in Cambodia who are victims of sex slavery. 100 of us entered the chapel greetin’ and chummin’, our own children safely secured with babysitters who will make more in a night than the average Cambodian makes in two weeks. 100 of us stared deeply into the eyes of precious children who told tales of torture. 100 of us left that chapel never the same, waking up this morning hungover from nightmares. Horror had entered our subconscious and it fights to escape.

I couldn’t watch those caramel skinned babies testify to their brutal suffering without picturing my Henry, my Harper, my Greta.

As my heart shattered, my mind went to those awful places. Do the girls cry? Scream? Who hears their shrieking?

My enraged soul won’t stop screaming.

God, where are you when these itty bitties curl up bandaged, forced abortions, fear trembled, souls destroyed? Where are you, God?

I’m fetal on the floor, tears numb, and I know that right now a pimp accepts $2.25 for the young pretty one down the lampless death hall. A child listed sold on a receipt, along with a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.

I’m crying out to God when the angels arrive.

Pearls among pigs, the angels fight perversion, rescuing and restoring girls and community. The angels purchase a building in the heart of hell to deliver heart to hell, providing rescued darlings with therapy, medicine, education, and the love of Jesus. The building, a former brothel, is discovered first floor packed closet on closet for evil to consume baby girls, second floor the pink room, left aside for the virgins who would endure the unimaginable for the first time.

The angels pound away bricks and I beg them to drive their sledgehammers into the heads of those who exhale vile.

The angels break down walls and they break down tears, overcome by the wicked that has consumed a country, desperation breeding corruption, alcoholic fathers gambling away the pennies from selling starved children who are left to fight dogs for scraps of food.

But those angels don’t give up. These ain’t no sissy angels.

I listen as one God-sent warrior insists that he is blessed to fight this war, rescuing a generation from the miry pit of exploitation. He confronts monsters, shames pimps, shatters brothels, and redeems lost innocence. 

I hear Jen, an on the ground missionary, celebrate as her school in Svay Pak has outgrown the building where they teach math, critical thinking, self-worth, and feed kindergarteners a nutritious meal and bread of life.

I hug my dear friend, Marla. "I'd  give my right arm to be in Cambodia," she tells me, her family waiting on God’s call to send them into this soul-shattering battleground. I am awestruck that she desires to trade in the comforts of false security to angel soar among the wicked.

Thank you, God, for the angels.

My mind can’t erase what it now knows. Those girls have faces, their bodies still beating but the life inside wishing death, they never learn to smile.

The angel warriors bleed courage. I am torn between rage and hope prayers. Lord, please don’t let me forget those faces.

The fight has begun and we must train for war the best way we know how, right where God has us. Everyone can do something. And I beg you to do something. I beg you because there are millions who cannot, their voices muffled by power and money and corruption and the grunts of pedophilia.

I beg you.

Ask God how you can take action, and start by visiting The Pink Room website. Maybe you will have opportunity to watch the documentary. You can pray for the precious children. If you can stomach it, pray for the pimps and pedophiles. The only way to stop this horror is to stop the horrible. You can use the gift of your voice to share what you know. You can give to organizations who are on the ground, lights of hope in plagues of darkness.

No matter what you do, I beg you, don’t forget.

We cannot forget.

Mother's Day really is for the birds

It's no surprise to me that Ann Voskamp writes so truthfully and beautifully about Mother's Day.

I about cried reading her words, my soul needed them. This is the week that I told Matt, "If I have to listen to her cry another minute, I might hurt her." This is the week that I begged God to let my kids nap so that I could also, only to have my third born poke me endlessly in the eye. This is the week that I sautéed fava beans in their pods thinking they were just big green beans because I can't tell my beans from beans. This is the week that I drove through McDonalds again for a large chocolate chip frappe because chocolate and caffeine are the only legal drive-through fixes to another crappy parenting day. This is the week that I vowed self-discipline, to wake up before the kids for quiet time and a jog, only to curse my alarm, and stick my head back under the covers.

Ann's right. Mother's Day, it's for the birds.

My days don't make for a flowery poetic Hallmark card. 

My days find me carrying around that satan soaked momma guilt as I confess to counting down the minutes, hours, days before my next break from the kids. 

My days are full of less than holy words and tone, and a whole lotta grace. Grace for me. Grace for the kids. Grace for us all.

But the pendulum swings and sunshine breaks the clouds and pudgy baby toes and sweet boy laughter and girl praying precious over her macaroni brings me back to joy overflowing, immense gratitude for the three who left me stretch-marked and heart-stretched.

So to you mommas, you can't fool me. You and me both, sister, we just a broken hallelujah. 

You never thought it would be this hard, did you? You never thought you'd swallow your pride like you do?

Me neither.

And I bet you never thought you could love like this? That breathless lump in your throat when you think about just how much you love the ones who graced you into motherhood.

Bless it. Bless you.

Center

I wake only a few hours into the new day, pulling back hair and lacing up shoes. I step outside and smack into the icy black.

The darkness makes bright contrast of the stars, and I am joy filled. Only the early bird catches the wonder and glory that a 6am jog offers. I begin rhythmically, slowly, still shaking loose the tension from dead sleep. I begin my offering.

Lord, you are Creator. You are Perfect. You are Holy. You are Majesty. You are Awesome.

With each breath, I praise. I inhale, I worship. I'm alone. Except for Him. And He makes perfect company.

The next 30 minutes I focus on His glory. Except when I don't.

I have to pick up the preschool forms today.

I forgot to call the dentist.

I better clean the window where Henry taped the picture of the airplane.

Did I mail in the mortgage check? I need to set-up automatic monthly withdraw.

I totally blew her off yesterday. Why was I such a grump? Why can't I just be nice to people when I'm in a bad mood? What's wrong with me? Is it that hard?

My mind like mexican jumping beans, shuffling from thought to thought, checklists, regrets, self-doubt, and now my heart is racing but not because I'm jogging.

I shake my head fast as if to clear the etched sketch that needs reset.

Now where was I?

Focus, Ali. Focus on Him.

And I do. Back on track, thanking Him for the peace that stills my soul. For 30 minutes I pray, I distract, and I pray again.

I approach home feeling centered, having hit the ground running, while fixing my eyes on Him, or at least trying to anyway.

The minis wake, I begin this all too familiar juggling act, but unlike the carny, I can't seem to master this set.

Back to center, Ali. Back to Him.

I herd them outside to the van. It's Tuesday and we have to be at Bible study in 20 minutes. I double-click the key expecting the doors to open. They click. And nothing. I double-click again. Nothing. The doors don't budge and it's freezing and I know that's why. I open the front door and find the ice scraper, and while the baby cries and the big ones tug at the other's unbuttoned coat, I scrape. Ice chips away and flurries sweep. I pull out the key again. Click. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The doors are still frozen and it's been ten minutes and we are going to be late. I climb on top of the front seat, leaning heavily out the door thinking if I can just see where the ice is maybe I can get this dang-gone door open. The baby is now screaming and Harper is now crying and I try the key again, but the door still won't budge. We are definitely late and nothing is working and I take that scraper and with all the might behind me I strike the door. Pop. The scraper cracks and splits in two and I am now cussing. Words that begin with F and I feel rage and I scream at the kids, all freezing and crying, "Get in the van. This way. Now." The big ones crawl through the front door, and I jostle the baby in her carrier, hitting my head and hers and I'm sweating and still cussing.

I throw the car into reverse and I'm a bat out of hell. I've lost it. A door frozen shut and it's all lost. My cool, my sanity, my Jesus.

Just like that I've lost center and I pull over because humility does that. And with my hands in the air, I'm like that crazy ol' loon on the park bench mumbling to herself because I'm lost.

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
Hebrews 4:16

Look to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith . . .
Hebrews 12:2

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
2 Corinthians 12:9

The quiet still of my soul in the morning runs out but there is always more for the taking. I have to keep coming back to Him because on my own, I am a raging screaming loon.

Each day, each hour, each minute, I am losing myself to stress and monotony and the demon who sneaks up and bites me. I can't do this alone but I keep trying, forgetting that it was never meant to be this way.

"It is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you. But if I go, I will send Him to you."
John 16:7

And I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of Truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees Him nor knows Him. You know Him, for He dwells with you and will be in you.
John 14:16-17

I'm not made to do this by myself. He sent me a Helper. And I come dehydrated, shriveled, dry and sunken.

. . . but be filled with the Spirit.
Ephesians 5:18

Back to center. That is the story of my days. Always coming back. Because I can never stay put. My flesh rots and I crumble and there isn't a day that passes that I don't wind up lost.

Back to center. It's my only way.

His Presence via email

Have you ever felt the Lord's Presence so heavily that you literally sunk deeper in your chair?

Last week was rough. Looking back, it's a blur. I was so exhausted, the days were so long, and the kids were so fussy that the memory of last week is nearly lost.

I know that the Lord was busily at work during every sleepless detail of last week but I was too irritable to appreciate it.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23

This morning I sent my husband and my sister an email to share with them a Henry & Harper quote. It said:

H&H were running laps around the house, and both of them came into the family room huffing and puffing. Henry said, "I'm tired." Then Harper said, "I'm tired too. Let's read our Bibles, Henry."

Within 20 minutes of sending the email I received responses from both Matt and Morgan.

Matt said, "Love them . . . Matthew 11:28 Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

I stinkin' adore this man. While I'm over here laughing at the silliness of my three-year-old, my husband, a man of few spoken words but a tremendous amount of wisdom, manages to observe the beautiful Truth from this seemingly cute illustration. I want to soak myself in a Matthew 11:28 bath for a few days.

Morgan's response was equally lovely.

She said, "Those moments have to melt your heart . . . Love that. I booked you a pedicure with Dawn on Friday. I'm watching your kids."

Oh, Morgan, you speak my love language = Dawn (and I have a gift card that Matt gave me for Mother's Day - thank you, Jesus). I have known (and loved) Dawn for years. Her chair at the Spa where my sister works is heaven-sent. It sits next to a window that looks out at a sanctuary of birdhouses, and when I sit in that chair and watch those birds, without a single interruption from my kids, I become a new woman. A new woman with cute toes.

I received Matt and Morgan's emails and I was instantly overwhelmed by the Lord's merciful Presence. I want to sit here and rest in their unexpected and simple acts of love as I know it will only be minutes before I lose sight of His goodness. Thankfully Lamentations 3 never expires.

Already

The kids were still in their swimsuits sucking down popsicles when I blinked. I opened my eyes to the warmth of Autumn in the trees and its chill prickling my shoulders. The clerk mentioned he was staying late to unpack Christmas inventory and by the time I lifted my head to comment Already?, the twinkle lights were wrapped around the display tree.

Already.

The pool towels hadn't even made it through the wash before the kids were hooded in fleece. I'm never ready for the already.

The notebook pages curl as I carry over the list of unchecked items to next month. Vacuum the van. Mend the hole in my overworn shirt. Send congratulatory wedding card to my friend who married last Spring.

I pray through each moment, asking that the leaves keep their glorious shades of orange and that  Greta's chubby foot is forever nestled below my shoulder as I nurse. All while fantasizing about the day when the kids use the bathroom unassisted and my wardrobe isn't limited to nursing tops and elastic. I want to co-sleep yet sleep through the night. I want a substantial payday yet not another long day away from my husband. I want to be home with my children yet have more time for myself. I want that pair of pre-baby jeans yet another of Grandma Abby's pumpkin cookies.

I want the already but I don't. I'm a mess and it's no wonder Paul preaches about the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.

And when I think I've arrived, when I am full and surrounded abundantly, emptiness and discomfort come and plop down on my lap. My present focus flees as they squelch my contentment. The next stage and season bring more to be desired. And it all flies past, the days only a blur leaving nothing in focus.

There is always more space for me to be filled by Him . . . through Him who gives me strength.

It is already October. I want to sprawl out on a pile of leaves covered in the giggles of my babies, drinking in this season. But my mind is my enemy, squandering the days with angst and if onlys, allowing Facebook to fool me into believing that there is such a thing as having it all. So I find myself crying out, enduring my own wrath, my irritability and frantic demands. My own mess throws me to my knees, I fall bruised and sore. And in the already He lifts me up by His grace and fills me with living water and I kick myself for not falling sooner. There is humility in His timing. 

It is already.

 

*A sprinkling of the moments I want to savor from the last month as I pray to be present and content in the already.

A God story. The finale.

In case you missed them: Part 1 and Part 2. A couple of weeks after telling Josh & Jess that we would happily be their squatters, I was having ice cream with a friend. Sharon is middle-age, single, and has made the decision to follow God's call into vocational missions. She believes God is sending her to Papua New Guinea. Say that three times fast. Sharon has found an organization called The Finishers Project, and they focus on helping folks who want to finish their lives in mission for the Lord. I just love that.

Anyway, Sharon is potentially months from her move to Papua New Guinea, and she was recently confronted with an issue regarding her current living situation. Her lease will end next month and it makes no sense for her to sign another lease. She could change from a year lease to a month-to-month rental contract but her rent would increase significantly. Considering that Sharon is working to save save save so that she can begin her missions journey, the month-to-month option is unwise. So when she found out about our situation with Josh & Jess, she asked me a question that I was not expecting, "Would you and Matt consider letting me live in your condo until I move?"

Um, huh?

Sharon completely caught me off guard. See, when we decided to move into Josh & Jess' house, we also decided to put our condo on the market once and for all. It was too perfect. We could stage the condo, throw the lockbox on the door, and walk away without ever pulling out that gallon of Sherwin Williams Desert Sand ever ever again. No more frantic toilet scrubbing and kids-dog-van disappearing tricks. Oh I could cry!

But God had given us a house. A rent-free bona fide house. And I owed it to Him and to my friend Sharon to at least pray about letting her live here. Plus, I knew that as soon as I asked Matt, he'd shoot the idea down, and I'd play the good ol' submit to my husband card and we'd be on our merry way to attached garage living.

I called Matt at work, told him about my interaction with Sharon, and continued in my head, I know, I know, I'll tell her it's just not going to work out. Surely someone else has a house they can loan her.

And then I realized what my husband was saying on the other end of the phone, "Honey, yeah, why wouldn't we let her live in our house?"

HUH?!

And just like that, I realized what a ridiculously ungrateful selfish brat I am to the core. It's a miracle that God has not capsized me and fed me to a giant fish.

Matt was all for it. Matt didn't even have to think about it. The fact that God made Matt my husband, to lead me and our family, is clearly no mistake.

God was giving us a house. A house we do not deserve. And God is asking us to give away our condo. The condo that we did not deserve.

And thus begins the lesson that He has been hammering into my skull over and over and over again ad nauseum. For real, I have this vision of the good Lord looking down on me and grabbing a trash can to catch his vom because once again, His little girl just ain't getting it.

And so I am humbled. Asking God to show me how to open my palms wide, allowing all the stuff to trickle between my fingers, never once tightening a muscle to hang on. God is showing us what it looks like to let His blessings flow. As He uses another family to provide for us, He uses us to provide for another. It's community. It's the Gospel. It's Jesus.

And so we are moving. In fact, we are moving 5 years to the day after meeting at the altar. And I am so thankful. I am so thankful for God's provision. His timing. His faithfulness. His promises.

I could go on and on. A friend who recently heard about this story said, "It's dripping with mercy." And it is. His mercy abounds. Because each and every day I take the gifts from my Lord and I squander them. I throw away leftovers and spend too much on too much and I question His ways that are not my ways. And yet He continues to provide for me in ways that I could never ever imagine.

I am drenched in His mercy.

And as I sit here overcome by His love, I can do nothing but shake my head and ask, "Why me? Why us?" It makes no sense.

And I guess that's just the point.

A God story. (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here. It was THE.HOTTEST.DAY.OF.THE.YEAR. For real, I think it was the hottest day we had this year. Matt claims it was the second hottest, but second hottest day of the year is a mouthful, so let's just stick with my story, k? I add this small detail only because if the bushes were going to spontaneously catch fire, it would have been that day. It was scorching.

My phone rang. It was my friend, Jess. I don't talk to Jess on the phone much. In fact it had been a while. So when she called I immediately assumed she was calling to ask me a question, you know, she had an agenda. And then it hit me. As quickly as I thought, "Huh, that's Jess calling," I thought, "Oh my gosh, she's calling me about her house." I just knew it (cue the Holy Spirit.)

Jess and I small-talked. It was good small talk. Like I said, we hadn't chatted in a while. We had some catching up to do. And she was gearing up for the move of her lifetime. Her husband's company was transferring them to London. ENGLAND! And if any two people are more perfectly fit for an international transfer, it's Josh & Jess. They are the super cool traveling type. Jess is the kind of person who straps her baby on her back and shuffles between time zones with ease. I sort of hate her. But I really love her so it's cool.

Small talk ceased and Jess wanted to get to the point. CUE THE HOLY SPIRIT. Jess went into this whole long explanation about their pending move and Josh's promotion being a 2-year assignment and some whacky living allowance formula and the bottom line was that it made no sense for them to sell their house while they were gone. The only thing that made sense financially was for them to ask someone to live in their home and care for it while they were away.

So they prayed. And prayed and prayed and prayed. And they got their friends to pray. Because it was their bloody house and they weren't about to hand over the keys to any ol' chap.

And don't ask me why. I don't know why. It makes no sense why. But God put US on their hearts. US. A family of 2 adults and THREE very small kids. And an EIGHTY POUND dog. And two fish, but whose counting? Our kids are in the color-the-walls stages. And our dog, well, he's just big and hairy but really, why us? Why not the sweet and tidy widowed homemaker who boasts 2011 Notary Club Garden of the Year and who answers the question, "When did you last clean your baseboards?" with Two weeks ago Friday, unlike my answer, Never.

Why us? Why?

And that's when Jess dropped the big one. They not only wanted us to live in their home but they wanted us to live in their home RENT FREE.

As in no rent. As in free. As in, what-the-what?

I told you the bushes were on fire.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe that God was giving us the opportunity to live in a real bona fide house and we weren't even going to pay for it. IT MADE NO SENSE.

Until it started to make sense.

You see, that's only half of the story. The first half of the story is awesome. The kind of awesome where I'll forever be able to say with confidence that God is our Provider. The kind of awesome that allows me to talk about the blessing of a home in terms of me and my wants and desires and Yay! God!

But I don't think that's the point. I didn't even mention to you that up until one week before Jess called, my husband and I were one payment away from paying off some serious credit card debt. And I mean serious. It was one week after sending in our final credit card payment that Jess called about the house. One week. Coincidence? I don't think so.

And the not-coincidences don't stop there. But this is already a multi-part post so I'll spare you the list, but know this: God has been orchestrating this very moment for years. And to see all of these little moments come together for this big moment is one of the coolest things I have ever been a part of.

Part 3, the finale, tomorrow.

A God story. (But aren't they all?)

This is the first in a series of posts that I like to call, We have news to share and No, I'm not pregnant.

I have a story. And it's good. It's a story of patience and faith and prayer. It's one of those stories that only God can write. He writes all the good ones.

6 years ago I bought this condo with my sister. We were young, single, and eager to make sister memories, just us. After a ridiculous amount of legalese, signatures, and initial-here's, we closed on our first grown up purchase. The only thing missing was the reality show film crew.

Just as soon as we threw our first of what was supposed to be many epic parties, something happened. I met someone. And it was serious. So serious that I even told Grandma Hollywood about him. Because once Grandma Hollywood knows, you can never take it back or else she'll forever ask questions such as "What happened with so-and-so? He was such a nice young man. Why don't you like him?" It's her way of saying, "I was married at 19 years old. What's wrong with you already?"

Well, I liked him alright. I liked him so much that 11 months after our first date, I met him at the altar. And bless my sister's heart. She stood by me on my wedding day, tucking my hair into my veil, holding my flowers so that I could kiss my groom, and without any hesitation, she moved out of the condo so that he could move in.

And as if life wasn't already moving fast enough, my now husband and I filled up those 1630 square feet with an 80-pound lab and 3 sweet babies before we could even celebrate 5 years as Mr. and Mrs.

Somewhere in all that we got the idea that condo life wasn't the best fit for our growing family. Somewhere in all that we decided to sell the once bachelorette pad turned honeymoon crib and find ourselves a real bona fide house. With a yard and an attached garage and a place to dump your shoes when you walk in.

Thus began the cycle of never-quite-selling the condo. It went something like this: Touch up walls with Sherwin Williams Desert Sand. Put condo on the market. Meticulously clean condo for a showing praying through each stroke of the toilet wand that this is going to be the one! Shuffle dog and kid(s) into the van and disappear for an hour. Receive feedback stating that the condo is too close to a busy road (it is) and the parking sucks (it does). Get pregnant and take condo off the market because in a state of hormonal rage I declare that I just can't take it anymore. Have baby. Acquire more crap. Curse under my breath as my toddler slips on ice walking out to the van while I lug a newborn through the stupid why-do-we-live-in-Ohio mess only to find that the automatic van doors are frozen shut. Call husband crying because I want an attached garage and I want one now.

Touch up walls.

Repeat.

This went on for 3 years.

3 years of wanting. 3 years of praying. 3 years of asking.

Finally, after the birth of our 3rd, before summer could turn to fall and fall into winter and winter into the frozen tundra that freezes van doors and ices over walkways, I told my husband that we needed to pray and pray hard. Because I was starting to get the sense that selling the condo wasn't God's plan. And I wanted to be okay with that. I wanted to mean it when I said that I'm content here. Because I am. At times. And then there are the times when my now-four-year-old son wants to ride his bike and my exuberant daughter wants to pick dandelions in the backyard but instead the best I can offer is a seat in front of the window to watch the cars whiz by.

Please don't feel bad for me. We have 1600 square feet! We have drywall and running water and appliances and a thermostat and the list of what we have far far far exceeds the list of what we don't. But like any good ol' fashioned American, my dream included more.

But God, in His infinite wisdom, knew better. He knew we could not handle more. Not yet. He knew that more means more responsibility, and He who has begun a good work in us had only just begun.

So we prayed. Specifically we prayed that if God did not want us to sell, that He would make that clear. Because we were paying a mortgage with an interest rate that did not make sense. So if we were to stay, we wanted to save money with a refinance. I was so determined to hear God in this that I told Matt, "If God wants us to put this condo back on the market, He's going to have to speak to us through a burning bush."

Would you believe it if I told you that two weeks later I called my husband at work and said, "God spoke to me through a burning bush today."

Part 2 tomorrow.