The condo on a mission, continued.

So what was God's answer to our question, "What should we do about the condo?" And if you don't know what the bleepity-bleep I'm talking about, start here.

After God made it all too clear that selling was not the answer, we started praying about renting. It wasn't even one week into that prayer when God answered in a way we never expected. Back to my journal entry from December:

Meanwhile, I was catching up on some bloggy blogs, and I came across a post that my Pastor published.

Here’s what he wrote:

I met a man yesterday who was left with no alternative but to flee for his life from his home country and his own countrymen. Yes, this happens.

This man is a Pakistani pastor, which itself is not life-threatening, unless you proselytize (share about your faith to nonbelievers in an effort to convert them). If you stay in your “holy huddle” as most churches do there (and here??), then you are “free” to worship. But if you move to the Gospel’s Edge seeking to reach others for Christ’s sake, as he did, then you will initiate your own death sentence. As a result of sharing his faith, he was threatened death six times while close associates lost their lives. He escaped by the grace of God and arrived here just days ago.

Now, he and his wife, along with their three children are in Columbus. But they’re without a home, transportation, funds or a job.

This pastor and his family have a few specific needs, in addition to financial support:

Place to stay (apartment, mother-in-law suite, hotel, etc.)

Um, WHAT?! How about AN EMPTY CONDO??? Could they use that?!

You bet your bottom dollar that I was all up in this precious family’s business, trying to determine if they still needed a place to live, and guess what, THEY DID!

And in less than a week, they had moved in.

I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe that God is going to use the condo, once again, for the sake of His Kingdom, for His glory, in a way that I would never choose but in a way that is so much better than whatever measly idea I could conjure up on my own.

I am in awe.

And I just don’t know what to say. What to do. How to be. Because I am a measly girl who serves a mighty God. And wow. Just wow. Wow. Wow.

As I look back over the last few month, I see the evidence that God was movin’ and shakin’ and jivin’ all along - just not in the ways that I thought. Too often I seek God through my finite perspective, and when He shows up in totally different ways, I miss Him. Because I’m too focused on my way, not His. But God has graciously given me retrospect, allowing me to look back and see what He was doing. How He was working. And it’s beautiful. Because so much of His work is in the small nooks and crannies of my hard heart. His work is a too soft blanket over my messy life. He loves me and prepares me and guides me, even when I’m bitchin’ and moanin’ for some grandiose laser light show.

He’s always jivin’. It’s just that sometimes we need to thirst before we can be quenched. What we perceive as a dry spell is just as much for our good as the moments when we feel God’s presence overwhelming.

And so the condo stands full. Full of a family and life and Jesus. And I am beyond thankful. Because ONLY GOD. Only He can direct the steps of my puny plans into a majestic and eternal journey.

Only God.

The condo on a mission.

If you've never heard the story of our condo, start here. Only God can take a few measly walls, some splintered souls and dried up intentions and make eternal masterpiece. Only God.

Only He can take what I thought was a story with a beginning, middle, end, and slap me open with His relentless, "It ain't over, baby!"

And oh baby, it sure ain't over.

I suppose it makes most sense for me to let you see what I wrote at the beginning of December. Yes, let's start there:

My fingers shake with jitters – thin bones itchin’ like fleas to jump skin.

But this is too good not to type.

Oh God. I thought you had moved on from the mess I offer. And here you are, knocking open the door of my heart, draining me empty, filling me whole with your will.

Your Kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

It’s been a year and a half since I received that phone call from my friend, Jess, asking my family to live in her house. And shortly after we were invited to live in someone else’s house (RENT FREE), we were given the opportunity to allow someone to live in our condo.

Between us and God, mountains were a movin’.

At least that’s how it felt. Over the course of the next several months, we were jivin’. It was as if God tossed us into the front cart of the Matterhorn and together we sped through the majesty of His creation, touching lives with each twist and turn. It was exhilarating.

Except it wasn’t us at all. It had nothing to do with us. It never did.

God was movin’ mountains and homes and lives and for a moment, He gave us a peek.

But then a few months ago, sometime over the summer, everything slowed down. It was as if we pulled into the loading dock, got out of the car, and the amusement park had vanished. And God, He felt distant. And I was bitter. I had this inner conversation (prayer) that went something like this, “Dude, God, yo, remember me? {Sometimes I pray in jive.} Remember us? We had something and it was real. Don’t you remember? Things were happening, man. You and me, God, we were legit. So what’s up? Where you at? Because I thought we could get back together and start rockin’ again. You in?”

Cue crickets.

In fact, not only did I feel silence from God, but Sharon, the one who had been living in our condo, moved out. And so now we had this home – this condo – sitting empty. Leaving us with a decision – what should we do with the condo? After everything God had already done, it just felt wrong for it to sit empty.

And so we prayed – God, what should we do? Sell it? Rent it? Allow someone to live there? God, please show us. Direct us. Lead us.

Cue more crickets.

We got nothing. Nothing. We felt zero peace about any of those options. Yes, we would love to sell it and be able to save money for a future home (the Browns, the family who is allowing us to live in their home rent-free, will return to their home some time in the next year.). Or we could rent it, so as not to lose money on a sale, and still be able to save money. Or we could allow someone to live there who needs a home – but who?

And still nothing. Nothing. To be honest, I was frustrated. Because now this condo, this condo with a story and a history and quite frankly, this condo on mission, was empty. And it didn’t make sense.

So we went with our flesh. And we put it on the market. Because we would love to sell it and save.

But the answer to that decision became obvious almost quicker than it took us to put it on the market. Within a week of listing it, we lowered the price because of the surrounding market, and within a month, we received an offer so offensively low that we knew we needed to reconsider our decision.

And so just last week we started talking again, maybe it’s time to put it on craigslist and find a renter. Maybe that’s what God wants. Because clearly selling it isn’t the answer.

And clearly, it wasn't.

But what was the answer?

Only God.

Stay tuned for the answer . . . tomorrow.

When mercy saves a broken momma.

Half listening to her list off dates, I squeeze the phone between shoulder and ear while my hands wave harshly at the two screaming. They use pencils as swords to poke the other, and I raise my voice over their screams so that my friend can hear me tell her that I have to call her back.

I near break the phone, slamming it down, my fury at the two whose sibling screams deafen. Five minutes of peace to make a phone call, can’t I even get that?

I barrel over, lips pierced, my rage burning my tongue so my hands do the talking. There’s no holding back, no prayer, no deep breath, no count to five. I’m a raging ball of fire and with the very pencils they held, I strike each on their hand, the sting rebounding past my flesh piercing through my heart.

They both wail tears and the lump leaps from my heart to my throat and I can’t swallow because I know that His ways speak love, gentleness and self-control. I’m a rancid piece of worm-infested rotten fruit.

My son’s eyes clear, his hand still pulsing pink from my strike, and I fall to his level, rage swallowed by guilt and the only words I can muster, “I’m so sorry.”

He collapses in my arms, his resilience resting in the safety of a broken momma, and his whisper sinks me to my knees, “I forgive you, Mommy.”

My eyes well up, the one who has only known five years of life teaching the one in her fourth decade the ways of the Cross.

My daughter, still holding her hand protectively, melts into our embrace, my babies overtaking my lap as my tears dampen their foreheads. I sigh deep as I drop heavy into the nail-pierced arms of a Savior, my desperation a prayer, forever enveloped in His mercy.

All the single mommas

Once a year, for one week, my husband's job demands a week of solid travel away from home. It's always in the dead drear of winter, and it's often met with January's culprits: weak immune systems, frozen temps, and a momma who needs Vitamin D or a cigarette. Except I don't smoke.

And so for one solid week a year, I fly solo without even the weather on my side.

And it's hard. Way harder than my ego would like to admit.

I usually spend a couple of days throwing myself a pity party, justifying more babysitters and fast food dinners than usual. And then somewhere around day three, a shift occurs. Amidst my desperation and exhaustion, I remember, THERE ARE WOMEN WHO LIVE THIS WAY ALL THE TIME.

Everyday. Every week. Every year.

They are the single moms. And they are my heroes.

As much as I struggle this week every year, I need it. Without this week to slap me in the face with all the support I miss when my husband is gone, I begin to think that I got this gig all on my own. And lemme tell ya, per evidenced by these last few measly mercy-laden days, I don't. (Not to mention, I have help! There are no words to express how graciously supportive our family is.)

And so I find myself in awe of the millions of women who parent day in and day out standing on their own two feet and their own two feet alone.

The women who coax their babies from bed before sunrise and cradle them to sleep after sundown.

The women who pour cereal, pack lunches, and cook dinner for mouths that rarely speak appreciation.

The women who rush to bus stops, work, daycare, and back home, and still never make ends meet.

The women who have been abandoned, forgotten, overlooked, and betrayed by men who offered false intimacy but never offered to share their last name.

The women who spend their midnights soothing nightmares, laundering sheets, and sharing their already lumpy pillow while never knowing a full night's rest for their own always exhausted heads.

And I know, there are men who are flying solo too - good men who value family and fatherhood even though the mother of their children don't. And there are men who are doing everything they can not to let another child live fatherless. So many of you men are the heroes of your families, and what's most endearing about you men is that what we see as heroic, you see simply as love.

But somewhere along the way, the cycle of single mothers became pandemic. Entire communities of women are carrying the weight of what was never meant to be carried alone. But they carry on anyway, because without them, we'd be a world full of orphans.

And so because my brain is dangerously fogged up and sleep deprived, I find myself doing all I know to do for these hero women - pray. As I ask God to give me the grace to get through another still dark morning coaching small bodies to get dressed and finish breakfast and why-is-there-toothpaste-on-the-wall, I ask God to send grace showers over the mommas who are doing what I'm doing - flying solo - except for one major difference.

Solo is all they've ever known.

Tall sister

Tall sister sprints pink across the crunch-leaf grass, no emergency of tears across her cheeks but surely something important demands her legs to spin that fast.

I brace myself for something four-year-old tragic requiring a jolt of attention and superhero action from this momma.

Tall sister hip pops the door, announcing her entrance.

My eyebrows wake-up, “What is it?”

“Mommy, mommy! I can touch my nose with my tongue!”

Relief deflates my chest, thankful that this time only life discovery brings her sprinting. I crane my neck, my eyebrows still do the talking, “Show me.”

And with dirt under jagged chipped polished fingernails she takes her young hand to her tongue, pushing it belly up toward the button of her nose, proud as proud can be that indeed, she can touch her nose with her tongue.

At that I give my eyebrows a break, momma pride beam my cheeks wide, “Awesome!”

Tall sister swings the door closed, legs already half sprinting back toward her friends, and I hear the delight filled glory of her voice as the now shut door muffles the words that my heart never stops dreaming, “Love ya!”

A winter's one-sided brawl.

Though sun stops beating, my pulse does not. Air turned steam from my breath taunts Autumn mums that some of us will survive this season.

And some of us will not.

Bitter cold sears my soul and I should probably feel sorry for the dead family of once-golden petals,

but I don't.

I laugh remembering why I bought them, their color burst first to greet passerby, and last to bid farewell.

And now the freeze caught them squatting, forever stuck fat and happy except, well, it's peculiar really, their smiles must have thawed.

I only yank them from their misery because their rigor mortis corpses stare ugly. Shallow energy exerted masks my vanity with compassion. I simply don't want to look at them anymore.

But it's they who have the last laugh. They aren't the only ones dead frozen. Their roots stick solid to the once life-giving soil that now sits heavy in frigid clay pot.

And now the only ugly to greet passerby is my steaming and huffing and tugging, the crazy lady having a knock-down drag-out with some pathetic dead plants who refuse to leave their post.

A tired hallelujah.

I'm tired.

I’m tired of putting shoes on tiny feet that tiny hands peel off the second I turn to grab my purse.

I’m tired of layering bread with peanut butter and nutella only to have it fed to the dog. Why don’t I buy the cheap stuff?

I’m tired of greeting my husband collapsed in relief instead of with an open heart of blessing.

I’m tired of the whines, the tears, the screams, the fits, the tantrums, most of them theirs, some of them mine.

I’m tired of consoling the wounds of opposing children, both injured and at fault.

I’m tired of the dead-night jolt from a small strong voice screeching awake post nightmare.

I’m tired of showerless morning breath that seeps pungent into the next day.

I’m tired of midnight laundry, two a.m. cries for water, four a.m. out-of-bed falls, and six a.m. demands for breakfast.

I’m tired of time-outs, slammed doors, utensils turned weapons, and the inconsolable overtired.

I’m tired of passionate sibling blows and forced apologies.

I’m tired of fevers jumping from babe to babe, pediatrician trips accumulate in a single week.

I’m tired of hot dinners shoveled and cold dinners staled.

I'm tired of grocery aisle discipline while gawkers deliver judgmental glares.

I'm tired of all the toys. Oh mercy, the toys. And the socks divorced and the laundry laughing in my face and the half-eaten cracker crumbed into the carpet. It's all conspiring to destroy me.

I’m tired.

I’ve been tired. I don’t remember when I haven’t been tired. I’m too tired to remember.

This isn’t a pity plea, a help rally, a smoke signal. If anything, it’s a battle cry for us mommas who know exhaustion better than we know our last names. Our heads spin mom and mommy and MAAAAA!!!!! ringing tired ears. Remember those first congratulatory cards greeting the Mr. and Mrs. in your mailbox, the pride of your new last name applauding you from postmarked envelopes? Yeah, me neither. All I can remember is that the boy needs shoes that fit and the girl doesn’t like the way I cut off the tops of the strawberries and the baby’s bottle hasn’t been found since yesterday morning.

And I know. I know you whose tears stain your bedside, the unanswered prayers for life in your barren womb. You are tired, willing to max out every credit card the banks will grant just so you can have a chance at carrying life.

You would do anything to be tired like me.

And I would do anything for you to be able to relate. Because motherhood really is magical. It’s beautiful. It’s precious. It’s life-giving and life-loving. And it's exhausting.

This life. Where grace breathes with each exhale, salty grace pooled tears, life draining life. What one needs to thrive another loses to love. And it breaks a momma and a wannabe momma. And we’re tired. We’re all just so tired.

Oh, you're new here? So am I.*

Hello, and welcome, and what's your name?

I don't know what you can expect from this tiny corner of cyberspace called alihooper.com. One thing I know for sure, you will not find any awesome Pinterest-worthy step-by-step tutorials of creations birthed in my kitchen or craft table. For one, I don't own a craft table, so there's that. And two, I once tried all those bloggy-food-craft shenanigans, and it's for the birds. Imagine working tirelessly to perfect your handmade Christmas cards so that they are blog worthy, and then taking pictures each snipped, stamped, calligraphy-ed step of the way. You wind up with a camera covered in glue and a couple dozen do-overs scattered across what used to be the area where your family made precious memories and is now the area where the children learned the queen-mother of dirty words.

It's best I just stick with spilling my guts across the interwebs and leave the do-it-yourself circus magic to the arts and crafts department. It's safer that way.

Anywho, thanks for dropping by. Stop by anytime. I won't even make you take off your shoes. I'm a first world mess, so what's a bit more dirt tracked through this place anyway?

*What do you mean you're new here, you ask. I see a blog full of posts dating back to the good ol' days of twenty-eleven. Yeah, about that. My genius website designer, Gabe Taviano the First, was kind enough to transfer all my baggage from my other blog over to this brand spankin' new blog. I couldn't make my debut into cyberspace without breaking it in a little. So kick off y'all boots and stay a while. We've got some catching up to do.

How the Grinch stole Christmas from the Mothers of Preschoolers. And Claire.

For no good reason other than because He is good and crazy, God gave me opportunity to speak in front of a couple dozen mothers of preschoolers on the topic of simplicity. Share my journey with some precious mommas who, like me, are desperate for any blessed moment that does not involve the whining crying tantrums of our offspring in the cereal aisle of Kroger. Sure, why not.

And so that’s how I found myself standing clam-palmed and rashy in front of a few round tables of darling mommas in the middle of November.

I don’t think it hit me that what I had been asked to do was quite unfair in all ways until I sat at one of those round tables half-listening to their sweet tender prayers, and the one, I’m sure her name was Claire but it might have only started with a C, asked for prayer because that very afternoon she was going in for an ultrasound to well, we pray, determine that a lump on her breast is no more than just that, a lump.

And Claire, I’m sure her name was Claire, she just won’t leave me alone in my head because I sat next to her as she told those ladies, “I’m awesome at avoiding. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”

And now it was my turn to stand up and blab on and on about my journey of simplifying life? Oh, okay, Claire might find out she has cancer today, but in the meantime, put that Ali girl up there a few weeks before Christmas so that she can spoil our poinsettia fundraiser and santa shopping sprees with her Grinch-ass message about finding joy in living with less.

Because that’s fair.

Dammit, why was I there?

And I don’t know. I don’t know. But I was. And I did. And I have no damn clue whether or not it made one stinkin’ difference in the whole world. In my little selfish insecure igloo I pray that if I see any of them out in public, at Target with their red cart full of Christmas cheer, they won’t shoot the messenger who was asked to speak on that topic at this time.

Because the only thing I really care about since sitting at that table are the damn results of that ultrasound. And Claire, I really think her name was Claire, I haven't stop praying for ya.

*Claire update: (And yes, her name really is Claire!) She connected with me via facebook, and praise Jesus, her ultrasound gave the radiologist no concern. I am stupid dupid humbled. When I walked into that room of MOPS mommas I had no idea that I would be entering such a privileged space. Thank you, Lord.

the songbird girl

Her hijab glows persimmon. Her voice, soft yet firm as the fruit.

Her years young, her spirit rich, a caged bird sings and her name a song.

Malala, what would you do if a Taliban gunman comes after you?

A collective breath heard across the heart of nations as she answers, “If you hit a Talib with your shoe, then there would be no difference between you and the Talib. You must not treat others with cruelty and that much harshly, you must fight others through peace and through dialogue and through education. I would tell him how important education is and that I would even want education for your children as well. That’s what I want to tell you, now do what you want.”

Peace, her song. The voice of the silenced, a generation of women raped, slaved, burned, flogged. Brutality stifles hope.

A young teen, the songbird girl determines to have her hope song heard. Taliban determine her dead, a gunshot to her head as she rides the school bus home.

“They thought that the bullet would silence us, but they failed,” her peace message grows stronger with each threat to her life.

Her attack leaves her crooked smiled and warrior spirited and a weapon in her mouth.

Peace.

When a young Pakistan girl breathes peace to all, souls tilt heavy toward her like flowers to the sun.

We crave to be soothed, salve to violence and murder. Balm to broken and beaten. Life to empty. Peace we all crave.

A deer pants for water, and a soul for Shalom.

When the time comes to award peace prizes we root for the songbird girl whose innocence is a melody of peace.

Because we don’t want war and machine guns and chemical blasts to be the answer. What we really yearn for is rest for our soul.

As the songbird girl inspires peace without borders, I find hope in the One who has been singing this song all along.