Who doesn't love a good rags to riches story?

We have the benefit of hindsight with Cinderella. We know she gets the prince in the end, and because we know she will eventually triumph, we are willing to wait through the injustice she suffers at the hands of her evil stepmother and sisters. She finds her prince and lives happily ever after.

We don’t always get that same fairy tale ending in real life. Our long held aspiration may or may not be realized in this lifetime, but like Cinderella, we continue to hold onto the hope that someday our heart’s wishes will come true. And for those who follow a divine calling, we can be assured that, eventually, our best absolutely will come.

But what if--right now--our best doesn't look much like the original quest?

For several years now I have casually, but consistently, fantasized about how I could use my God-given gifts and, at the same time transform our turn of the century bank barn into a profitable venture.

Two years ago we took the first step toward that end and gained zoning
approval to renovate it into a Bed and Breakfast. When that exception was granted, I was ready to plunge head on into the project and not look back. My husband, while supportive of the dream, was not operating on exactly the same timeline. He just didn't possess the same sense of urgency that I did. I had good reasons to forge on, and he had better reasons to wait. And so, at the time of this writing, that’s exactly what we are doing.

Waiting.

You need to know that I am not a good waiter.  Never have been. My beloved does not shove his authority around easily, so I've learned to trust his instincts when his perspective is different than mine. As much as I hate to admit it, he is usually right. There’s a time to plow right through obstacles to reach your goal, but there’s also a time to be still and plan well.

If you need someone to lead the charge, I am your gal. But if you‘re looking for an analytical, “slow and steady as she goes” type, I am not her. It is during these times of waiting, anticipating the pursued outcome that I have made critical mistakes.

Like making the dream THE most important thing. Without much notice, I can miss what’s right in front of me because I’m too busy looking for what’s to come.  I can struggle with discontentment over what I don’t have rather than being grateful for all that I do.  I find myself yearning for more when I haven’t handled “less’ very well.

God gave me a gift of hospitality. To me, that always sounds prideful and yet, at its very core, it is simply stating the obvious. It is a gift. I did nothing to earn it.  My desire has long been to share that gift with others, so throughout the years we've hosted exchange students in our home,
accommodated guests from near and far in our renovated spring house/guest home, and created reasons merely to throw a party. I thrive when coordinating these kinds of events, and I know the joy that comes from being used in areas where I feel most passionate. To me, being hospitable has its own reward. So you’d think that would be enough, right?

It wasn't long, though, until the call for something more came knocking. The dream I’d had those many years before had been temporarily sidelined by the spring house project, and then a house renovation after that.

I suppose a dreamer’s heart never stops visualizing what could be, and to the eternal frustration of my husband, he married a dreamer. There’s always an idea spinning in my head, and it usually requires some sort of project for him.

In my petulance, I began nursing a spirit of discontentment. Instead of being grateful for the resources God had already given, I wanted more. So I began asking Him for that miracle to do bigger things (with the purest of motives, of course…ahem). I poured through magazines and spent hours online creating in my mind what my Barn Bed and Breakfast would look like. I prayed earnestly for God to provide the resources to undertake such a project without risking everything we’d worked so hard for the last 30 years. I was naming it and claiming it. I piously offered up to God an area of my life that I’d resisted before, as my sacrifice to Him. I reasoned that this was evidence I was willing to put feet to the request. I knew it wasn't enough just to ask for it and then expect him to drop it in my lap ( although I secretly hoped that’s how it would all come down).

Well, two years later I am still offering that sacrifice. And waiting. I thought God would be impressed with my offering. I was, after all, giving him that part of my life I held tightly in my hand. Even though I didn't identify it as such, I was calling God out. A divine bluff, if you will.

“Okay Lord, I will give you this to prove how serious I really am.” And then God would say, “Okay Carla, I see your move and applaud your effort. Your wish is granted. '

Pennies from Heaven. Contractors hired.  Guests booked. Dream realized. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Except that my offering was never really that impressive. He’s wanted all of me from the very beginning, and I was holding out. Only when I was looking for something in return did I fully surrender what should have His been all along. That’s not to say God doesn't absolutely delight in giving lavishly to His own, but he does so with purpose, not because I deserve it or make a deal He can’t refuse.

I don’t know when or even if my Bed and Breakfast dream will ever
be fulfilled this side of Heaven, but in my season of waiting, I am learning a few lessons. Perhaps that is worth more than the dream itself.  I am slowly discovering that contentment comes as I surrender my timeline to His. I may not be where I want to be just yet, but I am trying to cultivate a spirit of gratitude by serving those presently in front of me right now, in the moment.

Perhaps most importantly, I am framing my dream to fit His plan for my best. If His grand design matches mine, wonderful. If not, that will be okay too. I will choose not to obsess over it, but accept whatever it will be that He brings. Some days I am better at it than others, but on the days I lay it all down, there is peace.

Recently, my husband crafted a beautiful table from some old, reclaimed wood in our barn.  He took aged, rough pieces and made something truly remarkable. It occurred to me that, perhaps, God wants to do something similar with me. He knows my dream, he created my heart with a desire to serve and He understands my limitations. I believe He wants to take my raw idea and do something beautiful with it, but it may not look exactly like I expect it will. In the end, though, whatever it becomes will be far more beautiful than anything this dreamer could imagine.

I acknowledge there are some who are waiting on a dream far more significant than mine, and in the context of such scenarios, my wait is dramatically inferior. At the same time, I know that for those of us with "less noble" pursuits, God also cares about the seemingly insignificant of our heart’s desires. It’s important to Him because it matters to us. He longs to walk us through the wilderness of waiting and wanting, and in that desolate valley, he becomes our trusted guide. The dream, as valued as it may be, is secure as we offer it back to Him. I cannot say that I walk in that complete dependence every day, but I am gaining ground. I am better than I used to be at balancing the dream and its outcome with my present reality. And although I don’t know the ending, I can safely surrender it.

Years from now my barn may be entertaining guests from near and far, or simply housing farm implements, or something somewhere in between.  Whatever its future holds, this dreamer cannot wait to see.

And yet I will. 

“Grammy, tell us a story about when you were little.”

My grand-kids never tire of hearing about the relatively ordinary adventures from my younger years. The fact that I ever was a child is intriguing enough for them, so their curiosity is piqued whenever I share even the most bland of tales from my childhood.

The art of telling stories runs strong and fast in my family. We love to laugh and we rarely let the facts interfere with a great story, especially if there’s potential for a perfectly timed punch line.  My dad was a master storyteller. He could rattle off jokes and one-liners with the best of them, but it was his animated accounts of  colorful life experiences that had us laughing at all the same points in the plot. Even though we’d heard those stories a million times before, (and could have recited them aloud in unison), we deferred the honors to him and willingly obliged by giving him the satisfaction he looked for each time.

There’s something secure about hearing the same story over and over again. It evokes a sense of tradition and shared history among the listeners, replaying the legacy handed down from generations before.

I am the middle of five children, the slightly older of two "in between" daughters flanked by brothers. The older I get, the more I appreciate the wonderful gift of family and heritage. And stories.

Just this week we had an impromptu sleepover with four of the little ones, and they asked for a story  - a request that took me back to a beloved tradition from my youth.  

My sister and I shared a bedroom from our earliest childhood through most of high school. During our younger years it was not uncommon for my dad to treat us to a bedtime serenade. Seated at the foot of our double bed with his Martin guitar in hand and-- if we were lucky-- a harmonica resting in its neck holder, he’d lull us to sleep to the tune of Wildwood Flower. 

It was his go-to song, the one he never missed during any of his routinely impromptu guitar sets. I never knew the lyrics growing up, mostly because it was one song he rarely sang along to, but it still brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it and I am 10 years old all over again.

Traditions are a wonderful blessing in the life of a family. The passing down of cherished events or interests, the sense of history and belonging. There’s security in knowing that you are part of something much bigger than yourself, and understanding where you come from as valued rites are passed down from one generation to the next.

For me, there have been several traditions that have endured through the years. My dad’s love for storytelling and music are just two that I  hold close to my heart, but another favorite was born out of my family's tradition of holiday gatherings.

Most everyone plans family get-togethers over the holidays, but not all anticipate them with great joy. I was fortunate enough to enjoy such occasions with giddy excitement whenever either side of my parent’s families gathered.

My mother’s family, however, was considerably smaller, with only a handful of cousins, and every holiday was spent in each of our homes. 
Christmas was usually at Uncle Biz and Aunt Mary’s. 

Your senses were fully engaged when walking through their kitchen door at 577 E. Jackson St. The avalanche of hugs and kisses from relatives of all ages created a deep sense of belonging and confirmed that you'd come to the right place. Then there was the enticing smell of the amazing meal that was to come, with the kettle lids popping and hand mixers spinning as sisters in matching aprons feverishly navigated the small kitchen in synchronized harmony.

 Any “taste-testers” bold enough to break into their inner sanctum were quickly discharged to another less desirable duty (like pouring water). The family room was the gathering place, not just because it opened right into the kitchen, but because the tree, with its twinkling multi-colored bulbs, magical ornaments, and strands of silver tinsel absolutely compelled you to peek under its branches for the gift with your name on it. Of course, you had to be discreet in your search, as the seasonal (but completely empty) parental threat of "you touch it, you don't get it" loomed ever present.

The friendly cacophony of huddled, lively conversations, spirited laughter, and Mitch Miller’s sing-along Christmas music all added to the festive atmosphere. The sweet scent of cherry tobacco directed us to the patriarch of the family, seated contentedly amid the flurry of activity,  with his trusty pipe in hand. Once the obligatory Christmas Day family pictures were out of the way, dinner was served. It was a feast to satisfy the most discriminating palate--a culinary delight with Christmas ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, bread and oyster stuffing (I never did learn to like that dish!), jellied cranberry mold, sweet corn, green beans, puddings, cakes and pies.  A seven course meal that was devoured in three. There were presents to open up, after all.

The Christmas gifts were unwrapped with the same enthusiastic fervor as the meal had been consumed. Then came the transition to a less frenetic pace, with the post-meal-take-off-the-shoes-loosening-of-the-belt type attitude. Children were contentedly massed together, comparing notes on their brand new acquisitions or playing games. Aprons now retired, the cooks would enjoy after dinner coffee and conversation with feet propped up and the serene satisfaction of pulling off another holiday success.  Their male counterparts  were often found in various reclining positions as the TV valiantly entertained a soundly sleeping (although not silent) audience.  As a kid, I remember how perfectly contented I felt on the drive home. It had been a very good day.


Although our clan has gotten smaller and we've said tearful good-byes to some, we cherish those too few times when we are able to gather. We don’t see each other as often as we once did, but when we do, the stories are re-told and the laughter brings us together once again. We are family. We share a common history together. We belong.

And so it is this history that drives me to re-create the same kind of
experience for the next generation. I too will spend hours in the kitchen with the womenfolk (sans the matching aprons), shooing the daring dish samplers away and  into the acceptable house zones until dinner time. We will snap family photos, then sit down and break bread together, and give thanks for the gifts of family, tradition and history. 

And together we will tell the same stories, and laugh at all the right places. 


What are your favorite family traditions, past or present?

 (Author's Note: This is not just my story, but David’s as well, and so it is only with his full consent that I include the particularly sensitive details of our journey together.)

To everything there is a season…. a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance…Ecclesiastes 3:3-5



David’s adolescence was a particularly difficult time for him and our family.   When his uncontrollable behaviors escalated to a level where it simply was no longer safe to have him live at home, we admitted him into a residential treatment facility at the tender age of 10. The daily conflicts had been removed, but the guilt of living apart remained. We knew what people must’ve been thinking, even if they weren’t saying out loud.

How could we commit our own son into the care of others? Why didn’t we try harder to keep him home? The reality was that we did try hard, but we knew David needed much more help than we could give him at home, and we had the welfare of our four other children to consider. David’s violent threats were genuine and intensifying as he grew older. Even so, it required deliberate effort to move past the guilt and shame we felt for placing him.

Good parents don’t give up. Good parents don’t place their children in
institutions. Such was my internal dialogue. These emotional, maternal responses battled daily with my intellectual, learned responses-- the reconciled knowledge that love alone was not going make David well.

His first residential treatment placement ended after two years
when it became clear that David would not likely ever meet their exit criteria. Funding would not be approved to simply continue his treatment and despite our registered reservations, they recommended that he be placed into a therapeutic foster home. We maintained that David had been voluntarily placed in residential treatment precisely because a home setting wasn’t structured enough for him. We expressed our fears that David would regress without stronger support. We knew how exhausting it was caring for him full-time. Even with the (minimal) training they had, therapeutic foster parents were still human and burnout would be inevitable.  His caseworker agreed it was not the ideal option, but it was the best they could offer until he could safely return home.

So with nothing else to reasonably consider, David entered the first of three therapeutic foster homes within the next 2 years. Each placement ended abruptly, and for varying (and traumatic) reasons. Through every new transition, David was the biggest loser, and we were left to help pick up the pieces after each move.

Understandably, it only ignited his anger and as his parents, we were frustrated that we could not find a long term, appropriate level of care for him.  It was hurtful being judged for not having David at home,
especially because we trying desperately to do the right thing for him.

He needed the structure of each day looking the same as the day before, with clearly defined boundaries, few changes, and the right balance of attention and discipline. With resources and providers quickly vanishing, the pressure to move him back home increased, and when all of our options were finally exhausted, that’s exactly what we did.

During the summer of 2001, David lived at home with us. We were cautiously optimistic that perhaps it might be different this time
around, but in the end it was not. He continued to exhibit many of his trademark behaviors and his anger issues were still dangerously unmanageable. Feeling frustrated and powerless, we enlisted the aid of our school district and David’s MH/MR caseworkers to find the supports he needed.

By that fall, a new placement was arranged for him and he was back in residential treatment for the next 6 years.  His living environment was not perfect, but he had a genuinely kind caseworker who advocated for him and corresponded with me regularly. David respected her, as did we.

When she left unexpectedly, David spiraled downward. It’s unfortunate that the ones who need the greatest consistency often experience the most change.  We were unaware of the secret nightmare he faced at the time, we simply attributed his alarming behaviors to her sudden departure. It wasn’t until David's discharge that we discovered that he’d been sexually assaulted by another resident during his time there.

I was angry. Very angry.

Why had God allowed one more trauma to be inflicted upon him? Hadn’t he already suffered enough? It all made sense now; the resistance to his sister’s marriage the summer he lived at home (he’d witnessed spousal abuse in his second therapeutic foster care home), his explicitly sexual language and overtones, and his overt disrespect for authority. The ones who should’ve been protecting him had dropped the ball, including us. While we didn’t know what had been happening, I felt responsible for placing him there.

I vowed that his next placement would be different, and it was. God provided a wonderful facility less than 5 minutes from our family business in Berks County. Every Friday after work, we’d pick him up at the Children’s Home of Reading and bring him home for the weekend. We got the best of David those days. He was happy to be home and we
were glad to see him regularly. He still struggled behaviorally, but he was
improving. His environment was much healthier. My relationship with his caseworker was cooperative and congenial. Miss Chris called me almost daily and we discussed David’s goals and progress, and ultimately made plans for his future.

CHOR provides treatment for children up to 18 years of age, but because the staff valued David’s future as much as we did, they fought tirelessly to ensure the right living situation could be secured for him even after he aged out of their program. When we kept hitting bureaucratic roadblocks and it looked like nothing would become available, we planned to have him return home again. I made one last desperate plea for help and emailed the executive director at Lancaster County MH/MR to share our story.  What did I have to lose?  He responded that very afternoon and set up an appointment the following week to meet and discuss our situation.

Long story short, God provided a miracle in the form of state funding that had never come to Lancaster County before, and David was chosen as one of 15 people out of hundreds to receive that funding. That meant that a home could be established for him, with a stable, long-term future. 

And so it is to this day. David lives in Bedford with another young man with similar disabilities. His behaviors have improved significantly, but he will probably always need some level of support. A home that was purchased and prepared for him is staffed 24/7 with attentive and capable caregivers. He works part-time at the local Flying J truck stop and participates in Special Olympics. He comes home for weekend visits once a month and loves spending time with his family, particularly his nephews and nieces. 

David desires to live a ‘normal’ life. He wishes for all the things a young man of 26 hopes for---a wife, a family, a home. Sadly, those desires probably won’t become reality for him, but he does enjoy life through the lens of his active imagination. He loves anything Star Wars related, and battles regularly on our front lawn with his nephews and his handmade light sabers.

He’s intrigued by all things “futuristic” and dreams of creating flying cars
and space travel.  He’s artistic and compassionate, creative and friendly. Like most of us, he simply longs to be accepted and significant.
In his words, to be “just like everyone else”.
.
David's challenges have evolved as he's gotten older. In many ways, he still reasons and functions like a young child. Socially he can engage adults, but he has a hard time reading people and understanding social norms, like respecting a person's personal space or disinterest. He is usually quite polite upon making acquaintances, he relishes being the center of attention and will share his perspective with commanding confidence on any given topic, whether he has a clue about the subject or not. He does grow tired of being 'supported'. He wants to live independently and he gets irritated when reminded about what he must accomplish in order to meet that goal. 

As his parents, we give David as much freedom as we safely can. He stays in our small guest house when he comes home for visits; he enjoys working with his dad whenever possible, and spending time with his same age “hero/brother” Ben.

While the rough years have been well documented, there have been fun times too. David makes us laugh. Often. We lovingly refer to the book of “Davidisms” that we will someday write; the innocent phrases he utters in child-like manner. For example, the classic moment around our family's Sunday lunch table when he randomly asked, "Is it just me, or does my foot itch?” There were also the stories we didn't hear about until after the fact. Like the day of my dad's memorial service. So thrilled to have just received his cousin's Army fatigues, he stepped away from the family line and returned dressed in full camouflage from head to foot. He was none toohappy when we ordered him back into the bathroom. It was on that same occasion we later learned that, in response to their offering of condolences, he was greeting our guests with "may the force be with you."

I cannot share our journey with David without referencing his siblings. At various points throughout the years they have been verbally, physically, and emotionally abused by their brother. But they have also been taught how to love unconditionally. They know the pain that comes from watching a sibling struggle and they’ve staunchly defended him when he was an easy target. They shared in his rejection and misunderstanding by others, they celebrated his achievements, accepted him as he was, and faithfully cheered him on. Of course they also endured moments of sheer embarrassment, frustration and anger that he couldn't just be like everyone else. But above all else, they simply loved their brother, and
today they are better people for it.

It's hard to watch a child suffer. Which is why this part of our story carries so much weight. Hands down, the best part of our journey together occurred in December 2012.

Like we usually do, we planned for David’s home visit the week before Christmas. After picking him up, we hadn’t gotten far when I asked David how he was doing. From out of the darkness of the back seat came his thoughtful response, one we’d not expected.

“Well, Mom, I’ll tell you. You know about the Mayan calendar, right? Well, all week I couldn’t sleep because I was scared the world was going to end on December 21st. I was afraid to die, so one night I cried out to Jesus and told him I was sorry for the way I was living. I asked him to forgive me.  It’s funny, but I felt peaceful after that and I went right to sleep.” 

For one brief moment time stood still.

Bruce and I turned to each other in stunned silence, amazed at
what we had just heard. God had saved our son! After years of praying that He would reach David in a way that we could not, He did just that.
We’d shared the Gospel with him many times and tried to live it’s truth out
before him, but it just never ‘stuck’. David would oblige us by going along to church and accepting what we told him was truth, but he’d never personalized it for himself. Here was God, alone with a frightened young man limited in his capability to understand spiritual truth, reaching down and drawing David to Himself in a way that he could grasp the love of his Heavenly Father.

He used his love of fantasy and mystery. Never in a million years would I have guessed God would use the Mayan calendar to bring David to salvation. But then again, I am not God. I still choke up when I think of what that late night encounter must have been like.

In one moment, all those painful years of walking through the fire instantly became worth the effort.  A lifetime of difficulty redeemed. A season of despair traded for an eternal reward.

Two months ago we gathered with family and a few friends on the banks of our quiet farm pond to witness a miracle. Bruce and my son-in-law/pastor Chris waded into the water with David to baptize him into new life in Jesus.


 (For more on David's baptism, go to http://www.fromtheguestroom.com/2013/07/davids-baptism.html)

It. Was. Amazing.

One word kept circulating in my head. Hope. It was the hope for something better for David all those years ago that brought him into our lives, and it was the hope that his life could be full, despite his earthly, physical limitations. And now with his new life in Christ, he has an even greater hope for his future. Heaven-- where he will no longer be confined by a brain that doesn’t function as he’d like, where emotions will be expressed fully and without reserve in a positive way, where there will be no more pain, no more tears and best of all, he will see Jesus face to face. 

Until that day, he is a new creation. We don't have expectations for a
completely different David in the everyday; his issues have not suddenly
disappeared. He will make poor choices, struggle with anger, and reason like a child, but like any of us who've been redeemed by Jesus' blood, he is being transformed.

A transformer.

With his keen interest in science fiction, David would like that image.
And so do I.
  
While this journey is not yet over, our season of weeping has ended.
It's time to dance. 

David’s physical health was easily evaluated and treated. His mental and emotional state was not as black and white. Once he was physically stable, we began the delicate task of finding him the right kind of psychological care. In an attempt to help him ‘catch up’ socially and academically, we enrolled him in diagnostic kindergarten and began searching in earnest for a
therapist who could address his mounting behavioral issues. School could help teach him practical life skills, but we needed professional support to manage his anger.

Resources for adoptive parents of post-institutional children were not readily available at the time, so I scoured through adoption publications until I found some useful information in the newsletter, The Post. Tears flowed spontaneously as I read for the first time an overview that described our David so thoroughly, I could have written it myself. Apparently we weren’t the only parents of a child struggling with attachment disorder, developmental delays and social impairment. Until then, we’d just assumed that David was unique in his needs, but now I knew we weren’t alone, even if it felt that way.  Armed with this information, we pressed on to find the right kind of help for him.

It was a very lonely time for us, particularly in the beginning. Even though we had unwavering support from family and friends, at the end of the day he was our son and the weight of getting this right rested on our shoulders. We simply couldn’t fail him after everything he’d already been through.

We joined an international adoption support group with the hope of finding some encouragement and common sense advice from others who were also traveling the same road. But as wonderful as those folks were, it had an adverse effect on us. Their stories looked nothing like ours. While they had challenges that any adoptive family might have, they appeared to be gaining ground while we just felt like we were sinking deeper into a dark pit. Their children seemed happy and generally well-adjusted.  
None of them had a child like David, at least from our vantage point.  While I was genuinely happy for them, I’d come away feeling discouraged that our adoption scenario wasn’t equally as optimistic.

We were encouraged, however, to have key people around us who invested deeply into David’s life. Aside from family and among the most faithful was Henrietta, who always made time for David (even when she didn’t have it), marking every birthday and achievement with a handmade card or encouraging word. And there was Janie, a woman with a servant’s heart who would take David to her home every Wednesday after school just to give me a break; and of course Miss Julie, his patient and gifted speech therapist, as well as his many dedicated teachers. There were others too, freely extending grace to him without much in return. I had faithful friends who granted me the priceless gift of a shoulder to cry on, not to mention their countless prayers on our behalf. They never tired of hearing my broken record of a report on David’s progress, or seeming lack thereof. 

Folks were always well-meaning to ask how it was going, but I came to dread the questions
because I couldn’t give a glowing report on his development. I am sure some may have doubted my account because David could hold it together for short periods of time. He didn’t often present himself publicly as he was at home. Unless one was to spend more than an hour with him, you just didn’t get a complete picture.

David had very little impulse control or problem solving skills. He had difficulty receiving love, yet he could also display indiscriminate affection. He was often demanding, constantly seeking attention, and could become very hostile and openly aggressive at the drop of a pin. It was often overwhelming, trying to demonstrate love when you’re being patently rejected. David just didn’t seem to like me much (and if I am being brutally honest, at times the feeling was mutual). As long as his immediate wishes were being met, he was a happy camper. If he was denied a particular object of desire or he was required to transition to something else before he was ready, it got pretty ugly. There was a lot of verbal abuse, as he recognized words were an effective weapon against his perceived opposition. It didn’t matter that there would be consequences; negative attention was equally satisfying to him as positive interaction.
Either way, he had you engaged.

I spent a lot of time in prayer for David. There were days I just didn’t know what else to do; 
there weren’t any manuals to navigate the unique and unexpected scenarios that played out in front of me. I’d pray over him as he slept, pleading with God to heal his wounded heart and mind from the torture he seemed to carry inside. I asked for wisdom to do what I didn’t know how to do as his mother.

I cried out for a miracle, and God answered.

It wasn’t an instantaneous change, in fact it was years before I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. But God gave us glimpses of what could be, and He continually reminded us of His love and faithfulness to our family.  David began meeting with a Christian therapist who’d also adopted children from Romania, and it was during these therapy sessions that we first gleaned some information about his early years and the conditions in which he lived. It didn’t remove the struggles, but it gave us better understanding about why he behaved the way he did. 

David’s erratic behaviors changed the way we operated as a family. We’d often take two vehicles to an event in case one of us needed to leave early with him. Large crowds and noise were stimulants for him, so we learned to adapt by evaluating if it was an event he could handle. If it was, we’d go. If it wasn’t, we didn’t. Eventually we realized it wasn’t fair to deny our other kids vacations and fun activities simply because David couldn’t manage them, so we enlisted the help of some willing babysitters. I struggled with guilt for excluding David at times, but in the end, he was just as happy not to go and we were grateful for the respite.

It wasn’t until years later that we fully realized how conditioned we’d all become to David’s short fuse.  Our lives evolved around his ability to cope, and we’d become jaded to his fits of rage. It was just part of our new normal.  We’d tried every form of behavior modification in the book, but nothing seemed to work for a child who just ‘didn’t get it’. David wasn’t being willfully oppositional, he just didn’t have the built-in coping mechanisms that come with normal brain function. We could discipline him (and we did, regularly) but it didn’t change behavior. We reinforced positive behavior as frequently as we could, but it often wasn’t enough to override his demand for immediate gratification.

As David grew older, his anger escalated. He’d been through several different child psychologists by the time he was 10, and some were helpful, others not so much. His diagnoses changed throughout the years, and often it was hard to tell where one ended and the next one started. When the dust
settled we were looking at one emotionally unhealthy boy. He was dually diagnosed, which means he carries both mental health and mental retardation diagnoses. With David’s permission, I can share that he’s been diagnosed with Mild Mental Retardation, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Pervasive Development Disorder, Reactive Attachment Disorder, and Depression.

Emotional outbursts and full blown temper tantrums were everyday occurrences in our home, and often unpredictable in nature. We were able to observe certain triggers for his rages, and try to redirect him, but there was no set pattern for why he had them. It was most often because his immediate
needs simply were not being met. Once his anger accelerated beyond a certain point, there was nothing we could do but restrain him. For as small as he was, it took all of my strength to keep him from hurting himself or the unfortunate soul who just happened to be in his path at the time. It wasn’t unusual for him
to kick a hole in the wall or throw furniture, and use whatever was within grasp as a flying object.

His anger was consistently directed toward me. The professionals explained that it’s often the one they love the most who takes the most abuse. It was a compliment that stung, but it taught me much about unconditional love. 

It was a long shot, to be sure. Our valiant attempt to adopt David and be back home in 10 days would’ve happened, had it not been for one form without my signature. For 8 months we worked feverishly with our Romanian liaison to set up our court hearing and ensure all of our paperwork would be efficiently expedited so the process could be completed in record time.

Bruce hit the ground running as soon as he arrived in Bucharest, and it looked like it would happen,
until he was abruptly detoured by a technicality the day before they were to fly home. Somehow among the mound of paperwork we completed, checked, and re-checked, there was one form that required my signature (contrary to repeated assurances from the Immigration and Naturalization Agency that Bruce could sign as my power of attorney). 

Without it, David could not leave the country, even though by that time he’d been legally adopted.
Fax machines were not yet available in Romania in 1990, and because of the approaching Memorial Day holiday, it was faster for Bruce to travel home, retrieve my signature, and fly back to submit the paperwork.
Otherwise, he would’ve had to remain in the country for 3 weeks, a luxury he didn’t have as a self-employed
business owner. Complicating it even more was the fact that he had to leave David behind in the interim. 
But as God always did, he provided for us a kind, young pastoral couple who agreed to keep David until he returned.
 
Bruce’s trip back to Romania the following week was a whirlwind of bureaucratic red tape, laboriously slow waiting lines, and days navigating unfamiliar streets in an unfamiliar city with an unfamiliar language,
all with an oppositional 4 year old in tow. Time after time he saw God open doors that should’ve remained closed, like with the embassy officer who appropriately questioned the legitimacy of David’s birth certificate.
It documented that David’s birth father had died two years before he was even born. 

When Bruce could offer no reasonable explanation, but that it had been accepted at the adoption hearing, the officer shook her head in righteous indignation and stamped the visa. The day before their scheduled flight home, Bruce discovered an additional transit visa was also required for their stopover in Germany.
This added to his day’s already overloaded itinerary, which included having documents translated and hand-copied, delivering them downtown to the US Embassy, and then heading back to the German embassy to get the visa, all by 3:00 pm.  In the end, it proved to be too much to get done in too little time, and another two days were added before they were on their way home.  

I didn’t vacuum my house for the entire time Bruce was gone. We'd been told that there were only 26 phone lines coming out of the entire country at the time, so communication was limited and sporadic.  Any noise that masked the sound of our phone ringing was banned, as I couldn’t risk missing a call that could come from him at any time.

We kept busy back home, preparing the house and our hearts for the new normal that would be ours in just a few days. The van was loaded and we were ready to go when Bruce called from Frankfort---they were on the last leg of their journey home, and we’d meet them at JFK in a few hours. Finally.

 

It's a strangely surreal experience meeting your child for the very first time.

For as much as we anticipated it, our initial encounter was relatively subdued. I’d romanticized the moment in my mind many times, eager to embrace David and love on him, but Bruce had cautioned me that he probably wouldn’t be receptive to it, so I curbed my maternal instincts and moved tentatively toward him. The older four observed their newest sibling in curious wonder, engaging him more like a newly acquired pet, wanting to touch and play, but being measured in approaching him.

At four years of age, he was small, weighing only 19 lbs. with skinny bird legs, chubby cheeks, and a distended stomach. He clung tightly to Bruce, only letting go after he spotted the American flag and Mylar balloons we’d brought along for him. His body emitted a combination of the garlic flavored crackers he ate on the flight and the stench of a messy diaper that badly needed attention. Bruce was hesitant to change it on board because it was an odor that lingered long after changing, and he figured it was better just to keep it ‘contained’ while confined inside the aircraft's cabin.

Even though David had been given a clean bill of health by the medical staff in Romania, it quickly became apparent that was not the case.

Within a week of his arrival we had several pressing medical issues to resolve. His body odor was caused by 5 different intestinal parasites, so we immediately began an aggressive treatment to clean out his intestinal tract and boost his malnourished frame. To prevent the others from contracting it, I insisted that I'd be the only one changing his diapers for awhile, and not surprisingly, no one objected to that ruling. He was also diagnosed with acute anemia, which required us to orally administer iron (in liquid form) to him twice every day.  

This was a dreaded routine that involved every last family member. Bruce would hold David while each of his siblings secured a limb so I could safely express the iron-filled syringe into his mouth while he fought like a trapped animal trying to escape. It was a task that usually ended quite literally with blood, sweat and tears. With David’s terrified facial expression and tightly clenched mouth, sweat running down the sides of my face, and four sets of little hands firmly gripping thrashing arms and legs---we were all exhausted after each encounter and I was frustrated that a language barrier kept me from helping
David understand this was an act of love, not abuse.

Much of what was done during those first days was simply an exercise in survival mode. What did we need to do to keep him alive and safe for that day? And how did we stay sane trying? The buck ultimately stopped with me, but there were many other players in the game. David probably still doesn’t realize the sacrifices his siblings made for him throughout the years, particularly those early days when my time and energy normally reserved for them was redirected toward addressing his immediate needs.

They were willing partners however, and after the first two weeks of doting on him and extending grace,
he was just one of them, with the rules applying equally all around the table. David was not so much
a novelty any longer, but a brother, and if he was going to be part of our family, he was going to have to take the bad with the good.

Of course our expectations for him were way too high initially. We see that now.

Love alone does not remove all the emotional baggage a wounded child brings along with him.  Because of an extremely limited history on David, we could only draw our own conclusions about what his life was like during those first four years, and it didn’t look pretty. He came to us without any base language or capability to communicate other than his primal scream and pointing fingers. He routinely recoiled in fear whenever an
adult would innocently reach for him, and he often seemed to be in a fantasy world all his own. His play was rarely interactive with his siblings at first, as much of his days were spent more in a protective, parallel realm he could control.

His fingers and toes provided his greatest entertainment, as they had been his only means of activity when he was confined to a crib all day. For the first month or so, he slept with his bedroom light on, and could often be found rocking back and forth in bed, with the better part of his fist in his mouth. His thumb-sucking had created health and speech issues for him, but it was his way of self-soothing, and weaning him from it was going to be a slow and steady process.

He could express pleasure, but more often than not, his hollow countenance reflected a deep void behind his dark eyes. Often I would just look at him and wonder what he carried behind that wall of emptiness.
His fears were not the ‘normal’ ones children routinely demonstrate. He had no fear of strangers, for example, so we were diligent to keep a close eye on him whenever in a public setting.

He couldn’t distinguish a healthy fear from an irrational one, like the time I had a knock at my kitchen door from a passing motorist who found him leisurely playing with his matchbox cars in the middle of our street.
He didn’t flinch when our larger than life collie greeted him with warm, wet licks to the face the first day we brought him home. He wasn’t the least bit wary of the live bumble bees he’d somehow collected in an empty medicine container. Even predicted negative outcomes, like a bee sting, didn’t deter him. Cause and effect just didn’t compute in his underdeveloped brain.

He was fascinated with fire, and he seemed to delight when someone or something else was met with
unexpected misfortune. His temper tantrums were unlike any I’d ever witnessed. I prayed for wisdom like never before, scared and questioning what we’d gotten ourselves into. Had we made a mistake? Can we even help this little guy find some kind of redemption from his past? Would this adversely affect our other four children?

Knowing God had been faithful to bring David to us in the first place, I trusted He would provide what we needed, no matter how incompetent I felt or how hopeless it appeared. But I also knew Bruce was right. This was indeed going to take time.

And so we began with what we could  immediately change. His physical maladies could be treated with a series of immunizations, drug therapy, and regular check-ups. I began making three trips a week into the
Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic for intensive speech therapy, and then daily reviewing with him at home, using handmade flash cards picturing the basics, like ‘What is a mom?’ ‘What is a dad?’. Often folks would comment that we were starting with a blank slate, but in reality it wasn’t true. David may not have had much comprehension, but he had a boatload of emotional baggage that he carried. 

So in addition to the benign ‘What is a dog?’ 'What is a cat?' flashcards, we also had the less settling questions, like ‘What is pain?’  'What is anger?'. We were assured that the source of his anger was his inability to articulate his thoughts. Once he knew how to express himself, his rage would gradually go away.
At least in concept that sounded reasonable. 

But as David grew and learned to voice his emotions, we were not fully prepared for what would come out.

To be continued….

This was not how I saw it all playing out.

Twenty two years ago this June, David Dumitru joined our family.

The last of our five offspring, he is our only brown eyed child. Behind those beautiful dark eyes, however, lies a story born out of pain and rejection. The road to redemption has been a long, arduous one, but we are getting there.

We'd been warned that there are adjustments when adopting a child from a foreign culture, but until you experience it first hand, you simply don’t know what you don’t know. We learned by trial and error how to parent a child with multiple emotional and mental disabilities, and to David’s credit, he has survived us pretty well.

Our story began benignly enough during a family conversation in the living room of my in-laws. The discussion turned to a television expose’ on the plight of abandoned orphans in Romania, and even though my husband and I had not seen the story firsthand, we were intrigued by the details shared.

Unbeknownst to each other, God gently began whispering an idea into our ears.

We were a contented family of six at the time, living out the American dream, successful business owners, actively involved in ministry, and enjoying the relative ordered chaos that comes while rearing four children under age 10. By outward appearances, we’d had it all. We really had no plans to add to our family, as four was “our number” and our quiver was comfortably full. That being said, adoption was always an endearing concept for me. I had cousins who joined our family through adoption and I observed that love could trump bloodlines any day.

So with that still, small voice speaking softly in my ear, the thought of rescuing one of these little ones from a hopeless existence moved further on down into my heart. It didn’t take long until I discovered that my husband was experiencing that same parental tug to add one more to our family.

And so it began, our journey into the unknown world of adoption paperwork and appointments, home studies and safety checks…and waiting. Added to that was the challenge of navigating a private adoption in a foreign country so emotionally crippled under communism, each move was a step into the darkness.

At the time, Romania was a country in political turmoil and general unrest. Trying to rebound from a spontaneous prayer-vigil-turned-revolution a year earlier, she was like a woman laboring in childbirth. Under Nicolae Ceausescu’s regime, thousands of innocent children had been warehoused in unspeakable conditions under the guise of state care.

Disclaimer: This video footage is part one of a follow up report from the original 20/20 story "Shame of a Nation" in 1990. It tells the story of the late John Upton's efforts to rescue some of the least of these and contains graphic scenes of the conditions present in the orphanages at that time.

After the fall of Ceausescu’s reign, reports of extreme neglect began to surface, with disturbing accounts of woefully poor hygiene and inadequate nutrition, inhumane living conditions, with two or more children sharing cribs and tie restraints to 'keep them safe'; these were just some of the horrific stories that came to light. The question immediately asked was what to do with all these children?

As word spread about the desperate plight of these little ones, Americans responded en mass, with attorneys, caseworkers, and judges scrambling to find homes for this otherwise lost generation of children.

We were among the first wave of families seeking to adopt, and with the laws being written as we went (or so it seemed), we enlisted the help of a Christian Romanian man living in Oregon to help us navigate through the good, the bad and the ugly.

Still struggling to find her way, Romania remained an unstable country when Bruce’s plane landed in Bucharest in late May of 1991.

Arriving overnight, the airport terminal was dank and dimly lit.  Only a few random ceiling lights illuminated its interior and with the sight of armed military police patrolling the lobby, it cast an ominous feeling.  In his journal, he noted that he felt like he was entering a war zone.

Bruce was happy to have the company of his brother as his traveling companion, as I stayed back home to keep the household running while he was gone. This was his first trip to Romania, but it would not be his last. After 8 months of planning for it, the time had come to bring our little boy home.

It almost didn’t happen.
Two weeks before his scheduled departure, we received word that our 'first David', the dear little one whose picture we had posted on our refrigerator door, this sweet child we’d already called son and for whom we'd been praying, had suddenly become unavailable for adoption.  His grandfather refused to relinquish his parental rights, so we were left with two choices: end our pursuit right then and there, or press on to Romania and take whatever child we were given.

After much prayer and wise counsel from trusted advisors, we elected to move forward and watch God work. We reasoned that since we had no choice with our biological children, we’d trust God to choose our adopted one as well. We’ve said many times since that it was divine grace that Bruce never met David until after we adopted him.

From a human perspective, David was randomly pulled from the stack of files our Romanian attorney had been given. To this day, we cannot say with complete confidence that he actually is who his paperwork says he is. Nonetheless, whomever he may have been is no longer who he is today, and he isn’t part of our family because a lawyer chose him.
God did.

Trust me when I say I needed to cling heavily to that truth many times during the early years. There were multiple reasons why David never should’ve been released to be adopted, let alone leave the country, but he was and he did. Believing that God divinely appointed this little guy to join our family is the only explanation for how it all happened, and it's a truth that sustained us through many tears.

The day Bruce and David met for the first time they were already legally linked as father and son and it was a good thing, because Bruce admitted later that it may not have happened at all otherwise.  David did not make a great first impression; he looked like a wild animal, with dirty, matted, lice-infested hair that had not been cut or washed. He smelled so badly that even repeated baths didn’t wash away the stench that would last for weeks. Wearing badly tattered clothing that needed to be returned for another child, his only form of communication was to scream, and he was very good at that.

“It’s going to take time, Carla”.

Bruce’s phone call from the airport was more than a quick update on his travel status.  It was his careful attempt to prepare me for the journey ahead, to alert me to the reality that our dream of a joyful-airport-union-followed-by-a-happily-ever-after-life just wasn’t going to happen.


To be continued…..

"Oh, that's not meant for us", my navigator/mother confidently assured me. The flashing red sign warned that all vehicles exiting off Colorado's route 70 must be equipped with tire chains. I was commandeering a white, 15 passenger van that drove like an armored tank. Loaded inside were some of my most prized earthly possessions (4 of my 5 children and my niece). Mother was riding shotgun, and while I have always had the utmost faith in her ability to read a map, I should have followed my gut on this one and flat out refused to "cut off an hour of our travel time" by exiting onto Loveland Pass.
Pass.
Just the word alone should've been sufficient warning, but hailing from southeastern Pennsylvania, it wasn't a familiar enough term to trump naiveté. It is now.

We'd been in colorful Colorado to attend my brother's wedding the weekend before and on a whim, we decided to drive to Keystone resort to surprise the male family members who'd left earlier for a ski day. It was an impulse we should've resisted, our decision to forge ahead being a bad one on so many levels, but having a free day and wanting to see more of the high country, we trekked out, eagerly anticipating our adventure into the unknown.

Breezing right past the red flags, both figurative and literal, it was not long until I knew we were in over our heads. There was no turning back by the time I realized that those flashing signs were indeed meant especially for us.
I'd readily accepted my mother's direction in spite of the glaring warnings otherwise because she has a long history of getting it right on the road. As the oldest daughter of a small town Ford dealer, one of her first jobs was to transport cars or deliver parts outside the local area, all without the benefit of GPS. She has always had a great sense of direction and seemed to enjoy her uncanny ability to find her destination using the shortest distance and time possible.

On paper it was true that the exit would save us an hour of travel time, but I wondered if it really mattered much since we were probably going to die trying. Unbeknownst to us, Loveland Pass had only opened shortly before we approached the exit off 70, and the road was still snow covered. As I rounded the first turn at the base of the mountain, a friendly young man on top of a snow bank waved us on enthusiastically.

"Isn't that sweet?" I thought to myself, only to immediately conclude that his greeting was more of a "you- go-girl-thumbs-up" kind of salute. Instantly I knew I was facing the longest uphill drive of my life. A few seconds later my previously animated navigator drew the same conclusion and suddenly, albeit momentarily, she fell deadly silent.

"Turn around, Carla!" she screamed. Turn around? Are you kidding? I was trying to maneuver a chainless, small bus on a freshly snow-packed single lane plodding north. Where, pray tell, was I supposed to turn around? The higher we ascended, the louder the groans emanated from the seat to my right. 
Janet Irene was almost completely bent over on the floor in fear, her face resting in her hands. If ever she was prostrate before the Lord, it was then.

Oblivious to the serious nature of our predicament, the kids were having a gloriously great time laughing and enjoying the view from the back seats of what I was sure would become their winter tomb. I could only imagine our white van veering out of control, gaining speed while forming into one giant snow ball as it tumbled down over the embankment, only to be found during the spring thaw. I could read the headlines in my mind, "PA family found frozen at mountain base--no chains on van".

I have always been taught to respect my elders, but doggone it, she got us into this mess, and she was going to pull herself together and help me out of it. I calmly reported that, despite my "deer in headlights" expression and obvious death grip on the steering wheel, I had complete control over the van. I could feel the tires traction on the road's packed surface and if everyone just stayed calm and did not panic, we would be okay.

Until we hit alpine level, that is.

Nothing quite like the feeling one has when making a blind turn into nothing but white at 11,000 feet above sea level. Just before rounding the bend, I parked along an interior pull off to gather my senses and rally the troops for the last leg of our journey. Before I could share the plan, the side door whisked open and the kids started bailing out to shoot some pictures of the breathtaking view. Mother had opened her door as well, but not to capture the moment for posterity sake. Her plan was to jump ship and catch a ride with the more experienced driver (she assumed) of the gas tanker that was headed up the hill behind us.

'Who is this woman?"  I thought to myself. The same one who had always warned us never to take rides from strangers was now functioning in full blown panic mode and ready to do that very thing! Her logic for abandoning her family for a stranger was that her beloved Harold needed her back home. No matter how wonderful a caregiver she was for my ailing father, I determined that if it came to it, she was going to go out with the rest of us.
"Everyone, back in the van NOW!" 
I guess my tone was threatening enough to inspire immediate compliance because we were all safely strapped in for the duration in record time. After a brief assessment of our situation and a quick, but genuinely heartfelt prayer, we were back on the road again.

The mood was subdued by now, but I wasn't sure I would ever regain the full use of my hands once they were pried off the steering wheel. The blood flow had been completely restricted 2 turns back, but as we slowly rounded the last curve, I felt them relax as I pulled to the side of the now level road at the mountain's summit. I put the van into park and we all just sat there for a moment, taking it all in and grateful to be relatively no worse for the wear. I couldn't help but laugh out loud as I read the plaque on the stone monument to our right.

We may have just conquered the great Continental Divide, but it felt more like we went to the moon and back. All that was left for us was a little trip down the other side of the mountain. Chains not required.

It’s been said that change comes hard. That may be true most of the time, but I've found that it depends upon what kind of change it is. I am a person who generally goes with the flow. Laid back.  Spontaneous. That’s more likely a palatable way of saying that I am undisciplined, but whatever it is, I can readily embrace change under the right circumstances. 

In areas of personal strength or interest, a change of plan is quite often received as a welcome surprise. Fortunately for me, I married a man who equally enjoys life sprinkled with the unscheduled elements
that either procrastination or imagination produces. It all depends on your perspective.

Take for example, the Saturday evening many years ago when my beloved ended his long work week with a ravenous appetite for pizza. After considering and then promptly eliminating the usual local options, he
offered a suggestion that instantly trumped all other ideas—we would pack up our 5 kids and head to Mack and Mancos for their mouth-watering pizza pie! It didn’t matter that we live in PA and the pizza shop was at the New Jersey shore. What’s a mere two hour drive when you have no plans for the evening and your cupboard is just as empty as your stomach?

And then there were the many mission trips I have been privileged to experience. “You went where?” “To do what?”. Sweet memories flood my mind as I recall some of the personal challenges I faced trying to adapt well to temporary inconveniences. Little things really, like illuminating the wooden seat inside a Haitian outhouse to expose any Black widow spiders, or quickly chewing without first asking what I was eating in Guyana, and gliding through the dark backwaters of the mighty Amazon in Peru, mindful of the steady, watchful eyes that peered out from behind the twisted jungle vegetation.

Odd as it may sound, those moments were exhilarating for me. While there was a slight level of danger involved, it was empowering to push myself and see what I could do. Fear was certainly part of the equation, but it didn’t define it. It was change, to be sure, but relatively temporary change. A few months ago, I embarked on another kind of challenge, and while it was not an adventure that took me to the uttermost points of the world, it has stretched me to see what I can do.

I started a new job. “That’s it? A new job?”

Yes, this woman who dangerously prides herself in facing her fears while channeling through gator infested waters was given pause at the thought of beginning a new job. Change is not as easy when it comes in sequences that run longer than 10 days, or in opportunities that cause old insecurities to float to the surface. The all too familiar fears pop up effortlessly. “What if I am just not good enough? What if I fail?”

The reality is that change and fear do not need to be dysfunctional partners in a new endeavor. While I may hesitate, I am learning that I can embrace those fears in a healthy way, face them head on and plow right through them. The catch is that I cannot rely on my own fortitude to do it.

Phillipians 4:19 is not a casually claimed verse for me, but a very real promise I hang onto.  I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

I am able to lay down my need to know how it all plays out because I know it’s not really about the job. It’s not even about the change itself. It’s about learning to trust a loving God who supplies my every need. It’s the revelation that He has my best interest in mind, if only I will surrender my need to control. Change can be a glorious thing when I empty myself of me. Or it can simply be a new thing. Quite frankly, I am looking for more than just a new thing. 

I wish I could say that I have learned to effortlessly embrace change in my areas of weakness, but I am not quite there yet.  

If I am being completely honest, the core issue is pride. Tackling a new thing that doesn't come easily presents the risk of failure and a loss of control. Maintaining control is hard work and quite simply, a wearisome illusion. I know that I must become weak in my own eyes, so that in my weakness Christ is made strong. Trouble is, I don’t like being weak. And I hate failure. But the upside is that it brings me to my knees in surrender to Someone who does have the power and will help me do what I cannot do for myself. 
And therein lies joy and security, even when the change is difficult and unfamiliar.

We never did make it to Mack and Mancos that Saturday night so long ago. Our seasoned parental sensibilities won out. Spontaneity and hunger bowed to the logistical ease of the local drive-in. But as I write this, it occurs to me that the last one of the kids has been out of the house for over 2 years now, and my hubby and I have no plans for tonight.

I'll have one slice with mushroom and a small Pepsi, please.

Hi, I am Carla! Forty years ago I was unsuccessful in my attempts to make that awful, shag haircut work for me.  I’d not yet discovered the miracle that tweezers and a little make-up could produce.  Yet despite my adolescent insecurities and absence of a personal stylist, I still dared to dream that someday a dashing, young man might find me worthy of his time.

Becoming a wife and mother was my heart's desire for as long I can remember. Fast forwarding a few decades, I can happily report that my prince did indeed show up, and 34 years later we still enjoy a pretty good life together. Along the way we parented five children, ran our own business, co-labored in ministry, and renovated a house (several times over!). It’s been a life full of adventure, but not without some bumps in the road. By God’s boundless grace (and a healthy dose of humor), I am still kicking!

Today I embrace being “further down the road” in life, an empty nester with a full heart, energized and at peace with what I’ve been taught on the journey so far, but fully aware that there’s much more for me yet to learn.