Adoption: An EPIC Update

The 200-year-old wood floor is unyielding beneath my bent legs; I’m writing this one from my knees, neck and fingers arched low and right now I have the kind of body that makes big Spirit-noise. Listen . . . God has something in His sleeve and thread by thread He’s pulling that sleeve back and the small amounts of His skin being revealed chokes me up and falls me down. Soon we’re going to see the whole cosmic arm stretched before us and behind us and moving earth with giant sweeping motions to make a way for His will and our destinies. And this may be the longest post in my blog history, with a bazillion back-story links to boot . . . Maybe you need to journey with us today? Because my Mr. and I never imagined that our adoption story would continue like this, that the Kingdom would SO redefine and expand our conditioned ideas of certain things . . . Would you come close, my dudes and darlin’s? Grab some coffee if you want and travel with me for just a microscopic slice of your eternity while I retell some important pieces of the adoption narrative before moving on with what’s current.

Have you been with us long enough to remember how it all began? How life with three-kids-in-three-years had finally reached a rhythm that flowed with a bit more ease and a lot more grace. And somehow the ease and grace promoted an expansion to the walls of our daily-life capacity and why did my arms suddenly feel so empty? Do you remember how the empty-arm-feeling brought our family to the threshold of a thread that we chose to follow? Yes, we picked up the adoption thread, walked forward and prayed on.

In THIS post I swallowed the Son and confessed to the Father that my little Light-full heart yearned for more, and while we chose as a family to pursue adoption as an avenue of expressing “more“, we also committed to leaving the “more” open-ended in definition – remembering from previous life experiences that sometimes our ideas and expectations look like yellow bananas next to God’s green apples. (A.K.A.They’re NOT the same thing.)

And we prayed a specific and pivotal prayer in front of you all: “Our Father, what is real family for us?”  We spread this sentence around heaven because we believed that the way family has been defined by our western, white-man’s dictionary is not the truest or deepest definition of the word. On the alternate hand, we won’t make our statements like a blanket and say every family’s should be a mixed-up, kaleidiscopic collection. But, what in this world does it mean for us to be family? On the other side of Jesus the margins are stretched, definitions are upside down (and you may just need to stand on your head to see the world right-side-up) and family just might be is most assuredly global, but how that plays out in each of our stories is as multi-hued as the earth itself. So we rent our fisted fingers and invoked the Kingdom’s commentary, “Father, what is real family for US?”

Somehow, in the midst of some very constant and intense emotions, we still had the wisdom and wherewithal to say: From refinement of time and trial, we know better then to fold-up, over and around our own expectations, because it seems that quite often the catalyst which launches a movement in our lives is not always the same as where we end up, but we do believe that something life-altering and New Kingdom advancing is present inside each tiny fiber of this upward-moving thread.

Truly, I don’t think a week went by in the past two years where we weren’t praying or processing what it might mean for our family to adopt. But, also during that time God started playing a new melody on each of our souls and singing more of His song over our heads and would you know that what we started hearing was the hymn of revival and the notes were full with vision and spark. Our heart-kiln’s were stoked and the Fire-Starter was blowing against the coals, igniting us all the way. And I wrote one story that illustrated how the flames were affecting us and how the boys chose to respond to what God was doing. I communicated at the end of this story that our family had chosen to adopt a revolving family member into our hearts, that every time we met our most basic needs or even indulged in our “wants”, that we would also include one more person in our bounty each time. And by doing so, all five of us felt the Divine hand Cross-stitching our love to the people of our city.

And just when we were contemplating a move out to the Connecticut country, that semi-exposed Arm reached right into the middle of our choices and brandished some magic like we had never seen before and I told that alchemic-tale in Prodigal God . If you haven’t read it yet, please – you MUST. It may be the most integral component – or rather, it is the foundation for the rest of what I’m about to tell you.

Following that truth-tale of a recklessly-extravagant God, we had 10 cents less then a dime’s worth of doubt that the great Him gifted us with the house where we abide now and damn if we don’t love every crack and cranny, creaky floorboard and curvy angle (not to mention the steam shower!!!) of this colonial cape.

But, we barely settled in our new river casa, before my adoption-bent heart prompted a phone call to the social worker, telling him we were ready for our fresh digs to get the state-required “check-out”. Two afternoons later Carlos came over and we tarried and scoured property and home, he meticulously inched his way inside and out with a tiny-fingered comb. Then, the inspection was done and I may or may not have been biting my nails while sitting on pins and needles and when the verdict came? He only itemized three improvements that would need to be completed before our home could meet government approval and our adoption could take another pace ahead. Three EASY-ish things!!! No big whoop! We were prepared for at least as many speed-bumps as the ones Carlos communicated that day. However, having just crashed into BURN-OUT, I knew that we wouldn’t be able to fathom any house projects until we returned from [what we hoped would be] a very restorative family holiday in northern Michigan.

Before vacation and one week after that appointment with Carlos, I took our 9-year-young boy on a “his turn” date. And this is what you need to know about these occasions with Seth: whenever he gets alone with either parent, the dude canNOT stop kissing our hands, squeezing our bodies, and . . . monologuing. The. Kid. Will. TALK. And talk, and talk and talk. His excitement is so profound and he expresses it through non-stop touch and chatter – chatter about any and every and all the things on earth – this particular date being no exception. So, Seth and I were driving home from a Panera Bread/Froyo World consumption combo and he is doing some EPIC commentating in the backseat and I’m listening with most of both my ears when all of a sudden he stops spieling mid-sentence. Wondering why he broke speech, I made a quick glance in the rearview mirror to see him cock his head a little to the east right before saying, “Hey Mama . . . We have six people in our family. You. Papa. Me. Gabe. Jude. And the city of New Haven.” Then he picks up his monologue right where he left off, like nothing unusual or profound had just happened. *I*, however, felt chills fall from face to feet and an aorta knocking double-time against rib and flesh and just as immediately my mouth let-go the slightest prayer into the atmosphere, “Father, what does THAT mean?”.

For the next three weeks and through vacation my mind would turn at strange points to ponder that one sentence projected by our prophetic son and I would wonder what meaning it cradled. In addition, Austin and I processed and prayed and shared the story with family and close friends, inviting any and all wisdom to be spoken regarding. But mostly I just sat with it close to my chest, content for the skin of His arm to be revealed at the right time.

During our two weeks in the night-cool, quietly-clean country air and with the comfort of being circled with family and feasting on  nourishment from my mama’s kitchen, I felt completely restored from my soul tasting like ashes. HOWEVER. Our road-trip back to CT, altogether and almightily changed that wholeness when some kind of devil-stewed flu virus crawled in and corrupted my body – laying me flat for two weeks. This sickness totally stripped me of any feeling I had of being lit-up and I would drain tears for being unable to sense even the smallest vestige of my previous restoration. (Wah, wah and boo-hoo, someone get our their violin.) [Devil-virus notwithstanding] on day 12, my sapped-out self was standing under the spray of a steamy shower when a Who-sized prayer rose up from the fire buried way deep down under all my ailments: “God, I do NOT care if you want us to adopt a child or an entire city, we’ll adopt whatever You want us to. But, could You close one door and open another because I don’t know if we can do both right now.”

Just as I stepped beyond the shower to towel down, I heard my phone signal the voicemail ringtone and for reasons now known, my spirit surged with a sense of urgency to find out who called. Rushing through the post-shower proceedings, I quickly bare-footed over to see who was on the other side of my message and heard the voice of our social worker. With a swiftly tattooing heart-beat, I listened with all my ears to what he had to say: “Hello Erika, this is Carlos. I just wanted to touch base with you because there are some regulation changes if you want to adopt in the city of New Haven and they will effect your application. So please give me a call as soon as you get a chance and we can chat about it.” I set my phone down and knew. I knew in that moment, with a certainty that I will rarely claim, that as soon as I talked with Carlos, we would know one way or another what or whom we were adopting; which door would swing open and which one would shut closed.

After a short game of phone tag, Carlos caught me the following afternoon and quickly dispensing with formalities, we got right down to business. He tells me that specifically in the city of New Haven, the adoption rules have changed. He tells me that if a house was built before 1970 (which is ONLY every single house in the whole dad-gum historical city). . . And he gave me a list of new requirements longer then the devil’s own lies. And by “things” I mean, we had to do stuff to “un-historic” our historical house. And by “we” I mean that a specialized team would have to come in and accomplish those things for us because we are neither licensed or qualified or even ALLOWED to do them ourselves. And I’ll just give you ONE example so you hear what I mean: Every window in our home would either have to be replaced (cha-ching, cha-ching) or we would have to pay thousands of dollars to have every window removed, encapsulated in a special LEAD-coating paint and then replaced and repaired. (You can imagine the nightmare and horror). It doesn’t matter that this entire house has been restored and all the windows repainted, you would STILL be mandated to have it done by professionals. And it’s really not the canyon-load of home-improvement-headache or catastrophic cash cost that closed the door on our adoption.

The door closed because God unarguably, magically and boldly gifted us with this house so we would know where He geographically wanted our hands and hearts to be . . . and having given us this house, it came with the exspense that our landlords (who meticulously restored all the historical details of this home) would NOT and NEVER!!! allow us to do the things to THEIR colonial cape that Carlos said were now required in order for us to adopt in New Haven.

In shorter terms: God gave us a house that we couldn’t adopt a child into. On the other hand, God gave us a house that radically positioned us to adopt a whole city and tying our hair back is second on our list of “to-do s”, right after learning how to spend more minutes on our knees.

Among a few other sentences of how I really felt, I very kindly told Carlos that the “system sucks”. (Because it does.) (Do I hear an “AMEN”?)

He said “I know” and “I’m sorry”.

And with the ending of our conversation, the only response I had in me was a quiet and surrendered, “Okay”.

We had an answer to a two-year-long sojourn and subsequent question.

“Okay” and we’re diving into deep, Living waters here, swimming with our eyes open, trying to know all the sensations touching our skin . . . Drinking the Divine aqua down as much as we’re able. Dear Jesus, did He ever blow-up our prescribed understanding of adoption. Who knew that we could also adopt an entire city? That I could be a mama to so many? That I would rock New Haven to sleep at night, crooning prayers over her head while she lies in the crook of my arms? That our Gabe would supplicate these words on a Monday morning: “Teach me how to be a good brother to this city and to the people who live here . . . Yes, God! Roger is my brother! Help me to be a good brother to Roger and Joe and all the other homeless people in New Haven.”


Never did we imagine this outcome two years ago when we learned that there was more Love inside us and wanted to adopt a child to share that Love with. But, you know what we’re going to do? We’re going to gratefully and gladly receive an entire city into the fold of our tribe and this isn’t even a roller coaster we’re riding anymore – no man-made vehicle could be this wild. Definitely not. This is transcendental tidal wave we’re surfing here and it keeps turning and rolling and wakes us in the night and has all our eyes watching the horizon and staring at the Son.

Also: pray with us? And tell me your thoughts?!

{PHOTO by John Wimberly :: SOURCE}

a beginning to something ::

I see them in my spirit-eye, hundreds of little flesh-people pinging around inside an institution; the state is their legal guardian, a paperwork file their goodnight blanket and it should never be so. Their heart-lanterns are barely lit, the dust is heavy in their chests and who will wipe off the masks they wear and give them lessons in flight?

{via tumblr, specific source unknown}

After 300 and some odd days of adoption prayers launching off our lips and just as many days of savoring the desire to transplant one or two tinies into our family, we took what was in that pot rotating from the front and back of our proverbial heart-burners and ate it like it was finally time.

{It looked and felt like THIS.}

But when it’s time, it’s time and we didn’t waste any more of it before calling the Foster/Adoptive Mission and scheduling a meeting so we could hear about all the ways we didn’t qualify. That was our fearful thinking anyway and the stream-of-conscious mind-musings would run something like this: “I wonder if it matters that we went through foreclosure this year? Do we make enough money in the eyes of the state? How much will adoption cost? Is our apartment big enough for their housing guidelines? We would need a minivan for even one more child and we don’t have the resources, how will that work?”. Etc. Etc.

The fear whorls with excitement in our bellies when we walk through the star-dotted, blue-black night toward the church where we will find the answers we seek and the adoption representative greets us with a stack of information and starts her memorized monologue by telling us how many abused and neglected kids are in the “system” and an unconscious shiver slithers all down the pearl-like bones of my vertebrae whenever I hear the words “child” and “system” in the same sentence. And we are only in the very first stage of this “grafting in” process, but I get all claw-footed, holy-fire-fierce inside while sitting in that room listening to statistics designed to stagger—but no less affecting for all that. There’s a silent begging in my brain: please don’t tell me any more because my arms are already poised to wrap and we’ve got months to go before they could possibly be requited with the sensation of holding at least one hurting little girl tight against my God-filled body; I have months to go before the Love in my hands can begin the arduous journey of rubbing the abuse and neglect off her skin.

But, she does tell us more then our hearts were meant to handle, I am convinced, and the knowledge of what goes on in this world in just a sliver shy of causing complete paralyzation . . . There’s this woman they know, something unspeakable must’ve happened to her at some point in her life because she doesn’t know her own worth and can’t keep her legs together or the heroin needles from her veins, so she just keeps pushing addicted babies (5 to be exact) right out of her belly and into the state’s rehab cradle. My God, that’s just one story.

In the end, Austin and I, we’re catching our breath and sitting in trepidation while waiting for the answers to all our fear-like questions and would you know? Not one of them mattered or was validated and can I tell you how high we were from our own qualification? Oh, we still need to work out the vehicle part (a minor detail, right?!) but adoption through the state of CT? Is FREE. Not many things in this world carry that four-letter word, but I find that all the ones that matter do.

We went in with all our questions and concerns and came out under the same night sky with air in our feet and something close to euphoria thrumming in our blood and we’re valiantly saluting a beginning that has no definable outcome for us . . . From refinement of time and trial, we know better then to wrap our fists around our own expectations because it seems that quite often the catalyst which launches a movement in our lives is not always the same as where we end up, but we do believe that something life-altering and New Kingdom promoting is present inside each tiny fiber of this forward-moving thread.

I’ll keep you posted. And your prayers would be so tenderly appreciated.




Life Lately

In Adoption: This week past we shared fellowship with some friends who have travelled deep into the heart of adoption. Their arms are so wide-open and their hearts even more with the loving of two Littles from across the globe. We went to them with our story, how we came to be at this unexpected place and where on earth do we go from here (?) and heaven smiled on our coming together and exploring regardless of the outcome – there is no prescription in this process. But the thing I carried home right close to my aorta was a simple prayer born from one tiny piece of our conversation . . . “Our Father, what is real family for us?” And the reason I supplicate this sentence to heaven is because the way family has been defined by our western, white-man’s dictionary might not be the truest or deepest definition of family. On the alternate hand, we cannot make our statements like a blanket and say all family’s should be a mixed-up, colorful collection. But, what in this world does it mean for us to be family? I believe on the other side of Jesus the margins are stretched and family is global, but how that plays out in each of our stories is as colorful as the earth itself. So we pray and we pray and we pray, “Our Father, what is real family for us?”

Pray with us?

In The Living Room: Look how cute they are. All my dudes and my Dude working out their manly-muscles with Tony Horton and his P90X. This is the recipe for making children fall into their pillows come nightfall.

Did I mention how cute they are?

In Adventure: This trio of wee boy-hearts, they beat for adventure and I spend considerable energy trying to reveal to their young eyes that adventure is in the vision of the beholder and can be unfurled in the smallest stuff, but this week I wanted to make it bigger for them . . . “Adventure Week” I told them and they did their Little Savage(s) dance of untamed enthusiasm and blew my eardrums into the next county with the whooping and hollering.

Monday, Adventure Day 1, began with our first-ever walk all the way into downtown . . . From the top of the hill next to home, my finger points in the distance to a scene they’ve seen a few hundred times, but this occasion is different because their vantage point changes as their legs will bring them there instead of spinning car wheels. “See those buildings off in the distance? That’s where we’re walking to. YAY!!! We’re going to have SO much FUN!!! AND, we’ll get ice-cream when we get there” It is incentive enough.

Our muscles groaned up that same hill on the way back, but there was such satisfaction in using our bodies so well. To say we “had a blast” would be stating it mildly and the memories from that day and the rest of our “Adventure Week” are pure gold. I think I feel a tradition coming on.

In The Neighborhood: I hear the screams while I’m up to my elbows in dishwater suds. A pounding heart propels my feet to a dead run out the door and in the direction of audio terror. WHAT in the world is it this time? I wonder, but not for long as galloping legs carry me around the bend half a block from home to the scene of disaster.

There he is.

Seth is bleeding and bruised from his helmeted-head to his flip-flop feet, but instantly I can see that all his wounds are surface. Unfortunately, my heart starts in with serious palpitations as I take in the REAL problem . . .

I don’t know HOW they manage to wreak the havoc that they do.

My Mid-Son very effectively crashed his bike into the neighbor lady’s Mary Kay, pastel-pink Cadillac. I’m not making this up. He side-swiped that sucker from back to front and left rubber-tire skid marks along the whole length before landing head over heels on the hood. He then rolled to the ground where bare skin collided with unforgiving pavement.

My fear kept me from confronting the owner to talk restitution, so when Austin came home, I sent him over to face the music (or, in this case, “face the make-up” {oh man, that is the cheesiest thing I have ever said – maybe}). And you know what? All those scuff marks buffed right off that pastel-pink paint.


The End.

P.S. I’m buying stock in band-aids and Neosporin. And buffing thing-y’s

In My Mind/Heart: This homeschool mama has a whole week off, starting yesterday. Hooligans are at summer camp with their friends – kayaking, fishing, swimming, hiking, crafting and learning about Jesus through nature. I’m certain that they’re bored to tears.

What’s a poor girl to do besides suffer at the beach?

My mama gave me an audio theatre presentation of the life of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I took him to the sun and sand and listened straight through his story for three hours and when he died in the end, I felt like I had lost a dear friend as I cried silently behind my sunglasses. Radio theatre is amazing like that, the characters come alive and tug you right into their circumstances. The beach beneath me disappeared and I found myself walking the streets of Nazi Germany, breathing the sights, sounds and horrors of the day.

My appreciation for the man Dietrich became through unprecedented events and trial, amplified with each passing scene. An idealistic pacifist he was, but when reality rolled repulsive in the form of a monster named Hitler, he discovered a painful, yet graceful, marriage between his divine ideals and the world’s human actuality.

Five minutes before listening to the rope stretch around his neck, the story leaves you with one of his final letters from his two years in traitors prison and I have been ruminating on those words: “I have come to some conclusions. During the last year or so I have come to know and understand more and more the profound this-worldliness, our Christianity. This is something that I am discovering right up to this moment. That it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to live by faith. One must completely abandon any attempt to make something of oneself. Whether it be saint or converted sinner, churchman or righteous man or an unrighteous man, sick man or healthy one. By this worldliness, I mean living unreservedly by life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completly into the arms of God, taking seriously not our own sufferings, but those of God in the world, watching with Christ in Gethsemene. That, I think, is faith. That is how to become a man and a Christian.”

I’ve been filtering memories from the last ten years of living through this lens of the world being the medium by which I find myself in the arms of God and I discover so much truth there, not to mention the richness of paradox. It also reminds me of a single line from one of my favorite songs, “Let the world wound me, until I see You alone . . . in everything.” 


In Thanks: #301 Children playing hard/falling into bed. #302 Hugs, tears and forgiveness before the sun goes down. #303 Walking everywhere with the elements all over my skin. #304 Summer dresses and flip-flops #305 Italian Ice to make a day special. #306 Bandaids and Neosporin! #307 Anticipating vacation. #308 Whole family bike rides – 3 growing boys sandwiched between us.

Love to all,


P.S. For some reason, I am unable to link to other pages from my posts. So, where you see “friends” highlighted, that is supposed to take you to, “story” is supposed to direct you to Wherein My Heart Changes (under “We” and “Wonderings”) and “place” is Wherein My Heart Changes – Part 2. Sorry. WordPress and I are going to have a little chat to see if we can sort it out. :)

Wherein My Heart Changes – Part 2

For those of you who might have missed it, the following post is a continuum from Wherein My Heart Changes.

Everyone got a grip on their girdles?

I could prolong the agony and make you wait until the end of the post for the big reveal, but I’m not like the people who are like that. I can’t keep anything inside. In fact, sometimes when folks hear things come out of my mouth, it’s the first time I’m hearing it too. Which is just a fancy way of saying that occasionally I don’t think before I speak. But, I’m working on that. In fact, I’ll probably be writing a post about it soon and it will most likely include a picture of me with a piece of tape over my mouth – blue painters tape to be more specific. True story. Let’s move on before I break out in another rash induced by self-depreciation.

Now . . . where was I? Oh, yeah. The thread with the edge where we find our five pairs of feet standing.

We’re about to walk this fine strand of twisted fibers, our hearts are already leaning way over . . . It looks like Love and it spells . . .


We’re breathing this idea into our lungs just to feel it inside us for a while.


We’re holding the air so we can wonder around the possibility of this being a part of our family story.


We’re pausing at the cusp of pursuit to savor the forthcoming process.


Adoption is the thread even though it doesn’t seem to make any sense to take one breath of something so large and altering. It doesn’t make “sense” because we’re in one of those seasons of living where our personal limits are being stretched and pulled like taffy in the hands of a candy-maker. How can we add anything in the midst of losing our home, a work schedule to make grey hair, homeschooling three lively dudes, plus this, that, and . . . Adoption?

Many days already end with my hiney hitting the couch hard in sweet relief – add a darn good sigh. I sit there in the quiet, with the dark and my feather blanket to make cozy and I take stock of the parts of me that have been spread further then the day before and I pray that I’ll have just enough for the next sunrise.

But, it is also in the dark of days-end when the last pulse of hub-bub has died-down that I absorb the abundance of our existence and know that I could expand further still, if only to pull every possible nearer-to-God experience to my bosom and live my “one wild and precious life” to the fullest.

For this, my heart grows bold and audacious in it’s requests to Great Giver God.

“Great Giver God, this small heart, it yearns for “more . . .”

The “more” is open-ended in definition, but the longing is certain in that it wants to inmost inhale what it means to be a follower and lover of Christ.

And it is in the asking for the things that will grow my following and loving of Him that my soul-soil is made fertile and The Farmer sows His seed without the “sense”. He plants in me just the thing that will draw me abreast to Himself . . . if I can only lift the hand holding the bright-white flag of surrender up to the-blue-hued sky and give my “YES’s” to heaven.

This Girl, her Man and their Boys are saying “YES”. “Yes” to moving our feet in the direction of adoption. The spreading and the pulling have enlarged our capacity and what else should empty space be for, but Love?

The End.

Or, is it The Beginning?

Whoa. Deep thought. Talk amongst yourselves.

Bye for now.

Or, is it Hello for later?

What am I even saying?!?!?!

I’m going to go before this digresses any further.



{Photo Credit – adoptionmaine dot com.}

Wherein My Heart Changes

The last of the training wheels came off this spring.

Three Dudes are growing up fast and my heart is constricting hard. Because, the thing is, it was only yesterday that I was snuggling their baby-chub and inhaling their new-skin scent.

My womb was so young – by today’s standards – when it harbored and grew three babies in three years. Littlest One arrived before my 24th rotation around the sun and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I gave my best. I still tell people that I have very few memories of that entire year after Jude was born – I was drowning deep in the “daily’s”, so to speak.

This is when the tightening of my chest occurs and my grieving grows large. I would turn back the years and stop you, Mr. Clock, if I only had the power to wield such a feat. I would turn back years, because my heart has changed, you see.

Once upon a time, I couldn’t wait for them to get older just so I could breathe and we chose a guarantee by way of vasectomy to ensure that easier air would come sooner rather then later.

I remember all the times of grocery shopping with the wee ones and the old lady’s would gather round our cart-full-of-kid-and-consumables and exclaim with wrinkled and experienced fervency . . . “Cherish”, cherish they would say, those chubby babies are grown-up men before your mother-eyelids can blink and this will unequivocally be the best time of your life.

The best time of my life? You mean, it doesn’t get better then sleep depravation, zero personal space, dirty diapers up to my ears, 3x stereo crying . . . add emotional bankruptcy?

And yet, I believed whole-heartedly with my head their words to be wisdom and truth, but my fledgling heart couldn’t wrap around the sentiment itself.

Within all these years, my aorta has grown-up alongside the stretching boy-skin (hey, who’s raising who here?) and life-with-kids is reaching a rhythm that moves with a bit more ease and a lot more grace. And somehow the ease and the grace promotes an expansion to the walls of my self. A little demo here and a rebuild over there and voila! My capacity is blooming with room.

Is that why my arms feel suddenly empty?

If someone would have told me back in the “cart-full-of-kid-days” that I would want more babies one day, I would’ve laughed out loud at their absurdity and rudely so.

Except, the joke is on me.

They would’ve been right.

Because, here I am now, 6 years and 1 baby-preventing operation later, wishing for another Tiny to add to our family. But, we cannot so easily scrub away the permanency of our long-ago choice.

A few months back, I cried big tears – watering my husbands shoulder – to grieve over circumstances that led to decision-making that we can’t reverse with any sort of ease.

But my husband with the wet shoulder, he has a heart bigger then the state of Texas where he came from and he tells me that he’s open to anything . . .

That “anything” has brought our family to the edge of a thread to follow and I’m going to tell you about it.


So, hang on to your girdle Gladys.