"because it's my birthday"

Christmas lasted for 6 weeks. Avery’s birthday lasted for 6 days.

This was the first year I actually planned a location party. It wasn’t intentional. It just happened. Ice skating.

Pictured below are her favorite friends and cousins at the party. The boys are in the background somewhere. And, 2 gals from Bible study are not pictured. Girl A fell down, bummed her knee, but became distraught when Girl B, her sister, told her that the kind stranger who helped her when she fell was actually going to try to kidnap her. Every party has a pooper. This one had two. Girl A didn't want to get up for the picture (and rightly so...she had cried her eyes out over the fear of being kidnapped...poor thing), and I may have intentionally cut out Girl B.

Last year I was smart. I did family parties and piñatas. I mean, I bought a My Little Pony piñata and transformed him into a purple unicorn, pieced him back together and turned him into a black and white horse. I’ve got skills. Spray adhesive and hot glue are my new BFFs. Sorry, Megan.

It’s also the first year I’ve opened the door to a themed cake. I caved. Artificial food coloring. And a lot of it. I just didn’t care. I talked the bakery into attempting a unicorn. It was awesome. I mean after he scraped off the purple Great Dane mistake.

Avery’s birthday was last Sunday, so this post might seem late. However, we celebrate birthdays for about a week around here, which means I’m right on time. Correction, we celebrate kid birthdays for a week. Mine gets the whole month.

"Make this your motto," reads the inside of the card.
Done

That girl and I. We are so much alike. Too much.

At first I was grateful that she likes things clean and organized. Put in its place. A child who cleans on her own. Praise the Lord! But I know that need for a clean and tidy space can be exhausting. Physically and mentally. It can be debilitating. I don’t want that for her. I don’t want it to keep her from enjoying life (and messy people) like it did me for so many years. Messy people have value too. I’m married to one. (I threatened to post a picture of his "sock trail" as proof.)

That girl. She squeaks when she walks. She had mentioned wanting a few things, but when I encouraged her to spend her birthday money, she no longer wanted those items. Oh, no. I took her to Target, and while in the aisle showed her the same item on Amazon. She’s smart and patient. I forced her to spend that money, hoping she won’t have the same stigma about spending money on herself as I do.

But that girl has got her daddy’s heart. His big mushy bleeding heart. While I would want the fun of putting Legos together myself, she invited her brothers to help her as she opened the new boxes, thinking in the end they would play with her because of it. But when it came time to play “shopping mall,” I watched the boys sit with Legos in front of them while their eyes intermittently shot a glance at the TV. Then I noticed they each had a finger on a nearby controller for a video game. Seriously, Boys!

I’ve got a couple weeks before I have to start planning for the their birthdays. And thinking about their cakes. With all that food coloring. And I shudder.

Traditions: Broken and New

This was the Christmas of firsts for our family. There was no new addition. No new location.

But many firsts. Which means new traditions.

As soon as we cleaned up the pumpkins from Halloween, I put up the Christmas tree. With Keith (and his certain arguments about a tree before Thanksgiving) out of town, I seized the moment. We usually begin reading Christmas stories in early November, so it was only fitting that the tree go up at the same time. And, it stayed until yesterday, the day after January 7th, Christmas in Ethiopia.

We had gotten rid of all non-essential items, which included all Christmas decor. So, while garage-saling in the spring, I snagged a fabulous tree. Fabulous meaning, it's pre-lit, and fully assembled. All I had to do was unzip it's handy bag/cover and plug it in. A new tree meant new fixings for it. But I'm too frugal to purchase anything at the before Christmas price. I was in luck. My sis-in-law had an extra box of ornaments in her attic, and I found 2 skeins of tinsel yarn in my closet from a prior clearance purchase. Perfect-O. The only item it lacked was a star. I sent Ivan out hunting for sticks which I hot glued together and wrapped with the remnants of that tinsel yarn. Viola! It was fabulous. Well, at least it was free.

What Christmas items we didn't give away we took to (and left in...sniff, sniff) Ethiopia: the stockings and stocking hangers. Again, I couldn't bring myself to splurge on stockings before the after-Christmas sales. I could have crocheted them, but instead took the easy way out and purchased gift bags. Stuffing gift bags is much easier than stuffing stockings, especially since we only do 3 gifts. All that other junk has to go in a something. Besides, we don't even have a mantel on which to hang them. Gift bags can stand on their own and are here to stay.

This was the first year the kids and I have made Christmas cookies together. What kind of mother am I? I know. We always do a gingerbread house, which comes in ready-to-assemble kit but is inedible. If it were at one time edible, it's not after being saved from last year's after-Christmas sale and surely expired. Starting this year, I'm not fighting that (food) battle. We only make what we can eat. I made the dough solo and refrigerated it according to the recipe instructions. Then, I borrowed cookie cutters and set my kids loose at the kitchen table, which is more their height than the counters. I dumped out flour for the rolling pin and realized I didn't have one of those either. (I mean, I used to. But setting up house again is a long process and kind of trial and error.) So, I gave them a large pot to share and smash the dough. Worked like a charm. Because we are a household free of artificial food coloring, our cookies were delicious but pretty boring. Santa didn't care though. Neither did Mrs. Claus, who ended up eating the majority of them anyway.

Avery made one cookie into the shape of Baby Jesus in the manger. She's a sweet one.

This was the first year I attempted making my maternal grandmother's dressing recipe. I slaved for days in the kitchen. For one dish. For one meal. It started with a cornish hen to make the broth. This is what my grandmother started with when I asked her for the recipe. (Kind of like when I asked my grandpa how to start a garden and he launched a compost-making lecture. A lengthy lecture. About compost. It was thrilling. And, exactly what I had asked for with my gardening inquiries apparently.) And it ended in an attempt to added black pepper, and seeing it was nutmeg I had just measured out. The containers are exactly the same.

Christmas morning we didn't start opening presents till nearly 10:00. The kids slept in, and then we all let Keith sleep in. They eventually remembered that the night before we had opened presents with extended family, and that they had new toys. I was in shock that a puzzle kept them busy while I leisurely enjoyed coffee on the couch, presents sorted into 3 piles in front of me. Clueless. They were clueless. Two new traditions for Christmas morning, besides the sleeping in: ice cream pints in the stockings (gift bags), and a handful of presents I buy and wrap all for myself. Just in case Keith follows my instructions for no gifts. Plus a few for him too.

As the kids ran in and out all day on Christmas going back and forth between new toys, I let them merely kick off their shoes at the front door...without putting them away. Gasp. I told myself, "It's Christmas." And I let it go.

Every year I look up how to celebrate Christmas Ethiopia style. I noticed a few things: 1) They wear the traditional white dress with a color band across the bottom, but I read "urban" Ethiopians wear Westerner's garb. Easy enough. We were all fully clothed in normal attire. 2) They don't exchange gifts. Awesome. My kids need a break from gifts with "birthday season" coming up. 3) They celebrate with feasting and games. My thought was Mexican food and an Uno Flash marathon. Keith's idea was far superior to mine: an "incredible" pizza place with arcade games, bowling, etc. Oh, and a buffet. However, the kids "feasted" on crackers from the salad bar and Goldfish, items I never purchase. Because I would eat them all the livelong day.

This is the first year our family has been together at home for Christmas. Not having to travel a day and living near family is a luxury we never thought possible. That is, until we tried to move to a different continent. But God had a plan in that. As He does in all things we may not understand.

So, at home for Christmas. In our own home. A first.

Temporary Home

We bought a house. In June. Yet it was almost Halloween when I unpacked the last box.

That's a lie. There's a tub sitting in the garage next to the back door, glaring at me each time I walk to the van. "I'll get to you...someday" I say.

This house at first glance, I deemed entirely too small for our family. Our family of 5. Which includes 2 Active boys. However, I re-evaluated the situation the first morning while I was cleaning up breakfast and the kids were within eye shot down the hall where they brushed their teeth, did their chores and completed their morning routine. And the angle hidden from me was clearly visible from Keith who had set up office in our room. (This is my morning view, behind Garrison and the impressive Lego tower.)




Keith and I struck a deal. We shook on it. A pinky deal. Serious business for this family. In 6 months we would rent the house and move our family to better suited quarters, or I was given liberty to go house hunting on my own.


Here we are near the end of our pre-set timeframe, and I’m having second thoughts.

I admit to screaming at my children a few times for not moving fast enough, which probably wouldn’t happen were they not in my line of vision every single second of their waking hours. But perhaps that’s more a reflection of me and my expectations of how fast a child should move when I ask, “Have you brushed your teeth?” (This one can be a slow mover.)

But I’m starting to like it in the matchbox.




I’m also starting to have perspective. I had fewer curtains to purchase, fewer blinds to dust. Who am I kidding? I don't dust blinds. Less counter space to keep clean, smaller rooms to vacuum. It’s been nice. It's been especially nice for the child whose chore it is to vacuum. (This one has that privilege.)






I’ve also thought about the mud and straw home our boys were born in, where they spent the first few years of life.

Our neighbors in Ethiopia with concrete homes, corrugated tin roofs, no electricity and often no doors.

The refugees I see every week who have taken in extra family members into an apartment too small to house their own.









So, the matchbox…is a place to call home. At least while our home is here…in Texas, the United States, planet Earth.

But we do have a great backyard.

With deer and everything.

And great neighbors. Plus family just one block away.

Redemptive

That's the word my friend Kristen used to describe the work we are doing together.

Volunteering with the refugees has been both cathartic and redemptive. Each Friday we load up a van or two with supplies, snacks and people. Make the one-hour drive to an apartment complex whose sole residents are refugees.

It's so much like the work that Keith and I did in Ethiopia, and also the work she does yearly in Kenya. Both groups of women need to know their value. Ultimately, it is in the God who created them. For now, we are helping them see it through their beautiful creations.

I am able to communicate with just a handful of the ladies. The same was true when I spent a day at one of the sites in Ethiopia. But we more than manage. Somehow they know I love them, and eventually they will ask why. Enter Jesus.

It is crazy how God is bringing things around full circle. Somehow, our time here is making our experience in Ethiopia better. It's getting easier and easier to look back on that time and say it wasn't so bad. Don't get me wrong. We loved it and were completely torn when we had to leave.

But the adjustment was a difficult process. And a long one. We were finally finding our new normal, thinking "Okay, we can do this."

My comfort isn't God's priority. His priority is His own glory.

Kristen turned to me one day and said, "I've had this idea for about a year and you're the perfect person to do it with."

I said, "I'm the perfect person to do most things with, but go ahead. What's this idea?"

In a nutshell, it is a way to empower women all over the world. It's a way for their work to help women across the globe but in their same walk of life.

It's a way for you to impact women in poverty all over the world...and for it to impact you.

It's a way for us to advocate for these women. To give them opportunity.

It's called Fair Trade Friday. Check out the site or read Kristen's post about it.

This post was ready to go out on our launch day but blogger wasn't cooperating. So, here it is. Four days late. We sold out within hours of launching on Monday and have hundreds on the waiting list. God is good.

This Makes It Official

A few Saturdays ago, I walked back to bid the children goodbye before I went out for a few hours. Since they still sleep together on Friday Family Fun Nights, they were all in one room huddled on the floor in their cozy pajamas playing with Legos.

"Kids, I'm going to a few garage sales this morning, so Daddy will get breakfast for you when he gets up."

"What's a garage sale?" the little one asked.

"Well..." I looked down to the bed where I sat. "For instance, a bed in a store might cost $500, but at a garage sale it could be $100 or less."

From the child whose incessant diarrhea of the mouth makes me jealous of the deaf, "Five hundred dollars! Five hundred dollars!!! I didn't know a bed costed $500. A bed shouldn't cost $500. Five hundred dollars..." And, on and on and on he goes.

"Awesome! What a great deal. I love garage sales," looking all starry-eyed said the one cut from the same mold as her frugal mother.

And the little one said innocently, "We already have beds."

Awe.

"Each of us has a bed to sleep in, indeed," I concurred. Here at the grandparent's house, that is true. 5 extra people, 4 extra beds. What a provision.

My kids realize more than I do how God has taken care of us through this.

Technically, "our" beds were stolen by our former tenant. Yes, you heard that right. Stolen. Along with everything we left to furnish our once clean, beautiful home. This post will not make it past the Blog Police if I go any further, so no tirade today. Boo.

I feel like we have been through a year-long hurricane, which seems to be over now. As we pick up the pieces, I find myself struggling.

It's difficult to not let yourself be defined by your circumstances. Although my Sunday School answer that Jesus is the One who consumes me, so often it's my kids, my worries, my planning.

In the literal chaos that surrounds me (because I have no closet), I find it hard not to think of myself as displaced. The truth is I am exactly where God wants me. He has allowed my circumstances, as crummy as they may seem, to show less of me and more of Him.

So, we are starting over.

In Texas. Houston.

The hot, muggy, congested, smoggy, stuffy, humid, sticky pit of the United States. I realize I am offending all true Texans with this statement.

The decision to move to Ethiopia was made more easily than the one to "move" here.

This pretty much makes it official. Keith had to drill holes in the front of my van so that we could display a second license plate. One isn't enough for "The Lone Star State." It's like Texas is showing off to all the others. Two license plates??? Come on, Texas! We know you're bigger and better than the rest of us teeny tiny regular sized states.

Different Ship. Same Course.

Although I have sent out information via our newsletter… Wait. You have a newsletter? Yes, indeed. Why not just the blog? Well, while any psycho can stumble upon this blog, we can see a name for each recipient of the newsletter and have the option to NOT send it to the psychos. I have purposefully procrastinated updating here.

There are so many things I want to say. So many things I want to scream and vent about, yet the Blog Police would veto all of it. In the same way he vetoed all 572 boy names I submitted for Ivan. I would just take a deep breath and accept the Big Fat Negativo. So many things I want to share (because I know you are dying for information), but it would be so very unwise of me to divulge that on such a public platform.

Where do I start after a three-month rebellion? Today? Nothing blog-worthy. Let me tell you about yesterday.

Yesterday was my second week volunteering with a new ministry in Houston. New, meaning it began just three weeks ago and there are only a handful of people heading it up. Maybe I should tell you how I became involved in this ministry, a ministry to refugees. God is all over this thing, the story and the ministry.

In mid-December I met my first friend since our relocation. Is it sad that it took me more than two months to make a friend? It was a first grade Christmas party where both of our daughters are in class. I overheard her explaining to a fellow mom why she travels to Kenya frequently. Kenya is next door to Ethiopia. How convenient, I thought. She and her husband founded a ministry that works with teens who are pregnant either from rape or forced prostitution. Wow. I definitely wanted to know more, but I didn’t want to get into the whole “Ethiopia” story. Despite my excitement, I managed to remain calm and casually engage her in regular conversation. School, kids, the weather, life in The Great Nation of Texas. When she found out I was “Avery’s mom,” she was the one bubbling over with excitement. She’d heard all about Avery (and Ethiopia) from her daughter. “Mom, there’s a new girl in my class named Avery. She moved here from Africa. No, really. Her brothers are from Ethiopia. Mom! She wears paper beads.”

I knew I needed to further stalk my new friend, but how? Was it enough that our daughters were in the same class? Or that both our families’ hearts were tied to Africa? Church! That’s it. In fact, we were looking for a church. So, in January we visited what I hoped to be our future church home. When I happened to run into my new friend (I mean I wasn’t standing in the doorway scanning each face that exited), she seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Score!

She invited me to an informational meeting for a new refugee ministry. They were going to start by teaching some women how to knit, which sounded super lame to me. Do I have blue hair? Or a bedazzled chain on my bifocals? But, she said, “Don’t you knit or crochet? I thought this might be something you’d be interested in.” Dang. How did she know of my mad crochet skills? At the party where we met, she had witnessed me ditching my “party-set-up responsibilities” to sew a finishing button on a crocheted Christmas gift for the teacher. I was caught. Luckily the meeting did not fit in my schedule, but I promised to contact her about it.

A month flew by and I hadn’t made good on my commitment to “contact her,” and now the Valentine party had crept up on us. So, it was either face the music. “Hey, I thought you were going to come help the refugees learn how to knit?” says my new friend, calling me out. And I’d have to make up something, “Yes, well, I crochet (stress the crochet, insinuating it’s an entirely different ballgame than knitting) and think my help would just confuse them.” Or, I could make a pre-emptive strike and just go for a week and let her see the disaster I was capable of causing.

Four of us rode together into Houston, sharing our stories on the way. The gal who began this whole project is a refugee herself, having fled Kazakhstan with her family after a 48-hour notice of their departure. She spent some time in a refugee camp and then was moved by the government to Houston. Explaining our time in Ethiopia to the women in the van was more than easy. It was cathartic. No one was baffled by our having moved there nor by our sudden departure. These women understood the world of missions, living in a third-world country, the corruption in a third-world government and the struggles that come with serving people in a foreign nation.

My life seemed normal. That was nice for a change.

We met in a dirty, smelly common area of the apartment complex. The women took their seats around two long folding tables and pulled out their completed projects for inspection. The room filled with the buzz of two languages foreign to us Americans. Immediately, I was taken back to Korah, the dump in Ethiopia which was the site for the majority of the women we worked with. Here I was, an outsider. Surrounded by beautiful women who cradled their babies as they worked or eyed their children running through the doorway.

I spent a few minutes watching an American woman on a video finish off the knitting, and then I sat at a table, mostly unable to communicate with them, and helped the women finish off their own projects. Turns out, knitting isn’t so terrible.

The women walked into the common meeting room, which was cleaner this week (thank you, Jesus), carrying their first product: a gold neck warmer.
Week 1: teach and practice
Week 2: receive real yarn and begin first real project
Week 3: sew amazing coconut shell button on neck warmer, sell it (for real), and receive yarn for second real project

I can’t explain the experience enough to do it any justice. I watched these women, poor in many ways, transform right in front of me. They realized that they are loved, capable, talented, and responsible. Empowerment. What a beautiful thing.

Teacups, Mental Breakdowns and Minions

Last week I received the first question from one of the kids about returning to Ethiopia.  "When we go back to Ethiopia, are we just getting our stuff or are we staying?" Ivan inquired.

The answer to this question I do not know.  My reply, (long pause while I gathered a few thoughts) "Well..." (another pause while I thought of a way to pose the truth of the situation...always the truth...in a way a child can understand) "...Ethiopia is where our home is.  It's where we feel God has told us to live.  We hope to go back and stay."  (a short pause because I remembered how much they're enjoying their grandparents and "the cousins")  "But each year we plan to come back here for about a month and a half."  Then I waited for him to digest that.  

I thank God that we have not been inundated by similar questions since our abrupt departure.  He has protected their precious little hearts and vulnerable spirits.  

We left many of our belongings there.  I had less than 3 hours notice that we would be leaving.  Had there been time to pack, there weren't any totes to put our things in.  We had sent them out to one of the Mission Ethiopia sites with donations and supplies.  We had a few smallish carry-ons and a couple pieces of luggage that had been accumulated.  One of the carry-ons was literally a reusable shopping bag.  Another was a child's tiny backpack.  

A contract driver and van were outside waiting for us.  "Contract," meaning he did not work for anyone we were connected with...because no one could know we were leaving.  So, as everyone else was loading the van, I was upstairs in hysterics.  Keith was badgering me, "We have to go.  We have to go!"  I begged for one more bag.   

I had months to mentally prepare for the massive purge and leaving behind of items.  This day, I had just hours.  Apparently though, God had been preparing me all that day.   For no apparent reason, I cried to at least 4 different staff members that morning, without divulging information or the possibilities.  Embarrassingly, not all of them even spoke English.  Still, I ranted.  The stress of the previous days was too much.  I also may have used a few profane words in the midst of my emotional breakdown. 

Again I found myself crying and screaming.  This time at my husband.  Bless that man.  He is the most patient human I have ever met.  

He rounded up one more bag and also wisely suggested I grab some educational materials as I would need to continue homeschooling during this hiatus.  I grabbed one book: Saxon Phonics.  

The kids have randomly asked about particular items.  We each have a special teacup for what else but tea time while Mommy reads a classic to them.  So, tea time has been either without tea...or hot tea in boring, matching cups.  Avery asked me to use the crinkle cutter for vegetables one day.  I had to break the sad news: no more fun veggies.  I left all kitchen items, including the birthday gifts that had just arrived in a care package: a pressure cooker and French press.  

When I tell them the requested toy or book is in Ethiopia, the conversation goes no further.  They know it's just stuff.  And, hopefully, they understand this time here is just a visit.  Quite a long visit.  Our residence is somewhere else.  For now, home is anywhere we are all together.  

This has been more of a contemplative post.  We are still unable to share details for safety concerns.  I'll work on some informational posts next.   Ethiopia information, as I realize I have been a big fat failure at that so far.  

That question from Ivan came the morning of Halloween.  So, I feel a few pics from the occasion are relative.  Enjoy.  We went with Despicable Me 2 for a family-wide theme.