It’s not always how you might imagine.

I think cupcakes are very effective. But not as effective as sharing stories of failure.

Admitting we don’t have it altogether and that some days motherhood makes us feel just plain inadequate on every level.  Showing our scars and the stories behind them. More importantly confiding how we emerged and lived to tackle another day.

Laughing. Loud and long and late into the night.

Stopping in the middle of everything – boiling over potatos and hamburgers on the grill – to really, truly listen to something a son is trying to share.

Encouraging.

Letting a friend cry without shame for as long as she needs to – with you.

And cupcakes. Always with the cupcakes.

OK, your turn.

My mom used to take us out of school to go and see movies she considered important. That’s how I saw White Nights and the Back To The Future series. We would immerse ourselves in the stories and talk for hours afterwards about the characters, their choices, and what we might have done differently. I would emerge from the movies full of life and dreams and popcorn kernels lodged in between teeth.

To this day I find my childhood self every time I set foot in a movie theater.

When I am tired or weighed down by the everyday-ness of everyday. When I wonder why I am where I am. I am always able to rediscover parts of my story through watching parts of someone else’s.

A friend made time for me tonight. At almost no notice at all. And we sank into the depths of a story and spent time wading through its layers and wondering out loud how it could have missed the heart of the heart of the story that is the beginning and ending to every tale ever spun and every life ever lived. Because buried under every narrative it is always there, urging a more nuanced look at ourselves. It begins and ends with love. And at the center, comes an epic sacrifice from a Carpenter. The quintessential every man who is more than any man.

Who one quiet day in September called my mom to come follow Him home, and she did.

That is the part of her story I can’t read yet. How my mom knows more about Him now than she ever could have when we tried to map out what it would be like. That as much as she tried to “explain” the Back to the Future timeline to me, the continuum of eternity eluded us both. But how certain she was that dying is never the end of the story, just the middle. How the good guys win and the hero does saves the day and the gut wrench that comes with saying good-bye only hurts from this side of the chapter.

I have almost every one of her books.

They line my house with memories of how we tried to unravel the mysteries of love and death and the life to come.

We searched for truth in every nook and cranny of every story, no matter how unlikely the source.

Because we were convinced that the Logos resides in every tale, every dream, every bit of broken truth that is merely a shard of mirror reflecting back the Word that sustains all things.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.
Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men.
The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. John 1:1-4.

He is both my once upon a time as well as my happily ever after and I scour stories in search of the Word.

Sometimes in the dark of movie theaters, sometimes in the wrinkled pages of books that are as familiar as old friends, and sometimes at my computer screen reading your heart. Everything I read – everything –  testifies that we are made in His image, an image cracked down the center and in desperate need of repair. We cannot eat our way there, we cannot travel our way there, we cannot love our way there, we cannot hope our way there …..

we can only surrender.

And let Him complete the work– the story– that He began in us.

“Child,” said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers. I tell no one any story but his own.” — C.S. Lewis (The Horse and His Boy)

Because I have no words…..

I’ve lived on three different continents in the last ten years. And I’m learning that home is much more than four walls and a familiar neighborhood. Home is the God who understands each of the unique languages, thoughts, hopes and dreams of our individual hearts. Nothing can separate us from His love. Not time zones or cultures or the things we wish we could change about ourselves.

Christ is the bridge.

He brings us back into the deep heart of God. No matter where we’re coming from. Out of emptiness or loss or disaster, Christ brings us back to His Father. We all crave encouragement and understanding. We all need a safe place to decompress from our busyness, take a deep breath, and be heard by a community defined by its generous, welcoming love.

(In)Courage is that place and space and I am blessed out of my socks to be the Community Manager over there. Built by DaySpring to be an online home for the hearts of women, you might imagine it as a bit like a beach house. You can put your sandy, dirty feet on the coffee table, laugh late into the night with friends, and also hear God’s voice clearer than perhaps anywhere else. Life just feels more vibrant and real, as if you’ve stumbled upon a glimpse of heaven and it’s nothing like you ever imagined but everything you’d always hoped.

We’ve said from the start the beach house isn’t ours. It belongs to God and we’re its caretakers. With you at the heart of it all.

And today (in)courage turns one.

It’s our birthday and for the next 30 days we will be celebrating you and the God that brought us together with a giveaway every single day.

And we’d love if you’d come and join us. It’s your home after all.

To join the (in)courage celebration and 30 Days of Giveaways, click here.

My Grandma turns 98 today. Ninety-Eight! That’s just two years shy of a century, people! And she still turns up at all family events wearing a suit, pantyhose, meticulous makeup and accessories, and heels. She remembers all her grandkids and greatgrandkids by name. She attends most family functions – I mean, a mere decade ago she was a spry 88-year-old dancing up a storm at our wedding reception! Mind you, all the doctors in the room were praying that she didn’t slip on the parque and break a hip – but she sure showed them – and we have the pictures of Pete and her doing the twist to prove it.

Meeting Great Grandma Mimi is something special; as I have watched each of my boys during their first interactions with her I have gotten the chills.

Jackson makes a personal, up close and tender connection on his first trip Stateside:

Micah  relaxes in the arms of almost a century worth of experience wrangling kids, grandkids and greatgrandkids:

I tell you what, there’s nothing like the rich soil of family to give you the kind of strong roots it takes to make it when you live in the “inbetween.”

We live inbetween. And now our boys do too.

Inbetween countries. Inbetween cultures. Inbetween languages. Inbetween time zones.

Inbetween two families.

No matter where we are, we are always away from one of our families (except of course when we were living in Ukraine when we were away from both families – but let’s not complicate matters for now).

But living in the inbetween makes homecomings that much sweeter. Bringing Jackson from his South African motherland to his American fatherland to meet the US side of his family was an epic trip. Hours of travel, traipsing up and down aisles, spilling baby formula and changing diapers later we touched down in Chicago and while being processed through customs, the agent looked up from our new son’s passport photo and over at the baby sleeping in my arms. And in a deep voice he said simply, “Welcome home, son, welcome home.”

Inbetween. But always at home. No matter the country, culture or language.

My boys are growing up with a gift that will challenge and stretch them; that will reward and hurt them; that will teach and shape them. They stand with one foot in the rich “be all you can be” promises of American ground and the other in the dry African soil baked hard from years of struggle. And they will discover that promises can sometimes ring empty and a good rain will grow flowers even in the desert. And they will inherit a rich family legacy intertwined with these two continents and their respective stories.

Today they will hear Great Grandma Mimi’s story. And I hope they will be reminded that no matter where we may be located geographically, we are part of the same story. This particular one was started nearly a hundred years ago. And being part of it is what makes us know we are home, even when we may feel inbetween.

When he was a 3 months old and we were still living in South Africa Jackson received a care package from a gaggle of my best girl friends back in the States. A “Baby Shower in a Box.” And within that delectable stash of goodies there was something, nay, someONE who would become his closest companion and best bud for the rest of his little life to date – we just didn’t know it yet.

Texy, my good friend and introduction to all things South of the Mason-Dixon line had sent him a little blanky bear. And little did I know that the South African boy and his Deep South blankie would become utterly inseperable over the next few years.

Boy meets blanket for the first time:

See how white and pristine it is – fresh out of the box and not yet subjected to years of loving the fluff and stuffing out of it:

By the time we moved back to Michigan the blankie had been dubbed “baby” by Jackson and to this day, if I drop him off at a friends, his grandparents, or at preschool – I am inevitably asked with a tremble in the voice, “Did you pack his baby?”

Folks, I always, ALWAYS do!

As a 20-month-old, freshly-arrived Michigander, baby was still on board, despite being mauled by dogs (check out the raggedy ears) and sutured up by Aunt Kim our wonderful in-house pediatrician who can work miracles with needle and thread on a mangled blankie.

Here’s Jackson the day he turned two. And the love between him and his baby is still going strong!

Four months later, in the wake of Micah’s arrival into the world one wintry Michigan afternoon, Jackson got all tired out from the excitement, visitors, and trips to the hospital and Grandma Chatty snapped him and his baby taking some down time together.

When baby Micah was all of 2 months old we packed him and Jackson up and braved the 36 hours of travel home to South Africa for my little brother’s wedding. You can read about our “nagmerrie rit” or nightmare trip here. But it was totally worth it. There was dancing and celebrating galore. And yes, you guessed it, Jackson’’s baby came along for the ride. He was there to soothe the littlest groomsman to sleep when the day got too late even for the most enthusiastic partier. The music and dancing carried on all about him while he slept on in blissful oblivion.

Back, Stateside, evenings and afternoon catnaps are always accompanied by a baby. Sometimes, a baby brother. Always Texy’s original baby.

Here, take a closer look.

On all our many varied moves, baby has been the consistent companion. Only a few short weeks before Jackson turned 3 we relocated to the DC area. And, like his parents, Jackson thrives on change and embraced the new neighborhood with gusto, took long walks with his imaginary herd of cattle that had apparently also relocated from Michigan, and celebrated his 3rd birthday with a level of enthusiasm that wore even him out.

At 3 and a half, baby and Jackson have a bond practically on par with brotherhood. I mean, if baby is lying anywhere around the house, Micah will automatically pick him up and rush to find Jackson to restore baby to his rightful owner. If blood is thicker than water, where does that leave us when it comes to cotton and thread?

Tied to the hip, apparently. Because when I opened the yearbook that Jackson’’s school produces and flipped to the very last page where the preschoolers are featured, my mouth dropped open as I discovered this:

Yes, that’s right friends. While every other kid is posing with the grace and flair of a young child model, my boy has abandoned the customary pose in favor of clutching his baby and looking for all the world like a young renegade forced to smile for an unfriendly camera.

And when my main man and I saw this picture we laughed so hard we wanted to cry at how fast four years have flown by. This August I know Jackson’s baby will be on hand to celebrate his turning 4. And more importantly, he will be waiting to snuggle up and catch some zzzzz’s when Jackson crashes from the inevitable sugar high that such celebrations are destined to end in.

But tell you what – if we ever did lose Jackson’s baby, I don’t know who would be more upset – me or him. Because whatever else it is, it’s a remarkable mile marker. And for that, baby, I love you like crazy!

Do your kids, your cousins, your nieces or nephews, your grandkids or yourselves have a “baby” or two that you have loved on till it was worn ragged by affection? If so, I’d sure be curious to sneak a peek. Feel free to leave me a comment about it, linking to your blog with some pictures and a story or two and I promise to drop by and visit.

My boys love them some manly man time, for sure! They love to dig, plant, scrape, dump, tackle, wrestle, and manhandle everything. But, I tell you what, our Jackson also likes to get his gab on. That boy can taaaaallllkkkkkkk. And I have absolutely no idea where on earth he could have inherited that trait!

Exhibit A: Jackson getting all manly with the “digger” – note the profound concentration and the manly grunting expression on his little face:

Exhibit B: Right after these pictures were taken, Jackson joined the other boys in building a “volcano”, i.e. piles of stacked sand. Each boy was focused on the task at hand. Each boy was piling up mound after mound of sand. What was my boy doing? He was narrating.

“Look, mama, we’re building a volcano!”

“Hey guys, this is a great volcano we’re building!”

“Great everyone, let’s keep building. Let’s build MORE”

“Good job girl (said to the boy with long hair)”

“My name is Jackson – don’t you just love that name?” Smiles wistfully to himself, “I just LOVE that name.”

For once, mama is the one left speechless.

We took Jackson and Micah to their first major league baseball game on Tuesday night. It was 70 degree weather, a balmy sunset, a cool breeze, the wafting aroma of chili fries and nacho cheese, and fireworks. In short, it was a delicious slice of tasty Americana.

We dressed them in the XL free team T-shirts that were passed out. We pointed out the field. We showed them who the pitcher was and how the jumbo tron was a “movie” of what was going on in the game. We fed them chicken strips and fries. And then we spent the next hour answering the question, “is he out yet? Can we go home now?”

Apparently one bite of Americana was more than enough for my boys.

So we packed them up, we schlepped them over our shoulders and carried them back to the car, picking up “snack packs” and chocolate milk at Seven Eleven along the way. And I thought, “my babies are just too young for this kind of grown up moment, we’ll try again next season.”

And then, on the way home, we passed a gnarly car accident and Jackson proceeded to offer up a lyrical prayer that belied his age, his attention span, and his tiny frame. Floored, I whispered a silent, “Amen” and wondered briefly at his spiritual comfort level, but assumed he gets it from time spent with me and my main man (I know, I know, humility runs rampant in our household!)

Fast-forward one morning, one bad fall, and one gnarly head bump later. I am trying to comfort Jackson, pacify him with fruit roll ups, and get him out the door in time for preschool. We arrive late, take our place on the “sharing circle mat” and I raise my hand to share what happened so that Jackson’s teacher is prepared in case he starts running in circles, fainting or dropping his vowels.

Batter up.

I describe what happened; I show her the gnarly near head gash.

The pitch is good.

Jackson’s teacher takes one look at his head, places her hand next to the tender spot, and invites the entire class to surround my son, lay their precious 3 year old hands on him, and pray.

She swings.

Smotheringly swarmed by little bodies, hands press into us both, and they pray our socks off.

It’s a hit.

Jackson takes this all in stride. He is not threatened by the almost claustrophobic closeness of the comfort being offered. Instead, from the look on his face, it’s familiar. It’s what you do when you are hurt and in need of help. In his world, you pray.

Home run.

Those of you who have traveled even occasionally will appreciate the excruciating pain that is traveling with kids who have to “go” often and at inappropriate times while in transit.

See, I planned to begin peppering this blog with little tidbits of travel advice for those of you contemplating packing up young infants and flying home for a summer vacation or a mini-break over Memorial Day. I was going to be hearty and upbeat. I was going to tell you to pack lots of snacks and games. But instead, the more articles I read about how to plan for that “4 hour road trip” or that “3 hour time change” the more I feel the discomforting urge to blurt out, “just suck it up, man – that’s basically the amount of time it takes us just to get to the airport, clear customs and pre-board!”

So, basically, if your travel plans are under 8 hours, I got nothing for you. Because on a flight home to South Africa, at the 8 hour mark – if you or your kids have been lucky enough to actually sleep – you wake up after 8 hours and “hey, presto” just another 8 hours to go!

If your travel plans are under 10 hours, we have a minuscule amount more in common. But, bear in mind, I have on more than one occasion spent that amount of time in an airport with my main man and my kids BEFORE THE INTERNATIONAL FLYING TIME EVEN BEGAN! In the words of Jackson – “oh yea, baby! That’s right!”

If your travel time hits the 12 hour mark we now both know the fragile air ballet involved in trying to negotiate children to sleep in cramped quarters that will have you mastering the art of contortion by the end of the flight. About this time, when the in-flight kids entertainment has been used up, the snacks eaten, and the benadryl offered a miracle might occur – one and sometimes even two of your children will – against all odds – fall asleep. And right then, when bliss is within reach, your flight will pitstop. At 2am. On an island in the middle of nowhere. To refuel. Because apparently South Africa is more than a hop, skip and a jump away. And while no one will be allowed to disembark, ALL THE OVERHEAD LIGHTS WILL BE TURNED ON. All bags will be searched. All seat cushions will be pulled up, examined and replaced. All bathrooms will be cleaned. All passengers will be identified. And ALL SLEEPING CHILDREN WILL WAKE UP!

If your travel time inches up to the 18 hour margin, we begin to have quite a bit in common. Because then you too know what it’s like to fake sleep so that your husband will be forced to change yet another poopy diaper in the confines of the bulkhead toilet, beg the flight attendant for yet MORE apple juice, or apologize once again to the business traveler in front of you who continues to stare pointed daggers at your toddler who has to have SOMETHING to bang his head against. I mean, at this point in the flight, who doesn’t??

If your travel time gets close to the 36 hour mark, we may become bosom buddies! Because then you too will know what it’s like to have lost track of terminals, time zones, and your mind. You will know how it feels to have your contact lenses suction-cupped to your eyeballs and how quickly you lose any sense of dignity and are no longer embarrassed by those T-Shirt stains you got during the previous 4 meals eaten on cramped knees between crazed kids. You will understand the sweet torture of being within site of your gate only to get pulled aside for a spot security check, which includes waking the infant finally slumbering on your chest after crossing multiple time zones so that you can both be subjected to what, I can only imagine, must look to him like some insane form of laser tag.

And you will know the sweet revenge wreaked upon the foolish security folks when said infant goes ballistic and into full throttle Masai warrior mode – directing his red, enraged, frothing, sleep-deprived, saliva-flecked face in the direction of the world at large. And as he screams the fury you can’t express, you will smile sickly at the security guard, clutch your babe to your chest, abandon whatever dignity you may have had left, and sprint for the gate because there is NO WAY you are spending another night away from your own bed!

Ok, where was I going with this. Travel tidbits – scratched, travel encouragement – nada, travel humor – oh yea – when your little guy’s gotta go while you are on the go…..

So consider this your travel tidbit, encouragement, and laugh of the day all rolled into one: it’s hour 36 of our nightmare trip home from South Africa via Isle De Sol. It’s 7am New York time; it’s dinner time in South Africa, and we’re still one more flight away from our final destination. Jackson is ravenous. But breakfast fare won’t do. All he wants is “chicken nuggets and chocolate milk.” Ugh, just typing it makes me nauseous. Anyway, believe me, when you are approaching two full days of travel you give your kids whatever it is they want, and you give it STAT!

One order of Mcknuggets and chocolate milk later I am facing the gate agent and requesting our seat assignments. Jackson is perched on the counter top between me and the attendant. When – how does the old rhyme go again – if you see a brown stream, and you know you want to scream: Di-ahrrea, Di-ahrrea!

That brown trickle running down the check-in desk and gaining speed as it poured toward the floor was not the stuff of great seat assignments. It was not the kind of sugar and spice I had envisioned my little one working for the nice check-in lady. It was not the brand of toddler magic I was hoping he would wield. It was the cherry on top of the nightmare trip. And it was gaining momentum!

I raised my eyebrows at my beloved. I smiled. I beckoned him over. And I thrust our child at him with one whispered, desperate phrase “You will need the wipes!” Then I swept up the rest of the evidence in his once light blue sweater and asked, “could you be sure one of those is an aisle seat?”

She did. It was. We made it. Most of Jackson’s clothes did not. Here’s the travel tidbit – always bring an extra set of clothes for every 8 hours of your trip.

Down to his last set Jackson was also down to his last shred of endurance and during take-off he insisted that his clothes were, “too hot”, that he was “too tired” and that the only thing he wanted was to “be nakey.” And nothing I could do was gonna stop him. My main man stared out the window with a vacant look on his face that said, “Don’t ask me, I don’t know them.” And the only redeeming factor was that we were in the very last row with no one else beside us. That and the fact that after Jackson passed out I was able to sneak his clothes back on him. He wasn’t naked for the whole flight. Just a large, awkward portion.

Ok, time to laugh. And be encouraged – next time you get hives at the thought of flying home all the way from DC to Chicago for Christmas – truth is you’ll probably do it in under 2 days. Heck, you’ll probably do it in under 2 hours. Then again, flying into Chicago. In the winter. It might take you a week.

Yes, it’s that cathartic time of the week again where we admit that our laundry’s never done, our dishwasher’s gone into permanent depression at the miracles we expect from it, and there’s a sock behind the dryer that will never, ever see the light of day again.

Oh yes, folks, it’s that magical, confession-is-good-for-the-soul time of week – it is NOT ME MONDAY – where the unimaginable becomes laughable and you realize you are not alone on this mad treadmill we call motherhood.

So pull up a stool, reheat your cuppa tea, and let’s enjoy a chuckle or two that we might have in common.

I will start by confessing it can’t possibly have been a full week since our fateful excursion with 40 preschoolers to the local farm, can it? Surely I wouldn’t have blocked that pleasant memory from my mind? Can one suffer from post-traumatic stress related to the madness that ensues when you mix together boys, cows, chickens, boys, tractors, mud, and have I mentioned Boys??

Let’s, see. You take 40 giddy preschoolers and place them on 1 first-time bus ride:

You introduce a whiff of country, a dirt track, and some cows, and you get jumps of joy that actually catch some air (check out those sneakers hovering above the ground)

Throw in some chickens, a whiny toddler and a winsome turkey, and you’ve got a day that is one part fun and two parts constant, exhausting, unrelenting zone defense. And, no, we absolutely, positively did not pounce on the chance to leave early that a broken nail provided (and in case you’re wondering, NO, the nail was not mine!)

And no, I did not top it all off by purchasing Jackson his very own “milking gloves” to commemorate his first official foray into the ancient art of hand milking.

Some might think these are kids gardening gloves, others might suggest that they are my attempt to reclaim my own gardening gloves, but just ask Jackson and he will set you straight – these are his very own, personal sized milking gloves – and hey, who are we to argue? Unless he starts trying to milk his family members again!