In a Disconnected World

These days I'm having a love/hate relationship with the internet. Maybe I always have but lately it seems that the "hate" side it gaining ground.

Who knew twenty years ago how much this form of communication would connect and divide us? With the continual onslaught of information we have some to care so much that we run out of energy to care enough. 

I'll admit it, I don't know where to draw the line.

I've tried cutting out certain social media (yes Facebook, I'm talking about you) but I have some great connections there. Amidst the clutter and the noise and the fighting and the photos I have found old friends who encourage me, challenge my thinking and help to feed my soul and spirit. 

At one time I was linked to six groups related to having a child with special needs, a Trisomy or the exact condition The Princess was born with. Four groups for buying/selling locally. One to keep up with our friend's ministries.

Then there are those who want to be "friends" because of interactions in these groups.

Then there are the pages I have "liked" so they fill my feed with photos and announcements.

Then there are the family members who have adorable children doing adorable things in adorable photos.

There are things I don't want to miss and things I can't unsee.

In my list there are ongoing theological arguments, conversations and truly inspirational moments of sharing.

There are people to pray for, boycotts to join, illnesses, trials, triumphs and endless causes.

Things that galvanize us and things that just cause outrage.

There are photos of projects I want to do, food I need to make and clothing I want to wear.

Is it possible to know too much?

How do we separate opinions from facts?

When do these online connections aid us in living in the reality outside of the internet?

When is too much not enough?

Those of you reading this probably wouldn't have found me without some form of social media. I dare say the majority has showed up through Facebook.

So, what do I do?

I'm going to connect outside of here and see what happens.
I'm purposing to meet up with more people in real life.
I'm going to take more naps. (That has nothing to do with the internet but I like naps.)
I'm going to encourage you, my readers, to find a human, face to face, voice to voice to connect with today.

How do you survive the clutter of social media? What do you do to keep what is good and ignore the rest? How do you make the internet work for you instead of against you? How do we make sure that those things that connect us in one way don't separate us in others?

Always,


Hope

Something to Smile About

Sweet Feet

Before we met our The Princess, one of the things we had been told besides having a cleft palate, heart murmur and possible deafness was that she had club feet. As it turns out, she didn't. She has a "rocker bottom foot" which just means she doesn't have an arch. From day one we have called her "Sweet Feet" among other nicknames (we are a nickname kind of family).

Ray took this before sending her off to school one day last week. She was having fun with the new socks. Ray is one of our "in-home support" workers. What a deal to be able to hire her to come in daily to get her little sister ready for school. It has helped to cut down on fatigue and avoid burnout. It gives them time together. They adore each other.

Leonidas

This is Mr. and Mrs. Ray's youngest cat. This is the view when Ray woke up one morning. A couple of weeks ago he went missing for two days. You can see why we all panicked.

Saturday Brunch

 Twice last month we were able to have the Mr. and Mrs. Ray over for Saturday brunch. I would do it every week if I could. Finally we decided that we would do it every chance we got rather than an all or nothing kind of deal. Both times it was bliss.

Leonidas and The Cheat

Just threw that in to make you say awwwww.

7th Grader Extraordinaire 

We will end with The Princess on her way to school. I'm pretty sure her sister was missing Disneyland that day. (Yeah, alright, we all were...)

Thought it was time to lighten the mood.

Always,

Hope

A Time to Be Born

It was in a cold hospital room that I found my voice for a couple who desperately needed to be heard. Their infant son was born that morning. No one knew exactly why but he wasn't breathing. The call had come in right after church. Our pastor wanted to know if my husband could stop by and pray with them. As I relayed the message to him it was clear, this was my visit to make. This one fit me. Shortly after I arrived it was clear, I couldn't just pray and leave. They needed someone to advocate, minister and cry with.

It was only a few years before that I worked upstairs in the emergency room. Working with the patient advocate office gave me experience with families facing trauma and death. Parenting a child with medical anomalies helped me see the other side as well. My position was phased out the year after we left the church that had been our home for so many years. It felt as if everything I did was a copy of someone else or a feeble attempt to create a place to serve. On that day though there was no trying, it was a matter of surrendering to the calling. It was being willing to to be drained in order for another soul to find strength.

The mother has some developmental disabilities and the father would probably best be described as delayed. The father understood more of the situation but still couldn't grasp enough to even help with the most minor decisions. The nurse assigned was his Special Olympics coach and a few months pregnant herself. The doctors and nurses were fighting valiantly to save the life of this precious child in the other room but nothing they did could keep him with us.

After the decision was made to cease all heroic efforts, we readied the mom as best we could to say goodbye to her newborn boy. The father sat nearby proclaiming that he couldn't "go through this again" and he wasn't going to hold him. The pediatrician carried him in, the only sound was the rhythm of the bag on the mask pressed into his perfect face as she kept the oxygen flowing through his little body. He was placed in his mom's arms. The breathing tube was removed.

As mother cradled son, the irrepressible sobs behind me broke through the stillness. She kissed his soft head and we prayed. In her innocence she looked up at me, asking more than once "I don't get to take him home?"  I could only shake my head subtly as a whispered "no" forced past my throat. Not completely understanding the gravity of her situation, she picked up his hand and let it drop a few times against the swaddled blanket.

In a prayer that fell awkwardly out of my lips, he was dedicated to Jesus. There were no words to fit this moment. Nothing made sense so we thanked God for the strength He would grant a grieving family. We offered gratitude for the presence of an almighty Creator who knew the pain of losing His only Son in a cruel, fallen world. This was no longer just a hospital room, we were standing on sacred ground. The Holy Spirit brought comfort and undeniable peace we would treasure as strength.

Soon she placed him in my arms, physically light but the weight of the privilege pressed into my arms. Drawing him to my chest I whispered over his body, "You are safe now and so very loved." I brushed his face against my cheek allowing a tear to fall across his face. When I had my fill, I handed him to another waiting comforter in the room. More than once a prayer was prayed in the muffled sobs. Bit by bit, we cleared the room leaving a couple of friends to help prepared for the photographer.

Five days later I presided over my first infant service. Speaking of pain, comfort and destiny my words echoed through the small chapel. Light blue balloons disappeared against the cloudless sky that afternoon as we sought to release our sorrow. We hugged doctors, nurses, family and friends. 

Every life, every soul, every breath we take is more precious than we know. The shortest lives still hold deep significance to the story of this world. They connect us in ways so unexpected yet no surprise to our Creator who says we are "fearfully and wonderfully made." They move us to pray, seek and hopefully love.

May we never allow the sacred moments in life cease to change us. Even the saddest ones.

Always,


 Hope

This story was shared with permission, please do not copy or use it without contacting the author first.

Flawless Beauty

Photography has been one of my passions since I was young. My love of that art increased over the years and some of my favorite college moments were spent in the darkroom bringing images to life.

The most beautiful photographs have texture. They are rich with contrast, shadows and interesting themes.

That is the beauty of life. A flawless life is not beautiful. Perfection has no texture. It has no lights or shadows or interesting themes. It isn't real.

It is our stories that bring us our texture. The paths we have taken to the places we find ourselves give us perspective. Our journey brings us strength.

Don't be disappointed by lack of perfection...

Be energized by the shadows

Find peace in the theme of your life

See the beauty in the texture

Always,

Hope

Hurt People, Hurt People

Photo Courtesy: A Shared Lens

Being back in the ministry has brought so many lessons to learn on this journey. One of the most basic is Christ's ministry to reconcile us to Him and then to each other. There is beauty in reconciliation. Graciousness gives us freedom to move beyond emotional pain not only when we receive grace but when we extend it as well.

I've always wondered, why are some people so hurtful?
Why do they lash out with ease?
Where does the judgement come from?

They are broken

They are hurt

Hurt people hurt people

If we all could just grasp this idea, then maybe we can begin to help heal broken people instead of judge them. We can lead people out of their despair and into the loving arms of the One who was broken to heal our pain.

It is no question that the people we feel hurt by the deepest are the ones we love the most. So this thought came to mind this evening, what if, when we encounter someone who has hurt us, we reach for the love instead of the hurt?

We have a choice to reach into the place in us that will move growth forward or we can just stay in the pain to slide backwards into a pool of bitterness. It is our choice. To choose growth is to choose grace. It is to choose love.

Grace, unmerited favor doesn't wait for the pain to completely go away. It is the conduit of healing for that pain. When you extend love by offering grace, you invite wholeness into relationships and hearts.

Look into the face of a Savior who was beaten, spit on and crucified. He looked into the crowd as He asked for the forgiveness from a holy and righteous God. He showed love long before we repented and offered forgiveness before we asked. He came to save us from judgement, not bring judgement. We don't get to withhold grace because we don't think someone deserves it. We get to be gracious because someone doesn't deserve it.

Grace is part of love and healing and forgiveness and speaking life. Grace brings life.

Always,

Hope

What Rest Looked Like

Last week I posted my "before" of what I looked like heading into a time of rest by taking a short sabbatical from blogs, social media and the internet in general. It was a suggestion from SheLoves Magazine along with a gorgeous writing on grace. This was something I had been craving for some time without impetus to pursue it.

My initial temptation was to begin that day, jump in and just do it. I chose the better path. To actually plan ahead, making sure I didn't have any communication needs that might arise. I could truly cut myself off from all electronics in order to settle in to let my mind and spirit rest.

The morning started with my usual cup of coffee, The Princess was put on the bus for her last day of Summer School and I nestled into the quiet.

As steam swirled upward from my giant mug, I sunk back in to the pillows stacked on my headboard. Pretzel crossing my legs, I picked up my 27 year old bible, the one my Mom gave me when I was in the darkest days of my prodigal years. The binding is cracked halfway up from the bottom. I gingerly opened it to that day's reading and marveled at the peaceful simplicity of actually holding this treasure in my hands. This sacred book of hope and promise had been set aside in favor of the ease of picking up my iPod. Sometimes I would scroll through my daily readings, honestly many times I was checking Facebook. Even on the days I used it to read the bible, I was missing something.

Crinkling pages

Notes handwritten in the margins

Rainbow underlines

The feel of leather in my hands

Multiple senses engaging in a pursuit of intimacy with my God

As I slowly shifted into the sheets, I became reverent, peaceful and satisfied. This was a holy moment. Not my holiness but His filled the room. Sensing His presence all over again. Hearing the love He was speaking to me. Those things He is always saying but I am too busy to hear. Too often seeking the affirming words of others who are also hoping for the same thing. It was a priceless moment of feeling His touch. It fed me. It healed me. It moved me.

The entire time of rest that I had intentionally chosen, the separation from spiritual and emotional noise, lit a spark in my soul. Returned a hunger that I had forsaken. Without the one dimension of online interaction I was free to look into the face of a friend. We enjoyed a meal, laughter and an entire conversation with no breaks until it was time to go back home. But I didn't go straight home. I drove to the church office, just to get a glimpse of The Coffee Guy on the way home. To hold his hands, look into his eyes and bypass the usual text message, declaring my love in person. It blessed him, I could tell.

My time of abiding bore fruit. Sweetness I could share embodied in peace. In being settled with who I am and even better, whose I am.

This past weekend I returned from vacation. As I visited with friends and family, I did so with passion, with freedom. The best part was being able to value the moment. The gift of the present. The multidimensional world in front of me where emotions are not read into but felt together. The moments of missteps and miscues could be followed by real life grace and forgiveness. Living life in real time with a fresh perspective, that was true rest.

Always,

Hope

PS You should check out SheLoves Mag! There are so many lovely women who have something deep and meaningful to say and this month they are encouraging rest.

What Is Saving ME Right Now?

A week ago I shared that joy and grace is saving my life. Reading many of the posts in the synchroblog was refreshing, life affirming, peaceful. It was worth writing and worth reading.


As I was rereading through it hit me, it isn't just my life that is being saved.


I am being saved
I am being set free
I am living abundantly


That's what Jesus came for right? He said "I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly." (John 10:10b) So the gift of live he gives is not just for eternity but for the here and now!


I am made for joy
I am made for grace
I am made to love


My life, although it is woven with dark colors and sometimes painful patterns, is full of vibrant hues. 


My life is full of color
My soul is full of song
My heart is full of praise


Jesus is saving me right now. He is saving who I am while here on this earth. The purifying of difficult days is giving me intimacy with a loving Creator. He knows more about me than any of you yet he adores me. He knows my flaws and loves me completely.


As The Coffee Guy tells me, I am "His favorite". 


Oh, just so you know, you are His favorite too.


Always,


Hope

Memories Worth Keeping

It amazes how sights and smells can bring you back to places in your life as if you are still there. Its as if you are able to relive a time that slipped through your fingers all too quickly. The delights of summer with the feeling of warmth on my skin to the changing of schedules and pulling out shortened pants with sleeveless tops cause me to reminisce. 
When I was just a child, vacations meant new short outfits with sandals. Visiting relatives where the uncles were always funny, the aunts loved us completely and the cousins took us on adventures to a land so different from our Southern California roots.

My Mom and Myself in Arizona
at my Uncle Ivan's house

As a teen, we traveled less as my older brothers had jobs. Summer began to mean trips to the beach with friends. A mix of cocoa butter, salty air and leftover fires from the night before hung in the air. The sounds of the ocean mixed with our favorite music while laying on bright towels in the warm sand.
A couple of weeks ago, I was subbing in the preschool class at our high school early childhood center. As I looked out the gate from the playground to the quad area, I flashed to a moment just two years ago that triggered a thousand memories packed into my heart. This was the place where hundreds of parents were sorting through the sea of black caps and gown, searching for their child who had just crossed a threshold in life. My Ray had just graduated. We hadn't set up an exact meeting location, I had her lei (they aren't allowed to wear them during the ceremony) and more then anything I knew I was about to burst. It still gets me giddy to see this.

Right after I found her!

As I stood there, peering through the gates, I could almost hear the excited crowd again. The laughs, the cameras and the squeals as graduates were located. It was as if I was having a dream within a dream. Along with those memories came the ones that have made up her life so far. Those moments that have formed her, grown her up. They have become her just like my experiences have shaped me.

This year I will turn 50 years old. It is nothing like I imagined 20 or even 10 years ago. I don't feel old. I feel blessed. I am rich in the grace of God's love. I will have a half century of experiences that include 50 summers, 20 as a mom, a few more than that as a wife. I plan to recall many warm memories as well a create many more. I am thankful. I am at peace. I am ready to celebrate.

Always,




Hope

Doing a "New Thing"

My mind is bursting with things to say. My life is so full of stories. My God has filled me full of experiences, blessings, grace and love. Sometimes I struggle with how to say them but finally I feel settled.
This blog will truly become a place of stories. Stories from childhood, motherhood and sisterhood. Pages of my life filled with grace and as always, hope.
I  hope you'll join me.


HOPE

A Reminder About Motherhood

Twenty-one years ago I received my first Mother's Day gift. A small carousel horse statue from The Coffee Guy. Less than two weeks before, we found out that finally and truly I was pregnant. We took a trip north to the big mall where they had a maternity shop and bought a beautiful pink and white dress trimmed in eyelet. I remember using a provided pillow to mimic what I would look like in a few months. It was surreal and breathtaking. It was also a once in a lifetime experience. This was the only time I would experience a pregnancy. I know how incredibly blessed I am, I really do but that doesn't keep me from the mixed emotions I experience this time every year.

My friends, today we honored our mothers and some of us received honor as well. For others, it was a day of sadness as well and to my sisters, I want you to know that you are loved, prayed for and not at all far from my heart.

You are...

The woman who knew that placing your child to be raised in another family would bring you untold grief but hope for a better future for your child.

A mother whose pregnancy ended too early or in tragedy.

The mother who through unimaginable sorrow had to pick out a casket far too soon.

The family who still aches over failed adoptions.

The person whose mother lacked the ability to parent.

The sister who is trying another round of IVF after the last IVF pregnancy ended in a miscarriage.

The young newlywed whose family has a history of infertility who had to sit as two friends whose children were unplanned, stand with the other mothers at church to be honored on Mother's Day.

The list is endless.

While I was pondering this post, my cousin posted a blog that was written last Thursday. She says more clearly and concisely what my heart has been trying to say. An Open Letter To Pastors: (A Non Mom Speaks About Mother's Day)

It resonated with me and I am happy to say, it was an incredibly popular post for this young writer. I hope that the message reaches churches loud and clear!

(I Can) Always,

Hope