A Word on How This All Began.

It's inevitable. For as long I live, the name Evelyn will remind me of being knocked on my butt in the middle of church.

On a day in the middle of 2013, approximately two and a half years after my second son was born, I was finally ready to make peace with our little family. Before our first son joined us, even before we lost the one before him, I was mom to a little girl named Evelyn Reese. I was completely convinced, from the moment we decided to "start trying" to have kids, that our firstborn would be a girl. God, in all his infinite wisdom, certainly knew it would be a bad idea to send an unsuspecting little male child into this family. Aside from my ineptitude when it comes to sports and the fact that my mom's handmade smocked outfits would look ludicrous on a boy, I simply WANTED a girl. Oh, how I wanted to cradle little Evelyn Reese in all her smocked-frock glory and buy her lacy aprons for Saturday morning baking and read her fairy tales (Grimm's, not Disney, for those of you keeping score).

We would call her Evie. 

And then the baby came. And of course, we named him Liam. 

And two years later when the second boy arrived, we went ahead and gave him Evie's middle name. I wasn't even that hung up on the girl thing anymore. I had discovered that my husband could throw a ball and that some little boys actually like to bake and they even enjoy fairy tales if there's a dragon involved and you occasionally make a monster show up to eat the clueless princess. I relish in being a mom to boys. It's sacred and precious and a different blog all in itself. So when Simon was in his second year, it was with zero regret that I kissed Evelyn good-bye. 

I remember the day. I was driving home after running a few errands. The boys were with my mom.  I was thinking about how fantastic they are, probably because they were absent and the memory of a mother is favorably selective when it comes to her babies. It sounds trite, but my heart settled into a place of contentment. I thought about how I knew my husband didn't want more kids, and how Si was coming out of his baby phase and this opened up a whole new world of things we could enjoy as a family--including service. I was convinced there was more to my life than just motherhood, and I was eager to "do some volunteer work," that golden star of stay-at-home-mom achievement.  I was aware of a growing tension between the gospel and the way we were doing life--and with Simon nearly old enough to grab a seat, I was ready to board this train and move on down the tracks to.....where? Anywhere. Anywhere but more babies.

And with that image, I turned my thoughts to our Evie.  I had felt so sure of her five long years ago, and God had brought me so far from that point. I trusted his judgement, finally, and I was in a good place. I congratulated myself on my stunning ability to adapt. (I have so much to learn.)  And then I acknowledged that we wouldn't be having that girl. And that I was okay with that. And then, as I drove along musing on how in-tune I was with God's vision, heaven ripped through to my reality, and the Holy Spirit did that thing where it dumps a torrent of knowledge upon my heart, and I thought my chest would burst, and within a few seconds that knowledge had seeped warmly into my bones, and in that moment I knew that another child was waiting for me. Oh, and also? That I needed to go find her. 

What I did NOT do was stop to consider if what I had just experienced was actually an act of God. No no, we had been this route before, the Big Guy and myself. God has a habit of skipping the whole gentle "Good Shepherd" thing with me. For some reason he has determined that it is ineffective (possibly because I largely ignored him for the first twenty-four years of my life. Whatever.), and he goes straight for the lightning-bolt approach. My Holy Spirit moments could be compared to the time I slammed my pinkie toe into a door hard enough to separate most of the nail from my foot. I experienced about thirty seconds of intense, unmistakable agony. But then my body's natural defenses kicked in and the sharp pain sank into a flood of warm endorphins, and I actually felt kind of comforted and good even though I knew in my head that at some point in the near future my toenail was probably going to pop off.

God works like a crushed pinkie toe. Just go with it.

Anyway, like I said, we had been here before. The first time was not long after the first miscarriage and also not long before I became pregnant with Liam. I was standing in church, broken and unsure, and I remember thinking, "Okay, God. Just do what you're going to do. Just let me learn whatever it is you want me to learn so I can get on with my life. I'm giving it up. Just do your thing, but please, for the love, do it quickly." And then I felt a promise from God, so suddenly and assuredly that I had to sit down with the force of it, that we would have babies, and that they would be okay, and that God would bless our family through them. I knew then and there that 1. God was real, and he was ready to leap in with his presence and fill any space I was willing to make for him, and 2. I never wanted to be far from that presence again.

And if I have bungled this retelling and caused that moment to sound hokey and cliched, let me just assure you: He has kept his word. 

Not only that, but all subsequent moments of revelation (Holy Spirit smack-downs, if you will) have centered around our kids. I knew, in the same way, that I was pregnant with Simon and that his pregnancy would be a healthy one. (Please bear in mind that we had just lost a second baby in utero.)  There was a moment of crisis when I was in labor with Simon that I lost sight of this. The Pitosin from my induced labor was too much for him, and his heart rate was dropping, and then drugs were stopped and labor stalled and there were talks of a c-section and questions about his well-being and I was lying in bed wrapped up in despair and panic and then there came God, thundering, "Don't you trust me?" It was a kind of ultimatum. He expected an answer. I gave it, and about thirty minutes later my body pulled itself together and labor resumed and Si was, of course, fine. And just for the sake of full disclosure, let me include the time that I knew (in the same way) that music would be important to Simon's life. (What the WHAT? I'm interested to see how that plays out and why I needed to know that. Dear God, let him become a famous classical pianist so I can live vicariously.) 

These moments have been crucial to my relationship with God--each one of them leaves me hungry to draw nearer to him, and each one reassures me that he is, in turn, drawing us nearer. And by the time I had the Evie Moment (email me with better titles for that, please and thank you), I knew what I was dealing with and didn't need to question the source. So I would really love to tell you that, upon realizing God had spoken yet another promise into my family by informing me that he intends for us to have more kids, what I did was pull over, hop out of the car, remove my shoes, and dance around like David in a holy moment--but alas, I hadn't yet considered having to record this for posterity. So what actually happened was rather uninspiring: I drove the last two minutes to my house, parked the car, turned my head toward God (that's upward, in case you didn't attend Sunday School as a child), and said kind of pissily through clenched teeth, "What in the CRAP?" This was followed by a moment of self-collection, after which I calmly inquired: "Okey doke, then. Where is she?" 

Crickets. And then a tiny, still voice from the flood of knowledge in my veins: "Just go."

It took awhile, but we're going, though God knows where. I was petrified to tell my husband about all this, and mercifully God brought his heart around to adoption sooner rather than later, and he approached me a few months after, right around Christmas, with his dreams about adding kids to our family. And from there the tension I mentioned earlier grew and grew until I became this crazy person praying crazy person prayers into a blog and giving up social media and clearing out my house to make room for whatever God wants to put there, and then the tension burst like a grenade and now here we are, letting God pull together the pieces one at a time as he reveals his plan for our family. And he is GOOD, and faithful. He is so very, very faithful. He keeps his promises. They are new every morning. Therefore, I will hope, and follow. And keep on with the going.

What Happened After the Prayer

One week into taking this thing seriously: I'm purging the house. Before you think I'm getting bogged down in minutia: I assure you, this is just a logical Step One. A physical cleaning out that mirrors what's happening in my heart, if you'll humor me. Mostly, this home's gotta lose some junk before it finds another kid. So after dropping the boys at school a few days ago, I burst in through the front door, slamming it into the door of our coat closet, which was open. Because this is where we keep our dvds, several popped out and clattered to the floor. My husband was innocently standing there, pulling on his coat (One of SIXTEEN coats! I counted.), about to head to work. I noted the wayward movies.

"Those are dead to me!!" I told Willie with crazy eyes.

"Okey doke." He slipped out the front door, making a mental note to have me committed before grabbing some take-out for dinner.

 I discovered that I own enough scarves to fill a 12-gallon plastic tub.

Nothing goes to Goodwill (not that there's anything wrong with that). Everything goes to a person with a face.

Passages that have stuck with me this week:

Saying "I meant well" is not going to cut it. Not with God screaming, begging, pleading, urging us to love mercy and justice, to feed the poor and the orphaned, to care for the last and least in nearly every book of the Bible. It will not be enough one day to stand before Jesus and say, "Oh? Were you serious about all that?" --Jen Hatmaker

We cannot think our way into a new kind of living. We must live our way into a new kind of thinking. --Richard Rohr

It's easy to visit the bottom with works while our hearts remain higher up. That's just charity. It's a moment, not a permanent relocation. It is something entirely different to adopt the mind of Christ. --Jen Hatmaker (I hate you, Jen Hatmaker.)

If anyone serves Me, he must follow Me. Where I am, there My servant also will be. --Jesus

Today I tried to explain my changing state of mind to an old friend. I didn't do a very good job.

Her first question: Are your hormones maybe out of whack?

Yeah, I know right? I sound crazy to me, too. News flash, guys: this is why I've always struggled to share my faith. The moment I open my mouth, I sound tragically inauthentic. I have a youth's worth of ammunition to regurgitate from sermons, devos, and weekend retreats, and not once in my life have I actually, literally stepped out in faith. I would shame Abraham, shame Moses, shame those first precious and curious disciples, as I have never once found the courage to just GO. This is not just my story. It's the story of everyone, everywhere, for as long as God has been beating his head against the wall attempting to communicate with humans beings. People: screwing up the world since Forever, B.C. Here's a summation of the last five or so years of my life, since I started really talking to God:

Me: God, I know now beyond all doubt that you are real. I know that I never want to be far from you again. So, what's next?
God: Go into the world. Make disciples. Feed my sheep.
Me: Okay, so I'm reading the Bible here, and I'm trying to figure out what this means for my life. I'm noticing a lot of confusing talk about sheep and goats and cutting off offensive hands and bridegrooms and light. What the crap, God. How is this relevant today? Maybe if you dropped a homeless person or orphaned child on my doorstep, I would feel a little more comfortable with your directives. Possibly a sign through The Husband? Maybe you could direct him to take a new job across the country. Whatever you think is best.
God: Go into the world. Make disciples. Feed my sheep.
Me: Still waiting for a sign over here, God. Whatevs. No rush. Your timing is perfect......by the way, what should I think about this Phil Roberston thing? And about hell--is that still a real thing? Cause I've been spending a lot of time reading Rob Bell....
God: You're really killing me.

The thing is, I love Andrew Peterson. (Yes, that's right, Andrew Peterson. You are to blame for all of this.) I love his music, his stories. They conjure images of peace and serenity and communion with God and all things pastoral. They make me want to move to the end of a lane and name my house something cute like Little Fergus and string a clothesline between the two maple trees my kids will spend their days climbing. There I will spend my days basking in the breeze and listening to Andrew Peterson (duh) while I make bread and find perfect harmony with God through the work of my hands. It's a vision I can grasp. If I opened my Bible and felt this directive or saw a door open in that direction, I would SOBETHERE in heartbeat. I can see myself there now, swinging in my hammock.

And these days, I can see me being restless there in the shade of the maples at ye olde Little Fergus.

It's in my bones, at this very moment, to humble myself, become uncomfortable, dirty, low. To maybe see the face of Jesus clearly for the first time in recent memory.

My answer to my friend was this: I have different levels of emotional response to what's happening to me, it's true. And that may be a result of my hormones. But what's happening in my core isn't changing.

As soon as she walked out the door, I rushed to the computer to change my blog tagline from: Irrational. Reckless. Deranged. Faith. (Heroic!) to: Painful. Stumbling. Awkward. Obedience. (Lame. And accurate.) If one thing is certain, it's that my life is just drab and inconsistent enough for God to be thoroughly glorified through it.

Hello, my name is Crystal, and I am a mess.

The Prayer

God, you are really wrecking my life. I used to be comfortable and content. I felt like my days were full of joy and meaning and......well, fullness. I had finally gotten my life together after some really stupid years. I have heard your promises murmured in my darkest moments, felt the jolt and resounding stillness of their power, and I have believed in them. I still do. You have pulled me from my bed when I couldn't move my feet and you have gently unfolded your plan for this family. You have let me be in the depths, and you have pulled me from them so I would have no doubt that you are what sustains me. You have followed through. Always. I see in this family your ancient promises manifesting themselves in real and present ways. In the story of my children, I can see you woven in the tapestry like a glittering cord, can feel you as Aslan moving in and through the details. I have found contentment in what you have provided us, and I have shared it.  I have fled from your presence and then collapsed in the knowledge of your absence and you have found me there and whispered my name and heard me say in exhaustion, "Here I am."

But we've come so far from the depths. Today we walk hand-in-hand in the light. I fall in love with you when I read the scriptures because it tells the story of how you've always met your people where they are and guided them safely home. It's my story. I seek your face; I see you everywhere I turn. I am free. We're GOOD here, God. Why are you wrecking me again? Why, when I am finally secure, are you sending me reeling?

I was under the impression that once my faith became my own, I could revel in contentment until a Major Sign came along and everything lined up just right to show me my Big Calling for your kingdom, which I would complete with ease and certainty like my friends who say that God always wanted them to be a doctor or a teacher or a park ranger (I don't know). I knew I was a little behind these friends, but I thought at last my time had come. I thought being a follower of Christ meant that for the most part I could do life like everyone else around me and because I love Jesus and choose joy, I would feel full and complete and good Christian-y. I did feel that way, for a time. And now, here we are.

I weep at unspecific thoughts of the insurmountable injustice of the world. My voice shakes when my family gathers to pray for a specific country at the end of the day; I can't even say "And please bless Bangladesh" without ruining my eyeliner and scaring my children. I read about poverty and the orphan crisis and look at pictures on Reece's Rainbow and I am reduced to blubbering rubble. I come to my husband in tears with talk about canceling cable and selling mass quantities of possessions and moving to either the projects or an empty farmhouse with a pond and I scare the crap out of him. I read books about people who leave what they know and just start walking, and their stories speak to the depths of my soul. I share their desperate urgency to leave the noise behind, to get to the stillness. I love our village and community and church and family and friends, and yet lately my heart breaks for the ways those things are incomplete. I send random, nonsensical texts and alarm my friends. Christina sits me down in front of coffee and asks all the right questions--"Are you worried about something?" "Stressed?" "Burned out?" "Are you depressed?" I bawl and rant about the fragmentation of life and cling to my white mocha like it's a headboard in the North Atlantic. I choke out over and over, "Something is just WRONG!" because I am, at this point, inconsolably devastated over a thing I can't even name. I am ugly crying in the middle of Starbucks like a deranged person and it's getting me nowhere.

And you know the moment it started. You started it, months ago, with a breath. You heard me whisper, "Goodbye, Evie" and saw me basking in the glory of your riches, where I had finally found solace and contentment, and it was in this perfect moment that I heard your voice whisper back, "She exists." You interrupted my reverie and dumped ice water into my veins, and the ice turned to that warm permeating knowledge that settled into my bones and I knew then it was you.

"What do you mean?" I asked. "What do I do with THAT?"

"Get up and go. Find her."

Find her? Excuse me? What kind of a vague assignment is that? Where's the revelation that I should go back to school to become a hospice nurse or social worker or aura reader? (I would have taken it, God. I would have.) Where's the direction? Where's the purpose? In one instant I grasped that there was MORE, lots more, and at the same time lost my sense of security in the life you've given me, the life you've BLESSED me with. I found myself up night, reading and chewing and tasting passages that suddenly haunted me:

The accumulated clutter of day to day existence--the lapses in conscience, the unpaid bills, the bungled opportunities, the dust under the couch, the inescapable prison if your genes--all of it is temporarily forgotten, crowded from your thoughts by an overpowering clarity of purpose and by the seriousness of the task at hand.  (Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild, on mountain climbing)

Every part of my body hurt. Except my heart. I saw no one, but, strange as it was, I missed no one. I longed for nothing but food and water and to be able to put my backpack down. (Cheryl Strayed, Wild, on hiking the Pacific Northwest Trail alone)

You'd think walking would be the simplest thing, she said at last. Just a question of putting one foot in front of the other. But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.  (Rachel Joyce, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry)

That last one, especially. Because all you said was go. And the others--they're starting to make sense only as I write. It's as if you said Come, draw closer to me and my heart's cry is YES, let's throw off everything that hinders and DO this thing--and my heart is grieving for the things of this world that are broken and fragmented and the things that hinder and I want everything that is excess stripped away until all that's left is your will being done on earth as it is in heaven. Because it hurts, being in this world. And you're not so comforting, some of the time.

I don't know where this command leads. I don't even know, for goodness' sake, if it leads to an actual child or if you're just appealing to my appreciation for symbolism and irony. (Although that would be sick, God. Really sick.) I have no clue what exactly you have in mind this time, and that makes it very much unlike the other times you've spoken.

But all this doesn't mean I'm not going, but I guess you already know that. I'm usually a Psalms 16:3 kind of girl, but I have a feeling that this time you've got something specific in mind. What I know for sure is that I need to be stripped down until I am just one foot in front of the other, following you instinctively. Give me the strength and wisdom to do what it takes to gain clarity.....and if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home.

Amen.