Well, hello there.

Surprise, surprise, I'm actually writing again over on my new-ish blog.  So, if you'd like, follow it and read all about everything. 

the end.

Do you write in a journal?

I do. And sometimes I find that it's time to start over. To have a new, fresh, unwrinkled, unstained journal to write in.

I haven't written here in a long while. (obviously.) And recently, I've wanted to write again. But something has held me back. Part of it is that I needed to take a break, to sit back and keep it totally personal for a while... part of it is that I somehow feel like there's so much on this blog, and it's weighing me down, making it hard to start over.

So, I'm starting over here.

yes, i'm sentimental. so yes, i'm sad to leave Pearls. but i'm excited too. nervous, but excited.

odds and ends

I realized the other day, as I thought about how long it's been since I've felt "inspired" to write something here, that I've developed the habit of writing for myself. Before I left for Ethiopia, all the things I wrote were too personal to gleefully stick on the internet for all and sundry to read, and while I was there, I couldn't write blog posts, and so I didn't. I wrote in my journal, and I wrote letters, and I started a novel. (I know. How very cliche' of me.)

Since I've been home, I've been busy with life, and busy rejoicing in the fact that I'M FINALLY HOME AND OHMYWORD I LOVE AMERICA SO DANG MUCH. (get the picture? if not, it's that i'm glad to be home and that i think america is the grandest country in the whole wide world. now you know How I Really Feel.)

And here's the deal: I like writing for just me. Or for just a couple of people. I feel less pressured, and the writing itself is generally better. Less humorous, maybe, but better none-the-less.

So.

Am I going to quit this blog? No, I don't think so. Nor am I going to say that I'm "taking a break." I hate it when people write that on their blogs and then proceed to never type another word. They're not taking a break; they're just not willing to make the commitment to shut it down when that's really what they should do.

But I want you all to know - since so many of you have been kind and supportive of my writing... and i thank you for that - that I haven't stopped writing as much as ever. I'm simply writing in a more personal, deeper way these days, and right now, that doesn't involve blogging as much.

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In other news, college starts next Monday, and so I've reached a Bend In The Road, and I'm eager to see what's around it. I'm not nervous, for those of you who have asked, because this seems like such a small thing in comparison to moving halfway around the world for three months without my family. But it's still Big, and I'm still a little excited.

it shouldn't take more than a couple of years to make, right?

I want this dress. Badly.

Of course, I couldn't wear it to just any old place.

It would have to be a elegant afternoon tea, or a stroll through a beautiful, old fashioned city, (like parts of Louisville, KY.) Or a picnic under a shady tree, (preferably a picnic sans rain,) where we sipped lemonade and read Tennyson out loud.




and yes, something would have to be different about the bodice. but still.

a bit about my babies.

This afternoon, we had a family with young kids over to visit, [and their four year old girl told me the sweet tea I made tasted like lipstick... yep, that's my secret - I add lipstick to sweet tea,] and in the course of the afternoon, I heard their baby boy crying upstairs.

I ran upstairs to get him, and as I entered the dark room where he'd been napping, the cries strangely didn't stop. When I lifted him in my arms and held him close, he still sobbed and blubbered on my shoulder. "This is strange," I thought. "He's still crying!" and then, "Why is this strange?"

And that's when I realized: I've become spoiled to orphans.

I'm used to babies who know what it's like to lie in their beds unattended and unheeded for loooong stretches of time... who know what it feels like to not get their diapers changed as soon as they wake up... they're so grateful that someone with gentle hands is picking them up that they become little cooing, babbling, grinning packages of happiness as soon as I lay hands on them. (with a few exceptions, of course.)

Those babies didn't know I wasn't their mama.


But this little sucker - he knew. He knew his mama was in the house, and he knew that I sure as heck wasn't her.


And as I carried him downstairs to his own mother, (and as he stopped crying - apparently he recognized that I had a bit of The Mother Touch,) I was overwhelmed with gratitude that this baby wasn't like the ones I spent three months loving on. He is loved. He is mothered.

And then. Then, I began missing my sweet Ethiopia babies.






I'll miss them forever, I suppose. Remember their soft hands, their needy cries, their incredibly happy smiles.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

An afternoon thunderstorm, spent in Good Company

Today, Mamaw and I went to visit one of her childhood friends, (who just happens to have one of the weirdest names ever - Vermel. Please don't be jealous of that name.)

We sat on Vermel's porch in rocking chairs, watching rain pour down in silvery, refreshing sheets, listening to a lone bird singing away in a nearby apple tree, while Mamaw and Vermel bemoaned the fact that their tomatoes aren't doing well, discussed each others families at great length, and took a few jaunts down memory lane when the opportunity presented itself.

They sat holding hands, talking about their aches and pains, their gratitude to God that He's allowed them to stay healthy enough to live in their own homes, various and sundry recipes that have failed or succeeded beautifully lately, and I was overwhelmed by peaceful happiness... watching these two ladies, who've lived such full, energetic, busy lives, and aren't content to sit back and do nothing now that they're old - they still bake and visit and grow tomatoes - but in a calmer, more relaxed way. (and if they get too un-relaxed, they get lectured by their grandchildren who want them to be here as long as possible.)



And I sat there thinking, "Yes, I want to grow old like this."

Why, yes. I am.

As soon as i staggered off the plane in Amsterdam, backpack, violin case, and my pillow-that-i-couldn't-imagine-spending-three-months-without in tow, I made my way to the closest information desk and had the following enlightening conversation:

Me: "Excuse me, could you kindly tell me where the Starbucks is?" (Amsterdam airport is large, and my need was great.)

Lady at desk: "Around that corner, to the left, and all the way down."

Me: "Thank you. And can you also tell me where McDonald's is?"

Lady at desk: ::pause:: "You're American, aren't you?"

Mitike and Getise

Twin sisters. Five months old. Beautiful. Identical - yet not. Mitike is a lively, bossy, large bundle of happiness, and Getise is a tiny, scrawny child with a rattling cough and a none-too-firm grip on life. You see, Getise is HIV positive; Mitike is not.

My heart has been so burdened for these sisters... afraid that Mitike will be adopted and go on to live a normal, healthy life, unaware she ever had a precious twin... afraid that Getise will wane slowly away in an orphanage, cared for, but not enough to make her well.

Yesterday, a nurse told me that a family has agreed to take BOTH babies. They will be kept together, Getise will be given the love and special attention she so desperately needs, and some blessed family in America will have two of the sweetest girls ever.

I've been reminded so beautifully that the God Who knows each sparrow when it falls also knows each baby - by name. He knows the hairs on their heads. He knows their lying down and their rising up. He holds each one in His hand.

This isn't always so apparent as it is with Mitike and Getise. There are babies in these orphanages - and all over the world - who will go the rest of their often short lives without families and special love... or even enough food. I don't understand why this has to be.

But I do believe - and have been shown again this week with the simple story of two sisters - that my heavenly Father DOES care. He DOES know all the hurts and the sorrows. He knows the orphans.

And He has promised to be a "Father to the fatherless." That has been particularly sweet to me for the past five years, but in the last three weeks I've realized I've barely scratched the surface of this promise.

Is He enough for each baby? Each child? Sick or well? Adopted or not?

Yes. He is.

Amazing, huh?