"Fuk Off & Pray"

That’s how he signed his FB note to me. (Are you not allowed to spell fuck correctly on FB?) I laughed when I read it, such an odd combination of commands... but I wasn’t surprised or fazed in the least. After all, he hates me and God, and I have known this for the last 15 years because he is very obvious about it. Our connection in life is that we are both TK’s step-parents.

That line solidified some thoughts I have been struggling with for some time now. I have a hard time forgiving Christians, and I realized, in those words, partially why this is. I expect Christians to act like... well... my preconceived notions of Christians, and when they don’t, I am not just hurt or angry but also hardened against them. (Um, yes, I know this is very unChristian of me.) When a declared God-hater is aggressive and hurtful toward me, I find it easy to let it roll off because I expect that from him. But I assume Christians pray when they have things to consider and when they hand me a “fuk off” attitude, I am thinking that there is no way God told them to do that, so either a. They forgot to pray or b. They forgot to wait for a reply.

I wrote a while ago about a crisis of belief I experienced when we returned from Ukraine with our newly adopted daughters. There were so many complicated factors behind that period of suspended belief... personal ones, and public ones. My husband and I had been involved with our church for 9 years, and the relationship was souring leaving him cold and me heartbroken. Before this church, we had attended a different, very small, church for about 7 years. The more involved we became with church number one, the more blemishes we saw... policy rivalries, clicks, gossiping, pressures to take a side... we started shopping around for a new church. I naively thought that the issue of having issues was unique to that first church.

It was not. Humans are human, and by last October that realization was dawning brightly in my mind. (Might I say here that I am the first to admit that I am not the role-model Christian and part of why this blog started off anonymously was so that I could explore my weaknesses publicly in private, or rather privately in a public space.)

When Kimani was born, everything changed for me. God took me places I did not want to go. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...” (Psa 23:4) By that time I was already working for the church, and a shadow was just beginning to rise. Christians I looked up to and respected visited or chose not to visit for reasons unrelated to why I was actually sitting in the NICU. Work-related commitments and agreements made to and with me were broken and I had no strength or drive to care.

And like the stock market crash of that summer, things never went back to the way they were, and the seeds of anger and disillusionment took root deep in my heart. I confess, I let them grow. Because I have a hard time forgiving Christians. “Fuk off & pray”... that message encompasses what I have felt for three years now. I heard it behind closed doors in meetings of all sizes, and I saw it rolled out in how we approach our congregation and in our expectations of how they should desire to interact with us.

Now to be fair, I firmly believe that our pastor is one of the greatest preachers of our time. I am convinced that our elders make prayerful choices. I know that one of our long-term leaders is one of the most “Christian” Christians I have ever known.

However, men like that don’t a mega-church make and when your growth numbers don’t match your goals, you need a different kind of man to get the job done. And thanks to that and one of my least favorite bippity-boppity-boo-God-hates-you associates, I will remember to pray before I "tell" someone to “fuk off” and I will remember to ask others to pray for and about me before they "tell" me to “fuk off”.

As for that forgiveness issue I have? Yeah, I’ll work on that and when you think of me, pray that God moves my heart in this area.

(When writing this post, I may have chosen option c. Don’t pray about it because who wants God to interfere with their imperfect and ugly human emotions? No really, I did run it by Him quickly and my computer did not spontaneously combust, so here it is.)

The Best Christmas Gift of All

It happened. It finally happened. And when I heard the news yesterday, I had chills. Tears welled up in my eyes and I thought, "Oh my God, yes yes yes!"

Anya has a family. Anya has a mama and papa coming for her. Anya's life will be saved.

Thank you God for answering my prayer. (And thank you imaginary Santa for granting my Christmas wish.)

[Need to wrap up 2010 with a last minute tax deductible contribution? Donate to Anya's grant fund and help bring her family to her.]

Dear Imaginary Santa,

Remember when I was a little girl and I still believed in you? I wanted things like a Geronimo doll and plastic horses for him to ride. I wanted a Hess truck with lights that really worked. I wanted Legos so I could build my own house with many staircases and secret rooms. I wanted a Magic 8 ball so that I could know the answers to all the important questions in my childish mind.

You gave it all to me, and despite the ugliness that lived with us, Christmas morning always turned out ok. But then I found out the truth... that you are not real. Christmas lists and letters are useless now.

It doesn’t matter anyway, Santa, because the things I want now cannot be bought. Like wisdom. I want perfect wisdom, to always know the right thing to do and say. I want to be filled with patience and gentleness. I want to be a great wife and mother, and a great writer.

But if only one wish of mine could be granted this Christmas, I’d ask for a mama and papa for Anya. She is a little girl with Down syndrome who lives in the orphanage where my daughters came from. Anya turns four this coming Tuesday the 14th. Anya’s time in the baby house is up.



Anya is not your typical child with Ds. Her need for support is higher than that. She is desperate for love, attention, and intervention. Anya is a child that will die young in a mental institution.

When I was there, I stole a few minutes with Anya. I held her in my arms. Anya took my hands and clapped them together over and over, making up her own game. Anya stared into my eyes as if no one had ever looked lovingly at her before. From then on, Anya would try to come to me when she saw me, but they would never let me hold her again.

I wished I could tell Anya that someone was coming for her, that a mama and papa would come to save her from her fate. I wished I could tell her that somebody loves her, and that I could promise her she will not die an orphan in a lonely box crib.

I wished you were real Santa so that you could give Anya a family for Christmas this year.

I’m Supposed to Save Who?

In many ways my church is evangelical... we want to go out and save as many people as possible. We want to show people the way to God, encourage them to take next steps, and train them to become mature followers of Christ. We want to grow the body of Christ... to make more and better disciples.

Why? Just so they can fill our seats at weekend services? So they can tithe ten percent to support God’s work? So they can be Godly examples to others? So they’ll know the “right” way to vote when it comes to abortion?

I’m doing my part. I work for the church. I tithe as I should. I am involved in a bible study and I pray for my unchurched friends... Wanna see?

Dear God, I pray for my friend so-and-so, that she will come to know and love you. I pray that she will be saved and come to church. I pray that she will become like me... that she will write blog posts about you, that she will model your love in her marriage, that she will sing in the choir and volunteer in the Sunday school nursery. All this, Lord, so that she can become Christ-like, like me and then pray for her friends to become Christ-like, like her. Amen.

Lately His replies are way off topic... “Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” Psalm 82: 3-4

What?!!

Come on God, you’re not serious... are you? You want me to go rescue afflicted, destitute orphans? Don’t you think me working for you, me tithing my ten, me leading a bible study, and praying for those in need is enough? Sheesh. Can’t I just pray that somebody else takes up that cross?

And the King answered me, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me... Truly, I say to you, as you do to one of the least of these my brothers, you do to me.”
Mat 25:34-40



p.s. Oh Mel-an-ie, La la la la la...I’m not listening to you.

"Will God call you to lead a Bible Study while He calls others to adopt orphans? No. As long as there are orphans in the world, we are ALL called, because these children deserve to have a family and a chance at life; they need to know God loves them. If every Christian family in the United States adopted only one orphan, we wouldn't have an orphan crisis around the world, and many Christian families have room for one more child in their homes. I firmly believe EVERY believer is called to care for orphans unless you are aged out of the system, are financially limited or have a physical condition that prohibits you from adopting.....and in those cases, you can still help raise money to assist others in adoption.

Some of my words may be tough to digest, but I am sickened by the prejudice against the orphans.....especially the orphans with Special Needs. For goodness sake, they are children. They are children. They are children. They are children. We cannot turn our heads and pretend it is not our problem."

Ok, seriously Melanie, I am listening. In fact, the whole "Will God call you to lead a Bible Study while He calls others to adopt orphans?" line is what inspired this post.

The Year-End Big Brag

It happens every December. The letters come, some on their own, some stuffed in Christmas cards, some on the back of holiday family picture cards. The yearly brags... gushing highlights from this or that family’s year in review. I enjoy reading them.

Each year I tell myself that I will write one... that I will update everyone on our family’s exciting progress toward perfection. I never do it. I can’t do it. Because my year-end big brag is filled with gaping holes.

But this year I finally forced myself to do it. Yes indeed, I wrote the year in review letter for an audience of one... one I do not have to (nor am able to) lie to. It starts off, Dear God...

I will share a few highlights of the highlights...

I apologized for the me that hasn’t died yet, the me that is still filled with rage and fire, the me that so poorly represents Him when I am telling off someone who has hurt me or mine.

I recapped my weaknesses that should be long gone by now but aren’t and then immaturely laid the blame at his feet. I reminded him that with all we have been through, that I should have more faith and loyalty to him, but then pleaded for no more trials by fire to improve in this area.

I thanked him for answering so many prayers including the ones that are selfish and silly, and probably not worth his time. I especially thanked him for sending Kimani’s bottom front teeth that a dentist told me did not exist.

I talked about my marriage, all my children, my goals, my spiritual state of being... the highs and lows, the proud moments and the shameful ones. And when I was done, I folded it up and tucked it away in a drawer.

And then I thought, ha ha ha, imagine if I took the salutation off and sent this letter out on crisp Christmas-wreath-bordered paper... Um, yeah, it wouldn’t be funny but it would sure be the real deal. I can picture the jaws dropping and the “oh, Lordies” flying. Gosh, don’t you just love year-end big brags?

For Those Who Pray

I have a blog friend who has walked in my shoes. Now she has been kidnapped and in her own words, "taken and stored in a terrible stinking rotten crate aboard a vessel I have not had the courage to name." Please take the time to visit her and pray for her daughter Willa, pictured above.

Prayer #2847

Through the years I have often wondered about prayer... what to pray for, and if it really matters. My prayers started off fairly simple in the early days, "Lord, if you take away this hangover, I promise to never drink Mai Tai cocktails again." Eventually I stopped being so self-centered, "Lord, please keep Cute Boyfriend safe on his motorcycle."

Time wore on and I began to pray more consistently for things I deemed important... someone’s health, marriage, salvation, or the outcome of a court battle. I wondered if those prayers made any difference. It was hard for me to have faith when the conversations seemed so one-sided. Even when things turned out the way I wanted, I still wondered, "Was it always meant to be this way or did my prayers influence the outcome?"

When I found out that the baby I was carrying had a massive heart defect, and that it might be an indication of Down syndrome, I wanted to pray the right prayers but had no clue what they were. Should I pray for a miracle... that the baby’s heart would be fixed in utero and that there would only be 46 chromosomes? Why not.

He answered "No" on both counts.

I prayed that she would eat, that she would heal, that she could go home... "No, no, no," He said. Everyone else prayed too; family, friends, church acquaintances, strangers... hundreds of people, all praying a prayer that, summed up, sounded like, "Let her live."

But after weeks and weeks, it was looking like we were going to get the ultimate "No". And this got me to wondering about my relationship with God. Isn’t He my best friend? Doesn’t He love me? Doesn’t He want only good for me? Let me tell you, if I had any other friend who had the power to save my daughter’s life with one breath of their attention, and they chose not to, well we wouldn’t be best friends anymore.

Did those prayers matter at all? Was she destined to die on some predetermined schedule?



When king Hezekiah was deathly ill, Isaiah told him that the Lord said he would not get better, that he would die. When Hezekiah heard this, he turned his face to the wall and prayed to the Lord, "Remember, O Lord, how I have always tried to be faithful to you and do what is pleasing in your sight." Then he broke down and wept bitterly. God tells Isaiah to go back to Hezekiah and say to him, "I have heard your prayer and seen your tears. I will heal you... I will add fifteen years to your life..." 2KI 20:2-6

Well, Hezekiah’s prayer made a heck of a huge difference, now didn’t it. Hence, I kept on praying for her life. Somewhere around prayer #2847 on her behalf, I realized that I was missing something. You see, I was still mad at God for not performing the miracles He could have. And all those "nos" were starting to make me question my faith altogether. What would it mean for me and God if He let her die? Could I still trust Him, love Him, believe in Him?

Thus, prayer #2847, "God help me to accept your decision concerning my baby. Help me to forgive you if you take my daughter back. Help me to not let my broken heart stand in the way of our relationship. Help me to let go and let you, even though I can’t understand why."

"Yes," He said, "I’ll give you that." And, finally, I felt peace inside.

Not Like This

On occasion I have given thought to how I might want to die. The results of such mind exercises are always the same; an unexpected bullet to the back of head or I fall asleep one night and don’t wake up. I don’t end up in the hospital in either scenario, nor do I have a chance for goodbyes.

It is one thing to imagine from the bleachers, beer and hotdog in hand, how you will be "out" but quite another thing to actually be the player in the game who is facing another strike. It is even worse when it is your child going up against the pitcher, instead of you.

During the early days in the hospital, I did not genuinely feel that my child could die. Yes, she had a major heart defect, but there was a plan for this in place. When her second, more menacing heart defect was detected, I felt the pressure of possibility weighing down on me.

Within days of that discovery, my baby became very sick, the kind of sick that made her whole body seize. I could hardly stand to leave her, but there was nowhere to rest my head in that place. So I would sob in the car all the way home, wondering if she would be ok.

But I hadn’t yet felt the reality that she might die. Oh, I was scared of it but deep inside I still had that nebulous sense of that not being something in my world. Like it just wasn’t part of my brain’s schema.



The call came around midnight. The caller id flashed straight into my heart... the NICU. Just the ringing was making me shake. We were afraid to pick it up. When I did, the very first thing the doctor said (blurted out) was that my baby was ok. They wanted to do a lumbar puncture and needed me to come down and give written permission for the procedure.

For the first time, but not the last, I wondered how they tell you that your baby has died.

A week or so later, my baby girl stopped breathing in my arms and the reality of it sank in. Suddenly there was a whole new category of thoughts in my brain. The tentacles of horror crept up my legs and arms, and twisted around me, squeezing me tight.

I am an emotionally secluded person. Because of this, my husband and I were married in a secret ceremony ten months before our white wedding. For me, promising the rest of my life to my love needed the privacy that such an intimate moment deserves. My child’s return to God would require that same sort of privacy.

You won’t get that in a NICU or PICU. Every time my daughter’s body would begin to fail, a swarm of doctors, nurses, and respiratory therapists would come and "work" on her. I would stand out of their way and pray, "Not like this, Lord, please not like this." I wanted them to save her so badly I could taste the coppery ache for it in my mouth.

Because if she had to die, I wanted it to be our little secret. I did not want any other person to share it. I wanted to be alone with her... holding her, kissing her, and whispering love in her ear.

Enemy Love

In my last post I introduced you to a mother I know. She is my enemy.

Dictionary.com’s first definition of an enemy is “a person who feels hatred for, fosters harmful designs against, or engages in antagonistic activities against another; an adversary or opponent.” This woman has worked hard to meet the requirements of the definition. Eight years ago, after a bitter four year battle, her oldest child was placed in my home. And so, for good or for bad, there has been much fuel provided to feed the fires of hatred. It still burns hot and bright. And God knows that I struggle to not be her enemy back.

Why? Because Matthew 5:44 says I have to love her.

I have a confession to make. I sometimes can’t even manage to “love” the people I love. How am I supposed to love someone I loathe? By the actions of love, that’s how. Because love is a verb. It is an exercise and a sacrifice. It is something I can do.

I can give her the gift of helping her child to love her by being very careful what I say about her to or in front of the child. I can send her anonymous gifts to lift her spirits or meet a financial need. I can be kind to her when I come into contact with her. I can send small things I know she will like when the child goes to visit. I can invite her and her other children to birthday parties.

I can do all that but what I should do is pray for her. And that is a hard one. “...pray for those who persecute you.” That is the second half of the Mat 5:44 command. That is what God is asking me to do for her.

I would much rather spend my prayer time praying for the people I love, or the babies in the NICU, or the stranger who delivered my pizza last night. And so the truth is that until I get over this, I am her enemy too.