God is.

We had violent thunderstorms last night, so when I woke up early to a clear blue sky, I had to sneak out for a walk. Of course, I didn't make it halfway down the stairs before a sleepy-eyed little boy caught me and begged to come along. And who could say no to this face?

I'll confess, I was a tad begrudging about giving up my alone time, and I made sure I let God know about it. I'd intended to take a nice quiet prayer walk, to spend quality time with Him enjoying the freshness of His post-storm creation. Instead, out of love for my son, I would give up this rare chance for quiet communion and hope to carve out some worship time later in the day. 

And then, as we were nearing the end of our walk, I told Liam about Nana's tooth, which has been causing her so much pain this week. I told him the pain was really bad, bad enough to make her cry. His precious face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears as he blurted out, "I don't want Nana to be sad!" 

I asked if he wanted to pray for her, and he immediately nodded and flung his arms around my waist. So we stopped right there on the side of the street and prayed that God would give Nana relief from the pain, that her doctor would know what kind of medicine to give her and how to take care of the problem, and that she would rejoice that God had healed her. 

When we finished Liam wiped his face, smiled, and resumed walking. “Now my tears are washing away," he said happily, "because God is.”

I waited for more, and then asked, "God is what, buddy?” 

“God is washing my tears away. I can feel Him.”

Around the sudden catch in my throat I murmured, "That's awesome," but those words didn't begin to capture what his simple statement did to my heart. Shame at my pride and arrogance in thinking I needed time "alone" to really experience communion with God. Gratitude that in His grace He showed up anyway. Joy at my son's pure, unhindered faith.

God is, he'd said. I could have let the conversation end there, and it would have been complete. 

God on my front porch

We moved to a new neighborhood a few months ago, and now we have a front porch. I was so excited when we signed the contract, envisioning the lazy afternoons and peaceful summer evenings I would spend out there with a good book or a good friend. But then the move happened, and the renovations, and the unexpected malfunctions of our so-called “like new” appliances. Before I knew it, my furniture money was swallowed up, leaving me with a big old front porch and nothing to sit on but the concrete.

It took me until this week to get over my “what will the neighbors think?” funk and coerce my husband into moving our ratty, rusting deck swing out front. Sure, it looks cheesy and doesn’t do much for the curb appeal, but it helps me worship. There’s something about being outdoors, rocking gently, and staring at the night sky that inspires a soul to surrender gladly to its Creator.

Whatever works. That’s what I’m learning. Life is short, I’m distractible, and the truly important things are easy to miss. So if I find a habit that helps me focus and energizes me to pursue life in Christ, I’m going to feed it.

Rocking on my front porch swing. Sitting on a Rubbermaid stool in my shower until the hot water runs out. Reading the Bible on my phone when I’m stuck waiting someplace for five minutes. Going to bed when I’m tired, instead of when the clock says it's late enough. This is how I feed my soul.

How do you feed yours? I’m always looking for inspiration…

the day we were us

One year ago we were on a plane, in the final minutes of our descent to Dulles Airport. It was the end of a sleepless 17-hour plane ride that took us over the Sahara, across the Mediterranean, paused for a brief refueling in Rome, and continued its trek above Europe and the Atlantic to bring us, at last, home. We raced through customs, waited in agony as our bags were located, and then rushed with weary bodies and full hearts to the international arrivals exit where our family was waiting.

I crushed my poor son in a hug that had been building for three weeks, and I remember his little body feeling impossibly big in my arms. Annabell, too, looked a year older, and I was struck again at how much can change in such a short span of time. 

And then I was watching Tim clinging for dear life to his oldest daughter and realizing, "We made it. We're together. It's over."

Oh, the relief. I'll never forget it. Or the relaxation of driving on roads with lines, drinking that first post-trip glass of cold cow's milk, eating fresh produce without worrying about severe abdominal distress, walking into the public bathroom to find a toilet complete with seat and toilet paper rather than grip pads on the floor with a hole in between. 

So many luxuries to enjoy, yet there was also a sadness. Immediately, there was sadness and longing. I wanted to go back, even then. With our kids, of course. I couldn't stand the thought of ever being separated from them again. But even though our journey had just ended, I felt that somehow it had really just begun. Rwanda was in our hearts to stay. 

I don't know where those thoughts and feelings will lead down the road, but I do know that any path we take, we'll take together. Happy family day to us, McLennan party of 5.

when little things are big

Three summers ago we held our first adoption fundraiser, a massive yard sale stocked with items donated by family, friends, and friends of friends we'd never even met. The week before the sale I spent 40 hours in my parents' garage sorting, pricing, and crying. It was my first taste of the massive grace we would experience at the hands of those who supported us, and I felt so unworthy.

I didn't expect a huge return from the sale. After all, how much could a garage full of used toys and knick-knacks really bring in? But I knew that every dollar would bring us one step closer to our child, so I was thankful. Wanting to hold onto gratitude and avoid setting myself up for disappointment, I tried not to estimate how much we would earn. But as the morning of the sale dawned and the customers streamed in, I grew hopeful that we would reach $1000.

When it was over, three hours later than we'd planned, I was exhausted. My brain was tired from calculating totals and making change at lightning speed while a long line of customers stood waiting. To say the day had been a success would be a major understatement. I dragged myself off the couch to make the final tally, and again burst into tears. So much for disappointment. We were $2400 closer to Rwanda.

I'm slow getting to the point of this story, but here it is:

Little things make a big difference.

Having learned this lesson firsthand, I'm now passionate about helping in big and so-called small ways. And today I'm asking you to join me in one of these.

Our dear friends, Jeremy and Allie Brannon, are preparing for their second adoption. Having endured the adoption wait together, traveled to Africa at the same time, and witnessed their sweet daughter thrive in their care over the past year, we are wholeheartedly cheering them on. They are made for adoption, and I can't wait to see them welcome another baby girl into their loving home.

But before they can, they need to raise money. They are currently running two fundraisers, both of which provide an opportunity to help in really big small ways. The first is called Piece by Piece. It's brilliant, easy, fun, and only it only takes $10 to be involved. You can find the details or take part here. Check out this video (double-click to view full screen):



The second is called Necklace by Necklace, I personally find this one rather addictive. These adorable necklaces ($20 including shipping) make fabulous gifts, and they're just plain sweet. I'm a sucker for color, so I could go for one of each shade of the rainbow. Here's one I just bought:

You can go to this page to see the many colors available.

See? Making a difference doesn't have to drain your bank account. You can impact a child's life and a family's future one dollar (or piece, or necklace) at a time. Take it from someone who's blubbered with gratitude over dusty wax Santa candles and chipped Disney figurines. Little things make a big difference.

The day you were ours

One year ago today we spent a hot, exhausting, frustrating day at a little court building in Kigali. The goal of the day was to meet with a judge, declare our desire to adopt Avivah, present our paperwork, and await his ruling. However, since we were down to just one full day left in Rwanda and needed to apply for and receive several more pieces of paperwork before hopping on our plane the following night, we had high hopes that our court process would move quickly. We couldn't apply for the other paperwork without Avivah being present, and we couldn't take her out of the orphanage without our court ruling. So, as any go-get-em, impatient children of the microwave generation would do, we arrived at court ten minutes before we'd been told office hours would begin and willed the process to go at lightning speed (yeah, yeah...we should have known better by then). Little did we know that in a place where most people walk to work, the early morning downpour meant "business hours" would just have to wait. And wait. 

Shortly before lunch we were finally able to see the judge and declare our intention to adopt. To our great relief, he graciously agreed to deliver his ruling that afternoon. Unfortunately, between waiting for our meeting and then the scheduled ruling, we realized that we were going to miss morning and afternoon visiting hours at the orphanage. We comforted ourselves with the anticipation of rushing to the orphanage after our ruling and being able to take our daughter with us for a couple of hours while we did more paper chasing.

Unfortunately, the ruling ended up taking nearly two hours, as there were several cases being considered that day. By the time we had our court documents in hand, we had realized that not only were we not going to be able to apply for other paperwork that day, we weren't even going to be able to see Avivah. That was probably the hardest thing about the day for me, since we'd only ever had a few hours with her, and our last visit had ended with her screaming and reaching for everyone but us. I was so eager to see my little girl again, and it broke my heart that we were physically so close to her yet unable to spend time together.

But. Avivah was ours. As we returned to our hotel that night, drained by the day and worn down from two weeks of overcoming roadblocks, we held onto the knowledge that it was finally official. Avivah was legally our daughter!

I don't have a picture to share from our day at court, so I'll share one from the following evening, when we finally experienced the joy of taking Avivah back to our hotel, giving her a bath, and dressing her in the clothes that had been sitting in our suitcase for two weeks! What a fun moment that was for Mommy.

Happy Adoption Day, Avivah Ingabire McLennan!

The day we met

So many memories deserve attention today. I can still see, smell, and feel everything as if it were yesterday rather than a year ago...


Pacing for hours in the courtyard outside the Ministry, waiting, waiting, waiting for our referral.

Seeing our daughter's picture for the first time. Feeling that rush of joy, relief, and the overwhelming realization that this little person captured in an image was ours.

Bumping down the unforgettable road to the orphanage and seeing those beautiful blue gates in person at long, long last.

The nervousness as we waited for our daughter to appear, and the wave-in-the-face emotion at our first sighting of her.

Holding her for the first time, sadly, is a blur, but I'm so thankful it was captured by photo and video!

All of these memories are beautiful, but they wouldn't be nearly as poignant without recalling the peripheral moments, like the smiles, hugs, tears, and praises of our travel companions at the moment of our referral...

Or their eagerness to capture our first moments with Avivah, what I fondly refer to as the Kigali Paparazzi...

Or the depth of meaning in my dear friend Allie's expression, and that "at last" sensation as we stood side by side with the daughters we had longed, prayed, and cried over together for two long years...

These are memories of the body of Christ in action as I've never seen it before. Loving, supporting, and sometimes carrying us through some of the most heartwrenching, soul-draining days of our lives. That's what gets me today. Recalling the tears and prayers on our behalf from those with us in Kigali. The outpouring of encouragement on Facebook through profile pictures and shared prayers requests. The sense that the battle for our daughter was the Lord's and it was being fought by hundreds of our brothers and sisters, some of whom we'd never even met. So thank you, a year later, to all those who prayed and loved us home. You are forever a part of our family story!

And to my sweet Avivah, I can't imagine life without you. The year since we met has had its highs and lows, and we're still trying to figure each other out, but one thing I know for sure: I'm yours, and you're mine. For keeps. 

Love you, baby girl.

One year ago today...

My contemplative (and exhausted) self shortly after 

touching down in Rwanda a year ago today. 

"Oh, the places you'll go..."

I wasn’t planning to write a blog post today (not surprising, since I’ve been completely MIA from the bloggy world for many months), but I know if I don’t I’m going to regret it later on. How many times as my kids have grown have I said to myself, “Ooh, I need to write that down so I don’t forget!” and I never do? I'm glad I listened to that little voice last May 2 as well, and wrote this.

The truth is, I didn’t think I’d feel much today. I was even a little worried I’d forget the significance of this date, the anniversary of our arrival in Rwanda. Man, was I wrong. The emotions slammed me today before I even got out of bed. Every hour or so I find myself calculating the time difference between here and Rwanda and reminiscing about what was happening one year ago from this exact moment. (Right now, for instance, we were in the early stages of our 3-hour wait for pizza at Sole Luna, a restaurant down the street from our hotel in Kigali. Since I was in hour 42 of sleep deprivation and had spent most of the afternoon crying, this portion of the day is a little hazy, but I’m still clinging to it.)

I don’t have the energy or time to do a whole lot of soul searching now, but I need to get this down because it’ll surely turn out to be therapeutic later on. Here’s how I feel today:

1. I want to go back so bad I can taste it. Not being able to relive every second of our time in Rwanda (even the horrible parts) is breaking my heart. And if you know anything about how hard our trip really was, you get why this is sensation is so surprising to me.

2. The desire to be in Rwanda right now is ripping me apart. Forget going back and doing it all again. I just want to be there, smelling the flowers and petrol, feeling the heat of the African sun, hearing rapid conversations in a language I don’t understand but love anyway, and staring at that impossibly gorgeous sky with clouds that seem somehow more 3D than ours.

3. I want to start over. As I recall the hopes and expectations of a year ago, knowing now that almost every one of them would be crushed, I wish I could pass these 20/20 hindsight lenses back to my May 2, 2011 self. I’d tell myself to slow down, take a breath, look at the big picture, and lean on my friends instead of trying to bottle it all up. I’d cry (more) in front of my travel group. I’d accept their compassion instead of brushing past it. I’d spend whatever it cost to find a way to phone my kids. I’d journal, take more pictures, and get out of my own head so I could focus more on everyone else.

The last thing: I’d insist on going to the orphanage, no matter how much it hurt. On Day 1, I’d be there, loving on all those precious kids who will never belong to anyone but God.

Longing and regret. If there’s a way to sum it up, that’s it.