To our new pediatrician

Hi. My name is Heather. I know you’re probably going to call me, “Mom,” throughout most of this first meeting, and that’s o.k. I can take it, though I admit you’ll score bonus points if you take the time to remember me as something beyond my role today. But again, if you don’t, I’m not going to hold it against you. It’s not me that I want you to invest in, anyhow.

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My daughter, Babita

I met Babita when she was 12, two years after we first placed her picture on our refrigerator.

It was the summer of 2009, and finally, yes, finally, after years of prayer, I was in Nepal, a country that God had placed in my heart before I ever knew a thing about it.

There she was, at a children’s home in Kathmandu, where she had come to stay a few years earlier. It was an awkward meeting in front of the other children, me handing her a teddy bear just like all the others that each of our children, who at that point numbered five, had tucked in their beds at home.

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It’s worth it

I see you there, Momma.

I see you sitting in your van outside the Super Walmart, with the WeeSing Bible cd playing just loud enough to keep your 6- and 4-year olds happily singing, but not so loud as to wake up the 2-year old who somehow fell asleep in the four minutes it took to drive over from the library, or the 3-month old who has been raring to go since 4:15 this morning. I see you scrolling through Facebook on your phone, looking at all the photos of your friends who have real jobs, all your cousins who are on vacation in Hawaii, your sister who just remodeled her entire family room in white, white, and white.

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Brotherly love

It happens pretty much daily here. Walking by, I’ll catch a fragment of a conversation that brings my shoulders up around my ears. Because I am the Momma, I will immediately whirl and ask, “What’s up? What’s going on here?” And nine times out of ten, I will be told a sob story that centers on how he took my this, and she won’t let me do that, and it’s my turn to do it and he won’t let me!

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The starting gate

I was 17 when I met the man who would become my husband. Seventeen! Today that seems ridiculously young and yet, somehow, perfect timing. I love the fact that we grew up, in many ways, together. Yes, we had a steep learning curve in having fallen in love before the realities of mortgages and careers set in, but we climbed those hills hand in hand. Not always gracefully, mind you. But as a team, nonetheless.

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Knowing God through a feather

I am sitting outside trying to prepare my lesson for tomorrow’s online French class that I teach (check out CBB+ if you’re interested!), but it’s been tough.

Not only is it a cool, lazy morning, but I am too busy watching my younger school-aged children sketch in their nature journals the feather of a hawk that is likely from the impudent rascal who flew off with one of our chicks earlier in the week.  Continue reading