an introvert thinks too much, maybe

It is morning and the kids are still quiet in their rooms. Coffee is next to me, steaming. Finn is asleep in my bed, old Gusser is asleep near his feet, and just in case you think the scene is too picturesque, Knightley is asleep in the base of the avocado plant. True story.

I washed my face but my hair is a mess. Ever since I cut it, I wake up looking like Dr. Suess was my overnight stylist.

This is found time. Usually we hit the floor running – chores flying, kids everywhere, breakfast chaos, Vince getting ready for work. But today he had an early shift and left hours ago, the kids are sleeping in, Finn slept eight whole hours, and I am up for the day before the late winter sunrise, which never happens. Even in, um, winter.

an introvert thinks too much, maybe

I answered a few emails. Ignored one that’s been sitting there for a few days. Stalled by checking Facebook and Instagram, considered clipping my nails or cleaning the bathroom to justify avoiding it some more, and resorted to coming here to write about my woes instead.

We call this “processing,” which is a handy word that means working through our issues until we’re ready to do something about them. If you insist on procrastinating, it’s the healthiest, most productive way to do it.

The email I’m dragging my feet over is from a super nice lady who coordinates book signings at the largest bookstore in Alaska. She says I’m qualified, my book meets all the requirements. And I think, Really? Shoot, there goes that excuse.

I need to do it. Shouldn’t be a big deal, right? You sit at a table in public and talk to strangers about something you were passionate enough about to spend years working on. Easy. I’m good with sitting at a table, and I can talk your ears off about the need for more support of adoptive families. It’s the in public and talk to strangers part that makes me wonder if I own enough residual extrovert in my back pocket to pull it off.

We’re still reading The Wind in the Willows, and in chapter three, there’s this:

The Mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the Badger…But whenever the Mole mentioned his wish to the Water Rat he always found himself put off. “It’s all right,” the Rat would say. “Badger’ll turn up some day or other – he’s always turning up – and then I’ll introduce you. The best of fellows! But you must not only take him as you find him, but when you find him.”

Badger lives in the Wild Wood. And he loves his friends deeply, but he is the introvertiest of introverts.

I like him. He might have stewed over required book signings and called it processing, too.

“Couldn’t you ask him here – dinner or something?” said the Mole.

“He wouldn’t come,” replied the Rat simply. “Badger hates Society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.”

“Well, then, supposing we go and call on him?” suggested the Mole.

“Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t like that at all,” said the Rat, quite alarmed.

– Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

He’s not as standoffish as he sounds. Introverts can be so misunderstood, even to each other.

To many he seemed prickly, intractable, and often he was, but as his friend Jonathan Sewall would write, Adams had “a heart formed for friendship, and susceptible to the finest feelings.” He needed friends, prized old friendships.

– David McCullough, John Adams

I’m guilty of joking about not liking people (here, here, and here, for starters). But the truth is, as long as I get plenty of time alone I like other people just fine. The tricky thing is that with seven kids I need more alone time than ever, but it takes a small miracle just to go to the bathroom by myself.

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Aloooooone, say it with me in three syllables: the space and time to untangle thoughts, to think, and often overthink. When it’s quiet enough to notice the furnace humming or the cat snoring, and thoughts can be sorted among themselves without the extra layers of questions, conversations, and importunate requests to share chocolate.

The hush and simplicity force the demands of the day to stop flying around long enough for me to see what I’m really dealing with, like so much debris settling after someone has stopped a wild current of air. Stillness allows my static to finally clear into an image.

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Balanced with this, I also need a strong dose of my people to give and receive from. These are the kindred ones we spill our thoughts, feelings, and ideas to with confidence, knowing they will sift them gently. They bring balance to my overthinking, salt my perspective with their own wisdom, and keep me out of trouble (read: make me practice social skills).

There was little he enjoyed more than an evening of spontaneous “chatter,” of stories by candlelight in congenial surroundings, of political and philosophic discourse, “intimate, unreserved conversations,” as he put it.

– David McCullough, John Adams

But beyond that shelter, out in the Wild Wood of animals, predators, and other extroverts (kidding, kidding…sheesh) after a while I get overwhelmed. My brain feels like an autopilot in beta mode.  I need to get back home with my own walls, books, papers, and cats, making food for my people, lounging in the living room with the woodstove blazing and another round of coffee brewing.

In the embracing light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless Wild Wood just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a half-forgotten dream.

– Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

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It’s not that I don’t want to talk to people about my book. I do. The message of Upside Down is crucial today, and marriages and families are at stake.

But I’m so passionate about it that even when I talk to my closest friends about it, afterward I wonder if I talked too loud or interrupted too much when I got all excited. Maybe I repeated myself too much. Maybe I forgot to say the one central message clearly enough. Maybe they didn’t realize I was being sarcastic when I said that one thing, or they didn’t realize I was joking when I made that liquor reference.

Because I think too much.

Or, I think that I think too much.

Maybe I’m wrong. I’ll overthink it some more and get back to you.

___

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have mercy: a little girl, her future family, and how we create more happy endings

I went to fetch the laundry basket but the closet door wouldn’t open. I pushed harder against the resistance, just enough to stick my head in, and saw boxes and gift bags and wrapping paper, oh my – a packaging supply avalanche. Usually we keep that stuff stacked behind the door. The culprit was curled up in one of the boxes, purring.

have mercy: a little girl, her future family, and how we create more happy endings

While I restacked everything I found an old gift bag with the tag still on it: “To Master Finnegan, with love from Amanda.” It was from his baby shower eighteen months ago, from my dear friend who moved away in August. I cried a little, and sort of felt like a weenie for doing so.

Then we watched Little Women with the kids – which is a stupid move if you are already berating yourself for being weepy. We got to the part where Beth is sick again – you know – and Jo comes home to see her before it’s too late. She runs into their sister Meg outside the house and she sees her pregnant belly – and I cried again, thinking of my other close friend who moved away two years ago and just had a baby a thousand miles away from us. I’m not usually a crier, but some days grief lances our hurts wide open.

And then, have mercy – Jo goes inside and sees Marmee, and Beth is on the bed, deathly pale. A smart person just leaves the room at this point. But, no. I stayed there and took it.

Chamberlain sat next to me and asked why Marmee was crying. I tried three times to answer her but couldn’t get any words out. “Ask Daddy,” I finally gasped, and fled to the kitchen because doing the dishes for a family of nine is less traumatic than watching Little Women.

I don’t know what Vince told her. I stacked plates in the cabinet and watched from a safe distance. But a minute later he joined me in the kitchen, blowing his nose on a paper towel and mumbling something about the more kids we have, the wimpier he gets. I’m not really sure; I couldn’t hear him because I was blowing my nose, too.

Terrible, awful, painful story.

Is it, though? I know it has a happy ending. I was just crabby at how it stirs up pain I’d rather not deal with. Stupid feelings, making me feel stuff. Some days I hate that.

And yet…we’re going to deal with some painful stuff right now.

I had a conversation last weekend with a new friend. I know her only through the internet, only because we have adopted children from the same place, only because of God.  Her name is Karrie.

She is adopting a little girl from the same town one of our own kids is from. She and her husband have ten kids already – his, hers, and theirs, some already grown and out of the house. They were done. They were moving on to the next phase of parenthood.

Enter Ella.

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Ella is two years old. She lives in an orphanage. Ella has a terrible, awful, painful disease called epidermolysis bullosa, or EB. It occurs in only 20 per million births. But three of Karrie’s children have it.

I want you to be willing to fight the resistance and look in here for a minute. This is hard stuff and we need to feel something about it.

EB causes the skin and mucus membranes to blister from slight friction or pressure. Normal skin has a collagen that “glues” its layers, which keeps them from rubbing against each other independently. But without that collagen, a touch becomes a terrible wound. EB can also create internal blisters in the esophagus and bowels.

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These are hard to look at. Chamberlain looked at them with me and asked if Ella was laughing in the photo with her mouth open. I told her, No, she’s probably not laughing.

ella-1Have mercy. If I could flee from the pain in these photos, I would. But I can’t, so I’ll sit here and take it, and I hope you’ll take it with me.

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There’s no cure yet.

But Karrie and her husband know how to care for EB; they were prepared for such a time as this. They know how to watch for infection and adapt meals for someone with EB. Their daily routine already involves lancing blisters, bathing a child covered in sores, and the tedious wrapping of wounds – which takes two to four hours per bandaging session, three or four times a week.

They are familiar with painful realities: You can’t hug too tightly. Certain clothing seams cause blistering. Blisters on feet eventually damage nerves so severely that children can’t walk. Fingers and toes web and fuse together, and fingernails and toenails are lost completely. Bandages alone can cost $1000 per month.

People with EB live in constant pain.

They also know that EB affects life expectancy. Even under the best care, open sores pose a constant risk of infection and people with EB tend to die from skin cancer or internal issues, such as bowel obstruction.

But Ella lives in an orphanage and is not receiving the most ideal, individualized care. She needs a family to come home to before it’s too late. Our family is praying that they can expedite the process.

If you’d like to help Karrie bring Ella home, they have a YouCaring page here. Ella’s adoption costs – including the homestudy, the paperwork, the processing, the fees, the apostilles, the airfare, the notarizations, the fingerprinting, yada yada – are expected to be around $25,000.

They need donations and publicity.

We can provide that.

We can give and we can share Ella’s story.

We want people to know about Ella, about EB, and about children living a terrible, awful, painful story who need a family before it’s too late. We can’t keep these children and our hard feelings stacked behind a door anymore, out of the way, not bothering anyone. We need to be bothered so we can help create more happy endings. Ella’s story isn’t over yet.

how much more: what we gain from loss and change

I’m not sure how we are ever going to sell this house – get it show-ready, keep it clean with seven kids, and make sure no one’s dirty socks are peeking out of the couch cushions. Friends, I can’t even keep the cat from licking muffin batter while the oven preheats.

how much more: what we gain from loss and change - Copperlight Wood

Our home is feeling simultaneously fuller and emptier. We’ve been nesting and purging and cleaning and packing, but still the house feels a little like your favorite old sweater whose sleeves have shrunk; regardless of how comfy the material is, it doesn’t fit right anymore.

We have known a change was coming for a while. We need it, not just physically, not just for space and breathing room, but we need a fresh start and new memories. We love these walls and woods, but the kids have worn bare patches in the grass and trails through the trees. We’ve walked through some paths that have changed us.

Two years ago we were in the middle of a period of awful loss for our family, and it spiked when some of our dearest friends moved away the same week our cat died. We were still reeling from a season that felt like it was dishing out far more than we could take, and we didn’t know how much more was coming.

P1030662A few months later,  in spite of all of our plans, fears, and biology, we were pregnant with a baby we didn’t expect. God moved mountains and brought that small person here…and we were grateful, but for the first time in six pregnancies my gratitude was outweighed by fear. I didn’t know how much more I could handle.

The morning after our positive pregnancy test, this note was on the bathroom counter waiting for me:

Well, well, well. What have we here? I’m trying hard to think of what to say. How do I encourage you and make you smile on this most emotionally turbulent morning. Fear, which should have no place at Copperlight Wood, mixed with expectation of joy, which we have been lacking of late, seem to be at an impasse. What to do? All I can think of is to quote Master Samwise:

“But you haven’t put yourself forward; you’ve been put forward. And as for not being the right and proper person, why, Mr. Frodo wasn’t, as you might say, nor Bilbo. They didn’t choose themselves.”

I can’t express how proud, thankful, and impressed I am by you. You’re amazing and strong and I love you so very much. Love the Lord, embrace your kids, and let the Holy Spirit lead the way. The enemy fears you. It’s not the other way around.

– Vince

It turns out that moving mountains isn’t hard for Him, though it always seems like such a big deal to us. It’s more the movement of our hearts that is the big deal, the real mountain to be overcome. We think we are ready (or not) for change based on our feelings or circumstances, and He says that those things have very little to do with it at all – we’re ready for something not because we feel like it, but because He has a strategic plan and has prepared us.

And here, some things are restoring – not as they were before exactly, because you can never go back, but pretty close. Or at least close enough, because we can see it happening. We see glimpses of the joy that used to be, and it’s the same but different – kids learning to read, but now it’s Chamberlain instead of Afton; a cat sleeping in the windowseat, but now it’s Knightley instead of Sophie. And some things are brand-new, just beautiful gifts of His grace that we never would’ve imagined – new ministry opportunities, and this blue-eyed, blond-haired, dimply eleven-month-old crawling everywhere.

sophie and knightley

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He is doing it again. He is making all things new. The in-between stage can make us want to shrink up and die, afraid to take a leap ever again, but amazing things are on the other side if we press through.

Remember your faith from when you were radical, Love – and remember the victories that came from it. When you have Me for your defense, you need no other.

God has delivered you before, and He will do it again.

So if you sinful people know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give good gifts to those who ask him.

– Matthew 7:11, NLT

There is no “filling of shoes” for the old loves. A new pet never really replaces an old one, new relationships don’t replace broken ones, and new friends can’t replace the ones who’ve helped you bury the body.

Jesus said, “Truly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands, for my sake and for the gospel, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this time, houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions, and in the age to come eternal life.

– Mark 10:29-30, ESV

There are new loves. There are new friends, and new pets, and new perspectives, and we find that somehow our hearts that felt shrunken by their absence in loss has somehow expanded with love for both the new and the old in ways we never would have expected.

Grief catches us somewhere between the loss and the victory, like the day between the Crucifixion and Easter. The goodbyes, the hard choices, the letting go of the way we thought things were supposed to be — we feel like our labor lasts well past the due date. We know birth is coming; we just don’t know how much more pain we’ll have to take before it happens.

The feeling of fullness, of swelling and discomfort and impatience – these are all signs of imminent delivery: life, joy, the much-longed-for beginning.

But in the pain of labor we rail against God and give Him a piece of our minds: This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, this is terrible timing, are You blind to everything we’re already dealing with? Don’t You know how much this hurts? 

Even Death and Destruction hold no secrets from the Lord.
How much more does He know the human heart.

– Proverbs 15:11

And He is so gentle. No lightning strikes, no chasm opening in the ground, no instantaneous heart attack.

He says, I know, Love.

I know what it is to not get what you think you want. I know what it is to wrestle with the Father’s will. You will never know how much more pain I went through.

But I also know what it is to surrender to it and trust Him. I know the gain on the other side of this labor. It’s how I got you.

who helps you bury the body: a post on friendship

Snow was lightly falling. We drove home, talking about places we might move to, and this conversation occurred in the Stagecoach as we went down the highway:

“Remember when Wendy was here and we were talking about that one neighborhood?” Chamberlain asked.

who helps you bury the body: a post on friendship from Copperlight Wood

I stopped at a red light. “What? No, when was that?”

“When we were talking about that one place?”

“Huh? No, I don’t remember that.” The light turned green and I pressed the gas.

“When they came over last time.”

“Last time? What did we do the last time they came over?” The snow, the traffic, the chatter – I was drawing a total blank as I turned off the highway.

Mo-om, you know – when she came over to get the beer!”

The beer. Oh, yes. It all came back to me as I tried not to veer into the ditch.

Let me explain. After Christmas, an extremely generous coworker of Vince’s gave him a bunch of draft beer. It had a three-day lifespan before it went flat, and we couldn’t possibly finish it. And by “a bunch,” I mean two growlers from a local brewery for two adults who barely drink alcohol.

This friend doesn’t know us well. Yep, it was a little awkward. Almost as awkward as my six-year-old yelling about beer.

I could only think of one way to use it up that fast, but since using beer as a sedative for children at bedtime would be frowned upon (ahem) we called friends for assistance. Wendy, who does know us well, came over. And that was what Chamberlain was talking about – we chatted about real estate, moving, and neighborhoods while I poured stout and hard cider into mason jars for Wendy to take home, so she could tranquilize her children share accordingly.

You do what you have to do. As Vin said, good friends lift you up in prayer; great friends also help you finish the growler. Or, bury the body. Whatever.

(This might be a good time to refer you to why our kids also know about vodka)

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We’ve made some pretty incredible friendships during our marriage. We’ve done normal friend stuff with a lot of people – hiking, movies, small groups, coffee, dinners, and such – but the couples we are closest to are the ones we’ve buried bodies with.

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We’ve met in the emergency room when one of us was still on a gurney. We’ve taken turns responding to middle-of-the-night prayer requests and family crises. We’ve walked through grief and recovery together.

We know the messes from each other’s past and present, and the wild, crazy hopes for the future. These are friends who help us bury the body of our past – our failures and doubts, mistakes and inadequacies – and continually point us back to His truth.

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Of course, we share fun things in common, too. A few weekends ago we went to someone else’s house, and while us girls settled in the living room with tea, the guys were in the kitchen where her husband had just pulled a cast iron skillet full of fresh cornbread out of the oven. And, true story – my husband said to her husband, “Wow. Nice pan.” Because we both totally scored in the marriage department with husbands who cook.

(In related news, there was recent drama here when we moved the appliances I never use to the garage. We relegated the Kitchenaid next to the chainsaw, but in the process lost the doughhook for about a week. Vince was in a state of grief until I found it in the pantry.)

For we died and were buried with Christ by baptism. And just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glorious power of the Father, now we also may live new lives.

– Romans 6:4, NLT

We have to bury the body to be the body – and these friends help us do that because they know us well. They know where we’ve been and where we are going. We become less to become more, stretching roots deep with our dearest so we can grow wide in our communities.

Our closest friends help us bury the body so we can rise.

These are the friendships that nurture, that press you closer to Him and who He’s designed you to be. You know each other’s individual daily struggles and share some of them in common. Some of them have walked a journey of grief that reflects your own, and you speak the same language.

These are the deep friendships, where you are free to be yourself, your most vulnerable you. The messy kitchen, the kids and coffee and books everywhere; hoodies draped over chairs, the reality of diaper changes when a cat wants to help, and the kids’ discarded stray socks everywhere.

diaper changing cat

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That which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ.

– 1 John 1:3, ESV

These are the friendships that don’t stop contending for you in prayer when you are this close to breakthrough, even after you’ve pretty much given up and just don’t want to talk about it anymore. These friendships fight for those things that feel like impossibles, because sometimes it’s easier to pray and believe for a friend than for yourself. We can do that for each other.

And also, great friends aren’t weirded out by this kind of text:

Do you guys have an extra snot sucker? We left ours at home but can run back for it after church.