Author

Lois Flowers

If I Had To Do It Again, One Thing Would Not Change

by Lois Flowers November 25, 2014

by Lois Flowers

Dear Randy,

As of tomorrow, you and I will have been married for 20 years and eight months (or exactly 20 2/3 years, if you prefer fractions).

Our twentieth anniversary passed without too much hoopla last March. I made my famous chicken cordon bleu and you surprised me with favorite quotes from the Chronicles of Narnia that now adorn the walls throughout our house. It was a lovely celebration, but it seems like such a long time ago. The days are speeding by, faster by the hour.

In the midst of these rushing days—one recent Sunday afternoon, to be exact—I took a little nap. When I woke up, the first thing that caught my eye was a Precious Moments bride and groom figurine on the dusty bookshelf in our bedroom. The very same figurine that graced the top of our wedding cake all those 20 years and eight months ago.

As you know, my interest in Precious Moments figurines is pretty much a thing of the past, though I’ve held on to one or two for sentimental reasons. But as I lay there and thought about it, I realized that the wedding cake decorations were only one of the things about that long-ago day that I would do differently, if I had to do it all over again.

I’d ditch the figurine on the cake and use fresh flowers instead.

I’d choose a different color for the bridesmaids’ outfits. They were lovely in their day, but forest green? You can’t get much more 1994 than that, unless you went with country blue and rose.

I would wear my hair up instead of down, with flowers here and there instead of a veil attached to a beaded headband.

I would still wear the same dress, I think, but I would keep it after the wedding instead of selling it back to the bridal shop.

I’d arrange to get all our pictures done before the ceremony, not afterwards.

I’d have my brother-in-law play the traditional “Here Comes the Bride” processional on his trumpet as I walked into the church sanctuary on my dad’s arm. Not because I didn’t love the trumpet voluntary he actually did play, but so that you would know what was going on when I started down the aisle.

Yes, there’s a lot I would do differently if I had to do it over again, both that day and in the 20 2/3 years since. But there is one thing that I would absolutely not change.

I would still marry you.

You may wonder why I’m writing about this now. It’s not our actual anniversary. It’s not Valentine’s Day. It’s not even the 24^th anniversary of our first date (that’s Feb. 1, 2015, in case you forgot). It’s just a Tuesday in late November.

I guess I’m writing it because, while it’s Tuesday today, Thursday is coming.

And Thursday is Thanksgiving.

There are many, many things in my life for which I am thankful. I even have a list to prove it—a record of 1,000 gifts that took me more than three-and-a-half years to compile.

I know. The popular thing these days is to reach this goal in one year, or even a single month. But however long the list, and however long it took me to complete, you are at the very top.

In fact, without you, many of the other things on the list would not even be there.

When the computer starts churning out hard-drive-failure warnings, you back it up, then figure out what to do when it actually does crash the next day. When we need a new sump pump, you replace it. When one or the other daughter wants to play Mario Bros. or talk about cell phones for hours on end, you willingly join in.

When I imagine 8-foot-high bookshelves in the living room, you build them. When someone drops a glass of orange juice or anything else that might make a sharp, sticky mess in the kitchen, you jump right in to clean it up. When there is a crash on the second floor, you take the stairs four at a time to get up there in the unlikely event that someone has pulled a dresser over on herself.

You work hard to provide the sole paycheck that funds our family. You remain constant when seasons of life come too soon and when things don’t turn out the way we thought they would, when everything is running smoothly and when everything seems to be falling apart.

There are so many things around here that would not happen without your sacrifices, your steadfastness, your creativity, your strength, your encouragement.

It would be easy to take it all for granted, and maybe it seems like I do sometimes.

But I don’t. Honestly and truly, I do not.

I admire and appreciate and love you way more now than I did back when I was all atwitter about tulle and white roses and wedding cake figurines. I’d marry you again tomorrow, as long as we didn’t have to mess with any of all that.

That’s why, this Thanksgiving, what I’m most thankful for is you.

November 25, 2014 2 comments

We’re Different, but We’re Also Not So Different

by Lois Flowers November 18, 2014

by Lois Flowers

Did you know that November is National Adoption Month? I love that this initiative—designed to draw attention to foster children in need of adoptive families—shares a calendar page with Thanksgiving. While we did not adopt through the foster-care system, I can think of few things in my life that I am more thankful for than the two wonderful people who joined my family through adoption.

I don’t know if I should admit this during National Adoption Month, but I don’t often think about the fact that my daughters are adopted. They were babies when they joined our family, and it’s like we’ve always been together—first the three of us, then the four of us.

They know they are adopted, of course, and from time to time, they talk about their birth parents or wonder if they have biological siblings in China. In the quiet, secret spots of their minds and hearts, I know they both ponder—each in her own way—the mysteries that surround their former lives.

When we talk of these things, I imagine with them what their birth mother looks like or what kind of personality she might have, based solely on what I see in them. I also tell them that this is one of those times in life when certain questions simply cannot be answered, at least not this side of heaven.

I wish it were not so, but then again, maybe it’s not so bad to learn this at a young age.

Lilly and Molly are from different parts of China, and they also are quite different in personality and appearance—from each other and from us. This is no big surprise—I could say the same thing about myself and Randy. That’s how families often are, adoptive or not.

While I have been stretched at times due to our differences, I am eternally grateful for them. One of the most unexpected blessings of motherhood, for me, has been how much I’ve learned from my daughters. Not in my role as a parent, but as a person. They serve as examples to me simply by being who they are.

But we are also not so different in this immediate and extended family of ours. Sometimes, in fact, the similarities amaze me.

There’s the way Lilly absorbs every iota of information she reads and contributes bits and pieces of it to her normal, every-day conversations. Exactly like I’ve heard her grandpa do throughout my entire life.

There’s the way Molly tinkers on the computer, figuring out shortcuts and entirely new functions that I didn’t even know existed. Just like her daddy does when he gets his hands on an unfamiliar software program or a new piece of electronic equipment.

There’s Lilly’s intensity. I didn’t realize it until a few years ago, but I think she gets it from me.

There’s Molly’s love of building things. There’s no doubt where that comes from—just look at the before-and-after pictures of our home, and then watch her and her home-remodeler-extraordinaire father drive past any random construction site and simultaneously ogle the structures coming out of the ground.

There’s Lilly’s gift of hospitality, so much like both her grandmas, and her natural leadership abilities, so like those of her uncle the former Navy captain. And I can’t forget Molly’s helpful penchant for keeping track of all sorts of details, which is a dominant trait in more than one generation of our family.

What I love about this list is that all these similarities exist between people who share no genetic material, but who clearly share something even deeper.

I have no way of knowing all the ways being adopted might impact Lilly’s and Molly’s minds and hearts as they grow older. Whatever happens, I hope they never lose sight of the bigger picture—the spiritual piece of the family puzzle that looks different in each of them but is definitely alive and well.

A strong line of faith extends through the many branches of our family tree, and I love to remember where it all began, at least for one limb. You see, my dad’s grandfather—Lilly and Molly’s great, great-grandfather—was a merchant sailor from Germany who became a believer at a port of call far from his homeland.

Can you guess where? It was in Hong Kong, at a Salvation Army meeting.

When I think of how all this could have happened in such a seemingly serendipitous way, I have but one response: only God, the One who knits every family together, could have drawn that faith-filled family line from Hong Kong to Germany, from Germany to the United States, and—many decades later—from the United States back to China again.

Only God.

November 18, 2014 4 comments

What to Remember When She Turns 13

by Lois Flowers November 11, 2014

by Lois Flowers

As you might guess from the headline of this post, we recently celebrated a milestone birthday at our house.

I don’t have any trouble thinking of my daughter as a teenager—she’s always seemed older and wiser than her years, in mostly good ways. I do, however, start having a little difficulty breathing when I think about the mass onslaught of letting go that will happen in the coming years. This process is right and necessary, but it also can be somewhat scary, especially in the world in which we live.

When our children are little, it’s easier to manage much of what they do, see and hear. As parents, we are the primary gatekeepers for what influences them, and though bad influences can and sometimes do creep in, it’s not so hard to quash them.

The older they get, however, the more they start to think for themselves. Again, this is as it should be, but there’s always the possibility that the thoughts they start thinking might not line up with the thoughts I want them to think. They also start to experience more hard things—issues with friends, unmet expectations, struggles in school, emotional swings, physical pain, and so on.

While I don’t worry about all these areas, there are one or two that have the potential to send me into orbit.

Once when I was particularly spun up—to the point of extrapolating my fears into ridiculous future outcomes—I heard a sermon that transformed my thinking about the matter. One of the elders at my church was preaching about God’s sovereignty and used an experience from his daughter’s childhood to illustrate how God brings good from bad.

I don’t remember all the details, but I do recall that his daughter suffered some kind of injury when she was younger that led to years of pain and difficult rehabilitation. As he talked about how his daughter’s interactions with caring medical professionals later led her to become a nurse, I had one of those a-ha moments that are usually reserved for the shower.

Would God have plucked my daughter out of hundreds of millions in China and brought her over here to be part of my little family just to disappear when the going got a bit rough? I asked myself.

And are any struggles she may have—in any area—enough to negate the plans He has for her life, whatever they may entail?

The answer to both, of course, is absolutely not. In fact, those struggles very well might be the tools He uses to make her into what He designed her to be before she was ever born.

Struggles build character. They force perseverance. They foster patience. They produce empathy.

All I have to do is look at my own life for proof. I was a good kid. I followed all the “rules.” But back then, my faith walk was more of a “works walk.” My being a Christian had much more to do with everything I did or didn’t do than it had to do with a personal relationship with God.

I’m not necessarily complaining about this. I’m grateful for the hurts I may have been spared because I was so strictly adhering to my do-not-do list.

But it wasn’t until I was an adult that I experienced anything close to what you might call spiritual growth. And you know what brought those growth spurts on?

It was trouble. It took on various forms, but no matter the trial, it was during those times when I started learning what it means to walk by faith and not by sight, what it means to die to myself so that others may experience life, what it means to live like Jesus is enough.

(Notice I said “started learning.” This is an ongoing process, sometimes marked by progress, sometimes by the exact opposite.)

I must confess that, often, I want my children to have life easy. I want to shield them from pain and loss and challenging math problems, not just because I don’t want them to hurt, but because it is easier for me.

That is not necessarily best for them, however. This makes me cringe a bit, because I don’t know what kinds of trouble might be in store for them. But while Randy and I are their parents and are responsible for many things regarding their lives, there is a Power much greater than us at work in them.

And that brings me both comfort and hope as I watch my daughter embark on her teenage years.

Yes, I am her mother. Yes, Randy is her father.

But God, her heavenly Father, is with her. He is for her. He loves her.

None of that has changed now that she is 13.

Nor will it ever change, for her, or for her little sister, or for me, or for you.

Photo by Lettricia Spell

November 11, 2014 2 comments

How a Psalm I Learned as a Child Saved Me as an Adult

by Lois Flowers November 4, 2014

by Lois Flowers

When I was a kid memorizing Psalm 121 in Sunday school, I had no inkling that this little chapter about hills and such would one day rescue me from a dark valley.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help, the King James Version begins. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

As a young adult, my church choir learned a song based on this text that fed my soul through years of infertility and waiting to complete an international adoption. The ensuing decade brought another adoption, a move to a different state and the regular challenges that come with mothering two active little girls. I was busy, but blessed.

Trouble Brewing

Inside, though, all was not well. And that’s why I found myself in the shower one Sunday morning, somewhere near despair. To this day, I’m not quite sure how to describe it. I didn’t wish I was dead. I didn’t want to die. But some how, I didn’t want to be alive.

I hadn’t arrived at this disturbing place overnight, of course. For most of my adult life, my reproductive system has been a thorn in my side.

Severe endometriosis mangled my insides and robbed me of my ability to conceive. And after adoption paved my way to motherhood, I began to struggle off and on with other symptoms of hormonal imbalance: fatigue, anxiety, melancholy, irritability, lack of focus, feeling overwhelmed.

A Dark Turn

These wreaked havoc on my spirit and certainly didn’t enhance the life of anyone close to me. But this—this wanting to stop the bus of life and get off—this was new. New and dreadful and terrifying.

As I stood there in the shower, the song that had so encouraged me before flitted through my troubled mind and I began to sing. Shakily at first, the words pushed past the turmoil in my brain and came pouring out my mouth.

“I … will … lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help … my help cometh from the Lord … the Lord which made heaven and earth …”

My Source of Strength

Over and over, tears mixing with soap and water, I lifted my voice—and my heart—to my only true Source of strength. And little by little, spurred by the mysterious working of Scripture, my feelings of deep despondency gave way, gently replaced by the peace that surpasses all understanding.

My internal struggles weren’t over. In fact, they would get worse before they got better. But, to paraphrase one of the final verses of Psalm 121, the Lord had preserved me from all evil that morning, and, to this day, He continues to preserve my soul.

♥ Lois

This column originally appeared in the Kansas City Star.

Photo credit:Len Radin via photopin cc

November 4, 2014 6 comments

Introducing Song of the Month

by Lois Flowers November 2, 2014

by Lois Flowers

Some people remember momentous occasions or difficult seasons in their lives by the meals they ate or the clothes they wore.

I remember though songs.

That Halloween a couple years ago when I was driving my parents to the hospital because my dad’s epilepsy had sent him into a scary, Groundhog-Day cycle of amnesia? Matt Redmon’s “10,000 Reasons” came on the radio at just the right time, bringing tremendous comfort to both me and my mom.

That first Easter after my friend Lisa died? Matt Maher’s “Christ is Risen” filled my heart with renewed hope that this life is not the end for those of us who love Jesus.

That summer when Randy had been working out of town for several months, we were living in a recently purchased fixer-upper and the girls were anticipating starting a new school in the fall? Laura Story’s “Blessings” provided encouragement, not to mention plenty of minivan discussion about why God allows His children to go through stretching times.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Music speaks to me like nothing else. I prefer certain artists and styles, but every now and then, Randy will come home and play me a song he’s found somewhere—a song he’s sure I’m gonna love even though it fits in a music box I would probably never open on my own.

And you know what? Those are among the songs I end up listening to over and over again, the songs I want to send out to everyone I know who might like music with instructions to listen up because I just know they’re gonna love them too.

I know, I know. Not everyone has the same taste in music. But if a song brings tears to my eyes or stirs me to dance around the kitchen with my arms raised in praise, I’m pretty sure it will do the same for someone else.

That’s why I’m introducing a feature on Waxing Gibbous called, simply, “Song of the Month.” I don’t usually post on the first day of the week, but one Sunday a month I will share a song that has captured my mind and heart, in hopes that it might encourage you, too.

Randy found this first one. It’s sung by Lacey Sturm, the former lead singer of the Christian hard rock band Flyleaf.

♥ Lois

Photo credit:random wire via photopin cc

November 2, 2014 1 comment

When in Doubt, Run to the Father

by Lois Flowers October 28, 2014

by Lois Flowers

There are some details missing from the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, things we might think of as biblical fact that really aren’t there at all.

The Bible doesn’t actually say, for example, what their relationship with God really looked like—how often they experienced His presence and heard His actual voice. But based on Gen. 3:3, which says they “heard the sound of the Lord God as He was walking in the garden in the cool of the day,” I don’t think it’s unreasonable to assume they spent enough time near Him to know what His presence sounded like.

I can hardly imagine what it might have been like to be in such close fellowship with God—completely comfortable and free from the slightest trace of guilt or shame. Whatever it was like, that’s what Adam and Eve experienced.

Then they were tempted by Satan, cleverly disguised as a serpent, to eat fruit from the one tree in the Garden that God said was off limits. Forget all the other delicious fruit they’d been eating since Day One. Now, suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly), they want the one they aren’t supposed to have.

That’s how it always is, isn’t it? No wonder Ruth Bell Graham calls it the testing tree in her lovely children’s book One Wintry Night.

I’m pointing no fingers at Eve here. If I had been in her place, I might have done exactly what she did. But it makes me sad, as I think about it now, that her first inclination was not to run to her Creator and ask for help when that serpent first appeared.

This is what conscientious parents teach their children to do, right? I know it’s a lesson Randy and I have tried to impart to our daughters.

“Girls,” we’ve told them, “if you find yourself in a situation or conversation and you don’t know what to do, or you have a funny feeling about it, or you know something’s not right, don’t wait—come and talk to us about it.”

And they do.

“Mom, I need to talk to you,” one will say. And she takes me to the bedroom, shuts the door and asks a question or tells me what’s on her mind. I always go into these conversations with a bit of trepidation because I never know what to expect, but I cherish them nonetheless.

Whatever it is, I always, always want them to ask or tell me. I always want them to feel like they can tell me.

Not that I’m always a big help. I remember Lilly coming home in second grade and quizzing me—more than once, as I recall—about a word she had heard at school.

“Is funk a bad word?” she wanted to know.

“No, of course not,” I answered, without giving it a second thought. “It’s like a rotten mood or something.”

Take a wild guess where this is about to go.

Now that I think about it, I’m sure I heard an occasional cuss word when I was in second grade. But I was not prepared for my innocent little girl to be exposed to the granddaddy of all bad words at that age, so it didn’t even register that she might be asking about the obvious four-letter word that starts with F.

Turns out, it was that word, and not funk, that she was asking about. A too-knowledgeable-for-his-own-good classmate, noticing her naiveté, apparently had gotten a big kick out of teaching her to say it, and their conversation had been overhead by a teacher at recess.

By the time the students had been ushered back to the classroom to deal with this little crisis, Lilly was so frustrated that she exclaimed—loudly and in front of everyone—“But I don’t even know what @#$% means!”

She doesn’t remember this event and thought it was pretty funny when I told her about it recently. But talk about dropping the mom ball. Yikes.

Fortunately, God never drops the ball in such situations. The still, small voice, that feeling I get when I know something’s not right, that specific bit of Scripture that speaks directly into my soul—that’s Him, letting me know which way is the right way, and which way is not.

Which makes me wonder: When the serpent first appeared, why in the name of all things good and holy didn’t Eve get that funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that would have sent her running straight to God? Or, if she did get it, why didn’t she heed it?

There’s no way to know, of course. But still, I can’t help but wonder.

Part of me thinks, if Eve didn’t do this, and she actually physically walked in the presence of God, what hope is there for me? But then I think of another tree, and what Jesus did there—the reason He did it and the finality of His sacrifice. And I know there is always a chance, and another chance, and another chance.

It’s called grace. And how lost we would be without it.

Photo credit:FotoGraf-Zahl via photopin cc

October 28, 2014 1 comment