I enter the little pink playhouse at the edge of the playground. The summer breeze drifts lightly through the air and sunlight spills through the windows. Here I am, surrounded by three of my favorite girls in the entire world. Malaisa is nine years old and Kim and Reondre are both eight. Kim reaches for a doll in a crib.

"Let's play house!" She suggests excitedly.

I beam at her. My mind flashes back to summer days when I was eight years old. My sister and I could have played with dolls for hours.

Reondre takes the baby and rocks it gently. "Shhhhh, it's okay. You're safe here."

I snap out of my image of happy eight year old days as her words register in my mind.

Malaisa smiles with excitement and takes another doll from the crib. "Here's another baby!"

Kim takes charge, her blue eyes sparkling and her mind brimming with ideas. She steps out on the porch of the pink playhouse, holds a doll up with one hand, and calls "Child for sale!".

I step out on the porch. "Hey now, Kim! We can't sell the baby! We have to take care of it!"

Kim turns to me and shakes her head. "No, we're taking care of the baby! But we're just a temporary home. We take kids who don't have nobody until we can find a family for them."

I start to realize what this is about. "You mean," I ask slowly, "Like foster care?".

The other girls join us on the porch. "Yeah! We'll call it Jerusha Care!" They place the dolls in my arms. "And we'll make sure they're safe until they get real families."

For the next half hour, we brushed the hair and changed the clothing of the dolls. We cooked them food and sang them to sleep.

And as Reondre pats the doll on the back and whispers that it will be okay, I wonder if she's really saying it to herself. Because Reondre doesn't have a mom or a dad. Her parents are in prison and she lives with her aunt.

I wonder if Kim is remembering that, just like this doll she is holding, there might come a day when she has a real family. There might come a day when she's not shuffled from home to home like an inconvenience.

And I wonder if the pretend plastic feast Malaisa has prepared for dinner reflects her own deep fear of going hungry. Malaisa is one of the 15.8 million children who comes from a food insecure household.

I look at my watch and realize that it's time for dinner. "Come on, girls! Time to close up Jerusha Care! We're gonna go get some food!".

The girls gently tuck their dolls back in the cribs before they scramble onto the porch of the pink playhouse. I shut the door and smile at my girls. I hoist Reondre on my back as Kim and Malaisa take my hands. As the last rays of summer light dance across the playground, we turn towards the dining hall.

And as I sing my girls to sleep that night, I whisper an extra prayer over them. Kim, Malaisa, and Reondre: Please never forget how to be compassionate. Never forget to love. I look into your eyes and I see the future. You are here for a purpose. Don't ever forget how to be a family to those without a family.

To the Person Who Hates Mother's Day

To the women who wish they had a child, thank you for treasuring the children of others, even when it doesn't feel the same.

To the women whose kids are rebellious, thank you for never giving up on them. I was one of the angry children, and my mother's patience and perseverance saved me.

To the people abandoned or never known by their moms, thank you for battling bravely to forgive. Thank you for adopting other mothers to help you. My mother is not a gift just to me -- she is yours to share.

To the people who lost their moms, thank you especially for celebrating my mother with me. Thank you for taking the time to remember your mom and reminding me that life is short and fragile. When I am in your place, I hope I can handle it with as much peace as you do.

To the moms whose children died, I admire you. You have come from one of the deepest pains imaginable to us as women. Thank you for loving your child for however long you knew them. You will never stop being a mother.

You live in silence about the battles you fight in your heart every day. And today, on Mother's Day, the stinging wound can be ripped open once again.

I can't thank you enough for the gracious way you've let us celebrate our moms and motherhood. Thank you for your patience when your own heart is hurting. It's an incredible example of love that you choose to celebrate with us.

Thank you for being the kind of women who keep going. Thank you for not giving permission to the pain.

This is not how your story ends.

The Saddest Part of Traveling

The saddest part of traveling is not leaving home. It is not leaving the comforts of your own room or your friends.

The saddest part of traveling is not the last day of your trip. It is not saying goodbye to the lands that take a piece of your heart. 

The saddest part of traveling is not when your airplane taxis on the runway of your home airport and you realize that you are home. 

The saddest part of traveling doesn't come until a few days after you return home. It is the day you finally zip up your suitcase for the last time and roll it down to the storage shed. It's when you carefully place the suitcase in the corner and let go of the handle for the last time. It's when you start to close the door, and then open it again just to take one last look at the bag that went everywhere with you. 

The saddest part of traveling is the day when you put away your suitcase. 

Because that is the day when you realize your adventure is officially over. 

You Can't Fight for Joy

I believe with all my heart that staying joyful can be a difficult thing. 

Whether it's the daily rhythms of life that start to wear on you, or if it's sudden, devastating news that breaks your heart.

And I've heard this:

Fight for joy.

It's an interesting concept.

I imagine myself as a warrior in dented armor -- valiantly shoving down evil barricades that keep me from joy.

But I'd like to propose a different philosophy.

You see, you can't technically fight for joy, because you can't win it.

The source of joy is not some unmoving object, passively awaiting your victorious warring against depression.

The Source of Joy already conquered that depression.

Now He's standing in front of you.

You -- a quivering, cowardly warrior.

And He's extending His arms to you. 

You can't win Joy.

He is winning YOU.

Don't fight for what truly makes you happy.

What makes you truly happy is fighting for you.

And now the only one left to conquer is The Enemy.

The Enemy who whispers that the Joy before you is not, in fact, Joy at all.

Quivering warrior -- battered by the warring in your own soul -- YOU cannot win this fight within you. 

But you can open your eyes. You can unclench your fists. You can take hold of the Joy before you.

You can have Joy.

Trapped

It is a silent feeling that wells up within us.

Because we all fall prey to the idea that we are alone.

No matter how many friends you have, how many social gatherings you attend in a day, or how busy your schedule is, you can still be alone. Because loneliness is not a state of being. It's a state of mind.

It's a state of mind because we can't find our place in life. And no matter how much someone else tells you they need you in their lives, it doesn't hit home. Sometimes, not even an It's a Wonderful Life moment will help, because you're just not sure where you belong -- really.

You might even have friends -- good friends -- who know your story inside and out and have helped you along. They know what makes you laugh and finish your sentences.

But on the nights when you don't even know how to voice what you feel, what do you say? You just don't.

 

And an emptiness gnaws at you. When you feel trapped in this space of life. When you feel trapped in a rhythm. That is why people long to explore. Long to adventure. Long to travel. Because, just for a few moments, they want to escape this pit. 

And it claims so many victims. The rich, the poor. The young, the old. We want to break free, somehow. We want to be understood perfectly. We want to be loved perfectly. We want to be fulfilled.

And I am here to tell you that you should never, ever hope to find something or some person who fills that empty feeling up.

But there is Someone.

We can be fulfilled.

But it is not by a airplane ticket. It is not by the plan of tomorrow. It is not by your spouse. It is not by your children. It is not by your education.  

El Shaddai. The Creator of the Universe. The Ancient of Days. 

There is Someone.

And late in the evening, when the midnight oil burns and the questions plague your mind, He is the only one with you.

Where do I really belong? You belong following Me. You belong as a child of God. You belong as an instrument of My glory. You belong to extend my Love, my Hope, my Healing. 

What is my purpose? I placed a purpose on you from before time began. I made you in my Image. 

Who really understands? I understand your thoughts better than you possibly could. What you can't say, I know. 

It doesn't always seem comforting. To know that the Creator of the World, the Ancient of Days, is the only One who can possibly understand the pit of loneliness.

And then I remember that He must have felt it more acutely than I could ever dream of knowing it.

To come to earth after knowing Heaven. After having created Heaven. And who did He go to, to have those deep, heartfelt talks? On various occasions, He told his disciples what was to come -- who He was. But none of them got it. To be burdened with the weight of the world and have no one to turn to?

But He did have someone to turn to.

We are flooded with instances in the gospels when Jesus went and prayed.

To the only One who understood.

He is here in the hard moments. 

He is here when what seems to be your entire world comes crashing down.

When friendships die. 

When the money's run dry. 

When the day is unfulfilled. 

He is our life.

And when we turn to something else and make it our life, we break our own hearts. 

When My Words Have a Meter

The empty spaces that used to be full
I can't ignore this vacancy that pulls
And I fall again to the voice that demands
I stay discontent with the hourglass sands
And time beats slowly on and on
And soon each and every moment is gone

Fill me up, Fill me, Lord, in these empty spaces
Let me be lost in the beauty of Your wondrous graces
Destroy every idol's stronghold in my heart
And if pain's what it takes to tear me apart
Still fill me up

Surely the One who created my being
Searches my heart with eyes that are seeing
And if He claims to know the rest of my story
I'll trust it's for my best and for His own glory

Fill me up, Fill me, Lord, in these empty spaces
Let me be lost in the beauty of Your wondrous graces
Destroy every idol's stronghold in my heart
And if pain's what it takes to tear me apart
Still fill me up

The Blue Rug

It's a tattered old carpet. It lays in the hallway between three bedrooms. Since the day we first moved into the house – 23 years ago – it's been there. The rug was there through the birth of three more children. The rug was there when one moved out. It was there through chilly winter mornings and hot summer days. It was there to feel the patter of children's feet turn into the solid step of an adult. It was there during long midnight pow-wows in the hallway between siblings.

The blue rug was still here this year. Slowly, the bedrooms emptied out. Instead of five children living at home, there are two. One gets married. One moves several states away. Another one moves across the ocean.

Late-night hallways chats turn into hastily typed Facebook messages.

A home that once rang with boisterous laughter and mischievous plans turns quiet.

It still offers the same sense of security and comfort – but suddenly changed.

I am the youngest. While I haven't been here since the beginning, I have never known another kind of normal.

Yet here I am – cleaning out the bedroom of one of my best friends – my sister. Reminiscing of Christmas mornings and silly songs and tear-jerking discussions.

In a way, it feels morbid to see her room so empty. It's another reminder that I won't see her again for two years.

I go back to my room. It's my brother's old room. I remember sitting on the floor years ago and discussing life plans with him – who he would marry and what he would be. He's married now to the person he swore that night he wouldn't marry. I gained a sister, but they've moved away.

My mother steps into my room and quietly speaks the words we all knew were coming. “Can you help me pull up the rug?”.

It's a tattered old carpet. It's an awful faded, dark blue. It deserves nothing better than the garbage can, quite honestly.

But I step out onto that rug – that memorial of memories – and for an instant, children's laughter rings out once again. I can hear spontaneous prayer meetings and yes, even argumentative and unkind words. I hear, once again, the harmony of voices as we sang together. I see deep, raw emotion laid out between sisters as we share heartaches and trials.

It takes me a while to collect my thoughts. It takes a long talk between mother and daughter – sitting out on that old, blue carpet.

Memories may have been made on that blue rug, but they won't be thrown away with the rug.

Memories are made to be cherished.

I see a beautiful wood floor beneath the carpet – just waiting to be unveiled.

And perhaps this is the way it is with life. How can I hang onto something so ugly and tattered just because I am unwilling to let go?

Beneath that blue rug of past memories, there is a wood floor. And maybe, just maybe, that wood floor is waiting to be covered in new memories.

Maybe this wood floor will be there to hear the homecoming of a daughter across the sea. Maybe this floor will be here through weddings and grandchildren. Maybe a wood floor can become a symbol of change to me. Change is hard, but change is not bad.

And so maybe it's time to say goodbye to the old blue rug.