A Mother’s Day Prayer

Posted by baobrien in Uncategorized May 14, 2023

I shared this prayer with our congregation this morning. Truth be told: Mother’s Day is a tricky holiday for me, as it is for so many. What a gift to give space for all of us around the table.

Good and gracious Father, we come today to talk to you about Mothers. Recognizing fully that within our midst some entered this day with pure joy, some with inescapable sadness, and many with some mixture of the two.

Some of us have recently given birth to new life and have bodies still recovering.

Some have never given birth and we carry disappointment, even pain within our bodies.

Others have lost a child and that pain feels like too much on the best of days, but especially on a day like today.

We have reason to celebrate and give thanks for all the ways our children succeed and thrive.

Yet, some of us parent children with high needs, and deep pain. We feel the weight of caring for them.

Some of us have empty nests and children who don’t call enough.

Others have a long list of accomplishments to brag about to the people around us and regular visits to enjoy.

And still others parent out of deep pain within ourselves and some days feel all too difficult.

There are those among us who are called mother biologically, formally, legally, officially, and those who mother spiritually, unofficially, as a part of our community.

Those of us who parent alongside present and available partners and with family close by.

And those of us who must be both mother and father and feel like we operate in isolation.

Far too many are longing for a family of our own, for healing, for hope, for restoration.

Some of us are separated from our children and denied the privilege of caring for them.

And within all of that, we so deeply love these children we get to walk alongside. Goodness, how we love them.

Spiritual mothers, biological mothers, adoptive mothers, not-yet mothers, and never-plan- to-be (please just stop asking) mothers …all of us come together today.

For all of us, we pray for your presence and blessing on us and on the ones we parent.

Some of us are fortunate enough to mother out of a deep well of good and loving mothering. We thank you today for the mothers who have mothered us well. We ask your special blessing on their lives.

There are those who have had to say goodbye to our mothers. Father, be near.

Still others of us bear the grief of having been mistreated, neglected, abandoned or simply ignored. We strive to mother with no example but in a way that breaks generational curses. Be present with us, dear Jesus. Mother us to better mother those in our midst.

All of us go to sleep at night at times both thankful and exhausted. Hopeful and worried. Proud and discouraged.

And so, today, we ask for your blessing. We ask for your courage. For your kindness. For your wisdom. For your mercy. for your healing. For your good and holy rest.

May the women in our midst—whether they are called mother or not—all feel you rejoice over us with gladness.

May we gaze in wonder and adoration at the children in our midst that you fearfully and wonderfully made.

Meet us today wherever we are. May we feel loved and cherished and held safe.

In your good and gracious name we pray. Amen.

A certain kind of beautiful

It’s not that I didn’t know.

“When you move out of the city,” they said (from anonymous bloggers or neighborhood friends), “you’ll be lonely.”

One of the hidden gifts of parenting in the city is that you are surrounded with people doing it alongside you. I knew my neighbors well. The ones whose kids my kids loved to play with, the guy who sold ice cream and bottles of water in the park, the man who played the drums and bought all the kids cheap water guns, the several homeless people who slept in the park, the various store clerks, even the kids or people we knew to avoid.

Many of these people were simply on the same schedule as us, so it didn’t take any coordination for us to all play together every day. For others there were some text exchanges or simple, “we’re heading out” but effort was minimal.

We saw some people every single day, others were routinely peppered in throughout the week.

Community had a sort of rhythm to it. And while we had definitely put in work to start the engine, it didn’t seem to require much at all to keep going. It played to my “I forgot to plan ahead” strengths.

(Side note: of course, there were those friends who weren’t in our neighborhood. The coordination to see them was much more complicated.)

So, it’s not that I didn’t know what we had. I knew.

And it’s not that they didn’t try to warn me. They did.

Just a few short weeks ago we moved from Manhattan to Phoenix, Arizona. Moving across the country with kids isn’t simple, moving during an international pandemic makes it significantly more challenging. Coordinating the move amongst family tragedy complicated things even further.

But we’re here. We have good work to do and good friends to work alongside. We’re glad to be here. I’m actually eagerly expectant about all the new friendships we will form.

But I spent the last few days in a funk.

As I’ve been learning to embrace the feelings I have (instead of telling myself what I should feel instead), I’m trying to stop and listen to the sadness. It took me a few days (and an emotional breakdown) to identify loneliness. In 3 days I had only seen my family.

Even during the strictest part of the shut down I saw my neighbors (through a mask) when I took out the trash, did laundry downstairs, or went for a walk. Living in a pre-war Manhattan building has it’s challenges (and boy we could tell you some stories), but it also means I got to chat with Julia across the hall, and sweet Jesu next door. It means going for walks or to the park with our dear friends in 3B and even making awkward chit chat with other neighbors in the elevator.

It meant socially distanced happy hour in the park with a high school friend, and walking a few blocks to visit our dear friend after her surgery and take her little dog for a walk.

And when the playgrounds re-opened, even when we didn’t coordinate ahead of time, we saw people we knew every day.

As we do the work to find a place to live (we’re in a temporary spot right now), and discover all that is here in Phoenix, I imagine that a month from now I will be feeling differently.

But, for now, I’m missing our NYC life. It wasn’t even close to perfect (and could downright drive you crazy sometimes), but it was a certain kind of beautiful.

When the Shadows force you out

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Kids, Parenting, Young Family in NYC October 7, 2019

There’s a type of healing that begins in the shadows. In the dark night of the soul. In the hidden corners and lonely rooms. When inexplicable light carves out a home in those places, they become a sort of comforting that doesn’t make sense.

But at some point, we have to face that thing which threatened to overtake us.

In short, we can’t stay hidden forever. The healing that has only just begun, kind of demands it.

In January of 2019, after a very, very difficult fall semester, we finally gained some clarity and discovered that our oldest had been bullied at school basically since the year began. This had triggered his anxiety / trauma to put his body into hyper drive. A home which was formally peaceful became chaotic. Tears and anger ruled and threatened to overtake each of us in different ways.

Some days felt like a sort of hell had entered and refused to leave.

We retreated, because sometimes that’s the only option. We brought our sweet boy home and homeschooled till the year was over. In an effort to take care of the four of us, we withdrew from everything around us. Isolation took over. Loneliness set in.

But, then, so did healing. When there was nothing else around us, we began to watch kindness seep back in. We watched hearts and minds begin to heal. We saw new and healthier patterns be formed in each of us. In short, we saw hope.

Don’t get me wrong, many days these things were only glimmers, easily missed in the chaos of parenting through trauma. But they were there. In the long snuggles, the forts, the early morning park days.

Last month, we started a new school for both kids. J’s third school in as many years, E’s first year of kindergarten. We walked into school that day weary and worn out. We felt confident it was the right place, but I couldn’t have predicted how it would go.

Healing that had only just begun in isolation started to flourish in the light. We watched our children face a new school with bravery we didn’t know they had. There were tears, yes. There was overwhelming exhaustion at the end of the day. But there was also goodness. Pride. Kindness. A kind of rest. Hell was being pushed back, hope was coming to reign.

But, then. Then I held my sweet 5 year old as she kicked and screamed because kindergarten is hard and exhausting.

Then I counseled my 7 year old as he shared mean words from other kids at school directed at him.

And for a moment I wanted to run and to retreat and to go back to the quietness and privacy of our home.

But, then. Then, I saw all that we had been striving for begin to come to fruition. I watched a 5 year old cry but then choose snuggling and joy. I watched her blossom with incredible new found knowledge. I watched my brave boy speak boldly to those classmates and to his teachers.

I watched as brave children walked into school, tears and all, and chose to connect. Chose to express. Chose to advocate for themselves and for each other. I watched as they greeted each other with joy at the end of each day.

I mean, sure, they had literally moved furniture to barricade themselves inside their room to keep from going one morning (at least they used teamwork), because isolation can sometimes seem very appealing. Partial light in the comforts of home, can pull us back so easily. Healing is work. Sometimes fighting for it can seem just. too. hard.

But they also walked out of that room. They got dressed and brushed their teeth. They walked to school and used their words.

But, then.

There’s a type of healing that begins in the quiet, in the dark, in the ordinary, yes. But that beginning is nothing compared to the solidified healing that happens when we re-emerge.

Part of me wanted to cut and run when I heard of more mean comments on only the 4th day of school. It triggered all the trauma in us from the previous year. But then I watched as I saw what the Father had begun to weave through my children: A kind of strength that isn’t free of tears, but also isn’t bound by them; A kind of strength that fights for good and for hope, even when a loud voice is telling you to retreat; A kind of strength that is uniquely forged in pain. A kind of strength that is teaching me, daily.

Friends, this is a new season for the O’Brien 4. We’re still adjusting. Somedays, if I’m honest, can seem impossibly hard. Our oldest is gripped by a pain that he didn’t choose and anxieties he didn’t create. These things don’t get better so much as he gains tools that help him manage them more effectively. We are all a special kind of tired.

But, then. Then I see goodness emerge amidst impossible odds. Through my tears I watch mercy and grace come crashing in. And even while completely and utterly exhausted, I can’t help but be thankful.

All of these pictures by the very talented Priscilla Perumalla. We took them a year ago in October and they continue to be my favorites we’ve ever done. If you’re in NYC, book her yesterday!

Before the year ends…

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Just for Fun!, Kids, Simple Living, Young Family in NYC January 3, 2019

I started writing this shortly before the New Year on December 31. I knew then that I probably wouldn’t publish it in 2018. And I feel good about being right about that. But I kind of want you to hear it, the way I wrote it when it was still 2018. So here you go.

Right now it’s 10:33 p.m. on New Years Eve. My kids are asleep, my husband is in bed reading, I’m watching one last episode of Parks and Rec before I head to bed. It’s all perfectly normal. One wouldn’t guess that in less than two hours the New Year will reach our time zone. Or that we actually live just a few miles away from the biggest New Years Eve party happening in the world. (Not to mention that it’s also our 13 year wedding anniversary.)

But tonight, it’s quiet. 2018 has been a year of lots of new for us. Learning to know (and continue to love) our city, new school for the kids, new conversation patterns, one more new book released for Brandon, another one written, a joint book contract for the two of us…lots of good.

But I think, if we’re honest, there’s also been a sort of dark cloud in our home. As we learn to shepherd and to steer a child with anxiety, I think we’re all learning a new way to function together. And it can make coming into the new year a little hap hazard.

But here’s what I know. Tonight we had cheese dip for dinner, we snuggled on the couch, we watched fireworks (from Singapore and London…thanks YouTube) with the kids, we laughed until we cried. It wasn’t all beautiful. Truth be told, we were all sort of crabby today, and I’ve got a terrible sinus infection. But it was simple. It was us in our purest form and I got a glimpse, a stand-still moment of what I love about us. We’ll celebrate our anniversary this weekend, in coming years we’ll stay up till midnight…but for tonight, we’re resting in the simplicity of quiet.

In the end, that’s what I hope for in 2019. More of the simple. More of the sacred. Simply put, more of the quiet that leaves room for Jesus.

So, as I go to bed having taken all of the medication, with a few dirty dishes in the sink, and too many shoes by the front door, I’m also deeply thankful. Hopeful. We’ve got a lot of learning to continue to do in 2019. Big decisions to make and such. E will start Kindergarten in September, and J will run full force into 2nd grade. We’ll continue at the church we have come to love deeply. I am hopeful about a possible freelance project, and Brandon & I will write a book. Not to mention the fact that Brandon will continue to devote his time to the mission and vision of City to City.

So, Happy New Year, friends. May you and yours be blessed. May you find joy in unexpected places, hope in the midst of the mundane, and true beauty along the way.

This is us on New Years Eve. E with the messy hair, me with the puffy face, J with the Ninja pose, and Brandon holding it all together like an actual person.

Because how we talk about adoption matters… (even if we’re using the bible)

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Advent, Christian Thought, Parenting, Spiritual Formation December 5, 2018

Christians love to talk about adoption. And, more often than not, this is what’s going through my mind most of the time when they speak.

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The reason? We tend to equate adoption with salvation.

Let’s back up a little bit. Romans 8 and Galatians 4 both speak about our adoption as sons & daughters. There is beautiful truth in that we have been grafted into the family of God not because of some biological right, but purely by the grace of God bestowed on us through no action of our own. This is absolutely true. But it is not the full picture.

Here’s why: When we take the language of scripture and then apply it to modern adoption as if it’s a 1:1 correlation, we make adoption always pure, always saving, and always good news.

The first problem with this? It turns the adoptive parent into a Savior who rescues the broken child. I can’t tell you how many people have thanked us for “taking in our poor children.” It turns my stomach every time.

And that’s reason enough to re-think things…but I’d like to talk about something even deeper. As the mother of two beautiful children brought to us through adoption I can tell you this with confidence: Adoption is not good news.

Before you protest let me explain myself.

You cannot have adoption without loss. So from the beginning adoption is a sign that something has gone terribly wrong. God did not create families to break. But when they placed my 10 day old J in my arms that’s just what happened, a family was broken. When we left the hospital with my E, we left a family broken behind us.

Adoption begins in loss. It’s bad news from the beginning. There’s no way around it.

When the paperwork is finished and the adoption becomes final it doesn’t end the brokenness. Sure, that child and I belong to each other forever, just as if I had given birth to them. And there is beauty in that. And there is grace in that.

But they leave a family behind them (for whom that day brings great sadness), and they bring their loss and their brokenness with them to join it up with mine. You see when families are broken, when trauma takes root in a child’s soul (whether they are a newborn or 13 years old), the court date isn’t enough to undo it.

Adoption begins in loss, and it lives in a constant tension of brokenness and wholeness, pain and redemption, completeness and fractured-ness. Adoption is not good news.

Except that it is.

Before you think I’m crazy, I’ll explain.

When Jesus was born into this world all of creation groaned for his arrival. Why? Because our God had not created a world in order to break it. But when sin entered the world, that’s exactly what happened. Which means from that moment, creation has been longing for its redemption. In Romans 8, we see that all of creation groans for the Savior. When that Savior arrives, the physical creation rejoices. And beauty came to dwell.

Here’s where the tears usually come for me: Everyone was expecting that the arrival of the Messiah would completely erase all that had been broken. It would hit the reset button and begin it all afresh. It would erase sadness, sin, and death.

Except that’s not how it happened. Jesus, instead, showed up as the light in the midst of the greatest darkness. He didn’t take away all the pain, he entered into it. And that’s an important part of the redemption. Any God could just hit a reset button. Our God, chose to enter the chaos and the pain, so that he could heal us, redeem us, restore us.

This, this light in the midst of brokenness, but still brokenness because it hasn’t been completely fixed yet, thing…this is where I think we find the deepest meaning of adoption.

A few Christmases ago I bought this wooden sign that simply says Peace. I got it on sale at Target, so it was hardly an intentional purchase.

Every year I bring it out and it’s a lovely addition to our holiday décor. But this year, when I pulled the word out it meant something different. This year we are living right smack in the middle of one of our children’s brokenness. The details of that struggle aren’t for public consumption, of course, but the reality of living in a small apartment with a kid who struggles…well it means that the last few months we’ve lived in sort of a constant state of chaos. The kind of chaos that results from deep feelings that can’t even be articulated. The kind of chaos that results from anxiety and internal pressure. The kind of chaos that makes you question all the things.

As we have lived in the chaos and in the constant fight, I have yearned and longed for peace. Not a peace that erases, but a peace that enters right smack in the middle of the mess and begins to spread light. Because I know that’s what my child needs: to be walked with towards healing.

Advent is the promise of wholeness even while we are broken. Advent is the anticipation of the savior of the world even as we’re crying.

Adoption is good news not because it re-writes and erases history but because it announces redemption in the midst of it. Not in a white-savior-I’m-going-to-make-everything-okay way, but in a “you’re broken, I’m broken…let’s look to Jesus and find his wholeness together” sort of way.

Our children’s stories are complicated. They are full of birth families who loved them, who wanted the best for them. But they are forged out of brokenness that made those families unable to care for them.

Many of our friends parent children who were forged by abuse they received at the hands of the people originally intended to love them best.

Adoption always begins in loss. Advent always begins in brokenness.

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But, by the grace of God, we can join with creation and groan for the redemption that only Christ can give.

None. of. this. is. normal.

Posted by baobrien in Christian Thought, Kids, Parenting, Simple Living, Spiritual Formation, Transitions October 29, 2018

Brandon has begun to travel more often for work. And the kids and I have developed a sort of rhythm through it all. They miss their daddy deeply, but they navigate his absence beautifully. Eliza (when she notices he’s actually gone…she’s a mama’s girl through and through) gives me lots of hugs and will randomly say “I miss daddy.” Jamie will shed some tears throughout daddy’s absence, but he takes great pride in being my helper and partner while Brandon’s gone.

But our favorite thing: while daddy is out of town, J knows he gets to sleep in our bed. Each and every night I will sneak into the kid’s room, get him out of his bed and put him in mine. He disappears under the heavy weight of our comforter and makes his way over to snuggle with me throughout the night. I love it. He wont be little forever, these moments are sweet.

[Now, before you feel bad for Eliza, we are not neglecting her. From her birth, Eliza has always been terrible at sleeping with another person in sight or close enough to touch. When she sleeps with me in a hotel room, she flips and turns the whole night and wakes up to talk to me throughout. It’s best for her (and us!) that she stay in her bed.

And, somehow, sweet baby girl has yet to notice that Jamie sleeps in my room. Sure, he sleeps on the top bunk and she’s not tall enough to see that he’s gone, but she’s a smart girl and he’s terrible at keeping secrets…I just expected her to figure it all out by now. So I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. ]

As I was saying, usually our routine goes pretty smoothly. But, every now and then it feels like everything crumbles.

Take this morning for instance: After not falling asleep until after midnight, I woke up with a bad dream at 5:15 a.m. Before I could go back to sleep, Eliza came into the room wide awake. So, I snuck out of the room with her (so she didn’t notice Jamie) and settled her on the couch. My alarm usually goes off at 5:30 so I can start making lunches, become a person, etc. So I made coffee a little bit early and began my day.

At 5:50 a.m. Jamie came out, bleary eyed and upset because he also had had a bad dream.

By 6:15 a.m. we found ourselves here. Two kids playing with Legos, wide awake. I clung to my coffee and read my Bible and they played kindly. E had already gotten herself dressed for the day. At 6:15 in the morning.

I feel like it’s important to pause here and make sure you know something: we don’t leave till 8 a.m. to walk the 3 blocks to school. J doesn’t usually wake up till after 7. Eliza is usually up around 6 or 6:15. Neither kid is dressed till 7:30 or later. None of this was normal.

I usually don’t handle these types of mornings well. I’m not what you would call a morning person, so there’s a reason I wake up before my entire family. It’s good for all of us that mama has an entire cup of coffee before parenting (or being a wife to) anyone.

But to my surprise, peace was rich in our apartment. I was patient. They were kind. We took time to listen to each other. Everyone ate a good breakfast. We made it to school on time. By 8:30 I had picked up the apartment, made my bed, and settled down to work. I even have a little makeup on (preparation for a Zoom call later).

Nothing. about. this. is. normal.

As I fight through the overwhelming exhaustion behind my eyes, it occurs to me that perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised by any of this.

I have been praying fiercely for peace lately. There has been a whole lot of difficult in our house as we shepherd the sweet soul of our oldest. He’s grappling with big things, and we’re in the thick of it with him. Exhaustion is our constant companion, grief is rich, chaos sometimes seems unavoidable, peace can seem so distant.

This morning? A tired mama, tired kids, traveling daddy, early wake-ups…and, yet, peace, answered prayer.

I don’t know that I have a point to all of this yet, except to say: sometimes I am so surprised when God answers my prayer that it takes me a while to even notice. This time is no different. Overwhelming exhaustion and all, I am deeply thankful for a faithful God even in the midst of my own faithlessness.

Now that for next cup of coffee.

My name is Amy and I’ve never been pregnant

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Infertility, NYC, Parenting, Spiritual Formation, Transitions, Young Family in NYC September 14, 2018

The moment completely caught me off guard. I was sitting in a room full of 50 or so moms in a Manhattan church classroom.

I had known these women for only a few months and had already enjoyed getting to know them each. They came from different areas in the United States and abroad. They had different stories. But we were all united in the fact that here we were…moms of young kids doing our best to raise those littles in New York City.

Each meeting started the same: after a time of fellowship, we would all sit down and answer some sort of ice breaker question.

“Since all of us have been pregnant, why don’t you each give me your best pregnancy advice,” one of our group leaders (newly pregnant) said.

All of us have been pregnant?

And before I had much time to think of it, tears rushed to my eyes. As discreetly as possible, I looked at my phone with urgency and then left the room as if I had a phone call. Nobody thought anything of it.

It was more than 11 years ago that I had found out getting pregnant might be difficult. And for so long I yearned, I longed, I obsessed over that biological child.

But now, I had two beautiful children at home and had begun to rejoice and delight in the way God had written our story. If you’ve read anything I’ve written over the past few years, you know that I have experienced God’s incredible healing deeply in the midst of my brokenness.

And here I was crying over that infertility that I hadn’t given thought to in years.

But this time it wasn’t that I was crying over the lack of a biological child. I wasn’t weeping the same tears I had many years before.

No, these tears were new. But their source has been my constant companion: Barrenness.

Barrenness.

This morning I was reading Psalm 113 and I saw something I’d never noticed before

He settles the barren woman in her home as a happy mother of children. Praise the Lord. (Psalm 113:9)

I have become a mom in a very different kind of way. A way that runs straight into the brokenness of our world and embraces the redemption inside of it. A way that walks the tight rope of that brokenness almost every day.

A way that strangers around me have felt free to question. A way that not all of our family members have understood.

A way that has created a very different sort of woman than I was 12 years ago.

A way that, yes, sometimes makes me feel odd and misunderstood when surrounded by more “normal” moms.

And a way that asks me to embrace my brokenness instead of denying it and allow it to be used for the good of others. And, if I’m honest, that sometimes stings.

I cried that day not for the biological child I cannot have. No, I cried that day because I didn’t want to be defined by my barrenness. I wanted to exist outside of it. But, I’m beginning to think God is asking me to instead embrace it. Live in it.

When I walked back into the room that day, I chose not to share what I had just experienced. And I think that was a mistake. Over the last year this group has become a significant source of encouragement for me. Many of them have become dear friends. I should have trusted them then but the truth is, I didn’t want their pity.

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But if I had it to do all over again, I’m thinking I should have stayed in my seat, and when it came to my turn (tears and all) simply said, “I’m Amy and I’ve never been pregnant. And I’m beginning to understand that maybe it’s a gift.”

God’s healing of our hearts began to happen long before we became parents. And it continues to teach me.

My body is broken. But my God is good.

The one where I tell you I’m writing a book

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, New Book, Transitions, Young Family in NYC August 20, 2018

Goodness, gracious friends I’ve got some news.

Brandon and I have signed a contract with Intervarsity Press to co-author our first book together. The topic? Adoption.

That’s right, my editor / writer husband has just accepted perhaps the most challenging job of his career…writing a book with his wife.

We began working on the proposal and figuring out what a book by us about adoption would look like this past spring. Over one particularly long dinner Brandon and I began to flesh out this project and we had that moment of “we’ve got to write this.”

But we still had to walk the process. It had to pass through multiple committees and receive multiple stamps of approval. Even though Brandon has worked with this particular press on several projects, this was no guaranteed deal. We received helpful critique and concerns along the way.

And ultimately they decided to offer us the deal. We put those signed contracts in the mail today.

And it was all business along the way until we got the offer. Then I froze. I’m talking, sat in a chair and stared at the contract for an hour froze (good thing my kids were watching a movie).

Brandon will have his 6th book in print. I will author my first book. And while I am aware that I am totally riding on his coat-tails, I’m also kind of okay with it. And I’m honored because IVP wanted both of us. My husband, the published-brilliant-known author, AND me, the small-time blogger and mom. We get to write this book together.

Now, Brandon and I are the parents of two young adopted children and we are NOT adoption / parenting experts. This is not the book where we tell you how to do it all. Neither is this the book where we share the nitty-gritty details of our children’s stories. No, those stories are their own and we don’t have a right to blast them to the world. There are lots of other stories bound up in ours, and we don’t want to put dear dear people on display.

No, our hope is that this will be a book about adoption that draws in all the people. Because we believe the adoption narrative has something to teach us all. We have been changed as the parents of our two little people and we want you to be changed, too.

And we realize that in doing this we are stepping right into the fray. If we do this book right we will make a few people uncomfortable and we will probably draw criticism. And, believe me when I tell you, I am terrified. But in the we’ve-got-to-do-this-anyway sort of way.

So here we go.

And I have a request: if you are an adoptive family or birth family would you get in touch with us? We will have some questions for you.

And If you are an adult adoptee (or you know an adult adoptee) can you please please PLEASE please contact us? We feel like your voice isn’t heard enough, we want you to be a part of this project.

Friends, this is a heart project for us. It’s close and we want to handle it with care. We want to inspire and challenge and encourage. We want to give voice to the voiceless and we want to correct some misperceptions.

But, mostly, we want to let you in on what God has done in and through our family make-up. Because it’s good. It’s really really good.

Because living with an apostrophe can be tricky…

Posted by baobrien in Christian Thought, Just for Fun!, Kids, Parenting, Transitions, Young Family in NYC June 25, 2018

I love a good laugh.

Almost 9 years ago Brandon and I sat in the office of our reproductive endocrinologist to have the first in a series of awkward conversations about our respective reproductive systems. My husband (God bless him) made more than a few quiet comments under his breath that had me laughing under mine.

Because when words like “sperm, uterus, fallopian tubes, etc” are thrown around in front of a giant model of the female reproductive system, jokes really take the edge of.

And Brandon’s ability to find humor in the midst of the less than humorous has always been one of my favorite things about him.

Our journey to adopting our J and E held within it some of the most painful moments of our lives but ultimately led us to deep-in-your-belly kind of laughter. And laughter for us has become a sort of sacred exercise.

Right now there are lots of things happening in our country that aren’t funny. A human rights crisis on our borders has Brandon and me talking seriously about how to be a voice for the voiceless. A young black boy being wrongfully arrested by police simply because of the color of his skin has us crying as we picture our own beautiful boy. Reading a children’s book about Jackie Robinson forced us to engage in conversations at bedtime with our 6 year old (once again) about the tragic history of our country that at one point didn’t allow people that look like him to do something as simple as play baseball.

All of these things bring a different type of heartache. All of them require courage and conviction. Many of them have us in tears. Some of them produce an angry determination to effect change.

Brandon and I attend a church in our neighborhood that is beautifully diverse. Yesterday we prayed over the atrocities happening across our country. With courage and conviction we asked for justice and we prayed for peace and wisdom. We grieved for the families being torn apart, and for the young men and women losing their lives to senseless violence. We heard a sermon about how fighting for diversity (and justice) is a fulfillment of Acts 15. And at the end of all this we sang Good Good Father in Spanish and in English and I found myself with tears in my eyes over the incredible goodness that our God brings.

But you know what else we did? We laughed. We laughed over how some of our members salsa through worship. We laughed over a prank one of our pastors pulled on the other at a recent retreat. We laughed over silly things our children did. We laughed over the mundane. We laughed because that’s what friends do. And because joy in the face of heartache is our special privilege as Christians.

We hope to teach our children many, many things but chief among them we want J and E to laugh. To laugh with joy at the thrill of their life’s adventure. To laugh with humility as they try (and perhaps fail at) new things. To laugh with kindness as they embrace the people around them in the fullness of their uniqueness. To laugh with wisdom (i.e. at the right time) but deep in their belly.

Love that grin!

Because laughter heals. A life of true, deep in your belly, laughter produces life.

(Simply) Laugh is more than just a blog title. Ultimately, it’s a way of life for us. Wont you join us?

It’s not the way I thought it would be…

Posted by baobrien in Adoption, Christian Thought, Parenting, Simple Living, Spiritual Formation, Transitions, Young Family in NYC March 13, 2018

…Because sometimes you find yourself living a life that you never imagined.

This past Friday, I had a rare moment alone to get some errands done. As I walked by myself to the grocery store (coat zipped up, hands in pockets, scarf on, head down), I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window and saw a different woman than I used to be.

Not different in a fundamental sense but different in reality. Different in life.

I’ve been working on a project lately that isn’t ready to share. And I’ve been practicing the discipline of writing, and I’ve been learning the art of deciphering what words are ready for the public and what words are reserved for later. (and I’ve been perhaps putting my editor-husband to his ultimate test…editing his wife’s writing.)

And I keep catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. A glimpse of a woman with brown hair and no makeup.

A glimpse of a woman prepared for all the city will bring, zig-zagging among pedestrians.

A glimpse of a woman weary and impatient from a day of public transportation with littles.

A glimpse of a woman who is trying her hardest to find the next thing.

A glimpse of a woman with a messy living room and pile of recycling.

A glimpse of a woman who is broken and cracked, but beautiful and whole.

And this woman isn’t exactly who I imagined I’d be. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Because the truth is, despite my deepest heart’s desire, I never even thought of living in a city like New York. I never could have dreamed how being married for 12 years and a mom for 6 years would have molded, shaped, changed, broken, and strengthened me. I never imagined having the confidence that this woman has to fight for her people and (on her bravest days) pursue her dreams.

And I never knew the courage and sacrifice it would take to slow down and lean in to the children God has graciously placed in my care. To choose the unexpected because it provides safety and security for my oldest.

To choose less productivity because it gives affection to my youngest.

To choose being their mom first over the pursuit of the many desires and passions and professional pursuits.

To choose to see my children fully in the brokenness of their stories but not wholly without the hope of their futures.

Being a woman who is driven, determined, opinionated, cautious, kind, and tender…this is how God created me.

Being an adoptive mom who is slow to talk, quick to listen, fully of mercy and compassion…a white mom who is taking awkward and uncomfortable steps to put my white-ness aside and enter into the brown world of my two loves…a wife who is the ultimate partner in the small things and the biggest things…this is how Christ is re-creating me.

Coming to terms with my brokenness, with the cracks in my appearance, with the lines and wrinkles on my face, with the different-than-expected-but-incredibly-beautiful-life that I get to lead…

Well, this is my journey. What’s yours?

(very important side note: this post is in no way meant to communicate that moms must put aside their professional dreams for their children. I know and respect lots of moms who have thriving careers because that is exactly where they should be. This is just my personal journey towards different professional goals than I may have planned a few years ago.)

(Simply)Laugh

Living with an apostrophe can be tricky…