When I Don't Want to Be a Christian

I'm not gonna lie, this past week was a tough week for me. The Supreme Court ruling legalizing same-sex marriage has shaken me to the core.

But not because of the ruling.

It's because I'm a Christian.

And as a Christian, I've been embarrassed by how some of my fellow Christians have acted, all in the name of God.

Once upon a time, pre-Facebook, my faith was something I spoke about freely. Not in a prideful way, and not in a proselytizing way. Just, a part of me. Like, I'm short. I love coffee and chocolate. I love to travel and to read. I like to cook and entertain and hang out with my sister. And, by the way, I'm also a Christian.

But with the advent of Facebook and other forms of social media, I find myself keeping quiet about it more and more. Not because I'm ashamed of it. But because, truthfully, I'm ashamed of how some people who call themselves Christians, speak. They use the name of God as a vehicle to spew hatred and condemnation.

I have friends who are gay, straight, Christian, atheist, rich, poor, entrepreneurs and stay-at-home moms. And my life is too busy for fake friends these days, so if I have a friend, it's because they add something of value to my life -- and I will fight to keep them in my life. So when I read people on Facebook using words of derision against people in my circle of friends, it makes me sick to my stomach.

I have friends who celebrated the Supreme Court decision, and friends who disagreed with the ruling. Some friends see the decision as an answer to prayer, and some think it is a sign of the Apocalypse.

For those who are happy about the decision, then this doesn't really apply to you. But for those who disagree, those who have called out others for their lifestyles, those who have said awful, hurtful, hateful things -- things that I can't imagine someone ever saying to someone else face to face -- to those people, stop. Please, please, please, stop. I am begging you. Please, just stop.

Judging others is easy, isn't it? It sure feels good in the moment. We condemn the choices of others to feel better about the choices we make.

In the past few days, I've seen people who have led imperfect lives (as we all have, myself most definitely included), boldly and blatantly condemning those who live in, or support, same-sex relationships. Men and women who have had children out of wedlock, who have had multiple marriages, who haven't always been truthful, who are alcoholics, food addicts, and the list goes on and on -- but they easily judge someone by a label, without knowing anything else about their story.

Some people think it's a sin, and some people don't. But, for those who do think it's a sin, for those who are using it as a dividing line, making it an 'us against them' issue, then it's only fair to call out my sins too.

I judge. Boy, do I judge. When I see someone who I know is really struggling financially, post pictures of the expensive meal they treated themselves too at a restaurant, I judge. When I see someone use their EBT (food stamps) card to buy a big soda, or junk food instead of something healthy, I judge. I smile politely on the outside, but inside I wave my finger of accusation in their face.

I'm jealous. When someone has a bigger house in a nicer part of town, I'm jealous. When someone has more career success than I do, jealousy practically seeps out of my pores. Often, too often, I want what other people have, and I forget to be thankful for the many, many, many blessings I already have.

Jealousy is one of the seven deadly sins, actually, so if we're choosing our friends based on if they sin more or less than us, then .... well, you get the point.

 We judge others so we feel better about the choices we make.

We judge others so we feel better about the choices we make.

We judge others so we feel better about the choices we make.

When the whole Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner issue blew up all over the news, my friend Gregg said something that I cannot get out of my mind:

"It's time that my fellow Christians stop holding nonbelievers to a standard to which they have not agreed."

Some say that the new ruling destroys families. Personally, I think families struggled long before this. I know families -- people in my circle -- who have dealt with incest in their home. Whose husband, or wife, has committed adultery. People who struggle with pornography, with attraction to people outside their marriage.

I've seen Scriptures posted on Facebook walls, like Leviticus 20:13, which says, "If a man practices homosexuality, having sex with another man as with a woman, both men have committed a detestable act. They must both be put to death, for they are guilty of a capital offense." But I have yet to see anyone post Leviticus 20:9, which says, "Anyone who dishonors father or mother must be put to death. Such a person is guilty of a capital offense," yet I'm pretty sure we've all dishonored our parents in one way or another, at some point, but we're still alive. 

Or how about Leviticus 19:3, which says, "Each of you must show great respect for your mother and father, and you must always observe my Sabbath days of rest. I am the Lord your God."

Everyone using Sunday just as a day of rest? I usually work on Sunday nights after Reagan goes to bed, so I'm gonna raise my hand as guilty on that one.

Or Leviticus 19:13. "Do not make your hired workers wait until the next day to receive their pay." Everyone who owns a business paying all their employees every day?

You get the point. If we're going to use Scripture to compel others to change, how about this one? John 13:34,35: "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you are also to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

Or what about the verse about not judging in Matthew 7:2? "For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."

When I read hurtful words about people in same-sex relationships, people are speaking words of hate against the Toms and the Jons and the Lindas and Camilles and the Garys in my life. And that is just not ok. Do it in the name of Christ, and ... well, it's not the same Christ I know.

I fail to understand how this -- homosexuality -- became the topic for Christians to raise the rally cry. Because, frankly, I can think of a lot of issues that are really, really important to take a stand against.

Who is going to take a stand against the thousands upon thousands of Christians who are being persecuted and killed for their faith, all over the world? We have Christians holding church services in dark basements, for fear of DEATH if they are found out. Christians are being killed at an alarming rate, but hardly anyone is talking about it anymore. I started watching a video the other day that showed Christians being drowned by members of ISIS. I stopped before it got too far, because I just can't. I can't fathom, I can't watch ... I just can't.

Or the orphans. My God, the orphans. Millions of children growing up without a parent. Children on the streets -- CHILDREN ON THE STREETS. If one out of every 138 Southern Baptists adopted a child from foster care in the United States, there would be no more orphans in the United States. None. But who of us are going to do something about that? Anyone? 

Or the 21 million victims of human trafficking all over the world. It happens everywhere, including most likely in your hometown. Children, and adults, used for their bodies, without any regard for their rights. It's slavery, and it's the most lucrative business in the world. Anyone want to take a stand against that?

Regardless of our feelings on same-sex relationships, there is so much more to unite us than divide us. So much more. 

One of my friends, who I was neighbors with for a couple of years, and who gave me the bench my husband and I sit on when we watch our son play, and who was one of the very first people to reach out to me after we announced our adoption, she (who is in a same-sex relationship) said this after her Facebook erupted with accusations and hurtful, awful, hate-filled words:

"Those who judge and belittle me, well I am sorry but you cannot have access to my life. Period. Your loss."

Is this what we want? Do we want to make one issue so divisive?

I don't. I'm a Christian, but I don't. I choose love. Every time. 

Love.





 

 

We Accepted a Referral!!

Big, big, BIG news on our adoption -- we have accepted a referral!!!!

Yes, we are very excited. Yes, we think she is beautiful. Yes, we are moving forward as quickly as possible.

That's pretty much all we can say at this point.

We have a picture, which I will be very happy to show you in person (but cannot post here). As I've shared previously, we knew we would be adopting a child with disabilities, and were totally prepared for that. Her disabilities are rather minor, and will not affect her long-term.

She falls in the age range of 0 to 3. It will most likely be a year until we get to bring her home, but of course we are praying to expedite the process.

Her name will be Marella Hope Grace Thompson. Marella in memory of my mother, Mary Ellen. Hope because when we first announced our adoption intentions to our choir family, our friend Jenn prayed that God would fill her room with hope, and that word resonated in our hearts. Grace because I love everything that word represents.

So now we have lots more paperwork to fill out, and a lot more steps to walk and hoops to jump through as we work in tandem with India to make her officially a part of our family.

Meanwhile, we look at her picture all the time. Reagan points to her and proudly says, "That's my sister," and promises to teach her to walk and to share his chocolate with her if she's sad. Meanwhile, I cry a lot. I look at her picture and cry. I talk about her and cry. Someone asks how things are going and my eyes fill with tears.

It's part overwhelming, unrestrained love for a daughter I have never met, part wanting desperately to be the one holding her, caring for her and comforting her, and part just a deep, deep ache for our family to be complete.

We can share more once we get final approval from India. Meanwhile, things could still go wrong. There is a lot hanging in a balance that is out of our hands. I debated sharing this with anyone until we got one more official word. But I firmly believe she is our daughter. From the moment I laid eyes on her I felt like she was mine.

Asia has the largest amount of orphans in the world, with an estimated 60 million orphans. 60 million children without a home. 60 million boys and girls without anyone to call Mom and Dad. Soon, God willing, there will be one less.

Stay tuned.

To help us bring her home, click here, and in the bottom right-hand corner, put 'Johnny and Gayle Thompson' in the space for Designated Family. Checks can be made payable to AWAA, and sent to America World Adoption Association, Attn: Accounting Dept., 6723 Whittier Ave., Suite 202, McLean, VA 22101, along with a form that can be found here. Checks must be designated for the Eternal Family Fund. Or, you can donate to our GoFundMe page.

The Struggle is Real

The other day, I had my worst parenting moment ever. I thought I had a few bad moments before, but they all paled in comparison to what happened last week.

I lost my temper. At my child.

Completely lost it.

It was not my finest parenting moment.

And I'm not even sure what made it the final tipping point. It wasn't during his 45-minute (yes, 45 very long minutes) temper tantrum, after he lost computer time because he hit me. It wasn't when my kid, who normally eats anything, threw his food. It wasn't when he clung to my clothes as I tried to move through the house, literally hanging on to my leg, my arm, anything he could latch on to.

It was the plastic hammer. He threw the plastic hammer, hitting me not very hard on my left arm, and I lost it.

I screamed and yelled and made him cry. And then I cried.

I couldn't believe that I, the grown-up, had lost it on my very own child. And I sat on the kitchen floor and said I was sorry a hundred times, and then said, more to myself than to him, "I can't do this. I can't be a mother. I. cannot. do. this."

And he stood, in front of me, eye to eye, very solemn and serious, and said, "But I want you to be my Mommy."

The gift of grace.

So I put on his pajamas and brushed his teeth and read him a story and tucked him in, snuggling close for an extra minute. And then I called my friend Beth and ugly-cried into the phone at what a failure I was as a parent.

She assured me that I wasn't, and that every single parent has those moments that I had, and that Reagan wasn't, in fact, scarred for life, and he -- and I -- would be fine in the end. By the time my husband got home, I was sniffling on the couch, a mixture of contrition and the humble awareness that this job was really, really bigger than me.

I went back upstairs to check on Reagan, who I assumed was already asleep. But he wasn't, and he sat up when I walked in and said, "What are you doing, Mommy?" I told him I was just checking on him, and he laid back down and scooted over so I could fit beside him. I nestled in, and he put his hand on my face and said, "Is your heart still sad, Mommy?"

I said, "Yes, a little."

"I love you, Mommy."

The gift of grace.

I've said all along that this job is hard. This job is a million times harder than I expected it to be. The struggle is real.

"I’ve been the one who has had hollering mother meltdowns and wept on bathroom floors and I’ve been the one who has come to be held up by the tender grace of it."*

This is not an excuse. At all. But I have been realizing for some time that something in my life has to give. We are beyond fortunate that we both get to work, without having to pay for child care, thanks to a flexible schedule, fantastic in-laws, and an amazing editor. Blessed beyond blessed beyond blessed.

But ... what that has meant for three years is that my life has been a never-ending cycle of Reagan/work/Reagan/work/Reagan/work. I stopped taking care of me. There wasn't time for me.

 And slowly, over the past three years, what started as a low simmer started to turn into a full boil.

No one told me that it would all happen at the same hallowed time: Mothering is at once the hardest and the holiest and the happiest.*
 
But, as I say all of that, I am fully aware of people who have it so much harder than I do. Single moms or dads, without any help or support from the other parent. Families who have one parent deployed. Families who take care of an elderly parent while juggling the demands of a household. I don't know how they do it. I really, really don't.

But, this was my reality, and it began to wear away at me. Maybe the incident with Reagan would have happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't have. I don't know. But what I do know is that no one -- and I mean no one -- can prepare you for how never-ending and all-consuming this job really is.

So why am I sharing all of this? Certainly not because I enjoy sharing my parenting failures. But because I think it's time we admit that life, and parenting, isn't the perfect picture we like to portray. Social media, like Facebook, allows us to show our lives the way we want to be perceived. Look at my perfect, well-dressed family! Look at my son and I blowing bubbles together outside! Look at this gourmet meal my family is eating! Look at our perfect day at the beach, right before the toddler tantrum!

The struggle is real.

In an unscientific survey I did following my parental meltdown, 100% of those surveyed (Beth, Alice, Joyce, Heather and Denise) all said that they too had had those moments. We aren't proud of them, of course. But they happen because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

I'm not excusing what I did. I never, ever, ever should have yelled at my child the way I did. It was beyond a reprimand, and beyond me raising my voice so he knows I'm serious. It was a true meltdown because I had reached my limit.

Anger is contagious. And so is grace.*

I'm not proud of it. I hope and pray that I never, ever do that again -- although I'm an imperfect parent trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world, so I realize that my expectation might be too high.

But I do hope that we can start having the dialogue that, despite the image we try to portray, this job is hard. Really, really, really, really hard. Whether we work full-time outside the home or spend our days hosting tea parties for stuffed animals and making homemade play-doh and organic gluten-free oatmeal cookies, parents all struggle to do our best each day with the children we're given. And sometimes we do a really, really, really good job. And sometimes we lose it because we are imperfect people trying to raise imperfect children in an imperfect world.

We've started to accept the lie that busy is better. We fill every second of every minute of every day with things to do. We've adopted the rushed rat race as the best way. We work, we go to that meeting, we take our children to a variety of classes, we rush through dinner, brush teeth, go to bed and start all over again.

It's not working.

I'm a better person when I take some time for myself. It's not wrong to read a book, watch a mindless sitcom or spend 30 minutes chatting with a friend. I don't have to multi-task all the time.

Until we (and by we, I mean me) start taking time for ourselves and tell ourselves we matter, the ones we love the most will continue to get the worst of us. We have to put on our own oxygen masks first. We can't care for others until we care for ourselves.

So. I'm going to work on me, and start taking time for me, so I can be a better parent and wife and person. I cannot give what I don't have. If I'm not rested and taken care of, what happened with Reagan will happen again. And again. And again.

And maybe I could spend a week at an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean, where I do nothing but eat, sleep and read books, and still snap at my child, because I'm still an imperfect person trying to raise an imperfect child in an imperfect world. I don't know. But I know I owe it to my family to take care of me so I can take care of them.

I never expected that a mother’s labor and delivery never ends — and you never stop having to remember to breathe.*

The struggle is real.

*from A Holy Experience

What I Won't Sacrifice to Adopt

Things have been moving full-speed ahead with our adoption. First, our CARA (Central Adoption Resource Authority) application was APPROVED. CARA had the final say in whether or not we were approved to adopt from India. I was just a tiny bit apprehensive about it, because we didn't meet exactly, to-the-letter a couple of their requirements, but we were approved. So now all of our application/paperwork/home study/dossier/piles of forms is officially DONE. I'm pretty sure the 'Hallelujah chorus' is playing in the background.

We finally sent off our check for $8970, to our adoption agency. I had a hard time writing out those numbers, even though I whole-heartedly believe we are doing the right thing. Soon, we will mail off another check for $7500 -- and then there will be a few more after that.

It's a LOT of money. I'm not going to lie. It is a huge chunk out of our savings account. But, I want to be very clear .... we are not sacrificing anything to adopt our little girl.

Let me say that again.

We are not sacrificing anything for our adoption.

Nothing.

To me, sacrifice implies laboriously giving something up.

Dictionary.com says: The surrender or destruction of something prized or desirable for the sake of something considered as having a higher or more pressing claim.

We aren't going to surrender something prized or desirable just to bring our daughter home.

That would be ridiculous.

What  we are going to do is make some adjustments in our life to bring her home. We're going to eat out very, very, very infrequently. We're going to cut back on our grocery bill even more. We're going to do fun trips around town that are free, or very, very, very cheap. 

But that's not really a sacrifice.

Giving up an over-priced chicken dinner so a little girl who is spending her days in an orphanage, without someone to tuck her in or read her a story every night can have a family, isn't a sacrifice. 

 We are making adjustments in our lives to bring her home. But it isn't a sacrifice.

And, let me add this is not some saintly thing we're doing. Far from it. I've panicked over it, a lot. More than once, it's caused tension in our marriage. I've sometimes thought that it was asking too much of Reagan, of us. I've laid awake at night, crunching and recrunching numbers, trying to figure out how in the world we are going to pay for this.

I'm certainly not skipping around humming an annoyingly happy tune about this. It is HARD. It is so hard, and we haven't even brought her home yet. I weigh it all out in my head and my heart, and I sometimes want to forget it all and go to the Caribbean instead.

But.

There is a little girl somewhere in India, with a disease that doctors haven't cured. Or a disability that has labeled her, in their Hindu culture, untouchable. Worthless. Without value. Nothing.

According to the Hindu religion, which makes up most of India, suffering and disabilities are "thought to be part of the unfolding of karma and is the consequence of past inappropriate action ... that occurred in either one's current life or in a past life."

Orphans are considered 'Dalits,' which in the caste system is the lowest of the low. They are not entitled to ... well, anything. They are given menial jobs, if given a job. They are not allowed to advance in society. They are not given access to clean water, medical care, education, or anything else that is commonplace in our society. They barely exist.

According to Families for Orphans, "India is home to more orphans than anywhere else in the world, thousands and thousands of Dalits that are forever deemed untouchable by humanity."

This. This is not ok.

Giving up a $20 steak and ambience, that's ok. Not staying in a four-star hotel for a week, that's ok. Missing the latest, greatest movie in the theater, starring some lead actor who makes more in a day than I will make in a year, that's ok.

But knowing that I could make a difference in a child's life, that I could give a child love and acceptance and attention and physical affection and healthy food and medical care and a thousand other things that are normal in our society -- if I don't do it, then that's not ok.

I feel like I always need to make a disclaimer when I write these adoption blogs. Because it's something I'm so passionate about, I feel like I walk a fine line between passion and coming off as persuasive, and maybe even a touch pushy.

Not everyone can or should adopt. Every family and every choice and every situation is unique, and I certainly don't look at people who go on expensive vacations and live lavish lifestyles with disdain, silently judging their choices.

Far from it. This is our life and our choice ... and I sincerely hope that somewhere in my future is an all-inclusive vacation where my biggest decision is if I want to read a book or take a nap.

But, my point in these occasional adoption ramblings is two-fold. One, to give our friends and family who have walked this journey with us since the beginning, an update. And two, to follow through on what my husband has said all along -- that he hopes that if nothing else, we show people who want to adopt, who feel that tug on their heart, that normal people (us) with normal jobs (us) and normal paychecks (us) can give an orphan a forever home.

We have a big fund-raiser on May 14 at the Listening Room, with some of my dearest friends donating their time and talent to help us raise money. Some of our friends are hosting dinner parties on our behalf. We've been blessed and humbled with people's generosity so far. We are not alone in our pursuit of getting our daughter.

This little girl will come home to a lot of love from a lot of people.

Stay tuned.

"I don't want a flame, I want a fire. I wanna be the one who stands up and says, 'I'm gonna do something.'" ~Matthew West, 'Do Something'

To help us bring her home, click here, and in the bottom right-hand corner, put 'Johnny and Gayle Thompson' in the space for Designated Family. Checks can be made payable to AWAA, and sent to America World Adoption Association, Attn: Accounting Dept., 6723 Whittier Ave., Suite 202, McLean, VA 22101, along with a form that can be found here. Checks must be designated for the Eternal Family Fund. Or, you can donate to our GoFundMe page.

A Letter To My Reagan

Dear Reagan,

I can hardly believe that you're THREE years old!! Where has all the time gone? It really feels like just a short while ago that I was bringing you home from the hospital, and now you're THREE.

You are a true joy to your father and I, and to everyone around you. You love Thomas the Tank Engine, Mickey Mouse, Caillou, puzzles (which you are very good at), books, cars, trucks, stickers and anything you can do outside. You are a true boy -- if there's dirt, you will find it! You also love your swing set and your ball and bat.

Much has happened in the last year! We moved into our new house, with a big yard that backs up into the woods -- one of your favorite places to play. We went on a few trips ... two to Mommy's family in PA (where you get spoiled by your Aunt Dawn and Uncle Mike and Hunter), and a trip to Destin in November. And, you got to go to Florida with Mommy just a couple weeks ago. It was a work trip for me, but you got to play with Gran Jan, which you loved.

You also get a weekly play date with Oma, and usually with Poppy too, and you love going to Aunt Tracy's to play, especially when Daniel and Grace are there. Between the various activities we are involved in, you're also at church about three times a week. I love that, every time when we pull up to the church, you clap your hands and say, "Yeah! Church!" That says a lot about how nice your teachers are to you. You also enjoy playing with your friends, including Lauren, Paxton, Jaxen, Claire and Jack.

You moved into a big boy bed this year. I have to admit, I'm pleasantly surprised at how well you've adjusted. I think you were ready for it long before Mommy was. You're also trying to learn to potty ... although, your interest in that isn't very strong at the moment, even with the fun Elmo potty.

You are an incredibly kind and thoughtful little boy. I love, during the day, when you just come up to me and pat my arm and say, "I love you, Mommy." You love to help, whether it's with the laundry or dishes, or dusting, which is your favorite chore, I think.

Daddy and I are learning how to deal with the strong will that is inevitable when you reach this age. Sometimes you know what you want, and nothing else will do, and then you cry and cry (and sometimes throw yourself on the floor for dramatic effect). Often times, after you're done crying, you ask me if I will love you for always. The answer is YES. A thousand million times, yes. Because, no matter how good or not good you are, how well you listen or don't listen, my love for you is constant. It's the one thing that will never, ever, ever, ever, EVER change.

You are such a special little boy. When I asked you what you wanted for your birthday, without hesitation you asked if we could go get your sister. We talk about her often, and I know you're going to take such good care of her.

You are an incredibly articulate speaker, which surprises a lot of people. You're also a very good eater, and eat anything! If we have broccoli, you almost always ask for more. And just the other day, you ate almost half of my spinach and eggs. You also love to bake with me, and I cherish those times. You've become quite adept at cracking eggs all by yourself.

I love you so much, John Reagan Patterson Thompson. You teach me a lot -- about patience and understanding and kindness. You remind me, daily, about what's important in life. My favorite time of the day is before I tuck you in, when you pray. Those prayers touch the heart of God more than any eloquent words I could ever say, I am certain.

I am fumbling along through this parenting journey, and I will make a million mistakes, but know this -- I will always love you with a depth and a magnitude that I will never be able to describe. You are, without a doubt, my favorite little boy.

 

 I love you to the moon and back, times a million. Happy birthday to my sweet, sweet boy.

xo,

Mom

Adoption Update ... Getting Closer

Much has happened since our last adoption update, so I wanted to fill everyone in on the latest. First of all, our DOSSIER IS DONE!!! That feels like a huge load off of my shoulders. The dossier requires dozens of documents, some (but not all) of which were used for our home study, which had to be notarized. Then, each piece of paper that was notarized had to receive a county seal, from whichever county it was notarized in. THEN, each of those documents had to be apostilled, which is a certification from the state, and required multiple trips downtown.

After all of that was done, we made five copies, sent several to Washington, D.C., one to Oregon, and kept one copy for ourselves. So, the fact that all of that is behind us is a big, big relief.

So now we are waiting to be approved by CARA (Central Adoption Resource Authority), and then after that, we wait for a referral, and after that, we wait while all the paperwork goes through the appropriate channels, and after THAT, we bring our little girl home.

Adoption is definitely not for the faint of heart. It feels overwhelming a lot of times.

I had a minor heart attack a few days ago, when we received our latest bill. We paid $1800 in the beginning, followed by $2400. After that, it's been a few hundred here, a few hundred there, but nothing too outrageous.

Until we got our bill for almost $9000 the other day. $8970, to be exact. Followed by $7950, when we get our referral.

That's a lot of numbers on a check.

But, after I got that invoice in my e-mail, while I was trying to catch my breath, I sent a text to my friend Beth, who said, "It will be hard to write [the check]. until you close your eyes and see your daughter playing on the rooftop in India."

My little girl playing on the rooftop in India.

Five years ago, when I was in India, the people I stayed with, Amos and Rowena Stoltzfus, took me to the slums of India. I was told that there is poverty, and then there is India poverty, but until you see it for yourself, it's really, really hard to imagine.

But we drove through a section where the poorest of the poor live, residing in these ramshackle ....buildings, if that's what you call them. Really just some pieces of wood stuck together, most of them with the fronts wide open, and people selling and begging out front.

In front of one of the buildings, was a man, selling cookies from a wheelbarrow. Not nicely wrapped cookies. Cookies that had been removed from their package and dumped out, where the flies and mosquitoes and dirt from the street were landing on them. But there he was, looking skinny and dirty and desperate, trying to make enough money to survive another day.

I glanced above where he was selling his meager offerings, and on top of the building were several people that I assume were his family. There was a blue tarp on top, being held up by a few wooden sticks. From my view in the car, looking at them maybe 10 feet higher than I was, I could see that they were all very, very, very dirty. But in front, standing too close to the edge of the building, there was a little girl, maybe three or four, in a filthy blue dress. And, she was dancing.

It was five years ago, but I can see her in my mind as clearly as if I saw her a minute ago. Here was this little girl, who may have never had a full meal, and who most likely didn't know what it was like to live without hunger, dancing and laughing and playing and giggling like any other toddler. Standing too close to the edge of a building, without anyone looking out for her, telling her to step away, reminding her not to fall.  And she was dancing, like she was the happiest child in the world.

That image of her has never left my mind. I believe the idea to adopt from India was birthed in that moment. I can barely talk about it, five years later, without my eyes filling with tears.

How can I say $8970 or $7950 or $10 million is too much? I have more in any room in my house than she, and so many others, will ever see in a lifetime.

We had a fund-raiser planned earlier this month, which was postponed due to the crazy, crazy snow that hit Nashville yet again. Our new date is May 14 at the Listening Room in Nashville, at 8:30. We will have live music, and lots of items for a silent auction, including signed lyrics from Vince Gill and Amy Grant, signed CDs and posters, gift cards, art work and various other items.

And if anyone else has any other fund-raising ideas, we are very, very open.

I keep waiting for the true panic to set in. But it hasn't, at least not yet. Because if we don't do this, who will? We're about to cut some SERIOUS corners in our finances until we get everything paid and caught up again. But I have no doubt that we can do it. Like I've said all along, do we really need another nice meal out at a restaurant, or the new floors in our living room, or another thing to add to our house, when it would come at the expense of her life?

"I don't want a flame, I want a fire. I wanna be the one who stands up and says, 'I'm gonna do something.'" ~Matthew West, 'Do Something'

To help us bring her home, click here, and in the bottom right-hand corner, put 'Johnny and Gayle Thompson' in the space for Designated Family. Checks can be made payable to AWAA, and sent to America World Adoption Association, Attn: Accounting Dept., 6723 Whittier Ave., Suite 202, McLean, VA 22101, along with a form that can be found here. Checks must be designated for the Eternal Family Fund. Or, you can donate to our GoFundMe page.

So I Have a Brain Tumor

 I have a brain tumor.

Yep. It's true. I do.

But this blog is not about the tumor, which is most likely benign and very, very, VERY treatable (more on that in a minute). It's more about the journey, the process, and the story that is still unfolding.

I found out on Jan. 9. In an ironic twist, less than two weeks before, I read my friend Jolina's blog about her husband, Randy, who had just been diagnosed with a brain tumor. Having lost my mother to a benign brain tumor in 2004, I was acutely aware of the journey Jolina was walking, and my eyes filled with tears as I read. I told my husband, and remember asking him, "Can you imagine?"

Little did I know, we would soon imagine.

On New Year's Eve day, I woke up with a bad headache behind my right eye. I thought it was the beginnings of a sinus infection. Later that day, as I bent down to pick up Reagan, my vision went extremely blurry in my right eye. Blurry as in, I couldn't make out anything when I covered my left eye. I waited until my husband got home, took a nap, and when I woke up, everything was fine, and the headache was gone.

The following Saturday, the same thing happened, this time without a headache. It stayed blurry throughout the day, and when I woke up the next day, it was still just as blurry. During church, I asked a dear, dear friend of mine, Billie, to pray for me, and when she was done, my vision was back to normal.

Monday I went to an opthalmologist, afraid something was wrong with my vision. She tested everything, very thoroughly, and found nothing wrong. As what she described "an abundance of caution," she called my primary care physician, who scheduled an appointment, although the opthalmologist thought they were probably nothing more than ocular migraines.

My physician scheduled me for an MRI on Friday, Jan. 9. I stressed that we were leaving for vacation Monday, Jan. 12, so the results needed to be in the same day.

I knew it was not going to be good news when a nurse called me about another test I had, for my carotid artery, to rule out a stroke. She said that test was clear, and they had the results of my MRI, but the doctor would be calling me with those.

Tick tock tick tock.

But yet, in those few hours, I had peace. Such peace. It was a bizarre place of knowing something was about to most likely alter the course of my entire life, but having this very deep, very strong sense that everything was going to be okay.

She called a little after 5:00, and began hurriedly talking before stopping and asking where I was. I assured her I was sitting down and ready. She said they found a mass, behind my right eye. It looked like a meningioma, which is a common form of a tumor, and typically benign. She said she was just looking at the scans, but hadn't had a chance to speak to the radiologist yet. I asked her what we do now, and she said I needed a different kind of MRI. Since we were planning on leaving Monday, she hung up with me to call the radiologist, and see if they could get me in Monday morning.

Meanwhile, I frantically googled "meningioma," and found out that it is the most common form of brain tumors, has a 90% chance of being benign (with only a 2 to 3% chance of it being truly malignant), and can sometimes be left alone and just watched without being removed.

My physician called me back and said they had scheduled me for another MRI on Monday. I told her what I read and asked if she thought we could take a wait-and-see approach with this. She said most likely not because of its location in my eye.

Still, I had peace.

I called my husband, and then called my sister. I told Johnny when he came home it was GAME FACE ON. Whatever it was, however it had to be dealt with, whatever treatment looked like, I knew in the core of my being that I, and we, were going to be fine.

I also felt gratitude. I thought of my sweet, sweet cousin, Dwayne, who was diagnosed with a  malignant brain tumor -- and how brave his fight was until the end. This ... this silly little two centimeter mass on my brain .. THIS was treatable. I was not immediately making end-of-life plans. I was going to be fine.

The next day, I found myself repeating those words to people over and over again -- people I called ahead of time and told the news. I felt the need to reassure them that I was fine. Because, while I know how scary the words are, I just knew that I knew that I knew that everything was going to be okay.

We decided to postpone our vacation by one day, so we could wait for the results of the second MRI, to determine that it was indeed a meningioma, and make sure it posed no immediate threats. So my husband went with me (and helped me breathe through the evil IV I needed for this MRI), and then we had dinner with sweet friends who kept Reagan while we were away. We were with them while we were waiting for the phone call from my doctor, and I'm so glad. So, so glad. I think that was probably the hardest part of the entire experience -- the waiting.

Finally, she called and said it was indeed a meningioma, behind my eye. She said I could travel, but I needed to follow up with a neurologist as soon as I returned. She also told me to go to the ER if I had another blurry vision episode, because I was at an increased risk of stroke because of where the meningioma was located.

So we packed up the next day and drove to my sister's house.

That trip to PA was one of the best I ever remember. After the roller coaster we had just been put on, the time with family felt sweeter. My husband and I had to cancel an overnight trip we had planned, when we postponed our trip for a day, but we still had one entire day in Philadelphia to ourselves, which was Heaven.

Truth be told, there were a few times during that trip when reality hit me, and I got a bit teary. But not the reality a brain tumor. That felt like more of a nuisance than anything else. But I'd wake up in the middle of the night, and think of all the people who had called, texted, sent e-mails checking on me, and the reality of the richness of my life is what made me emotional. My friends are truly, truly, TRULY the best, and I don't take that for granted. At least not anymore.

Physically, most of the trip I felt really good. At night, I started to get headaches -- sometimes mild, sometimes strong -- with very mild blurry vision. Like when you're at the eye doctor and they ask if A or B looks better, and it's a very minute difference between the two. But those episodes scared me at first, and I'd run up to my husband and stick my tongue out and then smile  (stroke test). After a while, we realized it was happening when I was tired, and I stopped worrying about them as much.

We visited a neurologist the day after we got back, expecting to have a treatment plan, answers, and solutions for the debilitating headaches that were starting to affect every part of my life.

Unfortunately, he hadn't bothered to read my medical file that he had for a week and a half, thought I was there for blurry vision, and didn't know until after I was sitting in his office that I had a meningioma. He was extremely dismissive, spoke to my husband more than me, said my headaches were because of something called a scotoma (which he never really described what it was), gave me a long speech about the dangers of smoking and drinking coffee (which was relevant since I don't smoke), and walked out while I was still asking about my headaches. (Note: If you ever need a neurologist in Nashville, stay far, far away from Dr. Prasad at Heritage Medical).

So. Instead of getting answers, we left with more questions. I called my physician, who, appalled at his advice and lack of knowledge about my case, made an appointment for me with another neurologist. Unfortunately, she couldn't get me in for another month, so we had a month of waiting.

Meanwhile, my headaches were getting progressively worse. Much, much worse. Usually if I caught them early enough with enough ibuprofen, I could function. A few came on strong and without warning. I was very eager to meet with a knowledgeable and capable neurologist, who could get to the bottom of the issue, and ready to deal with it, however necessary, just to get rid of the headaches.

My appointment was scheduled for Tuesday, then canceled because of the Snow/Ice Apocalypse in Tennessee that virtually shut everything down. I was rescheduled for Friday, with a different neurologist, who had an opening in his schedule.

Thank God.

He, Dr. Fallis at St. Thomas Hospital, was as nice and kind and thorough and diligent as they come. It was a night and day different experience from my first neurologist. Dr. Fallis looked at my scans, asked me some questions, verified my name and date of birth, asked me some more questions, and then said, puzzled, that the tumor wasn't behind my right eye. It was actually in the back left side of my brain.

What was puzzling to him, and to us, is that he could see clearly on the scans, and show to us, that it was not anywhere near my eye, yet the radiologist had clearly labeled it frontal-something-something, which meant behind my eye. Even my physician had described it as in the wires of my optic nerve.

But the scan clearly showed it was in the back of my brain.

Which is a very, very good thing, because he said it's almost impossible to remove a tumor on the optic nerve without compromising your vision in that eye.

So, with that new information, we first discussed the tumor. It's still a tumor. On my brain. But one that might get to hang out there for a very, very long time. I'll have another MRI in six months, and he will measure its growth. If it hasn't gotten much bigger, he'll leave it there and I'll go back for another MRI in a year. If it has gotten bigger, it will need to come out, but he said it's possible it could come out with radiation, or, if it has to come out surgically, it's what he called a "chip shot," and said "any doctor worth his salt could take it out."

So, it's pretty easy to deal with, relatively speaking.

The headaches he said, are unrelated to the tumor, and it's even possible that the tumor has been there for a long time, and was just discovered because of the vision/headache issue. He asked if it felt like someone was poking me behind that eye, and I said "All. The. Time." That's how I would describe them to people. He believes they are due to nerve damage, which has become worse over time, and exacerbated because of my chronic insomnia, which means my body doesn't rest enough to heal enough. It could have been from my accident in 2009. It could have been from something that happened a long time ago, or it could have happened without any reason. He felt around my eye, which was very painful, and he said he could tell just by touching that there's some swelling back there. So I'm on steroids and muscle relaxers. Day 3 of steroids and I can tell a marked difference in the headaches already. Yesterday was the first day in six weeks that I didn't take any ibuprofen.

Thank God for intuitive and caring doctors.

As for how the scans were read one way by not one but two very capable doctors, before we found out that it was incorrect, and not in my optic nerve, I have two different theories.

One, both doctors read it incorrectly. That's possible. It feels a bit unlikely to me, but definitely entirely possible.

Or, a miracle occurred, and the tumor that was behind my eye -- as two separate doctors attested -- moved on the scan, and in my brain, because so many people prayed.

The truth is, a miracle happened either way, because life is one big gigantic miracle, if you ask me. Famed scientist Albert Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”

Pretty much.

To me, a miracle happens every time Reagan gets up from playing with his toys to walk over to where I am, give me a hug, and say "Love you, Mommy." That's a miracle.

A miracle happens when I wake up every morning to a new day, when the sun rises with dozens of shades of oranges, pinks and yellows. When I am seconds from a car crash, but I miss it. When a friend calls at the moment I need to talk to someone, or when I look up at the sky and see billions and billions of stars, from galaxies millions of lightyears away.

A friend once told me he believed every miracle has a scientific reason behind it. I thought about that, chewed on that, and mulled that over for a while. But I, personally, think it's reversed. I think every scientific fact has a miracle behind it.

But, in the bigger picture, that's all kind of irrelevant. What I do know is this -- that two separate doctors told me there was a tumor behind my right eye, I had severe headaches in that eye, and we now know that those headaches were caused by nerve damage and not the tumor, which is actually in the back of my brain. The medicine the doctor prescribed has already greatly diminished the debilitating headaches, the tumor is going to stay right where it is for six months, at least, and maybe more.

It's all good. It's better than good. It's the best.

But, to be clear, I don't think that because what I thought was a pretty serious medical issue has now become much more manageable means just that "God answered our prayers."

Meaning, I could be prepping for surgery this week and God could still be answering prayers, just in another way.

One of the most hurtful things anyone ever said to me in my life, came from a professing Christian. It was not long after the death of my mother, and I was in that raw state of emotion, where everything felt topsy turvy and out of place.

We were having dinner and I was telling him about her and how difficult her death was, and he said that there must have been an unconfessed sin in her heart, or God would have healed her. When I stuttered and stammered and defended her life, he asked me if I had any unconfessed sin that made God not hear my prayers, which is why she died.

And we wonder why some people think Christians are absolutely crazy.

The truth is, bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people. I don't for one millisecond believe that because my doctor gave me good news, that I did something good. Nor do I believe if he told me I had terminal brain cancer, that I did something bad.

But, what I do believe is that, for reasons I will never, ever, ever understand, at least on this side, I was spared, for now at least, from a potentially serious illness. I know all too well the dangers of a brain tumor, even a benign one, so I am not wasting one second being ungrateful. I'm so grateful. So very, very, very grateful.

As my friend Russell says, "We don't know 'how,' we just know 'that.'"

I have a brain tumor. And if it's only purpose was to remind me to be grateful, then mission accomplished. I am fairly certain I will spend the next several days, weeks, months, and maybe even years, starting my day with gratitude for another day.

One more thing: to everyone who has reached out to me, and to us, thank you. Thank you for loving our family in the middle of all of the uncertainty. Thank you for calling, texting, e-mailing. Thank you for reminding us that in all of this, we are not alone.

Sometimes brain tumors really are a gift.

A Letter to My Daughter

Dear Daughter,

I don't know your name. I don't know what you look like. I don't know much about you, but I know this: I love you fiercely. Deeply. Madly. Passionately.

It's been two years since your father and I decided to expand our family through adoption. In that time, we have prayed for you, every single day. In the morning, when I get your brother, Reagan, up, I whisper a prayer that God will give you restful sleep with sweet dreams. And at night, when I tuck your brother in, I pray that you will have a good day, with a full tummy and hugs and things to make you smile.

I don't know what you have experienced in your life, but I know that you already have had much pain, much sorrow. It pains me, more than you will ever possibly comprehend, to know that right now you have tears that I can't wipe away, boo-boos that I can't kiss, and fears that I can't soothe.

It might feel that you are in an orphanage because you were unwanted, and unloved, but let me assure you that NOTHING could be further from the truth. NOTHING. You are so loved, and desperately, desperately wanted into this family.

We talk about you all the time, with Reagan and whoever else will listen. Reagan proudly shows people your room. Your Daddy got me a charm of a girl, to represent your place in our family, and Reagan often asks to look at the 'one of his sister.'

I know you most likely have some physical challenges. I won't pretend to know what it's like to be so young and face the things you have had to face in your short life, but I assure you that we will do everything in our power -- everything -- to make sure you receive the best care when you come home with us. We have a fantastic pediatrician who we have already been talking to about you, and we will move heaven and earth to get you the best possible treatment.

I miss you. Isn't that odd that I miss you but I don't know who you are yet? But it's true. I get teary a lot. Part of my heart is with you, and until you are in my arms, that void is always going to be there.

So, a little bit about our family ... your Daddy is a GOOD father. I mean, the kind who will read you books past your bedtime, get on the floor and play with you, carry you around on his shoulders, and take you out and buy you treats just because. He loves you. He will protect you at all costs. He is patient (way more patient than Mommy), and always sees the bright side.

Reagan is two years old. He'll probably be three by the time we meet you. He is VERY active, and loves playing with cars, his new kitchen, his farm animals, his race track, and pretty much anything else he can get his hands on. He loves to play outside on his swing set, and he often helps Mommy bake. He is a true nurturer. Even at his young age, he always makes sure other people around him are ok, so I'm sure he'll take good care of you.

I'm home most of the time, so you'll see a lot of me. I am imperfect on a good day, impatient when I'm tired and more of a realist than I'd like to admit. But, I will always, always, always, always, always love you. As your parents, we'll make a lot of mistakes, but we'll learn from them, grow from them, and hopefully figure out the best way to love you and take care of you in the process.

You'll also see a lot of your grandparents, Poppy, Gran Jan and Oma, and your Aunt Tracy and nephew Daniel (or 'Doolule' as Reagan calls him). Poppy and Oma come over often to play, so I'm sure you'll love them. They already love you. And Aunt Tracy is already excited to buy you presents.

Twice a year we travel to PA to see my family, your Pop-Pop, Nana, Uncle Mike, Aunt Dawn and cousin Hunter. They can't wait to meet you. You'll love staying with Uncle Mike and Aunt Dawn. And Aunt Dawn has been known to buy a few special treats and surprises when we visit. She will spoil you in the best way possible.

So many other people love you, and pray for you. People from our church and our friends often ask about you, and if we're close to bringing you home. You are an extremely loved little girl.

When we first told our choir at church that we were adopting you, our friend Jenn prayed that God would 'fill your room with Hope.' The word 'hope' stuck. Our friend Alicia gave us a cross that says 'Hope' on it, and I look at it every day and smile, because it represents YOU. And you make me smile.

I love you, sweet girl. Our family is incomplete until you come home with us. I miss you.  I can't wait to meet you.

See you soon.

Love,

Mommy