brandylovelace_s74saf

There’s a phenomenon in our home that we like to call “chopping down a tree on the back forty.” I can’t even remember where we stumbled upon it, surely on some clever person’s social media. But the idea is, when you are having a big party, with tons of people coming over to your house, and your husband disappears for the day to cut down a tree on the back forty — the part of your land that nobody would ever see.

In real world terms, it’s vacuuming our your car before the party starts. Or organizing the garage. Or vacuuming the storage room. Or any list of things that nobody would ever see or consider. I also like to call it “procrastiductivity” — a time of hyper productivity when deep down you’re really procrastinating as hard as humanly possible.

Friends, the last two months of my life I have been chopping down trees on the back forty.

As many of you know, Mike and I were matched for our adoption recently. We are holding the details of that match closely, pondering them in our hearts until the time comes to share. And as we are preparing for a child to enter our home, it looks like I am being super productive. This many Amazon packages haven’t landed on our porch since we were wedding planning! All day, I read articles and compile lists and ask questions and do research. I am productive with a capital P!

But I am also procrastinating with a capital P. Just yesterday, as I was putting away some groceries, I thought, “I have to reorganize our pantry before the baby!”

Please know, I understand that our baby could not care less if our pantry is organized. Our friends will not peek into our pantry to judge us. But that pantry is my tree on the back forty.

My heart feels bruised. My emotions are in a constant state of whiplash. But I can control my pantry. I can neatly line up my oils and vinegars. Meticulously organize my seven kinds of flour (I promise, not an exaggeration). Every thing in its place as life itself feels out of place.

There’s grace on the back forty though. There’s peace in the pantry that I can’t find in the nursery right now. And that’s okay. Clearing the back forty gives us a place to breathe and cry and laugh and hope. When I feel myself going there, hiding in the wild woods, I must remind myself to lay down my chainsaw and rest. To wipe down my pantry shelves and breathe.

To put aside both productivity and procratination and just BE.

Two years ago, almost to the day, I sat in my favorite music venue, Red Rocks, not knowing that in a matter of months the world would shut down. As I sat beneath the stars that night, singing along to the music, my husband of just three months at my side, I didn’t know. Nobody knew.

Live music is one of the things I missed the most in 2020. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with strangers, bound only by the artist on the stage in front of you. I’ve watched Bruce Springsteen crowd surf, wondering how his back feels the next morning after bouncing over the hands of strangers. I’ve clutched a friend’s hands, tears streaming down my face, as I listened to Brandi Carlile sing “The Story” under a Colorado sky that stretched so far it made my heart ache. I’ve seen guitar strings break, artists gasp for breath in the thin air and a singer who had so many beers throughout his set that he forgot the words by the end of the night. But we helped him along. We knew the words even when he didn’t.

That’s a good audience.

Then, in 2020, it all just stopped. Tickets that we had purchased were refunded. Venues closed. And as we plodded into 2021, we didn’t know when it would ever end.

But in a moment of faith, we got tickets to the Avett Brothers at Red Rocks for July. And then time marched on. We got our vaccines. Got our second ones. And slowly, slowly, the world began to open again. We wondered. Would it happen?

And two nights ago, on a clear Colorado evening, we were back. We got there hours early and tailgated in the parking lot. We walked up the stairs and stood in line and made friends with the couple in front of us (hi Shirley and Jerry!) We told stories and laughed and everything felt shockingly — normal.

Hours later, as the sun went down and the lyrics floated across the air, it felt holy. “We’re here,” said one of the brothers, “and you’re here.” The music felt different, somehow. Weightier. Profound in a way that surprised me. I closed my eyes and sang loud, together, joining a big, messy, beautiful choir. I danced with my husband of two years, and laughed. And we remembered to be grateful. Always to be grateful.

This is not “back to normal.” It’s not even “new normal.” It’s life lived to the fullest. With the memory that sometimes life gets small. And we hold our breath until it’s big again.

That night. We breathed.

On February 27, 2021, I met my first grandchild, a sweet little boy who will one day call me “Grandy.” As I held him for the first time, I had to hold back laughter. Because here I was, waiting to be a mother, while holding my grandson.

Life doesn’t always go the way you think I will.

On the drive out to California to meet this precious little boy, I had a lot of time to think about what kind of grandmother I will be. And how my experience as a grandmother will influence the kind of mother I will be.

I like to walk before I crawl. Jump right into grandmotherhood before I’ve yet experienced motherhood.

Our two weeks in California were filled with swaddles and diapers, spit up and lullabies. I got to watch my husband be a rockstar dad and kick-ass Pops. And I got to try on the roles of bonus mom and Grandy with my precious, unconventional family. When I held my grandson, I felt my body naturally sway and bounce to calm him. He fit perfectly into the crook of my arm and nestled into my shoulder. While he slept I did laundry and made baked goods.

One day, as I was frosting a batch of cinnamon rolls, I realized I didn’t need to figure out what my role as grandmother went. Just like I don’t need to figure out what my role as step mom means. Or as mother. I am me. In every scenario, that is who I am.

I laugh and bake and like to make beds and give hugs. I read stories and hum lullabies. I do a happy dance when I eat something yummy. I like to go for walks and listen to podcasts. I don’t like to drive but I’m a great co-pilot.

I can bring all of me into every role I am called to. Wife. Bonus mom. Grandy. Mom.

I had worried that holding that precious boy would make me ache for my own child. But instead it made me feel excitement for the day Mike and I will parent a child together. To learn to fill the role of Mommy with all of the unique ways I have been gifted and created.

I will embrace the journey towards motherhood. I will celebrate my titles of friends, love, Brandy and Grandy. And one day I will welcome Mommy with all of the other titles I have been graced with.

Yesterday afternoon, a much anticipated snow storm moved into Colorado Springs. There’s really nothing better than a weekend snowstorm that you can be prepared for. Mike and I snuggled on the couch, eating soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and watching a movie, the fireplace flickering. It was picturesque.

Little did we know that in the open space behind our house, birds were filling the trees. You see, they didn’t get the news that a blizzard was coming. They had been lulled into comfort (or confusion?) by a week of unseasonably warm weather.

Nobody told the birds about spring snowstorms.

As the snow piled up, the birds sought shelter. That shelter just so happened to be our back porch. Overnight, dozens of birds gathered there, seeking shelter from the storm. We heard them chattering and swooping as the sun rose.

This morning, Mike called me to the porch to see the adorable little bird prints on the ground and the chair cushions. And the not so adorable bird poop that dotted the porch.

Those birds have been on my mind all morning. Every time I look outside, I see the trees in that open space in constant movement as the birds dart in and out. I imagine they’ll visit our back porch again tonight. A shelter from the wind and snow and cold.

Mike and I believe in hospitality. Into opening our home to others. We want to be a literal and figurative shelter from the storm. And today, I have thought a lot about what that means. Because, being a safe space can be messy. Opening your home to those who are seeking safety and love means stains on the couch and crayon on the walls. It means piles of dirty dishes in the sink. It means difficult conversations and moments of tension. It means late nights and inconvenience. It means noise and mess.

But that is why we open our doors. That’s why we hang a bird feeder on the back porch. Because it’s all worth it. To be the home where someone feels safe. To be the place where love overflows. A place where all he enter feel known. Loved. Sheltered.

It’s worth every mess. Every time.

It’s funny, I can’t really tell you what prompted me to mark each month of our adoption journey with a plant. The idea rooted in my mind (ha, no pun intended), and Mike was immediately on board.

But I can tell you exactly how many houseplants we owned before November — ZERO!

I can tell you that a few years ago I put some potted flowers on our front porch, and they did fine until we went on vacation and I forgot they would need to be watered.

I can tell you that we look forward to turning off our sprinkler every year because then we can just accept our brown yard.

And before November I had never set foot in a garden store — I had only purchased fake plants from IKEA up until then.

But it was important to me to mark each month of this journey. To acknowledge the passing of time with something living and beautiful. To watch each plant grow, to watch our home fill with beauty while we wait to welcome a child into that same home. A child who will fill each room with messes and laughter and beauty and love.

Each month, when Mike and I go to pick out a plant, I make sure my phone is fully charged. Because each plant that I come across, I google. What does this mean? What is the symbolism? How easy is it to keep alive?

But in November, right after we sent out our monthly email update, I got a beautiful message from a dear friend. In it, she asked if she could send me a plant for January. In her email, she told me about a begonia plant she had that had been gifted from a friend named Joannie. The last time my friend saw Joannie was in the mid-1970s. And Joannie was dying. She handed over her precious plant and asked my friend to always keep it alive and think of her.

This past Friday, that begonia clipping arrived in the mail, nestled in tissue paper and wrapped gently in plastic to keep her warm and safe as she traveled across the country. My friend requested that I call this delicate clipping Joannie. To keep her name alive. Her legacy.

So, I drove Joannie immediately to the garden store, where I handed her off to a kind worker, who nestled her in sweet-smelling soil in a brand new pot. I brought her home and put her in a sunny spot by the window. I carefully poured water around her little cluster of roots, coaxing them to grow and spread. I delighted in the moment the sun hit her leaves, shining red where once was just green.

I’ve been thinking a lot about death and life, beauty and ashes, as I look at Joannie the begonia. How Joannie’s spirit is alive in this little plant. How, even though I never knew her, her name dances on my tongue some 40-odd years after her death. Something beautiful has sprung forth from the tragedy of her death.

And then, I think of the baby we are waiting for. How he or she will have a birth mother who will leave a legacy. That our child will experience loss even before he or she is born. But from that loss, will spring so much love. Love from a birth mother who will make an incredibly hard and brave decision. And love from us. A love that is already breaking our hearts in the waiting, making space for the vines and blooms of love that will break forth for this little one we do not know yet — but already know deeply.

Advent is one of my favorite times of the year. It represents a time of waiting and anticipation. Which, feels like a lot of life. When I was young I couldn’t wait to grow up. When I grew up I couldn’t wait to get a job. When I was single I couldn’t wait to get married. And on and on.

Advent resonates with my heart. Of constantly feeling like I’m in a season of anticipation.

This morning, our pastor talked about a child-life faith as compared to a mature faith. The world teaches us that maturity is what we should aim for. But there is a reason we are called to come to Christ as children. When did I stop gasping in wonder and start scoffing in doubt? When did my spirit become edged in hardness and not soft and moldable?

I found myself staring at the flicking candles in the Advent wreath this morning. This morning, the last purple candle was lit. It stood tall next to the other ones which had burned lower. It is the candle of peace. Peace in the waiting. Peace in the anticipation.

When I get home from church today, I will water the three plants that mark the three months of waiting in our adoption process. A violet sits in the bathroom. I recently pruned the yellowed leaves and dead flowers this week, and the new leaves sit tight and bright green. Waiting for new blossoms.

On the dining room table is the philodendron. It appears healthy and is growing over the sides of the pot it sits in. New leaves grow, splitting from delicate green stalks.

And on the ledge is our newest plant, a Christmas cactus. Some say it’s a symbol of maternal love — strong even in harsh conditions. Others believe its blossoms represent faith. But I picked it out because I needed something sturdy yet unpredictable. It’s called a Christmas cactus, but really, it blooms when it’s ready. Maybe on Christmas. Maybe not.

I don’t know if we will still be anticipating and longing next Advent. I don’t know when our cactus will bloom. I do know that I must train my heart to see the wonder. To be curious.

To gasp in wonder.

If I had to choose one way to describe 2020, it would be “out of control.” Because if there’s something that reminds you that you have no control, it’s a pandemic.

But if you truly want to feel out of control, you should start the adoption process DURING a pandemic. Oh, and then add in an election for good measure. Each thing has sent the sharp and sometimes startling reminder that there are so many things in life we can’t control.

We can’t control the virus that rages around us. We have watched it take loved ones from people we love. We have watched isolated people become more isolated as we all try to desperately figure out how to stay safe and keep others safe.

We have watched our country shattered around party lines, and have prayed for healing that we, again, can’t control. We can only control our own words and actions, but even those feel at times out of control.

At first, I could trick myself into thinking the adoption was controllable. I could form checklists around the mounds of paperwork. But soon every item on the checklist was completed, and we settled into the unsettling season of waiting.

The virus shows no sign of slowing. The votes have all been cast. And the few baby items we’ve been gifted are hidden in the storeroom so I don’t have to stare at them every day.

I’m not very good at waiting, you see. I’m good at preparing and checklists and deadlines. I’m not good at open-ended waiting.

This morning, as Mike and I were driving to church, I was rummaging around in the car for a mask. I opened up the console and nearly a dozen masks spilled out. And there, in a pile of fabric stained with my make-up, I had to face how I had been grasping for control.

Mike has joked with me about my obsession with masks. Old Navy ones and Target ones. Floral and polka-dotted. All different shapes and styles. But as I pulled one of my favorite ones out of the pile this morning (brown, floral, nose wire), I realized that I kept buying masks because it felt like the only thing I could control.

I kept reading news articles about politics because it was the only thing I could control.

I kept making lists about the adoption because it was the only thing I could control.

There is something to identifying the things that we can control in life. But it’s not a pile of masks. And it’s really not control.

I can do my best to protect others. I can love those who think differently than me. I can remind myself that in a season of waiting I can still learn and grow.

Every Sunday, we do “prayers of the people” at church. We pray for our church, our community and the world. We pray for the sick, the lost and those in darkness.

The last thing we do is a prayer of confession. After a moment of silent confession, we say these words aloud…

Most merciful God,

we confess that we have sinned against you

in thought, word, and deed,

by what we have done,

and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart;

we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

The past few weeks, there has been one phrase that has literally brought me to my knees. “By what we have done, and by what we have left undone.”

It’s been a hard few weeks. There’s nothing “wrong,” it’s just been a season of dark mixed with light. Love has swirled in my heart with sadness. Resentment has bumped up against gratefulness.

My imperfections have been on display. And those words of confession have felt so heavy. So as I have said the words “Most merciful God,” I have found myself sinking to my knees. There is something clumsy and awkward about kneeling. It’s uncomfortable.

Today, as I leaned my forehead against the smooth wood, I found myself needing more time. To confess the things I’ve said, and the times I haven’t spoken up. To confess harsh words and harsher thoughts. To confess the anger I’ve felt and the love I’ve hoarded.

Just as my knees began to ache, as my sins pinned me to the carpet, our pastor stood before us.

Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you all your sins

through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all

goodness, and by the power of the Holy Spirit keep you in

eternal life. Amen.

I stood up awkwardly. That’s how confession is, isn’t it? Awkward and clumsy. Aching knees. Aching heart. But a little bit lighter. Hands open. Receiving mercy. Forgiveness. Strength.

Amen.

What’s your kitchen nemesis? I’m not talking about figuring out what to make for dinner — that’s everyone’s nemesis. I mean the thing that you haven’t figured how to conquer. The thing that defeats you over and over.

For me, it’s pie. The very first pie I ever made was a beautiful, glossy strawberry pie. It was a work of art. That somehow completely cemented itself into the pie plate. How does that even happen? Crust has so much fat it should slide right out of any pan, but this one was not budging. My friends and I literally just sat around the pie right out of the pan, chiseling the crust out with our forks.

I didn’t make a pie crust again for years. I resorted to the shame of store bought. (Side note — I KNOW there is no shame in store bought pie crust! It was shame directly solely at me, not judgement directed at anybody else).

Over the past few years, I’ve started dabbling in pie crusts again, and it’s been quite hit and miss. Shrunken tart shells have made me curse. Crumbly graham cracker crusts have caused me to shake my fist in fury. But the successes, as shaky as they’ve been, have slowly built my confidence.

But there’s something all of these pie crusts have been teaching me. To lean into the things that I’m not great at — but could be.

I’m good at baking. It’s a gift. I could be good at pies. But they haven’t come easily to me. So I’ve had to make a decision. Do I lean into the hard? Or do I just buy premade crusts for the rest of my life?

You know how I force myself to lean in? I volunteer to do the hard thing (make pies) for someone’s BIG DAY (a wedding).

I don’t lean in, y’all. I fling myself over the edge.

I have until December 29 to master pies. I spent this weekend making crusts and braiding and lattice-ing. I sliced and cursed and laughed flour handprints on every surface.

But at the end of the day, I had two pies that showed progress. They’re not perfect. But they’re getting there. Just like me.