UBP Like It's 2012

 

It’s that time of year again, time for Ultimate Blog Party 2012. If this is your first visit, welcome. Let me show you around. (And if you’re an old friend, you’re welcome to stay, too. Just don’t eat all the snacks)

My name’s Nancy Franson, and I’m Out of My Alleged Mind. As I told my future son-in-law the first time we met, you never can be quite sure about me; whether I’m trying to be funny or I’m just plain crazy. And that’s my edge. This post: About the Blog Title explains, well, pretty much what you’d expect it to explain.

I wanted to have the place all cleaned up in time for the party, but I’m in the process of moving. I’ve been threatening since the fall to transfer my blog over to Word Press. But, as I often say about all things technical, “Things did not go as planned.”

Then again if I were to invite you over to my house, I may or may not have all the laundry neatly folded and put away. I’ve reached a point in my life where I’ve quit trying to hide all the mess, and this is a place where I invite folks to enter into it. I’m convinced that one of the chief purposes of my life is to tell my stories as a cautionary tale for others.

And through my stories, I hope to bear witness to God’s faithfulness in meeting me in my mess.

I’ve written this post about what I believe.  On my blog I sometimes make jokes about being a Presbyterian, because that’s what I am. Sometimes I wonder if there aren’t folks in my church who secretly wish I’d just run off and join the Methodists. But they’re stuck with me. It’s probably predestined.

I’m a freelance writer; and because that’s what it says on my business card, it must be true. I homeschooled my kids for many years and, as they began leaving home, I started looking for writing projects to give me something to do. One of my first was a series of interviews with an elderly friend who was losing her memory to dementia. We gave bound copies of her story to her friends and family members the Christmas before she died.

Another early project was interviewing some folks who are part of the Coalition for Christian Outreach, (CCO). The CCO is a Pittsburgh-based college ministry which, in my completely unbiased opinion, is about the most happening one on the planet.

I love telling stories, my own and those of others who cross my path. My brother, who reads my blog, said he imagines most people think I make up the stories I tell here. He can confirm, however, that they are (mostly) true.

Although I homeschooled for many years, I don’t often write about my experience. I think I need some distance to gain some perspective on those years. I didn’t always love it, and writing about it now might just come across as mean. I hope that when I do tell those stories; the good, the bad, and the ugly, I can tell them with honesty and grace.

Both of my children are adopted, and I gladly tell the stories of God’s goodness in bringing to me the exact ones he knew I needed. I sponsor, through the good work of Compassion International,  a child from the Philippines out of gratitude for my son who was born there.

I love the beach, I love Christmas, and I love my friend Ethel. I’m a huge fan of hijinks, shenanigans, feather boas, and guacamole. I prefer pie to cake. I’m originally from the Pittsburgh area and, yes, I do bleed black and gold for my Steelers. And the mere existence of the Baltimore Ravens makes me sad.

Me with Michelle DeRusha, Deidra Riggs, and Mary Bonner

I often refer to the people I’ve met in blog world as my imaginary friends. It’s been my privilege to meet several of them in real life, and they have demonstrated themselves to be as genuine as folks can be. Some of the communities where I like to hang out on the internet include:  The Wellspring, Graceful, Finding Heaven, Imperfect Prose, Jumping Tandem, and Faith Barista.

Me with Jodi from Curious Acorn

I’m also honored to have been featured at The High Calling, a community of some of the most thoughtful people on the internet discussing the connection between faith and work.

Yes, I am available to guest post. Please ask.

I strongly believe that one of the privileges of being a follower of Christ is getting to speak words of blessing over one another, so may God’s grace and peace be upon you. Thanks for stopping by.

If you’ve enjoyed your visit here, won’t you consider subscribing by email, liking my Facebook page, or following me on Twitter (@nancyfranson) or Pinterest?

UBP2011 Post

It's a Providential Life

My family speaks movie.  When my siblings and I get together, we can have entire conversations comprised of little more than movie references strung together by a handful of original thoughts.  And, we’ve found, there are few conversations in life that can’t somehow be enhanced by an It’s a Wonderful Life movie reference.

True story—when the elder of my two-headed brothers got married, our younger two-headed brother toasted him with these words:

To my big brother Chaz, the richest man in town.

 They’re both a little bit off their nut.

A few years ago, my church threw a party for our pastor to celebrate his twenty-five years of service to our congregation. For the event, I wrote a skit entitled, It's a Providential Life. My brother (the elder two-headed one) made this sign which was carried back and forth across the stage as someone played, Buffalo Gals Won’t You Come Out Tonight? on the ukulele.

In the skit our pastor, portrayed by his son, found himself trapped at an elder’s meeting during which fine points of church order were being argued and debated in mind-numbingly excruciating detail.  At one point, the pastor’s character banged his head on the table and cried, “Sometimes I wish I’d never become a pastor!”

Of course, Clarence the angel appeared and showed him all the babies never baptized, the sermons never preached, the marriages not performed. We even caught a glimpse of his wife, pastor’s wife extraordinaire, living instead as an old maid. “Why, I’m not even Presbyterian!” she cried.

During the course of my daughter’s wedding, my dear pastor made reference to that skit and to that sign which continues to hang in his office. Speaking from the book of Ruth, he reminded my daughter and her new husband that God’s providence was, and remains, everywhere present in bringing them together and as they begin their new life together.

Ruth as he reminded us, found herself widowed and in poverty and gleaning in the fields of a man named Boaz. Boaz, as it turned out, was her near relative who became her husband and redeemer.  Later in scripture, we read that our true Redeemer, the Lord Jesus Christ descended from this man who just so happened to have a field where this impoverished widow gleaned.

My pastor emphasized these words:  as it turned out, and it just so happened. To the believer, he reminded us, there are no coincidences; all is Providence. According to the Westminster Shorter Catechism, God’s works of providence are defined as his most holy, wise, and powerful preserving and governing all his creatures, and all their actions, all of which is a fancy-schmancy way of saying, God's got this.

Since my daughter’s wedding, I have been thinking quite a bit about the holy, wise and powerful acts God used to bring us to that day. When my husband and I made the decision to adopt, it just so happened that I had a former roommate whose husband worked for Bethany Christian Services. After we were approved for adoption, our daughter’s birth mom read our file.

As it turned out, she chose our family because she wanted her baby to grow up in a family with other adopted children. It just so happened that my in-laws had adopted about twenty years earlier. We saw evidence that God’s plan in bringing our daughter to us had begun taking shape years before my husband and I even met.

When our daughter was young, we happened to hire a lovely young woman as a babysitter for her on a regular basis. That babysitter happened to grow up, go away to a small Christian college, and find a husband. They returned to live near us and, during the course of a seemingly random conversation, my husband offered a job to our babysitter’s young husband. Some years later, as it turned out, he became president of the alumni association at the small Christian college from which he had graduated. When our daughter was looking at colleges, he took her there for a visit and she fell in love with the place.

Shortly after arriving at college, our daughter met a young man who just so happened to live in an area in western Pennsylvania where my husband lived during high school. As it turned out, his family attended the very same church in which my husband had grown up. It just so happened that all our people knew his people.

(This happy providence, by the way, proved most useful when my daughter and her boyfriend began to date. I was able to warn him that my daughter’s grandparents continued to live on in legend in his family’s church and, should he ever even begin to formulate an inappropriate thought toward my daughter, the good people of that congregation would gladly pummel him--possibly even bludgeon him. He never really knew if I was just really, really funny or just plain crazy which, providentially, worked to my advantage.)

As it turned out, my husband and I realized we had already met the parents of this young man, having been introduced to them earlier that year at a fund-raising auction for a college ministry we support.  We learned that the boyfriend’s parents had met and married while attending the same small Christian college our daughter attended. As it turned out, his mother’s college roommate became a teacher in a small Christian school in New England. Last year, that former college roommate was my nephew’s teacher.

Just a few days before the wedding, my daughter received a message from her brother-in-law to be, asking if she had an Uncle Andy. As it turns out, the two were sitting only a few feet away from each other at a conference, having just learned they worked for the same company.

Uncle Andy, by the way, is the younger two-headed brother.

You see people; it really is a providential life.

This is a slightly edited post from the archives. Linking in community today with Jennifer and KD:

A Heart Like His

My expectations for life after marriage were probably fairly typical for a young newlywed. I’d found the man of my dreams. I figured we’d get married, find a place to live, and buy ourselves some major appliances. I’d work for a few years, we’d have some babies, and all would live happily ever after. It sounded like a reasonable plan, one which seemed to be moving ahead quite nicely.

Until my body betrayed me.

I’d heard about this thing called infertility and of women who experienced it, but I wasn’t about to accept that I was one of “those women.”  Month after month I waited with hope, only to be disappointed time and again. I prayed. I sought medical treatment. I slammed doors and ate way too many Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

I watched as friends welcomed children into their homes while my arms remained empty.  The ache of longing grew in my heart, ripping it wide open. I wasn’t sure healing was possible.

Jesus wept. Two short words penned by the disciple Jesus loved capture Christ’s response to the grief and heartache of this world. Some speculate that the source of the Savior’s tears was the depth of his love for his friend Lazarus. Others believe Christ wept because those standing at the mouth of the tomb couldn’t understand or believe in the possibility of resurrection.

My pastor suggested Christ’s tears were ones of anger—anger at the consequences of sin and the grief caused by it. What grieves me breaks the heart of Jesus. And the only solution to sin and grief was the compassionate heart of the Father sending his beloved Son, that by his stripes we could be healed.

Healing for my heart began through the gift of adoption. God gave me two beautiful children, and I can’t imagine life without either of them. Since they’ve come into my life, however, God has shown me that he was at work doing so much more than merely binding up my wounds.

Several years ago I opened an email attachment from a missionary friend, one who had served in the Philippines for a number of years. I’ll admit it; I’m not always terribly faithful about reading correspondence from missionaries—especially when I’ve got a significant backlog in my email inbox. Which is most of the time.

For some reason I not only read my friend’s message, but was also moved to click on the attachment. I couldn’t believe the opening words:

When we were missionaries in the Philippines a friend from my hometown came to adopt a boy from an orphanage in the southern part of the Philippines. I remember thinking of the incredible significance of his adoption. . . . He received a new name and new hope. . . . How much more is the change for those who are adopted by God the Father?

My story. My son’s story. My friend had used these to illustrate the doctrine of adoption in training materials he was developing, words written to equip missionaries and pastors to spread the gospel. My broken heart story became woven into a much larger story; the story of God’s heart for the entire world.

When Jesus healed my heart, he didn’t make it as good as new. He changed it. I believe the heart once broken and healed by the Savior’s hand becomes tenderer. It feels pain and remembers; much like a limb once shattered and restored senses a dull ache with a change in the weather. Fissures and cracks of brokenness remain in my heart and, I’m sure, in the lives of my children and their birth parents; reminders of emptiness and loss. Our hearts bear scars, as do the hands of the wounded healer.

I also wonder if the heart once broken and made tender doesn’t also change in shape. Had my starry-eyed newlywed dreams been fulfilled, I wonder if I would have learned to care as deeply about the work of adoption and the sacredness of human life. Because of the experience I’d had in traveling there to adopt my son, my heart became open to sponsoring a child from the Philippines through Compassion International.

Christ assured his followers that, in this world, we would have trouble. Our hearts will most certainly be broken. But as he brings healing, he enables them to grow and become more like his.

Joining with Bonnie Gray and others, telling stories of broken hearts and healing:

Empty Nest Christmas Tree

We picked out our tree together, just the two of us, the way we had back in the beginning. Back then, the beloved Swede and I had few ornaments to hang on our tree. During a quick trip to K-Mart one Friday evening after work, we picked up two strings of lights, some ornament hangers, and a package of red satin balls. We decorated our tree to the sound of a couple of Christmas records we had purchased, one by Anne Murray and the other by Barbara Streisand. We owned only a handful of other ornaments back then: an angel tree topper the Swede’s parents had given us the year we’d gotten engaged, handmade gifts from our new friends, another newlywed couple; a straw angel we’d found in a Scandinavian gift shop during our honeymoon. We were young and in love and, in our eyes, our sparsely decorated tree was a thing of beauty.

 Over the years we began to collect ornaments, picking up souvenirs from our travels together. On a summer vacation in Vermont, we picked up a glass ball painted to look like a cow. Friends had offered us free use of their ski cabin, which was about as much as we could afford to spend on a vacation back then. A ceramic mountain goat which has been dropped, broken, and re-glued several times reminds us of our backpacking trip in Glacier National Park. Our tree holds memories of the years when it was just the two of us, years when we were waiting for children.

When our kids came along, we started building their collections. Each year, the first ornament our daughter pulled out was a baby bottle dated the year of her first Christmas. Her foster parents had given it to her, those who had cared for her while we were awaiting approval to adopt. Next she always hung the cardboard tracing of her hand, the one our pastor’s wife helped her make one Sunday evening in the church nursery. Each year she’d measure her hand against it, surprised to see how much she’d grown. Her collection reflected her changing interests through the years: cross-stitched ornaments she’d made from scraps and pieces of my embroidery supplies; a replica of Samantha, the American Girl doll she’d saved her money to buy, a girl playing a flute, mementos from her trip to Switzerland.

The year our daughter left for college we put up our tree early, during Thanksgiving break, so she could join us in decorating it. Last year I packed up all her ornaments and sent them home with her to the newlywed apartment she now shares with her husband.

I carried my son’s ornaments upstairs this year, wondering if he wanted us to save them so he could hang them when he returns from college. “Go ahead. You hang them,” he said, his interest in family tree-decorating having waned over the past few years. The Swede and I took turns pulling memories from boxes. Some brought smiles; others, tears. We found the ugly Grinch ornament, the one which probably came as a Happy Meal toy and which we used to discourage him from hanging on the tree. It now resides in a prime location, front-and-center on the tree.

I stared at the picture of him, fused to a piece of Christmas fabric; the one of him holding the gingerbread house he’d made in kindergarten. I found a spot for Schroeder and Snoopy, the ornament which plays “Linus and Lucy,” and could almost hear my boy playing it the way he used to on our piano. I pulled Chip and Dale from the box we purchased at Disney World, recalling how my son couldn’t remember which character he’d met at the park was Chip and which was Dale. I laughed at the Elvis cow ornament, the one we’d picked up in an ice cream shop during one of my husband’s many business trips to Park City, Utah. I wondered how much longer my son’s ornaments would reside in our home and tried to imagine where they, where he, will be when they leave.

We decorated our tree together this year, just the two of us, just the way we’d begun all those years ago. We didn’t say much. Christmas music played softly in the background, instrumental CDs we’d picked up in Vermont and in Santa Fe. We remembered, our tree bearing witness to so many good years, years of God's goodness and faithfulness; years which have passed by all too quickly.

Linking with Jen and the sisterhood:

 

 And shared as a Community Post at The High Calling.

Finding My Voice

“Finding your voice is your sacred obligation,” said the university president at the convocation service for the class of incoming freshmen.

I wanted to jump up out of my chair, clap my hands, and shout, “Glory, hallelujah, and amen!” Instead, I remained in my seat, tears streaming from my eyes as I whispered, “Thank you, Lord Jesus.”

From the days when I was filling out adoption paperwork, even before I met them and brought them home, my heart’s desire for my children was that they see God’s unique calling in their lives and pursue it. Throughout their childhoods, I prayed they would see their need for Jesus, respond in faith, and recognize they were created in His image for the good of the world and for His glory. We talked about these ideas, during our years of homeschooling. We revisited them as the high school years drew to a close and college applications and essays were being completed. Often my attempts to engage these thoughts were met with icy stares and stony silences. But now I know my son is at a place where he will continue to be challenged to pursue God’s call in his life.

Funny thing about raising kids, though. It’s hard to get them to latch onto ideas if they don’t see their parents and other influential adults putting them into practice.

Which I guess means I, too, need to be about the business of finding my voice. I have been trying, here in my little corner of internet world, to write about life and faith and how it all connects to the one big story of Jesus and redemption. I am willing to pursue that call, though my sentences are wordy and my verbs often passive. In that effort, I am grateful to have met many others who are using their voices for the good of the world and for God’s glory. So many of them challenge me to work harder, refine my skills, and write better.

This September, editors and members of The High Calling will be gathering for a writer’s retreat at Laity Lodge in Texas and are offering to pick up travel and registration expenses for one member of the community. These are people who understand the importance of daily work in the building of Christ's kingdom.  I would desperately love to be the person chosen.

Many other gifted friends like Sheila, Sandra, Lyla, and emily, are also hoping to snag that one lone spot. So even if I don’t win I figure I still win, because I’ll get to read more of their beautiful words written even more beautifully.

Go read their words. Then be about the business of finding your voice.

Sometimes You Just Feel Like An Ostrich

Admit it. You clicked on the title expecting to find some kind of emo rant from me about wanting to bury my head in the sand.

Wrong! Ostriches don't bury their heads in the sand. And, yeah, I googled it.

Today I'm honored to be guest posting over at  Ostriches Look Funny because I bugged JoAnn until I wore out her last good nerve JoAnn is kind, gracious, and inviting like that.

Many of you who stop by here already know JoAnn and know her to be both hysterical and wise. She's a wife and momma to three adorable boys, the youngest of whom I'm fairly certain would have been named Nancy. If he'd been a girl.

So stick an ostrich plume in your hair, throw on a feather boa, and click here to head on over to JoAnn's place. Browse around and look at pictures of her boys, then say nice things to her. Today we're talking about God's goodness.

(Then feel free to come back here and say nice things to me. Cause I'm kinda needy like that)

Family Resemblances

Sometimes I forget what my family looks like. I married into a family which has deep Scandinavian roots, my father-in-law having been born in Sweden. Throughout his life, my father-in-law has been connected with a church founded by Swedish immigrants.  A brief reading through any of these church’s bulletins bears witness to the ongoing ties between congregation and homeland, filled as they are with names like Carlson, Johnson, Olson, Swenson, Bergstrom, Lindstrom, and Sandberg. The first time I visited my future husband’s church, I felt as though every blond head turned and every blue eye fell suspiciously upon my brown hair and brown eyes. In my defense, I wanted to blurt out, “My grandmother’s maiden name was Donaldson!” The communion bread was Swedish Limpa, and the coffee served was delicious, hot, and abundant.

Photos of my husband and his brother as young boys depict typical blue-eyed towheads, blond hair bleached nearly white during summer months. Perhaps traces of Viking blood continue to course through their veins, fond as they both are of hunting, fishing, and all things outdoors. As young boys, they often stopped to pick up dead animals from alongside the road, taking them home to remove their hides and to preserve and display them on their bedroom walls. Perhaps because her heart tends more toward preserving beauty than preserving dead animal skins, my mother-in-law thought it might be a good idea to adopt some girls.

My husband has two Korean sisters, his parents having added two daughters to the family back in the pioneer days of international adoption. Attending school with few other Asian students, one of my husband’s sisters was once asked, “What are you?” by which her classmate meant, “Where are you from? What nationality are you?” With all sincerity she responded, “I’m Swedish!”  She had no idea that she wasn’t. Both she and her sister took turns dressing up in white robes, wearing wreaths of candles in their hair, portraying the Swedish martyr St. Lucia in their church’s annual December celebration. Differences in hair and eye color and countries of origin seemed to diminish in my husband’s family, united by love, faith, and tradition.

When my husband and I made the decision to adopt, we assumed we would follow the example of his parents.  We felt we were well prepared for and comfortable with international adoption as an avenue for building our family. As is often the case, however, our plans were redirected.  Our first child, our daughter, came to us having been born in the United States.  When we pursued adoption a second time, we were sure we would be bringing home for her a Korean sibling.  Once again, we were redirected—this time to the Philippines. As the beloved Swede and I traveled to meet our son, stopping along the way in both Japan and Korea, we felt ourselves grow taller and whiter the closer we came to Manila.

Sometimes I forget that my son’s experience here in the United States is the complete opposite of ours in the Philippines. As deeply woven as he is into the fabric of our family, it doesn’t occur to me that he looks different from the rest of us, or that difference is a concern to him. When looking at colleges recently, however, he commented about the lack of diversity within the student population on one of the campuses.  His observation reminded me that sometimes I need to stop and take a good look at him and remember that his story began in a faraway place before intersecting with the story of our family.

Through birth, marriage, and adoption, my Swedish father-in-law’s family has grown to include seven grandchildren. A beautiful blend of Caucasian, Korean, and Filipino faces surround him when we gather together as a family. Among us there is one bona-fide Swedish grandson who seems to have inherited the full measure of the hunting, fishing, and picking-dead-animals-up-from-the-side-of-the-road Viking DNA shared by his father and uncle. Because these people are my family, I sometimes forget how we appear to others. I’ve often been greeted with a quizzical stare when, for the first time, I introduce someone to a sister-in-law, a niece, a nephew, or my son. Though our family resemblances aren't evident to others, we know that our hearts are united by those things that matter most.

When my daughter was researching potential college scholarships, she came across an essay contest asking applicants to describe their experiences with diversity.  I told her I thought she should just send in a picture of our family gathered together around the Thanksgiving table. Feasting with others who represent a beautiful tapestry of tribes, languages, and tongues is what diversity looks like in our family. In other words, our experience with diversity feels like a foretaste of heaven.

Linking with Dena Dyer @ Mother Inferior and the good folks at The High Calling in a community writing project, telling stories about crossing cultures.