My Overthinking

Philly Area mom, Life forever changed by adoption

Archives for December 2012

Where is He?

I have a friend who was suffering this morning. Knowing she was in pain, as I prayed for her, I texted her this verse:

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in Spirit. Psalm 34:18


It was only minutes later that I heard the news and began to realize the great number of broken hearts today.

Where is He? How do I reconcile this to my children?

He is near. 

We’ve read everyday this month of His love story, of broken people who need a rescuer and the rescuer who gives everything to draw us near. That’s what advent is–His coming near. And, that is what we must cling to.

Evan, Ashlyn, Drew, and Lydia, I want you to know this.

No, this isn’t what God wanted for His children. This was not His design. I don’t understand why this happened. We don’t get it. You may hear things at school next week about what happened today. You may hear stories from other kids. Some may try to joke about it just because they don’t know what else to say about it. And, that’s not okay. Because this is really bad, and there are many many people with broken hearts right now because of what happened today. It’s bad, and our world is so broken that it makes our chests hurt. The depth of sin is so deep. And, our need for a savior is nothing short of urgent.

Know He is near.

Know He is so sad.

And, know He somehow brings peace where there is chaos in His timing. I don’t know how. We can’t imagine it sometimes. But, He somehow does it because He loves us with a never ending love that is way bigger than we can ever even imagine, deeper than the biggest ocean, bigger than the biggest mountain.

He is near to the brokenhearted. He could be nowhere else. He’s all about broken hearts.

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Made in China {a new perspective}

He was a quarter at a yard sale. I thought he was cute–soft suede-like material and a retro look about him. He fit perfectly in the girls’ room that has a bit of a vintage feel to it. So, there he sits upon a stack of antique books on Ashlyn’s dresser, presiding over a Lego mini figure, a wind-up toy, and other plastic things that have been sitting collecting dust. While we’ve cleaned out a half dozen times since this guy came home, he’s consistently made the cut. Just something about him that we all took a liking to.

The same photographer, Michael Wolf, who took the 100×100 pictures I shared 9 months ago produced another project called The Real Toy Story. When I clicked on the link, the first picture I saw was this one.

There he was. The dog sitting upon her dresser that we’ve never even named. There he was in the hands of young women who have performed one step in his construction, perhaps attaching thousands upon thousands of fluffy yellow hats.

And, there were more pictures, all from 5 toy factories in China where 75% of the world’s toys are made.

Where migrant workers travel far from home to pursue a better life for themselves. Some are very young, quitting school to make money. Some have children they leave behind with grandparents. Each one, working hard, oftentimes 6 or 7 days a week from 8 in the morning until 10 at night, for about $240 a month including overtime hours.

Where they live in dorms there at the factories with 10-15 people in a room, oftentimes 50 people to one bathroom, a bathroom where running water is shut off at night to save money.
They are not faceless pawns in globalization there simply to satisfy our wants. Each one of these workers is independent and ambitious, hopeful and driven. Each one of the 130 million migrant workers in China has a story, one that we somehow get entangled in through little red sueded dogs.

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Preparing {our Christmas tree}

Here it is. A day we mark on our calendars well in advance. The tradition we live out every year to climb on the back of a tractor, saw in hand, and hunt down the perfect tree. Evan seems to have a knack for it as he carefully examines branches and needles, height and shape, shaking his head at our suggestions and then guarding his own until we ultimately come back around to the one he chose. 
It’s tradition. And, it’s good fun to yell timber as our 6 ft. tower of evergreen slowly crashes, always softer than the kids wish it would. Even fighting them to try to get a fun picture brings smiles to our faces.
As much fun as hayrides and pine tree hunting and free hot cocoa and cookies are, we don’t cut down a tree, remove it from where it’s lived for 7 years so that it can die in our living room for fun. 
Advent. It means coming. When something big is coming, preparation is required. And, we have been preparing. With every step of preparation, there is a grander sense of what is coming. 
As we prepare our home and prepare our gifts, our hearts are moved to prepare as well. And, that’s why we do what we do. We’re preparing our hearts for the incarnation, the coming of the great rescuer. 
We’ve been reading about Him every night at dinner and seeing glimpses of hearts that are more readily letting go of the consumerism that consumes during this season and instead grasping a story, the grandest story of all time, and starting to see that they’re a part of it.

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I think I met an angel this morning

Every weekday morning for the last several weeks, I’ve dropped the kids off at school and then called the JFK mail sorting center. I somehow got a back number I wasn’t really supposed to have to begin with. The first time I called, someone answered. I told him my problem; he said he’d look into it and call me back. Every morning since, it’s gone to voice mail and I’ve left the same message.

Hi, this is Kelly Raudenbush again. I’m really hoping you will help me and call me back. The package I’m looking for was sent from Nairobi, Kenya. It was mailed in September. It arrived at your facility and was scanned on October 16th at 10pm but hasn’t been scanned at all since then. It has to be there somewhere. Please, please, do what you can to find it and give me a call back to let me know the status at ###-###-####.

But, I never heard back. And, nothing on the online status of the package had changed. Mary’s post office in Kenya told her they did their job to get it here and that the reason I wasn’t getting it was because the post office was on strike. I assured her that wasn’t the case, but she didn’t get anywhere with getting them to help. Thousands of dollars worth of goods we were hoping to sell during the Christmas season so that we could send money again to these women, and the package was lost.

I prayed for that online status to change each day when I tried it again and again. Others were praying with me as well. But, we were resigned that it may have been stolen or lost for good. Earlier this week, I wired Mary a little bit of money and asked her to prepare another box to ship which she did on Tuesday. It wouldn’t get here in time for Christmas, but at least we’d have some new things come January.

My mail arrived as normal this morning–some cards, some bills, a small package of a gift ordered.

About an hour later, the doorbell rang.

I went to the door and found a man about 50 years old standing in the rain dressed in a suit–a coat, nice pants, a dress shirt, and a tie. At his feet was a very large box with my name on it.

I opened the door stunned, knowing right away that this was the box we had been praying would be found…at JFK sorting center.

“Good morning, ma’am. I have a package here for you if you’d just sign here.”

“Where did you get this? We’ve been looking for it for weeks, waiting for it for months?”

“Well, it just got here for you.”

“What? But?….Who are you?”

“I’m a supervisor for the post office. I personally brought this by for you since it was so heavy for your regular mailman.”

[who has delivered every other box just like this with no problem, mind you]

“What? It’s still saying on the computer that it is at JFK? I just called about this? I’ve been checking? I was told it hadn’t even gone through customs yet? I’m so confused.”

“Well, I’m glad it got here for Christmas.”

“Well, yeah! Wow…Are you an angel?” [Yes, I seriously asked him that.]

He chuckled then offered to carry the box into the house for me.

Then, I signed, and he went back to his plain old, normal, unmarked car and drove away.

And, I remained in the sunroom stunned and then ripped into the box to see what treasures Mary sent this time.

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