Community.

It's one of my favorite words. Honestly, truly. Not because I like it phonetically or linguistically, but because I love what it means.

I love that we can be in a community and of a community and those two can look drastically different. I love that when I look out the window, into my community, I see my many neighbors and know that each of them represent hundreds, maybe even thousands, of different communities to which they belong.

I love that I live in a small Midwest American suburban community and yet feel strongly a part of an infinitely-enormous multi-cultural multi-ethnic multi-lingual eternal community.

Community.

Recently, we spent an evening with some folks who share both our physical community and our eternal community.

We live in a small condominium development that sits directly across the street from a large neighborhood of single family homes. The neighborhood is great, and in fact, it's on our list of neighborhoods we'd consider moving to if/when we sell our condo (Lord willing). I wouldn't say it's at the top of the list, but it's up there.

At least that was the case until recently.

Last month we gathered with five other families who live in that neighborhood. It just so happens that a handful of our friends from our church community live in the neighborhood-across-the-street. And it was this recent gathering of friends that made me yearn to live in their neighborhood.

There's something so special about spending the evening with dear friends who share so much - school, mayor, zip code, seasons, neighborhood association dues, floor plans, grocery store, church, and most importantly, Jesus.

I left there begging God to take away my covetous spirit - I have never wanted to move out of this condo and into a house so badly.

For now, I am thankful that these friends are kind enough to include us in their community. Though we don't technically live in the neighborhood, we are literally a stone's throw away. And for that I am so very blessed.














Acts 2:46-47
They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people.

Gnawing on celery.

In just the last week, I spent . . .

• countless hours numbing myself from my reality as I stared blankly at the television.
• numerous hours facebook-stalking mere acquaintances as I mindlessly clicked through the photo albums of total strangers.
• a deafening amount of time running my mouth to friends in an attempt to process another stupid decision I made out of pride.
• a dictionary's worth of words rambling on and on and on to my sister about things that no longer matter because I was simply caught up in a moment.
• a sickening number of brain cells anxiously pondering the what ifs of my seemingly uneventful life.
• a disturbing amount of time nagging my husband about schedules and future plans and last night's miscommunication.
• a saddening amount of energy beating myself up for the way I reacted to my children as a result of my own selfishness and lack of sleep.

I'm no math whiz, but if you added up all the hours spent on the activities listed above, I have a funny feeling that they would closely match the number of hours I spent physically awake last week (which is a whole heck of a lot).

And that's what pisses me off. It didn't take much self-reflection for me to realize that I spend a ridiculous amount of time seeking to fill my empty bucket by grasping for things of this world, my own inner demons, the reassurances from others, and a whole bunch of cultural trash.

Not God.

Not His Word.

Not prayer.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I clearly hungry for the very thing that Jesus promises to give but instead I continue to seek the very thing that is making me more hungry? It's like I am gnawing on celery to satisfy my appetite but I'm burning more calories in the process.

It makes no sense.

Yet I continue to follow the path of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

In chapter two of Radical, Platt describes a group of church leaders in Asia who risk their lives in order to unite and study the Bible for days at a time. I am praying that I might possess merely a fraction of the passion for God that those men possess.

I am praying that God will awaken in my heart a deep and abiding passion for the gospel as the grand revelation of God (Platt, 40).

Because here's the truth: God's promises never falter. They never weaken. They never cease.

And because He promises to deliver blessings, goodness, and rewards (in addition to providing for my needs) to those who seek Him first, I am asking . . . praying . . . begging for God to position me in a way that I am open to His fulfillment. To the joy and peace and contentment that can only come from Him.

I'm sick of clogging up my soul with crap making it damn hard to open my heart to God's voice.

I'm only two chapters into this stupid book, and I'm a complete and utter mess.

Fortunately my God is meeting me exactly where I am at right now. And for that I have never been so grateful.

For more reactions to Chapter Two of Racical, check this out.

Quitting comfortable.

I'm unsettled.

My dear friend and mentor, Marla, mentioned reading this book, and because I like to live on the edge, I joined the read-along over on her blog. We are one week into this thing, and already it's been a wild ride leaving me all sorts of rattled and jumbled.

Radical.

Not exactly the feel-good book of the year.

And though my heart is SO not ready, Radical is exactly what my soul needs.

I am overflowing with so many thoughts and emotions and realizations, but I am far from being able to articulate most of them.

And though I fear the vulnerability that comes with putting my crap out there, stick with me as I begin to process one of those realizations that is really working its way down, down, down into a more digestible form.

David Platt, the book's author, is on a mission to take back our faith from the American dream. On page 7 he writes, "somewhere along the way we had missed what is radical about our faith and replaced it with what is comfortable."

Comfortable. Comfortable. Comfortable.

That's exactly what I am.

Comfortable.

And that's when it hit me. Comfortable is exactly what I don't want to be but I'm so afraid to quit.

You see, in my heart, I've always had this urge to do more - something bigger - something more profound than living this cozy life in the 'burbs, surrounded by the cushions of my generous family and dear, dear friends. Even yesterday I found myself in a conversation with a friend, telling her that if my husband was up for it, I'd move to a "lesser" part of town (aka, the ghetto) as a way to reach out to a hurting community. Take it a step farther, and I'd even move to a lesser part of the world, if my husband felt called.

But I'm realizing that much of that desire has little to do with Jesus and a lot to do with me. You see, I can visualize myself in the ghetto (just a few highway exits away from my warm and hospitable extended family) opening my door to neighboring Americans who happen to have a smaller checking account balance than we do. I can even visualize myself in Africa singing Jesus Loves Me with children who look nothing like my own but still call me Ma-Ma and think I'm somethin' special because I'm from America.

But here's where it gets ugly. I'd be willing to move in the name of Jesus, to a place where nobody knows my name, but I haven't been willing to open my doors to equally "needy" folks in this sheltered and thriving community because of my own selfish motives. Sure, I've thought about it. But then satan slips in and tells me, "Why would you want to do that? They'll just think you're crazy once they really get to know you Jesus freaks, and heck, they don't need your hospitality anyhow." You see, I don't want these people who know me as "the sweet girl next door" to know me as the "Jesus freak." Because that'd be plain awkward.

And about Africa. In my cute little daydream, we're sitting in a circle, singing songs and braiding hair. It's like something you'd sail by on It's a Small World. We might stay a while, pass along a box of Bibles and leave behind a generous check, and then return to the land of greed and consumerism via an air-conditioned 747.

But if Africa was really Iran, and those cute little kids were actually men with weapons accompanied by death threats and severe persecution - Are you kidding me? Keep me the hell away from that.

But here's the radical reality. Those terrorists in Iran are just as deserving of God's Kingdom as those beautiful African babies. You see, I don't want the radical calling. I'm only cool with being called if it's cute and returns me safely to cozy.

And my have-known-me-as-the-girl-next-door-for-four-years neighbors are EXACTLY who God is calling me to love IN JESUS' NAME right now. Forget inner-city fantasies. God has me in this zip code, within these walls, at this very time. Why the heck would He call me to serve in a different community if I can't even get my stinkin' act together in the one where He currently has me? Especially when this community comes with freedom of religion?

Crap.

But before I let satan tell me I suck, because trust me, I'm tempted to end this entire blog post with those two words in bold font - all caps, I am going to thank GOD for humbling me enough to realize what desperately needs to change in my life.

Comfortable. Comfortable. Comfortable.

I live in the most comfortable country in the world, and it's about darn time that I step out just a smidge in an attempt to share my Jesus.

Am I really so darn selfish as to not glorify God in my interactions with those around me? Do I really have so little faith that I don't believe God will take care of what people think when they see us pray or read the Bible or make a decision based on Godly principles as opposed to secular ones?

Thank you, Lord, for speaking directly to my heart and soul as I begin this radical journey. And help me as I take steps of faith toward you and away from me. Because my nature tells me to think of me, me, me. And then me some more.

But I know, deep in my heart and at the core of my soul, that there is so much more to be gained when I think of You. And I never ever want to quit that.

*For more reactions to Chapter One of Radical, check this out.

Crazy awesome.

Two years ago, shortly after the birth of my son, we made the decision to sacrifice a second income so that I could be home with our boy.

Actually, it was God's decision.

Months after my son was born, I applied for a position with the school where I was a long-term sub, and naturally, I thought I had the job in the bag. As it turns out, I didn't get the job. Oh-holy-humbling. I felt so defeated. And disappointed. Especially because with two incomes, my husband and I thought that we could afford to start trying for a second child - a decision that we knew came with huge financial responsibility (my first c-section cost over $30,000).

Anyone else notice all that was wrong with our perspective? God sure noticed. My over-confidence in job security. My insistence that a certain level of financial security equated to our ability to carry out OUR plan. Even the lack of confidence in God's ability to provide for us as we tackled medical bills.

So there we were, living humbly on a single-income, still paying off medical bills from my pregnancy and delivery, and wondering if we'd ever be able to afford more children (yes, we have health insurance, but it didn't cover all of our bills). Though I very much tried to live in the moment with my then six-month-old son (he was and still is the delight of my life), I couldn't help but feel discouraged that God's plan apparently wasn't my plan. I was praying for a part-time-work-from-home-school-counseling-job (or the impossible) and, in an effort to get back to a more positive mindset, I began taking daily jogs.

One Saturday morning, I grabbed the dog and my running shoes and headed out for a quick jog. As we made our return home, we came to a ditch and my foot slipped on the early morning dew still covering the grass. My foot planted in the ditch as my body kept moving forward. I heard three awful pops and landed face-first in the grass, the dog still by my side. I knew right away that my ankle was broken.

Fast forward several days - I'm rolled into the OR for surgery on my very-broken ankle. And guess what? Ankle surgery ain't much cheaper than a c-section.

Crap.

Crap.

Crap.

Now we had medical bills out the wazoo. I was physically unable to even pick-up my crazy-busy six-month-old. And my hopes of jogging my way to sanity were shot. (We can never thank our families enough for helping us to survive those eight weeks that I lived on crutches.)

And to top it all off, eight weeks of being confined to the couch and bed resulted in something I wasn't quite expecting: a pregnancy.

Oi vey.

Of course we were thrilled, but deep-down, I was frightened. Everything that had once given me security had been taken from me - my physical abilities, financial stability, even my self-worth from a job. And throw in the challenges of a soon-to-be-toddler and pregnancy hormones - Yikes! Thank you, Jesus, for giving me a patient and level-headed husband!

Fast forward almost two years. My son is more delightful than ever. My daughter is beautiful and healthy. And I'm jogging again (I even completed a half-marathon in May).

And remember that flippant and impossible prayer I delivered in the midst of my defeat and disappointment - a prayer for a part-time-work-from-home-school-counseling-job? Well I forgot about it. But guess who didn't?

The one-and-only, always-faithful, nothing-is-impossible-for-Him, crazy-awesome God.

Two months ago I accepted the impossible: a part-time-work-from-home-school-counseling-job. I am so not kidding. It is as if God was saying, "I never forgot about you, but I needed the timing to be perfect. Your timing, Ali, was not my timing. Your securities are not my securities." I am so blown away by His faithfulness.

And in case you were wondering, we paid off all of our medical bills. Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of bills. All before I accepted the job. All on one income. Because with God, ALL things ARE possible.

Gosh, He is so stinkin' good.

Worst moment of my life.

If you're a parent, then you've probably been there. The moment you realize that you lost your child.

It happened to me. In my home. Sort of.

Let me set the scene. We allow our son, who is 2 years old, to play on our screened-in back porch unsupervised. On this particular morning, I could hear him playing, and playing, and playing, and then silence. But it was one of those moments where the silence didn't hit me until it had been minutes of silence.

I'm sick to my stomach even thinking about it.

What made this moment so awfully nightmarish is when I realized that he was outside and we live only feet away from a busy road.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

I was nursing my daughter at the time. I flew out of the house, with her still attached. The minute I realized he was gone, I yanked her off and set her down. I set her down so fast that she fell over and hit her head. She was screaming. I was screaming. As I ran down the back steps into our backyard, I heard the cars rushing by. I kept screaming and screaming.

And then I saw him.

He was running my way, parallel to the street.

Thank you, Lord Jesus. Thank you. Thank you.

He was safe. He was alive. And apparently he had been having the time of his life.

He was covered, absolutely covered, in mud.

I didn't care. I scooped him up so fast, and finally, I breathed.

It was then that it hit me that my heart was racing and my baby girl was on the ground, still screaming.

But I couldn't let go of him. I just couldn't.

I had just endured the absolute worst moment of my life.

As it turns out, I had failed to lock the back door (he can open the door if it's not locked). You better believe that I'm obsessive-compulsive about locking that door now.

Hours after the incident I was still edgy. No longer shaking, but I could still feel the pit in my stomach.

The thought of losing my son had become a reality. If even for a minute, it was a reality that I never, ever want to experience again.

I gave in.

Here's the truth:

I'm a lot more over-protective than I'd like to admit.

Helicopter parenting makes me bonkers, while the term free-range-parent is music to my ears.

But that was all before my son met the four-wheeler.

I first heard about it after a weekend away from my son. He and his father (I refer to my husband as "his father" anytime the two of them are getting into trouble, which happens to be more and more frequently) had gone down home (my in-laws' house) for a weekend of hunting and shooting and other city-absent activities.

I called my in-laws' house to check-in, and it was no surprise that my son and his father were unable to talk because 400 acres of pure nature are much too inviting for two trouble-making boys (I refer to my husband as a boy when he is getting into trouble with my other boy. Again, this happens to be the case more and more frequently.)

So my in-laws gave me a few updates, assuring me that both boys were doing well and having too much fun to be missing me (as evidenced by the neglect to check-in with us girls).

But in talking to my in-laws, I was suddenly blindsided with a tidbit of information that only a city-girl can appreciate.

My son, my itty-bitty baby boy, had been on the 4-wheeler. And by 4-wheeler, I mean 500 pounds of off-roading DANGER.

Oi vey.

I tried to pull myself together. Inside, I was spinning. All I could think about . . . Was he strapped in? Was he wearing a helmet? Was he, was he, was he ALIVE?

Can you tell I was raised in the city?

Fast-forward to that evening when I FINALLY spoke with my boys, and I was able to address my irrational and ridiculous rational and normal concern excitedly and fervently calmly and gently with the boy's father my husband. He listened (bless his heart), and he agreed to waiting until I was ready before my sweet, sweet boy could ride the death machine again.

You would think we were deciding on whether or not our son was old enough to ride his bike all by himself to Seven Eleven. Or use his allowance to buy a M-rated video game. Or borrow the car to take his girlfriend to a late night movie.

Breathe, Ali, breathe.

Needless to say, I had some settling down to do.

But something happened as I began to settle.

I started to realize that I wasn't really afraid of what could happen. In fact, my fear had nothing to do with my baby falling off the beast-on-wheels.

No, instead of fearing head trauma, my fear had everything to do with letting go. Letting go of my baby. And knowing that part of my job as parent is allowing him to have experiences that have nothing to do with me.

Breathe.

Sure, there was the possibility that something terrible could happen to him. But he was in the care of his grandparents and daddy who love him more than words can express.

And it's that very love that makes letting go of my little man so heartbreaking.

Knowing that my baby is beginning his journey as Henry, not as my baby. And the fact of the matter is that I won't be there for every Henry moment.

So when my son and his father went back down home for another weekend of weapons and dead turkeys, I didn't fuss. I didn't whine and search for excuses why my baby shouldn't ride the four-wheeler.

Nope. I gave in.

And if I couldn't be there to witness another of my son's Henry moments, I insisted that they at least take lots of pictures.

I love you, boys . . . both my son and his father :)

Fear.

I spent yesterday in fear.

Fear because my daughter started throwing up, and I had no idea when it would stop.

Fear that because she was throwing up, I would be next. And then my husband. And then my son. Oh, please not my son.

Fear that not only was my baby sick, but she was the kind of sick that required a change of clothes for her and me (or my husband) every time she became sick. And possibly a carpet or couch cleaning, depending on where her sick happened.

It was an awful place to be.

But it didn't have to be that way.

Sure, my baby was sick, and for a mom, there's really nothing worse than watching your baby suffer.

But instead of living in the moment, consoling my daughter and embracing her needs, I ulcered my way through the day, worrying about when she'd puke next or when my son would catch it or when, if ever, the plague would leave my house.

The worst part was that not until late afternoon, hours after her spell had come and gone, I realized that not once had I prayed.

I was so consumed with how her illness affected ME that I failed to remember God's command, "Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God." (Philippians 4:6)

Wow, I sure screwed up that one.

I spent my entire Sunday with a pit in my stomach because I was too darn consumed with ME, and oh-baby-girl-please-forgive-me, but I should have been PRAYING over her, and better yet, THANKING GOD for her.

But today is new. And thanks be to God, she is better. And as of now, no one else has caught the bug. Whatdya know, all that worrying and ulcering and festering was only to my own detriment.

A fresh start.

My baby girl, bright-eyed and beautiful this morning.

How about you? How does Philippians 4:6 apply to your life today?

Best mom moment ever.

Like many two-year-old boys, my son struggles to verbally communicate. In fact, most of his meltdowns stem from his inability to tell me what he needs or wants. Much of the time he uses pointing and grunting to communicate, and today he used his non-verbals to melt my heart.

I was putting him in his crib for his nap, and as I set him down, he leaned into me, offering me a kiss. I was so touched. I leaned down and gave him a giant smooch on his head, and then he leaned into me again, this time wrapping his arms around me, offering me a hug. I nearly died. Never has my son offered me a kiss and hug without prompting. I couldn't believe that he initiated it.

Could. Not. Believe. It.

And here's the kicker. As I walked away from my most precious son, tears in my eyes, I said, "Oh, Henry baby, I love you so much it hurts." And you know what he said in return?

"Ouch?"

Though he didn't understand what I meant by love-you-so-much-it-hurts, he does understand that hurt and ouch go hand-n-hand.

Henry Duran Hooper, thank you for providing me with the absolute best mom moment ever.

And Henry, one more thing, Ouch, baby, ouch.

*Thank you, Gabe Taviano, for capturing this amazing picture of my son.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Playdates. What the heck?

Playdates. What a joke. Going-out-of-their-mind moms gather their ornery-and-surly children so that they can practice socialization while the mommies run their mouths. When actually the kids fight over cheap toys and wind up with gum in their hair and black eyes. And the moms, bless their hearts, are so hungry for adult interaction that they don't even notice when the kids smear glue all over the dog.

Yep, playdates aren't always what they're cracked up to be.

We have attended two separate playdates in which my son was found in the master bathroom of the host's home, in the master bathtub, running the master bath water. And the kicker, the bathtub wasn't empty. It was full of the master's stuff - clothes and razors, to be exact. See what happens when I'm let out of the house to interact with other adult humans. My son ends up practically drowning himself while playing with razors.

And then there was the time when my darling friend, a new mommy, came to my house because her walls were caving in on her. I was so excited to love on her and her then three-week-old. Well guess what, I failed miserably. Not only did she come to MY house, but she brought ME lunch, and she held MY baby, and she cleaned up after MY son. She's supposed to be the rookie! She left two hours later and I prayed really hard for a time machine because I desperately needed a do-over. That playdate needed a reset button like nobody's business.

That very same day another dear friend stopped by for dinner. Though she doesn't have kids, she insisted on playing with my kids so it absolutely counted as a playdate. Her visit ended with a literal cry for help when our dog attacked her and then ate her sock whole. So what if he thought she was playing. I'm quite certain her life flashed before her eyes, and I shamefully hugged her farewell as she wobbled from my house sockless.

The very next day my gal-pal and her little goldilocks came over for a visit. My son, who is obsessed with the exact toy or object that is in the hands of the other child, yanked sunglasses from goldilocks' hands. They were her sunglasses. And she wasn't letting go. And because my son is an absolute rascal, he pulled harder and snapped her glasses in half.

Fail.

F-A-I-L.

Playdates always leave me exhausted and embarrassed. More often than not, I leave playdates running for the bar. But I tell ya what, I won't stop playdates. Sure, playdates might result in exhaustion, vandalism, and alcohol-consumption, but they also foster a camaraderie that reminds us moms we are not alone. Because while my son is filling up bathtubs with razors, someone else's son is decorating the wall with a sharpie. We are not alone.

But more importantly, as our kids build a fort in the soot-covered fireplace, us moms chat over burnt coffee confessing to one another about the time(s) we lashed out in anger and yelled at our child. While our kids drink food coloring, we discuss our frustration with budgets and finances. The topics at a playdate aren't for sissies. Postpartum depression, broken marriages, accumulating debt, and other issues usually left on a therapist's couch for $120/hour.

Sure, playdates aren't all their cracked up to be.

But as insane as playdates can be, they might just be the one thing in a mother's day to keep her sane.

Non-Maternal Instincts

I originally posted this in November, 2008. Though the post begins by addressing the holiday season, I thought it was the perfect post for this uneventful-week-in-February as both my children have RSV.

Blegh humbug.



Get out your kleenex (and if you're like me, it's probably tucked in your sleeve).

'Tis the season for over-liquoring the eggnog, singing nonsensical carols, making out underneath the mistletoe, sitting on old guys' laps in the middle of the mall, re-gifting bubble bath and perfume, and surviving the snottiest nose in the animal kingdom - my son's.

It seems that when any normal person catches a cold the worst of it is evidenced by a rudolph-colored sniffer, half-flaked away because it's been kleenexed raw. But when my son catches a cold, it appears as if Mount Vesuvius erupted all over his face.

It starts with his nose. His baby schnoz is filled with flourescent-colored boogies partially hanging out of his putrid-yellow encrusted nostrils. From there, two long streams of thick snot run from his nose onto his lip at just the right spot for a good lick-up (and lick-up he does - Eww!). Occasionally he rubs his nose causing the yellow, green and brown medley to be smeared across his upper lip and cheeks and chin. From afar he looks like he should be starring in a gruesome horror flick - Watch out for Baby Loogie and A Nightmare on Plegm Street.

And because the runny, snotty mess usually lasts an entire week (if we're lucky), his tiny button nose (now hidden beneath a week's worth of crusty phlegm) begins to collect dust, dirt, and other substances usually only found inside a vacuum bag. No joke - just yesterday I yanked a couple of dog hairs that were embedded in the snot scab attached to my son's snout.

And because our little germ magnet can't figure out how to make his coughing and hacking effective, nothing ever actually comes up. Rather he lives in a permanent state of raspy breathing making him sound like a mini Darth Vader.

And this all comes just months after all the pediatricians and specialists and researchers and media got together and banned the crap out of cold medicine of any sort for children big and small. So my dear little snot bucket is left to drown in his own goo. Poor kid. He's startin' to make the dog on National Lampoons Christmas Vacation seem healthy (coincidentally, I think that dog's name is Snots).

Dear God who so generously gave us each a sniffer for breathing and sniffing and picking,

Please give my son his health back (thus giving me my sanity back). He didn't do anything to deserve this. If anything, it was might fault. I probably didn't wash my hands enough or sanitize his toys enough or keep him living in a bubble long enough. My precious little baby simply wants to breath again without having to draw oxygen from the coral reef barrier surrounding his air passage.

And as you work on clearing up his itsy bitsy honker (How do you do it? A snot-sucking vacuum? A boogie-blowing power washer? I'd love to know your secret as my son's snotty nose is one for the record books), I'll finish another load of laundry full of clothes, both mine and his, that have fallen victim to my son's snot rockets when no kleenex was in reach (hence why I now always keep one tucked in my sleeve).