Oh, you're new here? So am I.*

Hello, and welcome, and what's your name?

I don't know what you can expect from this tiny corner of cyberspace called alihooper.com. One thing I know for sure, you will not find any awesome Pinterest-worthy step-by-step tutorials of creations birthed in my kitchen or craft table. For one, I don't own a craft table, so there's that. And two, I once tried all those bloggy-food-craft shenanigans, and it's for the birds. Imagine working tirelessly to perfect your handmade Christmas cards so that they are blog worthy, and then taking pictures each snipped, stamped, calligraphy-ed step of the way. You wind up with a camera covered in glue and a couple dozen do-overs scattered across what used to be the area where your family made precious memories and is now the area where the children learned the queen-mother of dirty words.

It's best I just stick with spilling my guts across the interwebs and leave the do-it-yourself circus magic to the arts and crafts department. It's safer that way.

Anywho, thanks for dropping by. Stop by anytime. I won't even make you take off your shoes. I'm a first world mess, so what's a bit more dirt tracked through this place anyway?

*What do you mean you're new here, you ask. I see a blog full of posts dating back to the good ol' days of twenty-eleven. Yeah, about that. My genius website designer, Gabe Taviano the First, was kind enough to transfer all my baggage from my other blog over to this brand spankin' new blog. I couldn't make my debut into cyberspace without breaking it in a little. So kick off y'all boots and stay a while. We've got some catching up to do.

How the Grinch stole Christmas from the Mothers of Preschoolers. And Claire.

For no good reason other than because He is good and crazy, God gave me opportunity to speak in front of a couple dozen mothers of preschoolers on the topic of simplicity. Share my journey with some precious mommas who, like me, are desperate for any blessed moment that does not involve the whining crying tantrums of our offspring in the cereal aisle of Kroger. Sure, why not.

And so that’s how I found myself standing clam-palmed and rashy in front of a few round tables of darling mommas in the middle of November.

I don’t think it hit me that what I had been asked to do was quite unfair in all ways until I sat at one of those round tables half-listening to their sweet tender prayers, and the one, I’m sure her name was Claire but it might have only started with a C, asked for prayer because that very afternoon she was going in for an ultrasound to well, we pray, determine that a lump on her breast is no more than just that, a lump.

And Claire, I’m sure her name was Claire, she just won’t leave me alone in my head because I sat next to her as she told those ladies, “I’m awesome at avoiding. But I’m sure it’s nothing.”

And now it was my turn to stand up and blab on and on about my journey of simplifying life? Oh, okay, Claire might find out she has cancer today, but in the meantime, put that Ali girl up there a few weeks before Christmas so that she can spoil our poinsettia fundraiser and santa shopping sprees with her Grinch-ass message about finding joy in living with less.

Because that’s fair.

Dammit, why was I there?

And I don’t know. I don’t know. But I was. And I did. And I have no damn clue whether or not it made one stinkin’ difference in the whole world. In my little selfish insecure igloo I pray that if I see any of them out in public, at Target with their red cart full of Christmas cheer, they won’t shoot the messenger who was asked to speak on that topic at this time.

Because the only thing I really care about since sitting at that table are the damn results of that ultrasound. And Claire, I really think her name was Claire, I haven't stop praying for ya.

*Claire update: (And yes, her name really is Claire!) She connected with me via facebook, and praise Jesus, her ultrasound gave the radiologist no concern. I am stupid dupid humbled. When I walked into that room of MOPS mommas I had no idea that I would be entering such a privileged space. Thank you, Lord.

the songbird girl

Her hijab glows persimmon. Her voice, soft yet firm as the fruit.

Her years young, her spirit rich, a caged bird sings and her name a song.

Malala, what would you do if a Taliban gunman comes after you?

A collective breath heard across the heart of nations as she answers, “If you hit a Talib with your shoe, then there would be no difference between you and the Talib. You must not treat others with cruelty and that much harshly, you must fight others through peace and through dialogue and through education. I would tell him how important education is and that I would even want education for your children as well. That’s what I want to tell you, now do what you want.”

Peace, her song. The voice of the silenced, a generation of women raped, slaved, burned, flogged. Brutality stifles hope.

A young teen, the songbird girl determines to have her hope song heard. Taliban determine her dead, a gunshot to her head as she rides the school bus home.

“They thought that the bullet would silence us, but they failed,” her peace message grows stronger with each threat to her life.

Her attack leaves her crooked smiled and warrior spirited and a weapon in her mouth.

Peace.

When a young Pakistan girl breathes peace to all, souls tilt heavy toward her like flowers to the sun.

We crave to be soothed, salve to violence and murder. Balm to broken and beaten. Life to empty. Peace we all crave.

A deer pants for water, and a soul for Shalom.

When the time comes to award peace prizes we root for the songbird girl whose innocence is a melody of peace.

Because we don’t want war and machine guns and chemical blasts to be the answer. What we really yearn for is rest for our soul.

As the songbird girl inspires peace without borders, I find hope in the One who has been singing this song all along.

a son home

I’m there when he comes home. 

The bus stops and he’s grinning, each eager step a stretch the length of his leg, one arm steady on the rail, the other outstretched to greet my momma squeeze.

I'm crouching and hugging and I remember the mother on the news this morning, she wailed hysterics because her son is never coming home. And I remember a mother who watched from a distance as her Son hung from the tree, bled out from hands and feet. She watched Him die. But was she there when He ascended home?

Politicians fight power wars shutting down government funding to a mother whose son was killed in the very war that protects them. And now her son isn’t coming home.

Sons lost in war, a war on terror and a terror war among the things unseen.

Flesh and blood lost, one son’s body brought home and she can’t be there when they roll him lifeless off the plane. Another Son taken home after His tomb opens empty, and she prays faith in the promise that His Spirit will return.

My heart heavy I link my fingers through his and we take our time walking.

“Mommy, today we had gym and Mr. Armstrong says we can only wear tennis shoes, not Crocs.”

Washington, a stubborn mule, withholds death benefits to a mother, and can she afford to be there when they carry her son’s tomb onto American soil? Washington still gets paid. But who will pay for her son’s funeral? How will she bury the boy who lost his life?

And how does a mother grieve when her Son paid it all?

I tighten my grip on his hand. “Okay, buddy. I missed you today.”

Her son, he lost his life. And her Son, He gave His. And I walk with mine toward home, his words linger love to my soul, “I missed you too.”

Poop 'n pills

This is the crap worth blogging about (pun very much intended) . . .

Oh, Monday, will we ever be friends? When my Aquanet-banged sisters rocked Manic Monday, I had no idea how prohpetic their lyrics would be: It's just another manic Monday. I wish it were Sunday. 'Cause that's my fun day. (I also had no idea how sexual the lyrics are - Google 'em, you'll see. I was in grade school naively singing about making noise in the bedroom. Geesh.)

Anyway, the mania today wasted no time as my 5-year-old nearly missed the bus (Rita, you said 7:17. That's very different than 7:15 when you're dragging three groggy-eyed whine-os to the bus stop). After barely getting Henry to the bus, I got the girls home and into the bathtub. I let them splash in urine water (Greta always pees the minute I set her in the tub) while I gathered laundry. As I was giving my worn-three-days-in-a-row cami the good ol' sniff test, I heard Harper ask a question that only a seasoned mother can decode, "Mom, why are there rocks in the bathtub?"

There's a lot of learned skills that come with motherhood, but one of our greatest is our ability to rapidly evacuate children out of a situation that involves soaking among floating feces.

Think high school fire drill, on 5-hour energy, minus the hippies who heed the opportunity to sneak into the vacant storage closet to smoke a doobie.

Get up. Get out. Get dry. And pose there just a minute while I take a picture for the Interwebs.

Of course Greta sensed my angst and streaked across the room, squeezing out one more "rock" before I could snatch her and slap a diaper on her bare bum. I think God must have started feeling bad for me because He delivered an ounce of grace with a towel perfectly positioned under the free spirit pooper to catch what I am convinced was her way of communicating, "Screw you and whatever plans you had for this morning. Now you gotta clean my crap outta the tub and wash this freshly-folded towel. Booyah."

I'd almost rather her smoking doobies.

After I swallowed any remnant of pride I still carried after five years of parenting, I pulled out the most efficient pooper scooper I could find, my hands, and lifted every single mushy turd outta that tub.

The poop situation wasn't over - Greta delivered a mess of a diaper during my morning jog in near-90 degree heat that left her wailing for the final 10 minutes of the jog. Again, I'm convinced the little blister butt was trying to communicate to me, and this time it was, "I saw you pound those chips and queso last night at dinner, run faster lady, run like ya mean it, RUN!"

Fast forward to the afternoon when I hopped in the shower for a quick rinse and my wannabe monkey pulled a chair from the dining room and pushed it to the counter, climbed up, pulled my weekly pill organizer off the microwave and popped three days worth of pills down her throat. Henry tipped me off when he noticed Greta had a "gooey mess all over her face."

Me: What kind of a gooey mess?
Henry: I don't know, but she's eating your vitamins.

Now it's my turn to evacuate the bath in record time.

I think the early morning sprint paid off (thank you, poop scoot) because I made it downstairs while baby girl was still pulling mashed up gelatin capsules from her pie hole. She handed me two half dissolved pills, and all I could think was, "Is this some sort of cry for help? Yo, look, third born, this is your lot in life, sista, you better find another way to get attention, because swallowing momma's herbal happy pills ain't gonna do nobody no good."

Sometimes when I am in distress, my gangsta comes out. So what if I grew up in the 'burbs? What are you saying? Nevermind. Leave me alone.

Fortunately this ain't my first rodeo, so I had poison control on the line and sweet Janice assured me that everything Greta consumed is safe, and I would receive a follow up call in 90 minutes to check on the baby.

Nevermind that my day had gone to crap, but whatevs, call back and check on the baby if that makes you feel better.

Geesh, did Janice not hear the part about the baby eating my HAPPY PILLS?

Even my hubs offered little support. When I tried to convince him that Greta's pill shenanigans were nothing more than a weak cry for help, he looked at me like I had lost my soul and said, "She's not even two. She needs help."

Humph. I see how it is now. Everybody gang up on momma.

But let me tell you. Motherhood is an intensive and brutish training ground for war.

In just one day, I perfected the poop fling and screaming baby sprint, all while surviving without mood-boosting herbal supplements. So if I were you, I wouldn't mess with momma.

Manic Momma will make you wish it were Sunday.

The Pink Room

She scratched the paper with her pencil, leaving us sick-hearted staring into her near dead scratched soul. Her self-portrait exposed her bound up, legs sprawled, humanity mutilated by evil incarnate. We listen because her young voice must be heard, but we cannot digest it. How do you swallow horror? I try to wash it down but the heartburn sears. She tells the rescue agency that she doesn't want to leave because her family needs the money. My throat chokes and eyes blur.

Jesus, please come back.

Last night Matt and I attended a screening of The Pink Room, a documentary that follows the journey of young girls in Cambodia who are victims of sex slavery. 100 of us entered the chapel greetin’ and chummin’, our own children safely secured with babysitters who will make more in a night than the average Cambodian makes in two weeks. 100 of us stared deeply into the eyes of precious children who told tales of torture. 100 of us left that chapel never the same, waking up this morning hungover from nightmares. Horror had entered our subconscious and it fights to escape.

I couldn’t watch those caramel skinned babies testify to their brutal suffering without picturing my Henry, my Harper, my Greta.

As my heart shattered, my mind went to those awful places. Do the girls cry? Scream? Who hears their shrieking?

My enraged soul won’t stop screaming.

God, where are you when these itty bitties curl up bandaged, forced abortions, fear trembled, souls destroyed? Where are you, God?

I’m fetal on the floor, tears numb, and I know that right now a pimp accepts $2.25 for the young pretty one down the lampless death hall. A child listed sold on a receipt, along with a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes.

I’m crying out to God when the angels arrive.

Pearls among pigs, the angels fight perversion, rescuing and restoring girls and community. The angels purchase a building in the heart of hell to deliver heart to hell, providing rescued darlings with therapy, medicine, education, and the love of Jesus. The building, a former brothel, is discovered first floor packed closet on closet for evil to consume baby girls, second floor the pink room, left aside for the virgins who would endure the unimaginable for the first time.

The angels pound away bricks and I beg them to drive their sledgehammers into the heads of those who exhale vile.

The angels break down walls and they break down tears, overcome by the wicked that has consumed a country, desperation breeding corruption, alcoholic fathers gambling away the pennies from selling starved children who are left to fight dogs for scraps of food.

But those angels don’t give up. These ain’t no sissy angels.

I listen as one God-sent warrior insists that he is blessed to fight this war, rescuing a generation from the miry pit of exploitation. He confronts monsters, shames pimps, shatters brothels, and redeems lost innocence. 

I hear Jen, an on the ground missionary, celebrate as her school in Svay Pak has outgrown the building where they teach math, critical thinking, self-worth, and feed kindergarteners a nutritious meal and bread of life.

I hug my dear friend, Marla. "I'd  give my right arm to be in Cambodia," she tells me, her family waiting on God’s call to send them into this soul-shattering battleground. I am awestruck that she desires to trade in the comforts of false security to angel soar among the wicked.

Thank you, God, for the angels.

My mind can’t erase what it now knows. Those girls have faces, their bodies still beating but the life inside wishing death, they never learn to smile.

The angel warriors bleed courage. I am torn between rage and hope prayers. Lord, please don’t let me forget those faces.

The fight has begun and we must train for war the best way we know how, right where God has us. Everyone can do something. And I beg you to do something. I beg you because there are millions who cannot, their voices muffled by power and money and corruption and the grunts of pedophilia.

I beg you.

Ask God how you can take action, and start by visiting The Pink Room website. Maybe you will have opportunity to watch the documentary. You can pray for the precious children. If you can stomach it, pray for the pimps and pedophiles. The only way to stop this horror is to stop the horrible. You can use the gift of your voice to share what you know. You can give to organizations who are on the ground, lights of hope in plagues of darkness.

No matter what you do, I beg you, don’t forget.

We cannot forget.

Mother's Day really is for the birds

It's no surprise to me that Ann Voskamp writes so truthfully and beautifully about Mother's Day.

I about cried reading her words, my soul needed them. This is the week that I told Matt, "If I have to listen to her cry another minute, I might hurt her." This is the week that I begged God to let my kids nap so that I could also, only to have my third born poke me endlessly in the eye. This is the week that I sautéed fava beans in their pods thinking they were just big green beans because I can't tell my beans from beans. This is the week that I drove through McDonalds again for a large chocolate chip frappe because chocolate and caffeine are the only legal drive-through fixes to another crappy parenting day. This is the week that I vowed self-discipline, to wake up before the kids for quiet time and a jog, only to curse my alarm, and stick my head back under the covers.

Ann's right. Mother's Day, it's for the birds.

My days don't make for a flowery poetic Hallmark card. 

My days find me carrying around that satan soaked momma guilt as I confess to counting down the minutes, hours, days before my next break from the kids. 

My days are full of less than holy words and tone, and a whole lotta grace. Grace for me. Grace for the kids. Grace for us all.

But the pendulum swings and sunshine breaks the clouds and pudgy baby toes and sweet boy laughter and girl praying precious over her macaroni brings me back to joy overflowing, immense gratitude for the three who left me stretch-marked and heart-stretched.

So to you mommas, you can't fool me. You and me both, sister, we just a broken hallelujah. 

You never thought it would be this hard, did you? You never thought you'd swallow your pride like you do?

Me neither.

And I bet you never thought you could love like this? That breathless lump in your throat when you think about just how much you love the ones who graced you into motherhood.

Bless it. Bless you.

Center

I wake only a few hours into the new day, pulling back hair and lacing up shoes. I step outside and smack into the icy black.

The darkness makes bright contrast of the stars, and I am joy filled. Only the early bird catches the wonder and glory that a 6am jog offers. I begin rhythmically, slowly, still shaking loose the tension from dead sleep. I begin my offering.

Lord, you are Creator. You are Perfect. You are Holy. You are Majesty. You are Awesome.

With each breath, I praise. I inhale, I worship. I'm alone. Except for Him. And He makes perfect company.

The next 30 minutes I focus on His glory. Except when I don't.

I have to pick up the preschool forms today.

I forgot to call the dentist.

I better clean the window where Henry taped the picture of the airplane.

Did I mail in the mortgage check? I need to set-up automatic monthly withdraw.

I totally blew her off yesterday. Why was I such a grump? Why can't I just be nice to people when I'm in a bad mood? What's wrong with me? Is it that hard?

My mind like mexican jumping beans, shuffling from thought to thought, checklists, regrets, self-doubt, and now my heart is racing but not because I'm jogging.

I shake my head fast as if to clear the etched sketch that needs reset.

Now where was I?

Focus, Ali. Focus on Him.

And I do. Back on track, thanking Him for the peace that stills my soul. For 30 minutes I pray, I distract, and I pray again.

I approach home feeling centered, having hit the ground running, while fixing my eyes on Him, or at least trying to anyway.

The minis wake, I begin this all too familiar juggling act, but unlike the carny, I can't seem to master this set.

Back to center, Ali. Back to Him.

I herd them outside to the van. It's Tuesday and we have to be at Bible study in 20 minutes. I double-click the key expecting the doors to open. They click. And nothing. I double-click again. Nothing. The doors don't budge and it's freezing and I know that's why. I open the front door and find the ice scraper, and while the baby cries and the big ones tug at the other's unbuttoned coat, I scrape. Ice chips away and flurries sweep. I pull out the key again. Click. Nothing. Again. Nothing. The doors are still frozen and it's been ten minutes and we are going to be late. I climb on top of the front seat, leaning heavily out the door thinking if I can just see where the ice is maybe I can get this dang-gone door open. The baby is now screaming and Harper is now crying and I try the key again, but the door still won't budge. We are definitely late and nothing is working and I take that scraper and with all the might behind me I strike the door. Pop. The scraper cracks and splits in two and I am now cussing. Words that begin with F and I feel rage and I scream at the kids, all freezing and crying, "Get in the van. This way. Now." The big ones crawl through the front door, and I jostle the baby in her carrier, hitting my head and hers and I'm sweating and still cussing.

I throw the car into reverse and I'm a bat out of hell. I've lost it. A door frozen shut and it's all lost. My cool, my sanity, my Jesus.

Just like that I've lost center and I pull over because humility does that. And with my hands in the air, I'm like that crazy ol' loon on the park bench mumbling to herself because I'm lost.

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.
Hebrews 4:16

Look to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith . . .
Hebrews 12:2

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
2 Corinthians 12:9

The quiet still of my soul in the morning runs out but there is always more for the taking. I have to keep coming back to Him because on my own, I am a raging screaming loon.

Each day, each hour, each minute, I am losing myself to stress and monotony and the demon who sneaks up and bites me. I can't do this alone but I keep trying, forgetting that it was never meant to be this way.

"It is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you. But if I go, I will send Him to you."
John 16:7

And I will ask the Father, and He will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of Truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees Him nor knows Him. You know Him, for He dwells with you and will be in you.
John 14:16-17

I'm not made to do this by myself. He sent me a Helper. And I come dehydrated, shriveled, dry and sunken.

. . . but be filled with the Spirit.
Ephesians 5:18

Back to center. That is the story of my days. Always coming back. Because I can never stay put. My flesh rots and I crumble and there isn't a day that passes that I don't wind up lost.

Back to center. It's my only way.

His Presence via email

Have you ever felt the Lord's Presence so heavily that you literally sunk deeper in your chair?

Last week was rough. Looking back, it's a blur. I was so exhausted, the days were so long, and the kids were so fussy that the memory of last week is nearly lost.

I know that the Lord was busily at work during every sleepless detail of last week but I was too irritable to appreciate it.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23

This morning I sent my husband and my sister an email to share with them a Henry & Harper quote. It said:

H&H were running laps around the house, and both of them came into the family room huffing and puffing. Henry said, "I'm tired." Then Harper said, "I'm tired too. Let's read our Bibles, Henry."

Within 20 minutes of sending the email I received responses from both Matt and Morgan.

Matt said, "Love them . . . Matthew 11:28 Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

I stinkin' adore this man. While I'm over here laughing at the silliness of my three-year-old, my husband, a man of few spoken words but a tremendous amount of wisdom, manages to observe the beautiful Truth from this seemingly cute illustration. I want to soak myself in a Matthew 11:28 bath for a few days.

Morgan's response was equally lovely.

She said, "Those moments have to melt your heart . . . Love that. I booked you a pedicure with Dawn on Friday. I'm watching your kids."

Oh, Morgan, you speak my love language = Dawn (and I have a gift card that Matt gave me for Mother's Day - thank you, Jesus). I have known (and loved) Dawn for years. Her chair at the Spa where my sister works is heaven-sent. It sits next to a window that looks out at a sanctuary of birdhouses, and when I sit in that chair and watch those birds, without a single interruption from my kids, I become a new woman. A new woman with cute toes.

I received Matt and Morgan's emails and I was instantly overwhelmed by the Lord's merciful Presence. I want to sit here and rest in their unexpected and simple acts of love as I know it will only be minutes before I lose sight of His goodness. Thankfully Lamentations 3 never expires.

Already

The kids were still in their swimsuits sucking down popsicles when I blinked. I opened my eyes to the warmth of Autumn in the trees and its chill prickling my shoulders. The clerk mentioned he was staying late to unpack Christmas inventory and by the time I lifted my head to comment Already?, the twinkle lights were wrapped around the display tree.

Already.

The pool towels hadn't even made it through the wash before the kids were hooded in fleece. I'm never ready for the already.

The notebook pages curl as I carry over the list of unchecked items to next month. Vacuum the van. Mend the hole in my overworn shirt. Send congratulatory wedding card to my friend who married last Spring.

I pray through each moment, asking that the leaves keep their glorious shades of orange and that  Greta's chubby foot is forever nestled below my shoulder as I nurse. All while fantasizing about the day when the kids use the bathroom unassisted and my wardrobe isn't limited to nursing tops and elastic. I want to co-sleep yet sleep through the night. I want a substantial payday yet not another long day away from my husband. I want to be home with my children yet have more time for myself. I want that pair of pre-baby jeans yet another of Grandma Abby's pumpkin cookies.

I want the already but I don't. I'm a mess and it's no wonder Paul preaches about the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.

And when I think I've arrived, when I am full and surrounded abundantly, emptiness and discomfort come and plop down on my lap. My present focus flees as they squelch my contentment. The next stage and season bring more to be desired. And it all flies past, the days only a blur leaving nothing in focus.

There is always more space for me to be filled by Him . . . through Him who gives me strength.

It is already October. I want to sprawl out on a pile of leaves covered in the giggles of my babies, drinking in this season. But my mind is my enemy, squandering the days with angst and if onlys, allowing Facebook to fool me into believing that there is such a thing as having it all. So I find myself crying out, enduring my own wrath, my irritability and frantic demands. My own mess throws me to my knees, I fall bruised and sore. And in the already He lifts me up by His grace and fills me with living water and I kick myself for not falling sooner. There is humility in His timing. 

It is already.

 

*A sprinkling of the moments I want to savor from the last month as I pray to be present and content in the already.