Category: Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nobody told the birds about spring snowstorms.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s worth every mess. Every time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To gasp in wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most merciful God,

we confess that we have sinned against you

in thought, word, and deed,

by what we have done,

and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart;

we have not loved our neighbors as ourselves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

through our Lord Jesus Christ, strengthen you in all

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

eternal life. Amen.

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

Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wrote this post over a decade ago. I can still vividly remember this season — of being an audience of some much heartbreak and loss. I watched friends walk through divorce, miscarriages and injustice. And I felt helpless and angry. Since I’ve written these words, I’ve had my own seasons of grief, and my mind comes back here, to David and the Psalms and those moments of turning from grief to hope. One day, I’d like to sit in these thoughts, explore what 10 more years wisdom has brought. But for now, I wanted to share this. In case anyone needs to hear it.

I don’t understand your plan today.

I don’t understand how you can give someone a flutter of hope, followed so quickly by a dagger of pain.

Your plan doesn’t seem perfect today. I know your promise of giving your children what’s best—never more than we can handle. But I don’t understand how this can be what’s best.

If I were David, this is where I would switch to praise. Where I would extol your name. But I can’t. I just can’t tonight.

I wonder how long it took David to write his psalms to you. Did his pen flow from questions to adoration? Did he draw a shaky breath in and let a joyful breath out? Was his faith is pure, so perfect that before his tears had dried he could see clearly.

Or did his pen scratch furiously across the paper, ripping holes in the delicate parchment? Did dark ink blots form as he sat and waited for the praises to pour forth. Did he cry and shout and moan, not able to force the hallelujahs past his lips.

Did he fling things in anger? Were there ink stains on his walls to remind him of his anguish? Crushed scrolls in the dusty corners?

Did he ever just walk away? Turn his back on the words that were too painful to write.

I don’t know which David I prefer. The one whose faith never wavered. Or the one like me.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to get married when you’re “older.” Please, don’t comment and say “But Brandy, you’re not old!” I KNOW that, guys! But we can’t deny the fact that I when I said “I do” I was more than a decade past the age most women get married for the first time.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t wish I had met Mike 10 years ago. That it doesn’t make me sad sometimes to think about the time we “missed” with each other. But I also know that everything in our lives had to happen to get us to where we are today. And for me, that took 39 years.

Just a few weeks ago, we marked six months of marriage. And it made me nostalgic for March 30, 2019. I flipped through pictures from our day, and thought a lot about our “geriatric” wedding vs. a more traditional one.

And I wanted to write about it. Because some of you are still waiting. And I want you to know that there are beautiful things about getting married when you are older and wiser and a little more smoothed out by life. And some of you may be in the whirlwind of planning your wedding, and I want to say to you “calm the heck down.” Learn from me — I was old and tired when I got married, so I had to really budget my time and stress.

So I wanted to share some of that wisdom with you, to encourage you and calm you and hopefully make you laugh.

You do you. I know this seems to go without saying, but your wedding day is not about what other people want or expect of you. Mike and I decided to theme our wedding “Brandy and Mike’s Favorite Things” which meant we could literally do whatever the heck we wanted to do. For us, that was a mac and cheese bar and donuts. And for goodness’ sake, tradition for tradition’s sake is GARBAGE. Don’t want to do a bouquet toss? DON’T! Don’t want a parent to verbally “give you away” (don’t get me started on women being treated like property)? DON’T! Don’t want to invite that person you’re “supposed” to invite? DON’T! Don’t want to spend a ton of money? DON’T!

Our pastor gave us a piece of advice when we were in the thick of wedding planning, and I was getting worked up about some decisions that might make people upset with me. “Whatever you choose, it has to be authentic to you and Mike.” That lens made decisions a lot easier to make.

Communication is beautiful. Let’s be really honest here — 30-something Brandy is a LOT better at communicating than 20-something Brandy. There are some things in life that can only be learned with time, practice and counseling. And for me, one of those things is communication. As a life-time people-pleaser and peace-maker, I used to have a really hard time expressing what I needed. But then I had a counselor say “You can’t get upset with people when they don’t read your mind.” And that has stuck with me. If I don’t tell you what I need (because I fear I will inconvenience you), then I can’t be mad at you for not giving me what I need.

Mike and I talked about EVERYTHING when it came to wedding planning. And we were mature enough to understand we each had individual giftings. I am a planner, and I had a 15-page Google doc to prove it. He is a “doer” and we have the coolest wedding cake/donut stand to prove it. I expressed my vision (often in a shared wedding check-list on our iPhones) and trusted that he would follow through. And he did, in amazing ways.

Let people love you. A lot of people have asked me “Were you super stressed on your wedding day?” And I can say with full honesty that my wedding day was one of the most peaceful days of my life. Part of that was the confidence I felt in marrying Mike. But another huge part was I had delegated the heck out of our big day.

The key to good delegation is you have to delegate to people who love you. Because then you can trust that they will make decisions rooted in their love for you. I woke up on the morning of our wedding knowing that people were baking the cookies that I had distributed in the days before. That the color-coded bins I had carefully packed would be delivered to those who needed them. I handed my phone and my credit card to my lovely friend Kristin who had agreed to be our day-of coordinator, told her “you are now me,” and never thought about it again.

Could I have had that level of trust in my 20s? Maybe? But I think wisdom and time brings the ability to release, and that was beautiful and freeing.

This isn’t the finish line. Seriously, if this is the ONLY thing you take away from this entire things, remember this. Your wedding is the BEGINNING of your marriage. So of course, do what you can to make it the day that you desire, but don’t do it to the detriment of your marriage.

For us, that meant doing what we could to minimize stress for each other, because with stress comes the shortened fuses and the petty arguments. We committed to each other that our wedding day would not start our marriage with debt, something that we had actively worked to eliminate. We worked to not burn any bridges with family or friends — because these were the people who were going to walk alongside us in our marriage.

Our wedding day was beautiful (and I was happy to write a blog post that I could show off some of our beautiful wedding photos)! But at the end of the day, when I scrubbed off my make-up and fished all of the bobby pins out of my hair, when Mike loosened his tie and packed away his suit, we sat next to each other and grinned. We did it. It was beautiful.

Now let’s be married.

All photos were taken by our AMAZING wedding photographer, Jenny Marvin!

I always do this, don’t I. Start a new blog, get really excited, and then not post for a few weeks. I think I just need to accept this as my reality, and write when I can and stop apologizing when I can’t. So…onward and upward!

So, where has Brandy been? Exploring! Last week Mike and I set off on our first official road trip (I guess technically our first one was to Oklahoma for his son’s graduation, but this was our first one as a couple). Over the course of the week we explored parts of Colorado we had never been (plus a little dip into New Mexico).

Want to know more? Read on! (If not, check back later 🙂 )

At first I was going to give you a play by play of our trip, but then I thought — eh, that’s boring. So here are some of the things I learned about US on this trip (and if you want restaurant names and hotel recs, just leave a comment and I’ll respond!)

When we pulled into our first hotel in Monarch, Colorado, we learned our first lesson. Calling something an “adventure” covers a multitude of sins. We sat in the car for a moment, taking in the peeling paint, askew window screens and empty parking lot, and I turned to Mike and said “I am so sorry.” He laughed and said “It’s an adventure!”

Man, that one word reframed everything. We walked inside and were greeted by a dilapidated lobby and the friendliest staff. Our room was clean but sparse. We opened the window to clear the stuffiness and smiled as we heard the river rushing below us. The next day at breakfast we laughed at the hockey puck bagels and decided our next adventure would be finding breakfast in the next town.

Adventure. That word took us from a 1-star hotel to a character-filled lodge perched above the river. (Don’t get me wrong, though…we won’t stay there again. It’s only an adventure the first time!)

We set our from Monarch, explored the continental divide, and set out for Ridgway. We had an adorable glamping spot, which is where we learned our second important lesson. My husband and I can’t live without coffee. As we looked around our tent, we realized that while there was a mini-fridge and a microwave, there was no coffee pot. The next morning, Mike set out to find a coffee shop, and about 20 minutes later he called me.

“So. It’s going to take me a little longer,” he said. “I’m going to Target to buy a Keurig.”

I burst out laughing. I had definitely married the right man. Around 30 minutes later Mike walked in with an adorable little Keurig, a box of coffee pods, two mugs and a bottle of creamer.

“At least the creamer was on sale,” he said, shrugging.

I love being married to a man who knows me, knows himself, and knows how to get to the closest Target.

Over the next two days we explored Telluride and Ouray, hiking, eating and enjoying this part of Colorado that has been dubbed “The Switzerland of America.” And it was there, nestled in a valley, surrounded by nature and beauty that we discovered another thing about ourselves. We should always carry snacks.

We discovered this particular life lesson on a hike in Telluride. It wasn’t long or strenuous, but it was ill-timed. We started around 11, finishing a little after 2. You guys. I eat like every two hours. And that breakfast of coffee and pop tarts wasn’t going to get me through the morning. At one point, I almost stole a banana right out of another hiker’s hand. I wondered aloud if the berries on the bushes were edible. Would leaves taste like a salad? We started to sing songs to distract ourselves, but soon began changing the words to be about, you guessed it, food.

“I’m so hungry…you already know…I’m in the fast lane…from LA to…GEEZ I’m STARVING.”

Don’t worry, we did eventually eat. And it was the best food either of us had ever tasted in our whole entire lives.

After Ridgway, we set our for Durango, where we stayed in an adorable bed and breakfast. It was there that we learned the crucial lesson that sometimes you just need to lay in bed and watch TV and eat pop tarts, even if, and maybe especially if, you’re on vacation.

I think there’s a part of me that feels guilty when I’m resting. Most of my vacations are filled with activities and exploration and THINGS. And a lot of our road trip was that. But when we arrived in Durango we were at the half way point, and once we got settled into our room we realized we just needed a quiet night in. And that’s exactly what we had. No guilt over snuggling under a fluffy blanket and eating the fresh baked cookies that they had out for the guests. No shame in reading a book (me) or watching football (him). Just the freedom in saying “this is our vacation and we can do whatever we want to.”

After a brief stop soaking in the hot springs in Pagosa Springs, we headed to the last stop on our road trip, Santa Fe. It was the only place on our itinerary that Mike and I had both visited, but not together. And it was here that we learned our final lesson. There is beauty in reclaiming something.

Before the trip, Mike and I had discussed this stop. I had been to Santa Fe once before and while I was there I came down with a horrible sinus infection. So it was tainted by sickness and fever and just general miserableness. For Mike, the emotions were different. He had been there with someone from his past, and we were careful in navigating. Where would we re-visit? Where would we avoid?

I’m so glad neither of us let the past prevent us from visiting Santa Fe together. So thrilled that we reclaimed it for US. There is beauty in laying the present over the past. In covering and blurring and remembering and forgetting.

I guess there is one final lesson I learned on Road Trip 2019. How fun it is being in a car for more than 17 hours with someone you truly enjoy being with. We sang Lizzo and Garth Brooks in equal measure. We whipped into pull-offs and gasped at the views. We traipsed through fields to find the perfect picture. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. We smiled until our faces hurt.

We road tripped so hard, you guys. And we can’t wait until our next adventure!