A heavenly Jesus Loves Me

On October 15, my wonderful Grandma went to be with the Lord. She was 100 years old.

There are so many things about her I never want to forget:
the way she clasped her hands, dropped her jaw, and exclaimed "oh Susan" every time she saw me;
her sweet, humble apologies for the quiet but pesky cough that she never could get rid of (and that truly never bothered anyone but her);
the fact that at 95 she was still making us lunch when we came to visit -- usually ham rolls, potato chips, Sprite, and chocolate chip cookies;
her remarkably consistent way of sending birthday cards to her grandkids and then great-grandkids;
her Valentines cards with a five-dollar-bill inside, and when I called to thank her, she always laughed and said she knew five dollars wouldn't buy much these days, but I should go buy a hamburger or something;
the amazing grandparents' journal that she hand-wrote four times for each of her grandchildren, including pictures from when she was a child;
how special she made me feel to be her only granddaughter;
her ability to understand technology even at 100 years old: we FaceTimed on many occasions so she could see the kids;
the split-level house on Lincolnwood Drive that she and Grandpa lived in before Greenspring;
shopping with mom every year for their Christmas presents: a new sweater for Grandma and a flannel shirt for Grandpa;
their after-Christmas visits to Raleigh and how Grandma brought a tin of her forgotten cookies every time. She knew how much I liked those cookies, so one year she brought me my own tin of them, and I literally put it under my bed so that I--and only I--could enjoy every last crumb. Oh to have another one of those cookies.

I've always known I was special to still have living grandparents in my 30s. I've always felt proud of my grandparents' marriage and legacy. Recently it hit me afresh how fortunate I was to still have a mother figure on this earth, having lost my mother five years ago and my other grandmother many years before that. Now that Grandma is gone, I feel a deep, true sense of mother-less-ness, an island that thankfully won't always be my home, but while I'm here, it stings with lonely sadness.

She was wonderful in every way. Adorable even in a hospital bed. Drew and I got to see her two weeks before she died. The stroke had stolen her capacity for speech, and she was frail and mostly asleep in that giant hospital bed. But when each of us leaned down near her face and spoke to her, she opened her eyes, reached for our face, and coo-ed the most wonderful sounding coo, an internal groan that spoke of her love for us even more than if she had used words. I'm pretty sure Grandpa got the loudest coo, and rightfully so. Before we left her room, Uncle Bill asked if she wanted us to sing Jesus Loves Me again. She nodded, and we gathered in a circle around her bed, holding hands, and singing. All the while, Grandma directed us like a choir director with her pointer finger, perfectly on beat. I'll never sing that song the same again.

I am happy she had such a wonderful, long and healthy life. In fact, for the past two days, I've been telling myself that I can't be sad because of it. There's not the often-accompanying injustice to Grandma's death that there are to so many other deaths that happen either too soon or with too much suffering. She was 100. She was loved and she loved well. She wasn't too plagued by the common failures of her flesh as she aged. Yes, in this life she fared very well. I always think of the many Bible verses that link obedience to God with a long satisfying life. It's not a rule or a promise, but it was true for Grandma.

But even the most "appropriate" death feels anything but appropriate when it happens. Today, I mourn death's power to separate us from our loved ones--even if it is (thankfully) just temporary. I mourn the loss of my wonderful Grandma, because even 100 years wasn't long enough.

At her 100th birthday party in August

Grandma and me

The Lincolnwood house

The great wait

A friend recently shared a quote with me that I keep thinking about: "The need is your call."

Since March, Ryan and I have been attending meetings and filling out paperwork for Christian Adoption Services, the agency we're using to adopt our third child.

Our reasons for adopting are many, and typical of me at least, they might sound more practical than revolutionary.

First and foremost, we believe Scripture and what we know about Jesus affirms our decision to adopt.

Jesus loves children. Jesus tells us to love children and to care for orphans. Jesus has given the Thomsens more than we need, with the intent that we share with those in need.

Since March, I've also learned that when everything in your life is bent toward something--your resources, your time, your desires, your faith, Scripture, your husband--it's unnatural to go the other direction. So that's where we find ourselves: taking the next, natural step on this narrow path of faith we call life. (That's not to mention a close friend who is blazing the trail with the same adoption agency and has proved invaluable to me, five-year-old Will who prays for a baby brother or sister, and Christian friends who affirm that adoption seems right for us.)

Last Wednesday, we turned in the last of the paperwork and officially embarked on this very strange pregnancy otherwise known as adoption. A pregnancy that, for us, could last a week or nine months or longer. Instead of birth pains, we'll have waiting pains. Instead of my water breaking, we're going to get a phone call.

If you're reading this, we probably know each other, and that gives you permission to remind me later of the things I'm about to say: When I'm not lassoing my thoughts as I should, I dream up situations that worry me. Of course I do. What if I don't bond with the baby? What if the baby has an illness? What if the birth mom changes her mind? What if the birth father comes around after the fact? Basically, What if it's not easy? 

Here's what you can repeat to me later in a text or email or straight to my face: I have eternity to be comfortable. I can reserve convenience for later. For now, I'm trusting I'll feel the Lord's pleasure during the newborn baby days and during the identity-crisis teenage days, and during every day of parenting three children in between. And I'm also trusting and hoping that none of you have to get in my face later because our new baby will in fact be a great fit in our family--in ways I've thought to pray about and ways I haven't.

Our church just finished a sermon series on sharing our faith. I, like most other Christians I know, struggle with following Christ's command to make disciples of the nations. While it's not our only motivation to adopt, Ryan and I are excited about the opportunities that adoption will afford us to share the gospel with people in the grocery line, at the gym, and on the playground. The simple truth is that we are adopted, too.

And that's really the beauty of it all. Jesus inherited a disease-ridden, wayward child when He adopted me. I hope recognition of this and gratitude for it will help me as we embark on this minuscule model of a much greater reality.

And then of course there's the sentiment I expressed at the beginning of this post: Need. If there are babies that need loving families, who's going to do it if we don't?

Practical? Maybe.

But when practicality lines up with Scripture lines up with desire lines up with circumstance, there's no way to go but forward.

And so for now, we wait.

And jump when the phone rings.