tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64807098693482971462024-03-05T00:29:56.209-05:00Team Dragovich"I tell you the truth ... I have come that they may have LIFE and have it to the full." -- Jesus Christ (John 10:7 & 10)Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-21184929994158661342011-07-24T20:20:00.000-04:002011-07-24T20:20:10.409-04:00The Big Move to Wordpress<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbk5UPcHQ7C1ZM-Ra7AxPRVhM6sNPrQyF7269M6CgQKtLQceRur3yo2K_G2yOj-Vdkw3UScLrHRJ1PGHvbhhNrJstEtGgU6sv0kL9MHJ6CHaYya0CnFB0qGU1mQmaViJedeHQnR2fxydA/s1600/IMG_4515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbk5UPcHQ7C1ZM-Ra7AxPRVhM6sNPrQyF7269M6CgQKtLQceRur3yo2K_G2yOj-Vdkw3UScLrHRJ1PGHvbhhNrJstEtGgU6sv0kL9MHJ6CHaYya0CnFB0qGU1mQmaViJedeHQnR2fxydA/s400/IMG_4515.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sharidragovich.wordpress.com/">In These Shoes</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>I've been working on this move mentally for quite some time. It's the fingers to keys competing with fear of stepping off cliff which has held me back... until now.<br />
<br />
We are just talking about a new blog here, aren't we? But, to me, it's more. Broader scope, greater commitment to quantity & quality, wider audience base-- eventually. In truth, it's a risk I'm taking and to me, it's huge.<br />
<br />
So... without belaboring the point (really, to keep from stalling) my new site is:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://sharidragovich.wordpress.com/">Shari Dragovich~ In These Shoes </a><br />
<br />
Actual URL: <a href="http://sharidragovich.wordpress.com/">http://sharidragovich.wordpress.com/</a><br />
<br />
I will not be posting to this site anymore. As of now, the content will remain and I will provide a link to teamdragovich on the new blog for readers to browse old posts.<br />
<br />
In some ways, I resisted the move simply out of nostalgia and maybe a little loyalty; much like the childhood blankie still resting on my bed. Blogging on Team Dragovich has been healing balm during the two most difficult times I've face thus far in life-- deployment and adoption. <br />
<br />
But, nothing has been lost. Only an adding to. Rejoice!<br />
<br />
<br />
I'll see you soon... In These ShoesTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-85444426185309888572011-06-30T09:46:00.000-04:002011-06-30T09:46:14.118-04:00Runner Girl Rides Her Bike-- Part 2<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://pixdaus.com/pics/12633734941iz1swZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://pixdaus.com/pics/12633734941iz1swZ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve taken quite a while on this “Part 2” post, haven’t I? Some of this is simply a hectic start to summertime, but more truthfully, my silence is more a lack of progress—at least visible progress.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth is, I’m slow to embrace this season of trying new things and being uncomfortable. Much like my slowness to embrace any of life’s major changes—even those deemed “good”.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve had to finally admit I’m stuck and have been a little stuck for some time now. Stuck in my running, stuck in my reading, stuck in many of my relationships—especially the ones more difficult to nurture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Different is uncomfortable. Hard, even. I don’t think I can handle hard. Apparently, God sees things differently.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The last two books I’ve read have made this truth uncomfortably clear. Richard Rohr, a Franciscan monk and writer says in his book <i>Job and the Mystery of Suffering</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, that in order to truly experience life fully, we must be willing to embrace the dark with the light. The key isn’t always to try and squelch the dark, but rather to accept it being there, embracing it as part of the journey. And the journey—for those who choose it—is good, even when it hurts, for it is a path unto deeper fullness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ann Voskamp, in her book, <i>One Thousand Gifts</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, speaks early on the literal meaning of manna used by God to sustain the Israelites during their 40 years in the desert. It means, “What is it?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That which cannot be defined, fully sustains.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Can I embrace the mystery? Can I let that which I do not understand sustain me? Am I willing to stay on the journey, open myself to receive the gift of the present—no matter what the present brings?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I stop asking, “When will I…” and start saying, “Yahweh, I thank thee for…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sunday, Superman and I went for a 30 mile bike ride. We rode fifteen miles to a neighboring town, had some Sunday fried chicken, mashed potatoes and peach cobbler (not the best bike riding lunch, but we are in North Carolina, after all). I loved it. Wind in my face, feet circling in rhythm with the wheels, husband beside me. We had fun. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I ran along the NC coastline. I have been in Beaufort the last two days on a writing assignment—Blackbeard, the Queen Ann’s Revenge and a new exhibit at the NC Maritime Museum. I went alone. Children are with grandparents, Superman had to work. I went alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I breathed in salty air. I felt its stickiness on my skin. I watched wild ponies eat their breakfast on an island far off. I enjoyed the songs of birds not heard in the Piedmont. I slept in a beautiful19<sup>th</sup>-century built home. I witnessed an early morning rainbow—the largest most vivid one I’ve seen in quite some time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s all together—the light and dark. Times of beauty in seasons of pain. Rohr says its fear which keeps one from living fully. Voskamp calls it ingratitude. I see both stealing my joy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m always looking for a destination. An “ah-ha!” for every moment—especially the hard ones. But maybe there’s no destination. After all, if I truly believe in “full life” as Jesus describes it, then I’ve already arrived—full life, eternity, happening now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, is there an answer to my question—why does everything have to be so hard right now? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe. But to speak it seems trite. Maybe instead, I’ll just live with the unknown. Accept the dark with the light. Stay on the journey. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And what about you? Are you living uncomfortably? Can you count one thousand gifts? Are you accepting light with dark? Staying on the journey? Accepting the gift of now? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I would love to hear from you!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Grace and Peace,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shari</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-48329525245274172792011-05-27T19:12:00.000-04:002011-05-27T19:12:56.983-04:00Runner Girl Rides Her Bike--Part 1<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPEM44eAiJ2XoyFM24raLUTxli2aQqE7HkZe_bdhV6w953_vXcttaYKyfBTstBPg4sZ71LjiOpNFVOLX-_K_3gXw54aX1-ULLgIc76UiCVNxOwT92YJDIeXYKbO8UWT-x7AN6OxhX3l54/s1600/0060-0808-2203-0226_Young_Girl_Riding_a_Bicycle_clipart_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPEM44eAiJ2XoyFM24raLUTxli2aQqE7HkZe_bdhV6w953_vXcttaYKyfBTstBPg4sZ71LjiOpNFVOLX-_K_3gXw54aX1-ULLgIc76UiCVNxOwT92YJDIeXYKbO8UWT-x7AN6OxhX3l54/s320/0060-0808-2203-0226_Young_Girl_Riding_a_Bicycle_clipart_image.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Everyone copes with anxiety differently. Some people eat more. Some drink more. Some shop more. Apparently, I run more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">This is the only honest way I can explain how I jumped from 35-40 running miles a week, to sometimes over sixty. In case you weren’t sure—that’s <i>not</i></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> a safe increase. Obviously—as I became the not-so-proud recipient of a strained Achilles tendon and stress fractured foot to prove it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Truthfully, I didn’t set out to increase my mileage. It was unintentional—if you can believe adding 15-20 extra miles a week could pass under one’s radar. But, looking back, I can see how it happened. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Christmas 2010 was still not the peaceful, joy-filled season I was hoping for. Better than 2009—our first year as an oreo family of seven—yet still personally unsettling. We trekked to Reno at the beginning of December--first time with five kiddos--where I ran a disappointing California marathon, and the rest of the trip I spent somewhat tight- chested, as it was yet another "first meeting", and for whatever reason, those first meetings always leave me tight-chested.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Then the usual holiday-rush and post-holiday daze, all of which left me slightly bewildered by the beginning of 2011. I guess this is where the extra mileage came to play. My solution for shaking the New Year blues was adding a three-mile run into my early-morning routine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Adding a morning run isn’t a problem. Not backing off regular mileage is. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Here I was, doing this incredibly healthy thing for all the wrong reasons. I wasn’t adding extra miles to just start my day off right. I was running to escape this uncomfortable season of life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Just as high-speed police chases never seem to end well, neither did my own attempt at escape. All it did was leave me broken—unable to even go one mile for relief from the pressing in of my life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I had made a decision to start doing triathlons before my last marathon. Now I was forced into the sport by virtue of injury. I begrudgingly began swimming at the gym, and mustered all the excitement of a child ordered to clean his messy room, when it came to buying me a bike and gear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I tried to put on a happy face for riding—and even let a little joy slip out as I surged down hills and powered back up again. But, it was a fragile happiness, lasting only until my first unintentional contact with the ground.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“TIMMMBBBBERRR!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">“I hate this. It’s stupid. Why can’t I just run?” I muttered, as I crawled out from underneath my bike—quite unsuccessfully, I might add, since my feet were still clipped in.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Why can’t I just run, I prayed. Why do I have to be so uncomfortable? Why does everything have to be so hard right now? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Whine, whine, whine… right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Or maybe... it’s an honest question, coming from an honestly seeking heart, looking for a true and honest answer?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">.... more to come. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Thanks for allowing me to write my journey as I swim, bike, fall and even run a little through it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Grace and Peace,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Shari</span></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-32168677217178740262011-05-23T15:46:00.000-04:002011-05-23T15:46:02.025-04:00Hunger’s Strangling Hold<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-__g-V6h1WKmnvn90yzt3kZd_jQw-mnjXg-ONrHG1ZEVEMUXACeEURumY8riJxeYsOTcrrzoKBzofuoDxV-5-R92DWjkxNv8yqMRlei9An_SAktBbaJXzaYtPectI2RfA8f8zesK9jQ/s1600/IMG_4350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg-__g-V6h1WKmnvn90yzt3kZd_jQw-mnjXg-ONrHG1ZEVEMUXACeEURumY8riJxeYsOTcrrzoKBzofuoDxV-5-R92DWjkxNv8yqMRlei9An_SAktBbaJXzaYtPectI2RfA8f8zesK9jQ/s320/IMG_4350.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Today, our little princess had paper put in her ears. At least, that’s what I keep telling her. Hopefully, it was a bit more sophisticated that shoving paper down her ear canal. Whatever the ENT did exactly, I’m not sure. Something about sloughing off scar tissue around the holes in her eardrums then covering the holes with a paper patch. I was told the odds it will take are about 50/50. I’m going to keep a positive outlook (not always so easily accomplished) and assume God can work the odds in our favor a bit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">She did great, which was an exhale for me, as I’m scarred from past ENT visits with her. Limited English, a general fear of life—let alone doctors, prodding into the very places on her body which obviously were in great pain, over and over again, mix quite nicely to produce tantrums and general uncooperativeness from my little darling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">What caught me off guard was her obsession over not being able to eat breakfast. She hid her fears well at first, not mentioning her disdain over missing a meal. Eventually, however, her thoughts betrayed her—thanks to happy juice. As her mind loosened, so did her tongue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Daddy,” she asked Superman right before surgery, “how many days does it take before you starve to death?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He shot me a look with one eyebrow raised and a weird smile on his face. Hmmm, I thought. Where did that come from?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">After surgery when Little Sister was waking up, in between spells of crying and swooning, she asked,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Will it take three weeks of no food before I starve to death?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Again, Superman and I exchanged the weird eyebrow smile—only this time neither of us was smiling so much.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Fast-forward two hours at home, after she’s had an ice-cream treat and trail mix, she brings it up yet again. When I asked her if she felt like a little lunch, her first reply was, “No,” (which makes sense after just finishing trail mix). Three minutes later, she half-stumbles into the kitchen and says:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://internationalhealthrelief.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/hunger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://internationalhealthrelief.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/hunger.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Mommy, I do want to eat lunch. Because I don’t want to starve to deaf.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Have you ever worried you would starve to death? Did you ever fear your children would starve to death? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Can you even fathom?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My heart sank into my stomach. After nearly two years of never missing a meal or a snack, healthier than she’s ever been in her whole six years of life, my daughter’s fear of hunger grips tightly—a constant choking hand, reminding her to be ever vigilant. Eat all you can, when you can. Your next meal is not guaranteed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I am powerless to loosen hunger’s hold. I can teach her portion control, be a constant reassurance and provider of the next meal, but I can’t shake off the fear. It is her fear. Hers to loosen and overcome. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">But then again, who am I to replace God’s redemptive work in my daughter’s life? The very cruel and hurtful thing which holds her in fear, may be where God meets her, frees her and heals her at just the right time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Oh God, grant me the faith to continually believe in Your power over all fears.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Grace & Peace,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Shari</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-47311906942205451882011-05-19T11:35:00.000-04:002011-05-19T11:35:39.807-04:00Blogs-- the new daytime television?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.survivingmotherhoodwithhumor.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/pioneer-woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.survivingmotherhoodwithhumor.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/pioneer-woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I read an article in the New Yorker last night about Ree Drummond-- Pioneer Woman. I'm sure many of you are familiar with her. I mean, she has some 200 billion-trillion followers on her blog-- well, maybe not quite that many. I think the exact number is somewhere around 23 million page viewers a month.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Ree blogs about her daily life as a cattle rancher's wife. She's written a book, <i>From High Heels to Tractor Wheels--A Love Story</i>; and cookbook, <i>The Pioneer Woman Cooks</i>. She's been on every major morning show, cooking, sharing about her idyllic life on their thousands of acres of ranch land, homeschooling her four kids, perpetually in love with her cowboy husband, Marlboro Man.</div><br />
Ree's blog started as a way to stay connected with family and other adults, as life on the ranch is anything but socially engaging. She captures her days on her super-fancy Nikon, downloads the pictures, makes them look story-like, then lets the pictures inspire her content.<br />
<br />
Why am I going through all this about some homeschooling, ranching, perpetually in love with her husband, incredibly talented and intuitive, ridiculously prosperous woman? I'm not sure, other than her blog intrigues me-- causes me to ponder a bit. It's fun, but I don't visit it every day. In fact, I've been to her blog once. I don't pine away all day, wondering what Pioneer Woman will share next.<br />
<br />
But lots of woman do... over 23 million a month.<br />
<br />
It dawned on me that Ree Drummond's blog is the holy-grail of reality TV via internet. It's almost like daytime television... in fact, one might call blogs like Pioneer Woman the new daytime television. Soap operas are dying to women living vicariously through someone else's ranch world romance.<br />
<br />
I am sounding a bit critical here, and I don't mean to. I admire Ree Drummond. I'm incredibly jealous. Stupid jealous in some ways. Here is a woman, stuck in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma, who starts a blog and is now world-famous. She found her niche, simply doing what she inherently loves to do. In many ways, I'm inspired.<br />
<br />
But, I guess what disturbs me, is how easily we (the proverbial "we") become sucked into others' lives--forsaking our own very unique lives individually designed and purposefully prepared in advance. I guess not everyone believes this to be the case, but I do-- or at least I <i>say</i> I do. Most days are a struggle to really <i>live</i> it.<br />
<br />
Also disturbing are Pioneer Woman's critics-- those who spend hours making fun of her through counter blogs and twitter feeds. They read her posts then mock her; mimicking her voice and quirky phraseology; making fun of her daily monologue and criticize her out of their own insecurities. What wasted time and energy; self-destructive and soul rotting.<br />
<br />
You know... I want to expand my blogging. It started as a way to connect with others who were adopting, too. Now it's just about our life and often I struggle to find content. That's seems weird-- woman with 5 kids, military wife, homeschooler, adopting older children, runner, reader, writer--however green this last one may be.<br />
<br />
It isn't just content-- it's finding content worth sharing & the amount of time it takes me to write a single post. In the New Yorker article, Ree says she can blog with kids hanging off her earlobes (or something like that). Not me! I'm a slow writer, and if I spent the time editing each blog the way I do my articles for Elite, you'd <i>never</i> hear from me.<br />
<br />
<br />
So... I'm curious. What does bloggy world do for you? Who do you read and why? What makes you follow a blog? How much time do you spend blogging-- writing your own blog and reading others' blogs. What do you think of the whole blog & internet culture? <br />
<br />
These are somewhat random thoughts, but I wanted to share and hear your voice, too. <br />
<br />
Grace and Peace,<br />
ShariTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-48259477703133062402011-05-13T16:55:00.000-04:002011-05-13T16:55:58.433-04:00Getting Dirty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-d8VxT2gcO7az6kNutNZt3h_gjFtv7rwpIL_0_osKY6JZWLa-9p_koB9e571M1jRdD64cMeJ96Jj_hqUWjyMdtfhGIbeikHPSN5NUbNf42GCOpAriRGcrC5x4CBqZvfo9r-1O5Y7WHYc/s1600/IMG_4436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-d8VxT2gcO7az6kNutNZt3h_gjFtv7rwpIL_0_osKY6JZWLa-9p_koB9e571M1jRdD64cMeJ96Jj_hqUWjyMdtfhGIbeikHPSN5NUbNf42GCOpAriRGcrC5x4CBqZvfo9r-1O5Y7WHYc/s320/IMG_4436.JPG" width="240" /></a>Finally. The grass is shooting through the bed of straw which has graced our yard for two weeks now. For the past three months our yard has looked like a disaster. The process of landscaping-- at least our landscaping--is so dirty, messy, wrought with pitfalls, back-tracking, little mistakes... big mistakes and slow, slow progress.<br />
<br />
My life has felt a little like my yard lately. Messy, mistake-ridden and just down right dirty.<br />
<br />
I over-trained for my last marathon and stress-fractured my foot during the race. Then, I was too prideful to quit, running over 16 miles on a fractured foot. I've had people say how amazing it was that I finished. What they don't realize it was no noble cause which kept me going... it was fear of humiliation.<br />
<br />
Then there's this adjusting to a daughter thing. I'm embarrassed to say how many days I've been reduced to cursing once everyone is in bed and Superman and I are safely out of ear-shot...<br />
"I'm telling you, all it seems all I hear is b!&#%ing and moaning!"<br />
<br />
I'm guessing this is because I've never tape recorded myself and had it played back on me. <br />
<br />
I know I've mentioned this before, but here I am again, wondering... is this her personality? Is this her "girl-ness"? Is this her adjusting to adoption?<br />
<br />
I remember the first year I attended a homeschool conference. I went to all the boy-specific workshops-- how to teach 'em, how to discipline 'em, how to put up with their farting and grossness...<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8I0MwcXX61SxBvNv_IiauhhevRtNil94dSGBuzFdSp2i32QhrqUm1zBkHNA2jUGMFue_G2cUI2Du60uJ63N1uitGPWoGjBVU_SEyRirdxnnKMvhMU05IAKSBadnZszGdWVZvxqj-Y-FQ/s1600/IMG_4435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8I0MwcXX61SxBvNv_IiauhhevRtNil94dSGBuzFdSp2i32QhrqUm1zBkHNA2jUGMFue_G2cUI2Du60uJ63N1uitGPWoGjBVU_SEyRirdxnnKMvhMU05IAKSBadnZszGdWVZvxqj-Y-FQ/s320/IMG_4435.JPG" width="320" /></a>This year, I'll be attending all the girl-specific sessions. Especially the ones on how to handle b!&#%ing and moaning. :-)<br />
<br />
Thankfully, my yard is almost done. At least the overhaul. Now what's left is to help it grow, keep planting and nurturing the gardens, keep getting dirt under my nails and into my shoes. After all, it's the only way my flowers will continually burst with color, the birds and butterflies will dance and serenade us and my vegetables will produce abundantly.<br />
<br />
Guess it'll be the same with my life. Keep getting dirty.<br />
<br />
Grace and Peace,<br />
ShariTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-72295474386314704142011-05-06T08:02:00.000-04:002011-05-06T08:02:43.401-04:00Excuses, Excuses<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://purplevelvet09.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/stressed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://purplevelvet09.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/stressed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">If only I looked this good when stressed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Or, maybe not.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm bummed it's been so long since my last post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And just when I was starting to really hit a blogging grove. Ugh. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here are my top 10 excuses ('cause you really want to know-- I can tell):</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">1. I was in St. Louis and Kansas City the first week of April running the St. Louis Marathon and spending some wonderful time with my siblings. Alone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">2. I stress-fractured my foot while running the St. Louis Marathon and have been learning to embrace my space boot these last 3 ½ weeks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">3. We’ve been elbow deep in an entire landscaping makeover since February. It reached critical mass, the end of April.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">4. I took a 6-week, on-line writing class to refine my writing skills and force me into deadlines. It worked. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">5. I’ve also been working on a couple travel articles for a regional magazine. Deadline was end of April, beginning of May.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">6. School, school, school—and June is staring me in the face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">7. I have a daughter now. Who knew??</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">8. Reading for my book clubs (kids and ladies) has been taking over normal blogging time--not sure why now, all the sudden.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">9. Our family tripped down to Atlanta last weekend to watch the Braves v. Cardinals game.<span> </span>Though still slightly cranky with St. Louis for “breaking” my foot, I managed to cheer for our home team (yes, I refuse to take responsibility)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">**Note: The trip to “Hotlanta” was because of MY writing gig— an article about baseball 3 ways (Fayetteville, Durham, Atlanta). This is the first time in Team Dragovich history in which the work related trip was <i>mine</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, not Superman’s. Yes, I am incredibly proud of this and do </span><i>not</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> mind bragging.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">10. Have I mentioned I have a daughter? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well... so it goes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the record; I don't begrudge the woman in the picture. I just think she may be as detached as another cake woman I've heard of-- "Let them eat cake!" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Grace and Peace,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shari</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-54349874128202008852011-03-27T13:57:00.001-04:002011-04-03T07:38:29.356-04:00Reading Shakespeare Outloud<style>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfosymOoAaJJhT13duWDar72WgndGsIrmi6Gtslbx6C-C0-d8Vwg23DxWet9gj1aeFAL8DV6f-CxRGEGre8WqGm63iNRxnRc6XmO94eAeDKE066zbxYMzCKOu2U1VW7ONcMv6gwPWn6bc/s1600/IMG_4081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfosymOoAaJJhT13duWDar72WgndGsIrmi6Gtslbx6C-C0-d8Vwg23DxWet9gj1aeFAL8DV6f-CxRGEGre8WqGm63iNRxnRc6XmO94eAeDKE066zbxYMzCKOu2U1VW7ONcMv6gwPWn6bc/s320/IMG_4081.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JB dressed in 16th century garb last summer</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="http://wochica.tripod.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/shakespeare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yesterday afternoon, I decided to read some Shakespeare. Weird, I know. I could try to explain the deeper ponderings of why, but it would still be weird.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The last time I really attempted to read Shakespeare (not in kid-friendly format) was lots of years ago in college. I took a Shakespeare class as one of my English electives because I wanted to feel intellectual by learning Shakespeare and I heard it was an easy “A” from an easy professor. I finished the class with a “B”—barely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had forgotten how impossible Shakespeare is to read in your head. I started with <u>The Two Gentlemen of Verona.</u> It’s the first play in my Norton’s Complete Anthology of Shakespeare (also bought, by the way, so I would feel intellectual). Quickly, I realized I was in over my head. The words were drowning me. My brain was choking on “How now,” and “thee”, “thou”. Even the side notes and footnotes were not enough to keep me afloat. I was quickly sinking to the bottom of Shakespearean intellect. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fortunately it dawned on me to try reading aloud. Suddenly, I wasn’t drowning anymore. It wasn’t a smooth sailing, but I was above literary water. The language demanded my full attention and absolute concentration. But with each line spoken (no matter how halting my voice), I seemed to propel forward and strengthen my stroke against the thick current of Shakespeare’s language. I began moving with his words, catching his rhythm, the nuances of his humor and layers of meaning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My Shakespearean reading event didn’t last long. Imagine that. Before Act I was over, my children burst in with their own drama to report. Someone had been incredibly naughty playing baseball. Defied Daddy. He’s acting like he’s two. He’s in big trouble. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, how we love to gloat over the sins of others!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My little offender plays the false martyr role well. He will accept any consequence you give him with a sort of stoic heroism (in his own eyes, that is). Stoic victimization is closer to reality. Later, my husband and I were discussing the deeper layers of this behavior, imagining the environment responsible for creating his warped, distrustful view. Wondering, how in the world we will help him break free and fully live. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">True living must be done out loud. There must be a willingness to hear the squeaking of your voice, get embarrassed and get over it. When my son accepts his punishment as his “lot in life”, quietly insulating himself against hurt, adding up the score always against his favor, he silences the full life meant to be lived in and through him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We force him to live beyond his comfort zone. We demand reconciliation and closure in conflict. We nudge him toward selfless acts. We actually expect him to sacrifice sometimes. He has no choice but to live out loud. It is hard work and we don’t do it perfectly. But, we try and we can see him trying, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shakespeare was never meant to be read silently. Neither is life meant to be orchestrated from within. Its most fulfilling moments—forgiveness, sacrifice, service and love—are lived in the open. I have no doubt my child will learn to live out loud. Like Shakespeare, he is destined for it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-64035792359218106592011-03-11T17:07:00.000-05:002011-03-11T17:07:50.255-05:00The Words Bleeding Me-- Hope<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blog.art21.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/hope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://blog.art21.org/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/hope.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> When a fringe homeschool family raises unsocial awkward children-- or even worse, neglect their children’s education to the extent it makes national news—it is frustrating for the rest of us raising happy, healthy, intelligent, <i>and</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> socially accepted children. It may even be the reason we are subject to unnecessary scrutiny and laws.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> When a fringe “Christian” group traverses the country thumping their Bibles, displaying their hate signs and screaming Scripture to condemn others, it is heartbreaking to watch the message of love and hope being smeared and misrepresented. It may even cause those on the cusp of belief to turn away from God in fear they will become Bible thumping, sign screaming people, too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> When a few despicable greedy people coerce and lie to desperate parents in developing countries, financially gaining by manipulating the life-saving measure of adoption, it leads to an almost complete shut-down of adoption—leaving an estimated 5 million orphans without the opportunity to ever grow in the love of a family. They may never have the ability to grow at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> This is what the orphans of Ethiopia face. As a way to eliminate scandal within the adoption process, Ethiopia’s Ministry of Women’s and Children’s Affairs (MOWA), along with the Ethiopian Government, created a new policy cutting the number of adoption cases heard in court from 50 to 5 per day. That is a 90% decrease. For those unfamiliar to Ethiopia’s adoption process, just know this—rather than it taking several months for children to be united with their families, it could now take years. Approximately 2,400 children were adopted from Ethiopia last year. Under the new policy only 240 would have made it home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Just the other morning, I was reading accounts of former gang members of L.A. who told of their initiation process. Out of such desperation to belong to what they called a “family”, they would kill an innocent person—someone picked at random. If they could murder in cold blood, they were in. Despite their considerable dislike towards the command, their deep longing to “belong” took precedence. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Children need families.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Last week, JB missed the turn to our house, while on a bike ride with Sam and my husband (who was running with them). Sam yelled for JB to come back, but he was too far ahead and too full of feeling the wind on his face. The story ends happily, of course. JB was recovered by Daddy and Sam within 5 minutes. No harm done. But JB’s little world was momentarily shaken. He was melancholy the rest of the day, and even had trouble going to sleep at night. We had a lot of rocking and holding. Finally, he looked at me with crocodile tears in his eyes: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> “I was so scared, Mommy. I thought I had lost my family again. And now I wouldn’t have a family to love me anymore!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Children need families. Yes-- they need food, water and education, too. But not like they need families.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> Those of us who have adopted from Ethiopia, or are in the process of adopting from Ethiopia have a choice to make. We can wring our hands, feeling angry, allowing our minds to think only the worst—or we can hope. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hope is a small word, but it carries an eternal promise. It challenges us:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"> “Do not be sad in the trials. Rather, rejoice. Because suffering brings perseverance, perseverance brings character and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, He has given us (Romans 5:2-5 paraphrased).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Yet you heard my cry for mercy, when I called to you for help… The Lord preserves the faithful… Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the Lord!” (Psalm 31)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hope does not disappoint.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I happen to believe that the same God who guided JB, Risa and every other orphan into the hands of loving families, is the same God who sits over the nations of the world:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“The Lord foils the plans of the nations; He thwarts the purposes of the peoples. But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever, the purposes of His heart through all generations.” (Ps. 33)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Already, the faithful prayers of believers have availed much. Meetings continue to happen. The plans of the Lord stand firm. Hope lives.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Goodness knows I hate going through suffering to get at hope. If I had known how traumatic these last 20 months would be… well… I’m just thankful I didn’t know. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Children deserve a future and a hope. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Continue to pray. There is always Hope.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">PS... These two blogs have helped me pray specifically. Though both were written <i>before</i> the new policy was announced, I think the prayers are still an excellent guide:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="http://ethiopianadoptionspot.blogspot.com/2011/03/time-to-pray.html"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The Tennants</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/redletters/2011/03/ethiopias-plan-to-cut-adoptions-a-prayerful-response.html">Tom Davis</a> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-65516661789016152652011-03-04T07:03:00.000-05:002011-03-04T07:03:51.895-05:00The Words Bleeding Me-- Trust<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://palatepress.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/trust_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://palatepress.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/trust_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">What an unwelcome friend.<span> </span>A running injury.<span> </span>My Achilles tendon is painfully swollen, halting all running in the most crucial weeks of mileage.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>My only other running injury was to my IT band—the illiotibial tendon which runs along the outside of the leg from hip to knee.<span> </span>That was five years ago and a most troublesome experience.<span> </span>Many months of running in pain. Running then walking.<span> </span>Not running at all.<span> </span>I was so scared.<span> </span>Terrified of the unknowns.<span> </span>Plagued by the “What ifs…?”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“What if it never heals?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“What if I can never regain my momentum?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“What if…?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>My husband constantly chided me, “You have to have faith.<span> </span>Believe it will heal.<span> </span>Trust that you are doing the right things for it.<span> </span>Stop being so negative.<span> </span>You can’t live in fear and heal.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“But what if…?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Now, five years later, with my leg propped up on pillows, I’m hearing the same old thing.<span> </span>“Stay positive.<span> </span>Relax.<span> </span>Trust it will get better.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>There’s that word again.<span> </span>Trust.<span> </span>Trust in what?<span> </span>Trust in the therapy?<span> </span>Trust in the rest?<span> </span>Trust in miraculous healing?<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> <i style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Trust in the LORD with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight." Proverbs 3:5-</i><i style="color: purple; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">6</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>E.M Bounds calls trust, “Faith in full flower…It is firm belief.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span><span> </span>“Trust sees God doing things here and now… [it] brings eternity into the annals and happenings of time, transmutes the substance of hope into the reality of fruition and changes promise into present possession.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Hope to reality.<span> </span>Promise into present possession.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Bounds goes on to explain that trust sees God doing things here and now.<span> </span>Even more.<span> </span>Trust expands its sights into the eternal and brings it to the happenings of time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Hope to reality.<span> </span>Promise into present possession.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Trust in a thing, activity or organization is passive and carries no substance.<span> </span>Trust in a person is where Trust flourishes.<span> </span>Healthy relationships are the fertile soil for trust to grow and thrive.<span> </span>Children trust their parents.<span> </span>Husbands trust their wives and vice versa.<span> </span>Faith-filled people trust their God.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">At least… these all happen in a perfect world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Trust is something I took entirely for granted; until I adopted my Ethiopian children.<span> </span>In my relationship with my biological boys, I unknowingly enjoyed a sweetly cocooned life filled with mutual trust, understanding and unhindered love.<span> </span>They trusted me to nurture them and always have their best interest at heart.<span> </span>Because they have never experienced anything but fullness of trust, they operate out of a position of trust.<span> </span>Their instinct is to trust.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Not so with JB and Risa.<span> </span>Their instinct and consequently their actions tend to be born from lack of trust.<span> </span>It was a blow to my mommy ego.<span> </span>How do you parent children who don’t trust you?<span> </span>The relationship is broken before it even begins.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Part of the missing trust is simply a natural part of the transition-- the grieving and bonding process.<span> </span>The rest, as far as I can discern, stems from their lives pre-us. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">One child recovers quickly.<span> </span>There is evidence of healthy, trust-filled relationships in this one’s life.<span> </span>This child now thrives in the cocoon.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The other child still holds trust at arm’s length.<span> </span>Scared to let faith fully flower.<span> </span>Though there is much of this child’s life I will never know, I see the effects.<span> </span>Unwillingness to release into the cocoon.<span> </span>Expecting the worst from people rather than the best.<span> </span>The “What ifs… “ plague this child.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Just as I cannot force my tendon to heal, just as I cannot force character to develop, I realize I cannot force faith to fully flower.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Trust grows nowhere so readily and richly as in the prayer chamber,” says Bounds.<span> </span>“The eye and presence of God give vigorous life to trust, just as the eye and the presence of the sun make fruit and flower to grow, and all things glad and bright with fuller life.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It is time for me to look higher than my children’s field of vision.<span> </span>It’s time for my eyes to see the eternal, grab what is hoped for-- change it to reality—from the position of bended knee and bowed head.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“All things are possible to him who believes,” Jesus says.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It is time for me to believe.<span> </span>“What ifs…” have no place in my life or the life of my children.<span> </span>Not for my body.<span> </span>Not for my mind.<span> </span>Not for my child.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Excuse me.<span> </span>My chamber is waiting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-73402443585138844282011-02-27T08:29:00.000-05:002011-02-27T08:29:21.409-05:00Prayer to end Human Trafficking<style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://children.foreignpolicyblogs.com/files/2007/03/cni-not-for-sale-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="http://children.foreignpolicyblogs.com/files/2007/03/cni-not-for-sale-photo.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Last night before going to bed, I already had a sense of purposefulness for this morning’s quiet time.<span> </span>Rather than my usual reading and journaling, I asked God to reveal His desire through specific Scripture—though I had no idea where in the Bible such scripture might be.<span> </span>With some apprehension—not in His words, rather in my ability to discern His speaking to me—I opened my Bible and landed on <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm%2070-72&version=NIV">Psalm 70 – 72</a>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>The crime of human trafficking—in particular of women and children—has been weighing heavier and heavier on me.<span> </span>While I sip my hot coffee, preparing for the battles of my day-- piled up laundry, cranky children, squeezing in my next run—a child is being sold for sex.<span> </span>Another child is exploited by his or her own parents, who out of desperation, exchange their child for next month’s bread; dooming that child to slave labor or the black market side of adoption.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>This morning, the words found within Psalms 70-72 spoke directly as intercession for those caught in human trafficking.<span> </span>The prayer that follows is almost completely Scripture filled.<span> </span>It is what covered three pages of my journal entry for the morning—something I rarely share: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Hasten, O God to save them!<span> </span>O Lord, come quickly to help those caught in human trafficking.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Put to shame evil people who would commit such violence—confuse their ways.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>May they be turned back in ruin and disgrace, may those who capture and sell children—who say, “Aha!”<span> </span>“Aha!” be turned back—caught and trapped by their own crimes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>But, may those who are targeted be rescued and give You praise!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>May they be glad in You!<span> </span>Let them sing continually of Your praises, </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.terroristplanet.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/humantrafficking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.terroristplanet.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/02/humantrafficking.jpg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“Let God be exalted!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Those trapped in this human violence are poor and needy—come quickly to them, O God!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Be their Help and their Deliverer;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Let them take refuge in You, do not let them be put to shame.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Rescue and deliver them in Your righteousness, turn Your ear to their cries and save them;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Deliver them from the hands of wickedness—from the grasp of evil and cruel men.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Father, be their Hope!<span> </span>Do not forget them!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">For You brought them forth from their mother’s womb, You know the very hairs on their heads and You have a purpose and a plan for them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">O Lord, come quickly!<span> </span>Be not far from them.<span> </span>Raise up workers to be Your hands and feet;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Those who will shine Your light in the darkness and expose the horrendous nature of human trafficking and those evil enough to engage in it!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tillhecomes.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/human_trafficking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="http://www.tillhecomes.org/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/human_trafficking.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Though the women and children being trafficked are seeing trouble too deep to imagine, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Father, I ask and trust You to restore their lives.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">From the depths of the earth, bring them up, increase their honor, comfort and heal them of their woundedness.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">You are Redeemer, Healer God and I trust fully in your power to fully restore what has been lost.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Thank you, Father, for faithful men and women who answer the call to expose and eradicate human trafficking;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Putting to shame and confusion those who pursue such violence; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">While offering Your hope and <span> </span>future to those rescued from it.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Strengthen and support such workers.<span> </span>Lead them in the specific way they need to go.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Direct their paths—guide them through the darkest of dark holes on this earth, protecting them from harm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Raise up a war cry among your people, O God!<span> </span>Cause deep, moving outrage.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Overthrow tyrannical governments, who turn a deaf ear to the cries of trafficked children!<span> </span>Replace such rulers with Godly governments which honor and uphold all human life as precious.<span> </span>Endow kings with justice and those in power with righteousness.<span> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.urbanchristiannews.com/ucn/humantrafficking2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://www.urbanchristiannews.com/ucn/humantrafficking2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">You promise to defend the afflicted among the people—save the children of the needy and crush the oppressor,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">You promise to rescue them from oppression and violence, for their blood is precious to You!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">May we, Your people, <b><i>go</i></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> when You call,<b><i> move</i></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> to where You lead and<b><i> do</i></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> what You have purposed each one to do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>For all You have done and all You will do—I praise You!<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>I praise You with song and dancing</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>I praise You for Your faithfulness; my lips shout for joy—even in the midst of sadness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>For You are Redeemer God!<span> </span>You have rescued and restored thousands of victims of human trafficking,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>And I look to the day when it is wiped out completely!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>By the power of Christ, I pray,<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Amen</span></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-27843275746175947932011-02-25T07:12:00.000-05:002011-02-25T07:12:46.332-05:00The Words Bleeding Me—Responsibility<style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Isaac, son.<span> </span>This is ridiculous.<span> </span>Why do you not spend the five minutes required to put your clothes away?<span> </span>This is not my expectation.<span> </span>Meanwhile, your dirty clothes stink up my carpet and your section of the room is a general mess.<span> </span>This really frustrates me, and it isn’t the first time I’ve caught this laziness from you.<span> </span>Now I see that I can’t trust you when you say your chores are done.<span> </span>Now I have to come behind you and double check.<span> </span>I shouldn’t have to do that!<span> </span>You are quite old enough to know better and I expect better.<span> </span>You are acting as a bad example to your younger brothers, and if this is how you expect me to recognize maturity in you and gift you with more privileges, you’re sadly mistaken.<span> </span>In fact, there will be no more afternoon friends until I have double-checked your chores, and since I am never just sitting around waiting to check people’s chores, then you will just have to wait on ME to have TIME to check you off and if that means you miss afternoon friend time—well then so be it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And all Isaac heard?<span> </span>“wonk, wonk, wonk, wonk.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I’m thinking it was somewhat overkill.<span> </span>If the glazed over look in Isaac’s eyes was any indication to my ranting’s effectiveness, I would have to give it two thumb’s down.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Oh, but it felt good to rant.<span> </span>All that pent up anxiety, just gushing forth with such self-righteous bravado and mock concern for Isaac’s future ability as a responsible member of his own home someday, I mean, the boy won’t even put his clothes away-- WHICH I FOLD FOR HIM (what a slap in my face!)-- how will he ever be able to manage to hold down a job?!<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In my life, rants are directly and positively correlated with the perceived heaviness of my responsibilities.<span> </span>I am an extremely responsible person.<span> </span>In fact, I am so responsible that I become irresponsible.<span> </span>Abandoning that which I am actually able to control, I fret over that which will <i>never</i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> be mine to manipulate or turn the way I see it should go.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Example:<span> </span>I recognize a character issue in one of my children.<span> </span>Within my power and responsibility are:<span> </span>1<sup>st</sup>—continual, effective prayer for my child, and 2<sup>nd</sup>-- creating an environment which makes it painful for such a negative character trait to persist, at the same time rewarding the development of positive character traits.<span> </span>Outside of my power is the actual changing of the child’s heart.<span> </span>What do I typically do?<span> </span>Well, it depends.<span> </span>But, I have been known to act on that which is not within my power, causing more drama, fearfulness in them and a general lack of peace; rather than create a fertile environment where positive change can sprout, establish itself, flourish and grow.<span> </span>I can provide a painful environment, all right—painful… and then some.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Naturally, I am excellent at carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.<span> </span>There is the very popular Christian book called <u>Boundaries</u>.<span> </span>I’m sure it was written for me… though I only read the one for marriage.<span> </span>And then, of course, there are all the parenting books.<span> </span>I’ve read plenty of them, more to my detriment—or should I say to my children’s detriment, rather than my own.<span> </span>What happens when I read such books?<span> </span>My responsibility baggage only grows larger.<span> </span>I stuff in more things for which I think I am responsible.<span> </span>I learn some parenting technique crucial to the first five years of their lives—which now that they’re all six years and up, it must be too late and all that’s left is suffering through the consequences of my ignorance.<span> </span>Shoot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I would say that responsibility has also played a part in the process of attaching to my adopted children.<span> </span>In last week’s post, I wrote of the materials making up attachment—materials I couldn’t recognize until after we came home and I was experiencing them.<span> </span>If parenting brings with it a new, deep sense of being responsible for another human life, then I think adoptive parents could, quite possibly feel the weight of such responsibility two and three-fold.<span> </span>Add to that extra layers:<span> </span>adopting older children (who’ve already past those 1<sup>st</sup> five years of life, let’s just say), adopting after already having several children in your home who you are also responsible for (perhaps—we’ll just pretend—three boys who will now have to share everything and everyone in their life, and one who will have to share birth order to the degree of being what adoption circles call “artificially twinned”), and adopting children whom you think are one age (well under five), but turn out to be another age (almost 6).<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I can only speak for myself.<span> </span>Maybe I’m the only crazy adoptive mother who has to battle constantly to keep responsibility in its rightful place.<span> </span>Logically, I understand I have no control over what happened to my children pre-me.<span> </span>But there are days when my eyes aren’t well focused and my mind crammed full of my to-do list, that I blur the lines of responsibility.<span> </span>“What if….”, haunts me.<span> </span>Fear of rejection teases me.<span> </span>Responsibility for their woundedness, attitudes, relationships and future lives, piles up like my dirty laundry, emitting the odors of life’s stink and always being added to faster than I can deplete it.<span> </span>All of it blocks deep binding love from taking root.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I have circled all the “I will”, “He will” and “The Lord will” passages of Scripture:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go; I will counsel you and watch over you” (Ps 32)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>“He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways,”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“I will rescue him, I will protect him for he acknowledges my name,<br />
I will answer him, I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him.<span> </span>With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” (Ps. 90)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“He will cover you with his feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge” (Ps 90)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“My eyes will watch over them for their good, and I will bring them back to this land.<span> </span>I will build them up and not tear them down; I will plant them and not uproot them.<span> </span>I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the Lord.<span> </span>They will be my people and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart.”<span> </span>(Jer. 24)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">There are hundreds more.<span> </span>Interestingly, no where have I found a passage of Scripture which commands me to do any changing of my children’s hearts, nor have I discovered where it is within my power to heal their woundedness, remove their fears or restore their hearts.<span> </span>None of these things, which I find myself wringing my hands over, are within my responsibility, or ability to affect.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">What is within my responsibility circle is prayer and creating an environment which makes ripe the work of the Lord.<span> </span>Praying in all seasons over all things, keeping my eyes fixed on Jesus (which, coincidentally keeps my eyes off all my perceived responsibilities) and offering myself continually to God as a living sacrifice—allowing Him to do transforming work in me as well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I’m still looking for the passage that says ranting is one of my responsibilities.<span> </span>It promises to be a long search.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Grace and Peace,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Shari</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-5099064099025959402011-02-21T07:01:00.000-05:002011-02-21T07:01:29.205-05:00Make Mine a Monday: Sam<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzW12FZV3xElo-y8Iyl41k724bVpaf3K4Oz9rP3qqM9SPQNgdtH_JRisYiQ7wFgcuFSfZI-E6nfEYx7ovBngOilkB6OZYP9C4F5Zney-u4s7LeFpnpP3TeBs9HlLy33RnjXR7IRRYJMM/s1600/tn-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzW12FZV3xElo-y8Iyl41k724bVpaf3K4Oz9rP3qqM9SPQNgdtH_JRisYiQ7wFgcuFSfZI-E6nfEYx7ovBngOilkB6OZYP9C4F5Zney-u4s7LeFpnpP3TeBs9HlLy33RnjXR7IRRYJMM/s320/tn-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8uIQfJ7-vyJvrXsZWn4oDiePrQWMyCDw_pKdeDyJbkfVlx5ofvDh60euVVLoPtjAmY_Lum8MHOEFRE2_uOF4ksXqcjSg5Xoc4UBJXTSfOMoqcdZoC4DYTdENdd9W86Ko2k0McQYRDX4/s1600/tn-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>The effects of my brilliant teaching on Sam</b></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-63728698911137397642011-02-18T07:07:00.000-05:002011-02-18T07:07:00.794-05:00The Words Bleeding Me—Compassion<style>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3lsi5-IyxUyt26OIcKVaxpQeKJqA1ALAIlgkQnH6MH_RxUC9G9jIGQ-edcDa7kDrpKB8uP7tIGI3WOZd1eu16AAGQrtO2iyz3J-gINKG5Qwh5kpUKOBZ7Atim-6CYLBx6AYO4-SZueY/s1600/IMG_4207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG3lsi5-IyxUyt26OIcKVaxpQeKJqA1ALAIlgkQnH6MH_RxUC9G9jIGQ-edcDa7kDrpKB8uP7tIGI3WOZd1eu16AAGQrtO2iyz3J-gINKG5Qwh5kpUKOBZ7Atim-6CYLBx6AYO4-SZueY/s200/IMG_4207.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>There never has been an emotion so disturbing to me as a mother, as feeling no compassion toward my own children.<span> </span>Before adopting our two Ethiopian children I had read of families who struggled to attach and much ado is made of attaching and bonding in adopted children.<span> </span>I have even had a friend or two who struggled with attaching to their biological children for several months after giving birth.<span> </span>But the substance of non-attachment was one I could not grasp.<span> </span>I had no frame of reference.<span> </span>No emotions to give it shape.<span> </span>Like being told to make a paper-mache doll with only a form and no physical materials, nor instructions for applying these missing materials and actually create something— this is what I held in regards to attachment; an idea I saw straight through with no meaning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Once home, it didn’t take long for all that substance to surface.<span> </span>And surface it did—like a wounded soldier pouring his blood over the battlefield, frantically ripping clothes to stop the bleeding.<span> </span>The materials of non-attachment were overwhelming me—anger, resentment, regret, loss, physical discomfort and lack of compassion.<span> </span>No compassion.<span> </span>Still, my chest is tightens as I write it.<span> </span>Horrified that I could experience such ugly sentiments towards children, let alone children I had chosen to mother.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">His crying didn’t move me.<span> </span>Her protruding belly from malnutrition only frustrated me.<span> </span>Their mood swings and ugliness towards my three biological boys angered me.<span> </span>The clinging to my husband, the laughing in my face taunting, “No love Mommy.<span> </span>Only love Daddy!”<span> </span>Running to any other parent for attention, affection and acceptance.<span> </span>The outlandish tales of a rosy existence in Ethiopia.<span> </span>The refusal to eat—or the hoarding at every meal.<span> </span>Touching them, holding them and comforting them made me desperately uncomfortable.<span> </span>I could have been hugging one of my mother-in-law’s cactus plants with more ease.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>No compassion.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Oh, what a horrible mirror it is which reveals a shallow love!<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>Of course, that is not true.<span> </span>Such a mirror is the best kind, but at the moment of revealing, it may as well be shattered glass broken over one’s head.<span> </span>All those years of loving my children, I took for granted.<span> </span>I assumed I knew what love was.<span> </span>I assumed I had a heart of sacrifice.<span> </span>I remember looking into each one of my son’s eyes the day in which they were born, knowing that if I had to die in that moment so they might live…. I would plunge the knife myself.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">The first time I looked into the eyes of my Ethiopian children…they were empty.<span> </span>Empty, pathetic eyes which looked right through me.<span> </span>But by the power of God Almighty, the many witnesses and my signature on the dotted line…I could have driven away and never come back.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">No compassion.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">For a time, I held it in, terrified to confess my horrible secret.<span> </span>Finally when I did reveal my ugly truth, not many knew what to do with it.<span> </span>“I think you show great compassion by not letting them continue to live in their woundedness,” one friend encouraged, after an exhausting day of feeling like all I did was discipline them.<span> </span>Others just listened—sometimes crying with me, sometimes admitting this is why they would never adopt themselves.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Maybe it was the last statement which sparked just enough indignant emotion to dare believe compassion would come.<span> </span>Who am I to deny these two a full, loving home, opportunity to truly live and experience all God has for them, all because of my insecurities?<span> </span>Is God not big enough to change me?<span> </span>Did He not know me and all my below-the-surface shallowness before we ever walked through adoption’s door?<span> </span>Wasn’t He the one who gave me a compassion for the widow and the orphan in the first place—a compassion which bled enough to act? Though it was still struggling for position with fear and guilt, compassion began pulling forward.<span> </span>I started praying for compassion to take hold.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdp0F32KPbFKLHDJ8rle3Wi-kyZgya0Pljc1KUx63Ctfzlri5CwvTEEqEeLdkcV5nB_5PLYA3tepELNjnxYfAphCg7ebeV5M42aXeZIkg_Kb6bjnk9gtALO3QWUuLkBVEyyjCyGIz80o/s1600/IMG_4008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdp0F32KPbFKLHDJ8rle3Wi-kyZgya0Pljc1KUx63Ctfzlri5CwvTEEqEeLdkcV5nB_5PLYA3tepELNjnxYfAphCg7ebeV5M42aXeZIkg_Kb6bjnk9gtALO3QWUuLkBVEyyjCyGIz80o/s200/IMG_4008.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Somehow I believed that I would wake up one day and just “feel” deep, overwhelming compassion and once I did, it would stay.<span> </span>I would always “feel” like their mom, and there would be no more of this shallow love nonsense.<span> </span>Apparently the mirror still shatters easily over my head.<span> </span>Compassion is in constant competition with residual guilt and fear.<span> </span>But it knows its proper ground and the battle is well fought.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I recently read a passage from Psalms 103:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Praise the LORD, my soul;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>all my inmost being, praise his holy name.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">2 Praise the LORD, my soul,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>and forget not all his benefits—</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">3 who forgives all your sins</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>and heals all your diseases,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">4 who redeems your life from the pit</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>and crowns you with love and <b><i>compassion</i></b></span><span style="font-family: Arial;">,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">5 who satisfies your desires with good things</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span> </span>so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I have not traveled the roads of post-adoption very well.<span> </span>But after 19 months, I am encouraged.<span> </span>I see that I am “crowned with love and compassion”.<span> </span>I didn’t crown me, God Almighty did.<span> </span>He forgives my insecurities, He heals my shallowness of heart.<span> </span>He redeems my life and I wear a most glittering crown of precious jewels.<span> </span>I am satisfied with His goodness and thankful for the bleeding time, which has brought<span> </span>forth compassion--<span> </span>whether I feel it always resting on my head or not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">….Now, if only the frown line on my forehead would be erased as my youthful energy is being renewed like the eagle’s.<span> </span>Oh well, that’s what bangs are for, right? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-52093577331197757272011-02-15T11:16:00.000-05:002011-02-15T11:16:30.264-05:00Uh-oh... Make mine a Tuesday??<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.charmcountry.com/Charm%20Project/ch5369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.charmcountry.com/Charm%20Project/ch5369.jpg" /></a></div>Okay, I knew I would drop off my "Monday" ball sooner rather than later. Oh well. Tuesdays can be just as good as any for proving my loyal readers with something funny, uplifting or just plain weird to laugh about. Besides, I have a good excuse-- I was designing my husband's homemade Valentine's Day card; dutifully painting in the lines and conjuring up a poem to fill the inside blankness. So there :)<br />
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In honor of Valentine's Day, I wanted to share how my husband and I first met-- or at least first began dating. If you already know the story... forgive me. I won't keep telling it after this-- or maybe I will.<br />
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We grew up in the same "blink-and-miss-it" town and so had known OF each other all our lives. I never really thought much about him, and figured the feeling was mutual. However, one night while celebrating our high school's latest football victory-- which of course, he was one of the super-stars-- I learned the depth of his affections for me. The entire high school (so it seemed) was out a road party... yes, I said road party-- that would be a party, complete with bonfire, on a road... and just about the time I was leaving with my friends, waiting for them beside their car, Tony comes strolling up, full of his football greatness and ready to score again. He somewhat arrogantly leaned against the car, arms across his chest, looked me in the eye-- I think (it was dark)-- and blurted out:<br />
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"Hey. You know, you're hot."<br />
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The End.<br />
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PS. And... our first date was to McDonald's. Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-61015248204867523032011-02-07T08:36:00.000-05:002011-02-07T08:36:54.617-05:00Make Mine a Monday: Happy Birthday Wyatt!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9trS5bmaAHOj-_76rwNsScarrOBJBUmIXjZmLHwq8taPhRbyLkumKcqHkPV2EkIr5W-TwEB4spcdMURJSVWaNmIyWhJ8WX_YfZeFO-_okIJS6gpfhUpqpKduyK0WbacYImeIEwIUesPI/s1600/IMG_3956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9trS5bmaAHOj-_76rwNsScarrOBJBUmIXjZmLHwq8taPhRbyLkumKcqHkPV2EkIr5W-TwEB4spcdMURJSVWaNmIyWhJ8WX_YfZeFO-_okIJS6gpfhUpqpKduyK0WbacYImeIEwIUesPI/s320/IMG_3956.JPG" width="320" /></a>Twelve years ago today, I woke to sharp pains in my very pregnant belly. Within 10 minutes of the first contraction, I had two more contractions and my water broke all over our bed. I shook Tony awake-- no small feat-- and with much fearful excitement, explained the situation. He stared at me sorta confused, then asked,<br />
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"Are you sure you didn't just pee yourself?"<br />
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It reminds me of a recent country song's main chorus line... hmmm, how does it go? Oh yeah, "Stupid Boy".<br />
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Happy 12th Birthday, Wyatt!!!! We LOVE YOU!!!Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-15739204557376221082011-02-05T18:26:00.000-05:002011-02-05T18:26:42.063-05:00Freedom is in the eyes<div class="MsoNormal" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDf4_VyiPtoRWEL5xk0gvsMphwqQfICwuLq0R9SiEZDyeYXewmUE_5KjnFxDv9vU07hC1eR4cq4dMM5YBimVcQjmMpYuQzJRS0LQlNHCQ5b6Eu0EKhUGytho20HwPCEOT1it09F3rH_-c/s1600/IMG_4240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDf4_VyiPtoRWEL5xk0gvsMphwqQfICwuLq0R9SiEZDyeYXewmUE_5KjnFxDv9vU07hC1eR4cq4dMM5YBimVcQjmMpYuQzJRS0LQlNHCQ5b6Eu0EKhUGytho20HwPCEOT1it09F3rH_-c/s200/IMG_4240.JPG" width="150" /></a>I know very little of the similarities and differences between Egypt and Ethiopia—political, social, economic or otherwise.<span> </span>I understand a scant history of Ethiopia’s political system and nothing of Egypt’s—other than the ancient days of pyramids and pharaohs.<span> </span>But, I recognize the ‘look’.<span> </span>An oppressed place filled with an oppressed people, not free to make their own way.<span> </span>I brought that ‘look’ home with me in the eyes of my Ethiopian children.<span> </span>I’ve lived the past year and a half working to erase the chicanery of a government which leaves it’s people staring through hopeless eyes, destined to live out some level of victimization.<span> </span>It makes me cussing angry.</div> <style>
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</style> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The images of Egypt remind me of a place I once visited.<span> </span>Not the mobs of people throwing rocks, hanging off tanks or being run through by government vehicles—well, maybe the last one is similar, as far as chaotic traffic goes.<span> </span>It’s the streets.<span> </span>Dirty, confused, seemingly random.<span> </span>It’s the buildings.<span> </span>Either crumbling, concrete or dated to the ‘70’s with wires strung haphazardly, leaving me to wonder of the percentage of electrical accidents per year.<span> </span>It’s the age of the people.<span> </span>Young.<span> </span>Where are the elderly-- those with the wisdom to impart to the younger generations, guiding them in the way they should go?<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, in Egypt, people refuse to be oppressed by a corrupt government any longer.<span> </span>They know of freedom; it bubbles to the surface despite all efforts against it.<span> </span>However, I wonder, how will they get there?<span> </span>All this talk of revolution, but what about reform?<span> </span>What is the plan?<span> </span>Who holds the keys to securing a system of government which bends to the will of the people, rather than the people bending to the will of the government?<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Why do I care so much?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Barely two countries to the south is the land I visited.<span> </span>A land so filled with potential, fruitfulness and beautiful people.<span> </span>And I walked out of that land with two of its children because somehow the richness of the land isn’t fully available to it’s own citizens to flourish and prosper.<span> </span>Yes, Ethiopia has suffered drought and disease.<span> </span>But, what of the government, which holds its people by marionette strings, manipulating their moves, under the guise of compassion and benevolence, not allowing them to rise up from such hardships as free individuals collectively seeking a better way? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While in Ethiopia, our group happened to cross paths with the ET president.<span> </span>He was leaving the same restaurant we were about to enter.<span> </span>It was almost bizarre; one of our guides said, “Oh look, that’s our president.”<span> </span>Whose president? I questioned.<span> </span>The president of your company?<span> </span>The president of this region?<span> </span>Surely not the president of the country!<span> </span>“Yes.<span> </span>That’s the one.”<span> </span>He was leaving the restaurant, surrounded by men in suits, smiling happily at us and waving.<span> </span>He had a gentle face.<span> </span>A paternal smile.<span> </span>And I wondered,<span> </span>‘Do you see us with your children?<span> </span>Do you understand what is happening here?<span> </span>We’re not tourists, you know.’<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“In a state-run society the government promises you security.<span> </span>But it's a false promise predicated on the idea that the opposite of security is risk.<span> </span>Nothing could be further from the truth.<span> </span>The opposite of security is insecurity, and the only way to overcome insecurity is to take risks.<span> </span>The gentle government that promises to hold your hand as you cross the street refuses to let go on the other side.”<span> </span>~Theodore Forstmann</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Earlier this week, my son told me of the Chinese working the diggers in Ethiopia and how they didn’t look out for the children.<span> </span>“They should’ve looked out for us!” he lamented.<span> </span>“Well Buddy, that’s not what they are there to do.<span> </span>The Chinese are there to build roads.”<span> </span>It was a feeble excuse.<span> </span>What was I going to say-- Well, how could they possibly be looking out for you?<span> </span>Didn’t you notice how MANY of you there are just running freely in the streets?<span> </span>I saw the diggers, holes and road crews intersecting freely with the people.<span> </span>There were no barricades or safety measures taken that I can remember.<span> </span>“They just should have watched out.<span> </span>One boy was killed”, he continued.<span> </span>My breath caught.<span> </span>Just add it to many frozen moments these past 18 months of my chest tightening and head spinning with the grimness of his life before us.<span> </span>There isn’t even hand holding in Ethiopia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I want Egyptians to succeed because I want Ethiopians to succeed.<span> </span>Those vacant, hopeless, victimized eyes aren’t fitting of a people with such splendid stature. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-51903171548249691022011-01-31T07:24:00.000-05:002011-01-31T07:24:03.928-05:00Make Mine a Monday<a href="http://www.lazygamer.net/wp-content/uploads/ReviewedLEGOIndianaJonesXbox360_10E24/legodrjones_thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="http://www.lazygamer.net/wp-content/uploads/ReviewedLEGOIndianaJonesXbox360_10E24/legodrjones_thumb.jpg" width="200" /></a>While preparing dinner one evening to the constant drone of the Indiana Jones theme song interrupted with Lego characters in combat, my ears suddenly tuned into the voice of my daughter lamenting to her brother Sam:<br />
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"Sam, I'm tired of this wench. I don't want it anymore. How do I get rid of the wench?"<br />
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So remember.... no matter how horrible you think your Monday is, at least you don't have to get rid of your wench!<br />
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Happy Monday everyone!<br />
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Grace and Peace,<br />
ShariTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-3317048034220697942011-01-28T16:47:00.000-05:002011-01-28T16:47:08.508-05:00Creating Outliers<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.castlibrary.com/audio-book-images/000/000/011/outliers-story-success-unabridged/original/outliers-story-success-unabridged.jpg?1292701807" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.castlibrary.com/audio-book-images/000/000/011/outliers-story-success-unabridged/original/outliers-story-success-unabridged.jpg?1292701807" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt;">A couple weeks ago I read <u>Outliers—The Story of Success</u>, by Malcolm Gladwell.<span> </span>Tony picked it up over the Christmas break out of curiosity.<span> </span>He’s had several of Gladwell’s books recommended to him, <u>Outliers</u>, being the most widely mentioned.<span> </span>Soon into the first chapter, I was receiving my own read-aloud time by my husband.<span> </span>“Honey, you’ve gotta read this book.<span> </span>It’s so true.<span> </span>You’d like it”.<span> </span>Then, dear Love, I thought; STOP READING IT TO ME!<span> </span>He did.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>Each chapter contains stories of successful people—some as famous as Bill Gates, and some not quite so well known but happily successful, none-the-less.<span> </span>He breaks down their lives, looking at the historical, cultural, social-economic and educational context in which these people were fortunate enough to be born.<span> </span>He shows that it is no accident that NFL Hockey players most overwhelmingly are born in the first three months of the year, Jewish immigrants born in the 1930’s were destined to be successful lawyers and doctors, and Southern Chinese students will always excel in math because they have been given a historical legacy of farming rice paddies.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>His thesis is that our way of viewing success is horribly flawed, and if only we could understand all the arbitrary decisions, lucky breaks and cultural or socio-economic advantages that outliers (those who seem to break the mold and rise above the status-quo) are given, then we could create a world full of outliers—people who recognize the gift they’ve been given and have the strength and presence of mind to seize the opportunity—rather than a world that has settled for a few “greats”, assuming they only reached the top because they are exceptionally gifted or genius.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>As I read Outliers for myself—NOT through my husband’s oratories—I naturally began replaying our own family’s decisions through the years.<span> </span>The choices we’ve made, the social, economic & historical context in which we were raised and how all those minute seemingly insignificant details are, in their own way, gifts and opportunities.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>Most of my thoughts traveled to that which happened within my own family; seemingly “random” acts, or single decisions made with what information we had at the time, but had they not happened there would be no Team Dragovich in all our greater glory.<span> </span>But, there is one larger cultural development that I recognize as having profoundly impacted our family—the tremendous rise in Korean adoption at just the right time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>In the 1980’s I was happily growing in my farming community, living quite sheltered from the rest of the world.<span> </span>Nothing exciting or out of the ordinary happened in Mt. Olive, until the high school English teacher and his wife—who happened to be members of my family’s church—adopted a little girl from South Korea.<span> </span>A few years later, they brought home a son from the same country.<span> </span>This was both exciting <i>and </i></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">out of the ordinary.<span> </span>It was all I could do to keep from twisting my head from my family’s pew towards the back to their family’s pew just to gawk a little at this new and out of the ordinary occurrence—adoption from a foreign country!<span> </span>I pondered during the sermon; maybe I could adopt some children from a foreign country some day when I grow up… hmmm.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>A very quick Google search revealed the exact sort of historically significant trend to which Gladwell would have pointed in his book.<span> </span>After the Korean War in 1953, adoptions from South Korea rose significantly, filling orphanages with children orphaned from the war or those whose fathers were Western soldiers.<span> </span>This adoption trend continued to rise steadily, spiking upwards around the late 1980’s due to the legalization of abortion, increased use of contraceptives, and changes in the social welfare program combined to create a shortage of children for adoption domestically.<span> </span>I just happened to be an impressionable young girl in the mid-1980’s at the exact time South Korean adoptions were at their peak, reaching all the way into our little Mid-western town, exposing me to the wonder of international adoption.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>I wonder what I will be writing 20 and 30 years from now, when my children are all grown and living out their expressed purposes, adding to the significance of Korean adoptions.<span> </span>All five are future Outliers.<span> </span>And I suspect it is part of their purpose to create more.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span>Grace & Peace,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span>Shari</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span></span></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-78195785774762369652011-01-10T11:29:00.002-05:002011-01-10T11:29:48.241-05:00Let it Snow<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">I’m watching the snow fall for the third time this winter as I attempt yet again at regularly scheduled blogging.<span> </span>Maybe I have been transported to a northern state in my sleep— perhaps back to Maryland, or even somewhere I have not lived yet, but romanticize about… maybe Portland, Maine.<span> </span>I wish I could say I am enjoying the white fluffy view.<span> </span>I am not.<span> </span>Last week I began running in the morning—just a 25 minute “wake me up and jostle the soul side of me” run.<span> </span>It has been wonderful.<span> </span>But I’m not going to risk slipping in the snow this morning for 25 minutes of fresh air…. So I guess my children will have to suffer with coffee-cleared only mommy, as if that is such a new reality for them.<span> </span>Hmmm—maybe romanticizing about Portland, Maine isn’t my answer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>Too much time has elapsed to try and update the life of Team Dragovich from the last post to this one.<span> </span>I am left with only my memories of the 2010 holiday season and the impressions and ponderings left within me, compared to last year.<span> </span>Probably the most prominent recognition I have of this holiday season is of normalcy.<span> </span>I can’t remember the last time we’ve spent Christmas without some eminent life change either having just happened, about to happen or in the midst of happening—preparing for a move, recovering from a move, transitioning from student to resident, resident to professional, professional to administrator.<span> </span>Deployment, adoption, post-deployment, post- adoption—endless swaying in the seas of transition.<span> </span>This year was marked by nothing.<span> </span>And that is exactly how it has distinguished itself in my mind.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span>JB and Risa ate up every Advent and Christmas tradition with grand eagerness and excitement, constantly reminding me of how it was “last year”.<span> </span>It was as if I could see the roots growing from their feet, imbedding themselves more firmly into the garden of our family, securing themselves in our soil and enlivening their souls as they experienced traditions with which they now had familiarity and could appreciate.<span> </span>Security.<span> </span>Contentment.<span> </span>An evenness of emotions pulsed through me.<span> </span>Oh Joy!<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">What struck even deeper, was an amazement that a year and a half which had seemed so traumatic and often tragic to me, somehow produced in them love, security and belonging.<span> </span>How is this?<span> </span>When I look back on the short time JB and Risa have been home, I still can barely bring the depth of my experience to<span> </span>surface.<span> </span>Like when Wyatt wants to reminisce on the months of Tony’s deployment or ask endless questions about Iraq, Tony’s experiences, our fears, traumas (my grandfather’s unexpected death, for example, or seeing pictures of JB and Risa for the first time, not together but over thousands of miles between us) and just remembering daily life—there is a point at which the veil is let down and we can go no further.<span> </span>The capacity to surface and unwrap such powerful emotions is not there yet.<span> </span>Our adoption carries the same level of emotional sacredness for me.<span> </span>And yet, this Christmas and New Year were testaments to God’s personal love for our family, His unwavering commitment in spite of my soul’s seemingly endless struggle against depression and the truth of His Word lived out in us:<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">“And we know that in ALL THINGS God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose.”<span> </span>Romans 8:28</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">“Trust in the Lord with ALL your heart, and lean not on your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”<span> </span>Proverbs 3:5-6</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD.<span> </span>As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to the it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">So is my Word that goes out from my mouth:<span> </span>It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.”<span> </span>Isaiah 55:8-12</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Maybe the snow isn’t so bad after all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Grace and Peace,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;">Shari</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><span> </span></span></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-74192439817437496322010-10-01T06:29:00.005-04:002010-10-01T08:02:38.649-04:00Turning Point<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH43YGWJ8ofoGXSBRO8KY0W0h92Gkwe9I4HOwQSFrIOGwVv2Jf6YlxLcqAQHYAEWZ3d5aF9QsC-uRb6v4_M2S5w8nwMK6tdUtp_fpf23gjOCOMs-I3nIjhxT-aW81A6yYtl-EWNMaFYRU/s1600/IMG_4241.JPG"><br /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVKWcMeHceKyxp-K2JRl8ElXLuefmyi3KzteuWO5oUteyPNRlHvuShyphenhyphenXlODlABD0Y3Uc8rE-4PGs0YrdamPFBUqQjjH_if_xARaVagQKJ705_N32Njy5R7mIzGK88vBxrEETlcnfbNUM/s1600/March+Update+Photo+1+Selami+and+Biruk+Dragovich.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVKWcMeHceKyxp-K2JRl8ElXLuefmyi3KzteuWO5oUteyPNRlHvuShyphenhyphenXlODlABD0Y3Uc8rE-4PGs0YrdamPFBUqQjjH_if_xARaVagQKJ705_N32Njy5R7mIzGK88vBxrEETlcnfbNUM/s320/March+Update+Photo+1+Selami+and+Biruk+Dragovich.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523036517444413378" border="0" /></a>JB and Risa in Ethiopia-- March 2009<br /><br /></div>As I was writing in my journal this morning, I had a little bit of an "ah-ha" moment. Or maybe I should say, God, in His grace, pointed out a little-- but huge-- detail to me. I was lamenting about all that I wanted to do and how little time there is to do it in-- cry me a river, right?? Some things on my list:<br /><br />*Implement writing/literature co-op for homeschool group<br />*go on more neat field trips with my kids and get on with organizing a field trip or two for our group<br />*decorate my home for fall-- indoors and out<br />*go through our checkbooks with a fine tooth comb and figure out how we managed to spend so much in the past couple of months (this job seems to always be pushed to the bottom of the stack)<br />*write editorial letters in support of our district's candidate for Congress<br />*start a book club (for adults... not kids)<br />*read without falling asleep at night<br />*create a better plan of action for my older boys' personal studies (getting them more involved and responsible) and to get us moving through history/geography quicker<br />*make sure I'm tracking my mileage well for my next race (Dec. 5th-- Sacramento Marathon)<br />*look into the small group from our church that actually meets right here in our neighborhood-- which is wonderful, since we seem to be far away from everything<br />*start blogging again<br /><br />..... and more.<br /><br />But here's the thing. As I'm writing all this down, just trying to get it out of my head and into God's hands for HIM to organize, prioritize and hand what matters back to me; this crazy thought came to me. Isn't it sooooo wonderful to have such silly, unimportant (in the grand scheme of things) matters to "worry" about?<br /><br />You think I have lost my mind. You're right. But here is the point. A year ago at this time, I couldn't even fathom such things. All I could journal about was the pain I felt over whether I would ever be able to bond with my newest children-- Joshua Biruk and Rebekah Selame. Four months ago, it was really still the same-- though maybe in smaller spurts and with a little more reprieve in between. For the past year and several months, I have lived in emotional, mental limbo. Swinging from absolute conviction that adopting JB and Risa was the exact thing our family was meant to do-- to complete throat tightening anxiety that we had just made the greatest un-doable mistake ever.<br /><br />Are you uncomfortable reading this? It makes me squirm a little to write it. But, what I hope you see is God's goodness, mercy and absolute grace-- which is so much greater and higher than our thoughts, emotions or own "precious" will. His love does not conform to the ideas of the world. In fact, it smacks the wisdom of the world in the face. Crazy-- the Bible really IS right!!! He will cause ALL things to work for the good of those who love Him and call on His name! (Romans 8:28); I [have] seen the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living (Ps. 27:13-14); It is not I who lives, but Christ who lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by FAITH in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing!" (Gal. 2:20-21).<br /><br />July 7th was our "Gotcha Day" 1 year anniversary. It seems that every day since then, joy has been restored to me. I LOVE being able to see vibrant color again and be joked out of a bad mood by my Superman :). I love being able to watch ALL my children in their antics and notice their individual personalities again, be more level headed when they have done wrong and not wonder every minute if they will ever "come out of it"-- whatever "it" is. Mostly, I love that I am able to worry about things that don't matter!! Crazy... I know.<br /><br />But, here's the thing. We should ALL be so thankful and joyful to have such simple things to occupy our minds. For God has done great things in our hearts and in our lives. And He's only just begun.<br /><br />Grace and Peace,<br />Shari<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx3QUYYN3N-YhM2uiv9wV7qWLB4ytsgOpJi4Ern4_Gz86cdNlgx4Hj6uOMJjTA8nli72OWaoXhqtz9VTZvLeMX3w2ws51X411vq1lPqC-cw0oZsNSDmXOF9j9o5tzHp9akegQiUxUg5c/s1600/IMG_4261.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnx3QUYYN3N-YhM2uiv9wV7qWLB4ytsgOpJi4Ern4_Gz86cdNlgx4Hj6uOMJjTA8nli72OWaoXhqtz9VTZvLeMX3w2ws51X411vq1lPqC-cw0oZsNSDmXOF9j9o5tzHp9akegQiUxUg5c/s320/IMG_4261.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523036534767737618" border="0" /></a>JB and Aunt Emily last Saturday (25th) at her wedding (JB & Sam were ring bearers)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH43YGWJ8ofoGXSBRO8KY0W0h92Gkwe9I4HOwQSFrIOGwVv2Jf6YlxLcqAQHYAEWZ3d5aF9QsC-uRb6v4_M2S5w8nwMK6tdUtp_fpf23gjOCOMs-I3nIjhxT-aW81A6yYtl-EWNMaFYRU/s1600/IMG_4241.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH43YGWJ8ofoGXSBRO8KY0W0h92Gkwe9I4HOwQSFrIOGwVv2Jf6YlxLcqAQHYAEWZ3d5aF9QsC-uRb6v4_M2S5w8nwMK6tdUtp_fpf23gjOCOMs-I3nIjhxT-aW81A6yYtl-EWNMaFYRU/s320/IMG_4241.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523046144096876738" border="0" /></a>Auntie Em's best fan club ever<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbv6trLmi0AzYtBTGmBGRbPuMxUX_rFzCBTyM6Cy4ZBgns53FMEx4hLZ-bt-pzs-xUrGaIfu0imH0u4zu6MIwRP5NeTXF1cyQEVf61O7Lo0hx1UbJtY5GRasJF-wOkIih0O6wxH6oggLk/s1600/IMG_4209.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbv6trLmi0AzYtBTGmBGRbPuMxUX_rFzCBTyM6Cy4ZBgns53FMEx4hLZ-bt-pzs-xUrGaIfu0imH0u4zu6MIwRP5NeTXF1cyQEVf61O7Lo0hx1UbJtY5GRasJF-wOkIih0O6wxH6oggLk/s320/IMG_4209.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523036528343624370" border="0" /></a>Daddy and Risa at Aunt Em's rehersal dinner<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZebfIv6wYiwED6NSWvd7m_voWfRqkC-sQ5gHTgshkfdS7JbBZe9byadw3DO4Cji21bFqzREy2kW-m1ck573gxNziGMm1Ti7X_8e2OU22TsOrCEY-9IYfAXqkDlyEkDgsOdDEYwPR_KDQ/s1600/IMG_4207.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZebfIv6wYiwED6NSWvd7m_voWfRqkC-sQ5gHTgshkfdS7JbBZe9byadw3DO4Cji21bFqzREy2kW-m1ck573gxNziGMm1Ti7X_8e2OU22TsOrCEY-9IYfAXqkDlyEkDgsOdDEYwPR_KDQ/s320/IMG_4207.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523036526639294306" border="0" /></a>Power to the Team Dragovich women!!<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zHVUYwI4oQwTnOVq8_4PhfTuHSZLNak_Be5xnj9oqS2V0LwxcXFKH-iCD6Fahz676pNkPnRyB0ngzAMY9v5gNvRGZXa3OD8pXRWhonHjJDZ1B9Vkb1VCEqpJIsCmx2VxMEXWLRSWf5w/s1600/IMG_4215.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7zHVUYwI4oQwTnOVq8_4PhfTuHSZLNak_Be5xnj9oqS2V0LwxcXFKH-iCD6Fahz676pNkPnRyB0ngzAMY9v5gNvRGZXa3OD8pXRWhonHjJDZ1B9Vkb1VCEqpJIsCmx2VxMEXWLRSWf5w/s320/IMG_4215.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523036531605327314" border="0" /></a>For you are a people holy to the Lord your God. Out of all the peoples on the face of the earth, the Lord has chosen you as His treasured possession (Deut. 14:2)..."Bring my sons from afar and my daughters from the ends of the earth-- everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made." (Isa. 43:6-7)<br /></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-69998619740707661522010-04-24T14:05:00.004-04:002010-04-24T14:18:34.712-04:00Obviously I need to blog moreOkay... I had to leave to do soccer before I was done giving labels to all the pictures. So... the rest of the pictures in the post before this one are about:<br /><br />squirrel rescue in March/April. This is Lucky. His brother-- Unlucky-- is buried in my rose garden... may he rest in peace.<br /><br />Pinewood Derby and Klondike racing for cub/boy scouts in Feb/March. All 3 of my cubs made it to district with their cars.... can you believe that??!!<br /><br />Getting the side of the house ready for our new boat-- rocks, shovels, kids, wheelbarrows<br /><br />Airsoft wars with friends for Wyatt's birthday (goggle pictures)<br /><br />Bowling for Valentine's Day.<br /><br />2010 events which are not captured in pictures: <br /><br />Boating on Lake Jordan in our new boat for Easter-- yes, the kids DID get in the water and even tubed!!! I was just dumb and left the camera in the car.<br /><br />Our first Chuck E. Cheeses adventure for a friend's birthday party-- that was too stressful to fathom taking pictures.<br /><br />Spring soccer... who knows why I don't have pictures of this.<br /><br />Risa going from 2 to almost 6 in 9 months. It is a long story, and one that I will not tell all of here. I guess the pictures of this can be found in the posts for the last nine months! Needless to say, we are in the process of having her birth certificate changed to more closely match what we THINK is her true age-- giving her as much lee-way as possible.... she lost her two front teeth at Christmas... her bone age is many months over 6 years.. Crazy. So.... maybe it hasn't been THAT unintentional that I haven't blogged much. I've had a lot to process-- as well as a LOT of life to live!!!! <br /><br />Very full :)<br /><br />Grace and Peace,<br />ShariTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-22833196448077490792010-04-24T08:00:00.009-04:002011-02-05T10:36:21.658-05:00The Quarterly Update in pictures<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBrZ7TArfc85Ayqy_e6whsE8vYyhczzcUj38QJ6mm75Pr_BHGE5DZrs6m1c2bQbrJhz_rs3V6KsuplPUoeGUrtdYxwta_DDiWukRPQ8OUVzAG-HDrPPOPY1kvztGxBAwxc-QmdDiLcms/s1600/IMG_3975.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBrZ7TArfc85Ayqy_e6whsE8vYyhczzcUj38QJ6mm75Pr_BHGE5DZrs6m1c2bQbrJhz_rs3V6KsuplPUoeGUrtdYxwta_DDiWukRPQ8OUVzAG-HDrPPOPY1kvztGxBAwxc-QmdDiLcms/s320/IMG_3975.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463685958038399650" border="0"></a>Risa at Team Dragovich's FIRST camporee with the Boy Scouts. Yes... that is right, we camped with ALL 5 kids at the beginning of the month. (April)<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBrZ7TArfc85Ayqy_e6whsE8vYyhczzcUj38QJ6mm75Pr_BHGE5DZrs6m1c2bQbrJhz_rs3V6KsuplPUoeGUrtdYxwta_DDiWukRPQ8OUVzAG-HDrPPOPY1kvztGxBAwxc-QmdDiLcms/s1600/IMG_3975.JPG">Yeah... I know. I am a lame blogger. I'm a much better facebook-er. Anyway. I won't even attempt to describe all that has happened in our family over the past 4 months. I'll just give you the scoop in pictures. Happy Spring to you all!!!!</a> The pictures are in "reverse chronological order". I posted them wrong and don't have time to make them go in chronological order. :)<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOK0Bbzxl2is7BhtLXCFbiQQC3gGknU7nyE4bCmwkhrKGDduxHPyDJI2OQjzNDaL2Dhz-PYvjVmCQatdIlX10H3Ldk7lktGNzZO3spHhKmRPY3vOLlDvJuVoBY9L2P3L-3ibqUnV-KUEk/s1600/IMG_3967.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOK0Bbzxl2is7BhtLXCFbiQQC3gGknU7nyE4bCmwkhrKGDduxHPyDJI2OQjzNDaL2Dhz-PYvjVmCQatdIlX10H3Ldk7lktGNzZO3spHhKmRPY3vOLlDvJuVoBY9L2P3L-3ibqUnV-KUEk/s320/IMG_3967.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463685948165538690" border="0"></a>Handsome boys in their Scouting uniforms!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeZki8H-d9JTaHkWKFLsnZSsBlBudrPiGWPc4zTzvv6o446v0YYIrdi3P2fkC8LmvblUx48pXjr6fedA7imkam1sO6iNOjtoUQAbmBT2go_aQyR2EMzLG33gqOn26aElBiPosb93LwaA/s1600/IMG_3958.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqeZki8H-d9JTaHkWKFLsnZSsBlBudrPiGWPc4zTzvv6o446v0YYIrdi3P2fkC8LmvblUx48pXjr6fedA7imkam1sO6iNOjtoUQAbmBT2go_aQyR2EMzLG33gqOn26aElBiPosb93LwaA/s320/IMG_3958.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463685945398626946" border="0"></a>Building tunnels at VA Beach<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyEl_cpnC3ytEtYXd0Gq6K4DqARyOgZEsLSvdaZRwyT5mK4T-6kUEnFFHt1I6ri6prZjnwtBJzk3uieSrjwJfPBWpndgBMX0XAq9kHBCUujKYe6vzF95abJ4W1hn9Q3t0AqDFhsN8IKhI/s1600/IMG_3947.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyEl_cpnC3ytEtYXd0Gq6K4DqARyOgZEsLSvdaZRwyT5mK4T-6kUEnFFHt1I6ri6prZjnwtBJzk3uieSrjwJfPBWpndgBMX0XAq9kHBCUujKYe6vzF95abJ4W1hn9Q3t0AqDFhsN8IKhI/s320/IMG_3947.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463685938974732178" border="0"></a>Serious construction work in progress<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4Si-c_eYNCQgoV_177uGo7b2NuPLOdGSMKSfRYHGBNF7O9RmZrBitdNdxPWUiQBkXOv_Sx5TF2N6dMsi7ef2BSTkAVLZOg-Er2vYSe05077HXOMeD6vNS_bB3XIDEoATygzam3jKJ-E/s1600/IMG_3945.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw4Si-c_eYNCQgoV_177uGo7b2NuPLOdGSMKSfRYHGBNF7O9RmZrBitdNdxPWUiQBkXOv_Sx5TF2N6dMsi7ef2BSTkAVLZOg-Er2vYSe05077HXOMeD6vNS_bB3XIDEoATygzam3jKJ-E/s320/IMG_3945.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463684495602187970" border="0"></a>Mommy and her fan club after running the VA Beach Marathon-- March 21, 2010<br />I won my age division and came in 20th woman overall... it was all because of my excellent cheer team!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5p9iUnHfKRQf0D-u2YjNm_QlrMkAdeOjQaQaIxu7o6z43MdLVE78llM6WPjn0PpLhhoJtbIqAKF3zrLnnH605fww_D-RlpEcz-UblDdTy22AlZl3orfeaJKa9vJv-Ezk7AORjunkkao/s1600/IMG_3940.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5p9iUnHfKRQf0D-u2YjNm_QlrMkAdeOjQaQaIxu7o6z43MdLVE78llM6WPjn0PpLhhoJtbIqAKF3zrLnnH605fww_D-RlpEcz-UblDdTy22AlZl3orfeaJKa9vJv-Ezk7AORjunkkao/s320/IMG_3940.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463684484859177890" border="0"></a>Here I come at mile 24-- in the pink-- look at my crowd clapping me to the finish line!<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSutlmmDIkSHzmHZ2G92le-3FFElEND5bA6ieGeDGUs-qq7TDN8_uNX1UVkYyUXXAZ-YlJYoi_ClL-6TeINh0WkhcdWtpbK1BFpuv0ccgbRsiro7Nm-RZ0W_JfKbmbo1NOgOwN2P8F1dU/s1600/IMG_3935.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSutlmmDIkSHzmHZ2G92le-3FFElEND5bA6ieGeDGUs-qq7TDN8_uNX1UVkYyUXXAZ-YlJYoi_ClL-6TeINh0WkhcdWtpbK1BFpuv0ccgbRsiro7Nm-RZ0W_JfKbmbo1NOgOwN2P8F1dU/s320/IMG_3935.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463684482950368258" border="0"></a>This is what they do in between seeing me race<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuwL_VlNyyYABVU3t_HRWjvQkMVGYTIlvxfy48BNTLPtlOcMnAY1jId9cfpU6tIPkEe7ZuPT0r7VwiOwjiKw_oZndBh5FOYgchhPRtBk0YXc3zcU-Jk04Lwrft1kHuW5BDPPZBwLfTxo/s1600/IMG_3905.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDuwL_VlNyyYABVU3t_HRWjvQkMVGYTIlvxfy48BNTLPtlOcMnAY1jId9cfpU6tIPkEe7ZuPT0r7VwiOwjiKw_oZndBh5FOYgchhPRtBk0YXc3zcU-Jk04Lwrft1kHuW5BDPPZBwLfTxo/s320/IMG_3905.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463684477141972658" border="0"></a>Getting ready to watch Mommy run 26.2 miles :)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgM9LAmn0zmXGSgo4mV7Y3llms0Q0ORHLnhGkbCfu5edHDX-fiUIxmxP9zqO7oiGvac5hk0Tf9w0O046mwxrAOMgLgbMva5hYcNYYHHLkjEj6sySKZYTrjRnEL25MR_W_wK5a8yp0tDE/s1600/IMG_3907.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgM9LAmn0zmXGSgo4mV7Y3llms0Q0ORHLnhGkbCfu5edHDX-fiUIxmxP9zqO7oiGvac5hk0Tf9w0O046mwxrAOMgLgbMva5hYcNYYHHLkjEj6sySKZYTrjRnEL25MR_W_wK5a8yp0tDE/s320/IMG_3907.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463684467502391762" border="0"></a>Breakfast is a highlight of every marathon<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUeGOsPwJ6e_b3AbcE3DYcTAO2iDzKKxGsMRjJypIBiCo_94ihA4YD-L2It8WZ3Ja5ph3Vz9I0JUTkaq9TrlVXHroh-Vzp_D2f5b1eog4tfDHdw2shfSoxOpegrzYtSCOnBPDr-FEFx94/s1600/IMG_3901.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUeGOsPwJ6e_b3AbcE3DYcTAO2iDzKKxGsMRjJypIBiCo_94ihA4YD-L2It8WZ3Ja5ph3Vz9I0JUTkaq9TrlVXHroh-Vzp_D2f5b1eog4tfDHdw2shfSoxOpegrzYtSCOnBPDr-FEFx94/s320/IMG_3901.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463682662315071058" border="0"></a>Wyatt and Isaac raced in the "Final Mile" the day before my marathon.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBVA481prfOAxf8_Zl1um6jI1lFwB_OccAyaVLXPDAFrVuGEaB4_RW-9t7ITgpFhjrnjll9uS7DWXcWjitFrET4OQpmxb8Krj9xDgBX2f_MgHTfniGaXp-dDNo6R32Dx09drNJ6lgc1o/s1600/IMG_3893.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXBVA481prfOAxf8_Zl1um6jI1lFwB_OccAyaVLXPDAFrVuGEaB4_RW-9t7ITgpFhjrnjll9uS7DWXcWjitFrET4OQpmxb8Krj9xDgBX2f_MgHTfniGaXp-dDNo6R32Dx09drNJ6lgc1o/s320/IMG_3893.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463682653736774898" border="0"></a>Wyatt and Isaac waiting for their corral to race-- nervous boys :)<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypKo4ZhlF-q1HtGaJKXU1cXlhsnmit4ttMkPsYtjwOppPnD7GEn395jbOCmoD0umO73i7OOFJA2X4vJru6ZRqVJ0mR89Mt7lGefQRxtNxTOSQW5MJwKY5-adxbCrpsi9dbDQhyg3JX3Y/s1600/IMG_3895.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjypKo4ZhlF-q1HtGaJKXU1cXlhsnmit4ttMkPsYtjwOppPnD7GEn395jbOCmoD0umO73i7OOFJA2X4vJru6ZRqVJ0mR89Mt7lGefQRxtNxTOSQW5MJwKY5-adxbCrpsi9dbDQhyg3JX3Y/s320/IMG_3895.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463682639719612338" border="0"></a>They have the best fan club, too!!<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLHRv6KzvrbvhROKdXP3UvaoAlJNJQZgcZJKW4PJRCVW-mfMsRakOl05LOq5tmLypyFbSZVtYre6zqm4hyWMrlMEXI81k-tfNRhOzvNcyjvJk9qo2w3JTJpBkNi466KhXlWG9vNLvqxo/s1600/IMG_3890.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDLHRv6KzvrbvhROKdXP3UvaoAlJNJQZgcZJKW4PJRCVW-mfMsRakOl05LOq5tmLypyFbSZVtYre6zqm4hyWMrlMEXI81k-tfNRhOzvNcyjvJk9qo2w3JTJpBkNi466KhXlWG9vNLvqxo/s320/IMG_3890.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463682632494254626" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9bIZopcAuo7maij4lnoAAHMl63naAJXOU4_t_UrvnXHA6qzanALT_L2-rZ_dc9Wv0wKp0yPllse-F0sC49mzAffh1SzBaW87hAlt9y2nMWkoUcT8_1zn-RzbM2sPV0c3E7uh-1N_KeY/s1600/IMG_3883.JPG"><img style="display: block; 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margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgW8j0t5r5zlzpVtqAaxuvk8p7qitfniLFLZrooMEODRc-TYTuW_2wDvMJWmlx8iWGdqK4g4ExiFn5IRix_-aQK415rDeejz6oD_1w77F0nKsgkpPytvq2DMkuUIrARzB1j9YUrqSkdlM/s320/IMG_3781.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463676101668473586" border="0"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yng5UN9GzMteHzNTuB2htLrnYB3hUnNUtNCuf7WpVlT3oBjCvKudaguHlaptDuqT_F4zeUhuCM1Ur1uDtIve4Xknx87jvruJfZexPs_7Q2UJX5Wk_rvLy4BIGLhsE1WjWZKkYNyTyCo/s1600/IMG_3782.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3yng5UN9GzMteHzNTuB2htLrnYB3hUnNUtNCuf7WpVlT3oBjCvKudaguHlaptDuqT_F4zeUhuCM1Ur1uDtIve4Xknx87jvruJfZexPs_7Q2UJX5Wk_rvLy4BIGLhsE1WjWZKkYNyTyCo/s320/IMG_3782.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463676097036665170" border="0"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-32267413511554723362010-01-27T14:16:00.002-05:002010-01-27T14:31:28.656-05:00If you ever wonder why I run...Small Groups January Highlight VideoYou may wonder what could poses me to wake up at absurd hours of the morning, run in extreme weather conditions, subject my body to "physical torture" (as my boys would say) and spend hours at a time on my feet. This video put together by my church meant to highlight some of the small groups in our church, is your answer.<br /><br />I realized that when I gave my testimony (which was the first one-- duh), I used the word "rough" to describe our adoption-- in an indirect way. "Miraculous" is what adoption truly is. "Rough" is just part of the miracle. I would never go back. I would never give up the rough and miss out on the miraculous. And as long as my feet will carry me, I will never stop running-- for it truly is God's gift to me. He chose running as His glorious way to "run" me through the rough places into His Miracle. Into His arms.<br /><br />Grace and Peace,<br />Shari<br /><div xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"><p><object height="350" width="425"><param value="http://youtube.com/v/gXY5K34qp-Y" name="movie"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://youtube.com/v/gXY5K34qp-Y" height="350" width="425"></embed></object></p></div>Team Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6480709869348297146.post-37196738976661861652010-01-15T20:33:00.004-05:002010-01-15T21:34:43.521-05:00Hope... through child sponsorshipNew years bring new commitments. New resolutions. New promises to take better care of ourselves, our finances, our stuff, etc. What about considering a new way to give hope? I know of a great opportunity to directly influence children's lives with the love of Christ in 2010.<br /><br />Please go visit my friends <a href="http://ethiopianadoptionspot.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Candy</span></span></a> and <span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://family-from-afar.blogspot.com/">Karen</a></span>. Their blogs give details on how you can bring real, life breathing hope to partial and double orphaned children of Ethiopia. You can also go to <span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.tomdavis.typepad.com/">Tom Davis</a></span>' blog to learn more about <span style="font-size:130%;"><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.hopechest.org/">Children's HopeChest</a></span>, the ministry responsible for the child sponsorship program to which I am directing you.<br /><br />God calls His children to be His hands and feet. Pray about how you can be the hands and feet of Jesus. For $34 a month, you can provide regular meals, basic life necessities and Christian discipleship and education to children. I bet most of us could think of one less meal we could eat out a month, or some other simple pleasure we take for granted (or maybe are very thankful for, but still...) on a regular basis and have $34 to give hope to a child who has not... every month. I am not working on making you feel guilt to sponsor-- many of you already give generously, sponsor children in need, etc. But, if you have been following our family's story of adoption and wanting to know how you can make a difference or even if you ever could-- YOU CAN!!!! Here is an opportunity, and an amazing one, at that :).<br /><br />May God bless you and keep you this 2010 as you consider how you can care for the widow and the orphan and give hope...<br /><br />Grace and Peace,<br />ShariTeam Dragovichhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09853823199173555820noreply@blogger.com1