I’m not too proud to tell you that in 1998, I got a mullet.

Yup. You got that right. The short, feathered hair in the front, long and wavy in the back.

Let me explain.

I got dumped. But that’s not the story.

The story is, I needed a haircut. I had $12. I had a friend named Carrie who wanted her hair cut, too. We went to one of those strip mall hair cutting places.

“I’d like a ‘bob’,” I told the hair cutting guy.

I should have known better than to sit in his chair. He donned a mullet (not the kind hipsters have,  by the way).

“A bob would be all wrong for you,” the hair dude said.

He turned me from the mirror (red flag #2) and began snipping away.

“Okay. You look great,” the dude said, turning my chair around. “Go pay at the counter.”

I looked in the mirror and saw something that I hadn’t seen since 4th grade; me with a mullet.

“This isn’t a bob,” I cried, touching my hair.

“You look beautiful,” the dude said. “Pay at the counter.”

Next, my friend sat in the chair.

“Can you make me look like Faith Hill?” she asked. (this was when Faith Hill had the short, choppy hair).

Now, I’ll never understand why Carrie let him touch her hair after the scalping he gave me…I think that confuses her, too.

On that day, Carrie and I became mullet twins.

No. There are no pictures of that.

We went to Carrie’s house, crying and laughing and looking (choke) fabulously 1983.

Sitting on her couch, I bemoaned my terrible haircut. How would I EVER re-enter the dating world in this state? No guy would want to run his fingers through a mullet.

Carrie’s cat, Chexers entered the room. He seemed concerned about my grief. He looked at me with wide eyes.

I cried out, “Oooooh, my haaaaiiiirrrr!”

My voice may or may not have sounded like a cat. In heat. And Chexers didn’t like the sound. He pounced. Right onto my mullet.

Biting and scratching and hissing, Chexers took out his full wrath on my mullet. I tried to get him off my head. He dug his claws into my back and commenced his lionesque attempt to murder the terrible haircut.

Eventually, after many screams and hisses and mullet hairs pulled out, Carrie was able to remove the cat from my mane.

“I think you scared him,” she said.

We cleaned up the blood from my arm and hand and back. Smoothed the party in the back of my hair (which now resembled a party that you call your mom to pick you up from). Let me tell you, that feline tore me up. Big time.

Back in the living room, we noticed shards of cat nails on the floor. Nasty, right?

“It’s been a really bad day,” I said to Carrie. “Nobody is going to believe this all happened today.”

But it did. It really did.

Need proof? I’ve got the (now faint) scars to prove it.

Oh, you wanted proof of the mullet?

Um. No thank you.

(NOTE: A month later, I started hanging out with this super handsome guy. I hid the mullet by pinning it up with sparkly hair clips. That handsome guy eventually married me {my hair was no longer a mullet at that point}. We celebrated our 9th anniversary yesterday. The man has loved me through many hairstyles. Fortunately, the mullet never made a return to this head.}

(NOTE 2: This post is in memory of Chexers, who lived to be 19 years old. Wow.)

I’ve now shared three animal tales with you (ha ha…punny). One about goats. One about my Grandma’s dog. Now this one about a cat. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about a funny animal story! Or a (clean) animal joke. It’s Friday. During an election year. We could all use the laugh.

This past weekend, I spent time making a patchwork quilt of my current novel in progress. Basically, I took all the material I had, cut and pasted it (literally) until it was in a better order. It reminded me of two and a half years ago…

I sat in the middle of the living room floor, scissors in hand. The kids had finally fallen asleep and, for the first time all day, silence filled the house. 100 pages covered the carpet, forming a semi-circle around me.

My scissors sliced through scenes and chapters. Bits and pieces of novel, disjointed.

Then the tape. Fragments of story taped to sheets of yellow legal paper.

Half way through the process, my husband came home.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I answered, looking up at him. “Oh. Hi. When did you get here?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I think so.”

“Okay.” He stepped over chapter 12 and sat on the couch.

I think he asked if he could turn on the TV. I think he watched some game or something. I just continued to cut and tape. Cut and tape.

“It’s all done!” I declared to my husband, a few hours later (my husband who was, no doubt, asleep on the couch).

I held my patchwork, Frankenstein’s monster looking piece of literature toward him.

“Now I know what the novel is about,” I said. “I really know. Now I need to write.”

Crazed, I sat at my computer and typed, typed, typed. For hours. Then the next day, I wrote more. And on and on.

When the first draft was done, I inked purple edits all across the pages. Then I rewrote the novel.

After ten massive edits, “Paint Chips” is in the line-editing phase. That means that my once scruffy novel is on the desk of an eagle eyed editor who is looking for every single typo before it goes to the galley phase (the dress rehearsal before publication).

My dream is coming true.

My novel will go live for readers in 85 days (January 15, 2013…mark your calendars, pretty please).

But that’s only part of my dream that is coming true.

I am writing a second novel.

I have plans for the third and fourth novels (one of which might require a trip to the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere).

Part of the dream is publication. But the bulk of the dream is writing.

I am so blessed that God has given me this life.

Tell me, what is your big, crazy dream? What will it take for you to realize that dream? Have any of your crazy dreams come true? I love reading your thoughts. 

And thank you, thank you, thank you for being part of my dream!

My Grandma Riggs had a dog named Tina. A temperamental, fickle daschund with a weak bladder and a strong bite. I spent every other weekend with that dog.

“Play with Tina,” my Grandma would say, handing me the dog’s blue ball with a jingle bell inside it. “Throw it down the steps and let her chase after it.”

Now I know that Tina was a high energy  dog and that my Grandma was trying to wear her out. At the time, however, I thought that Grandma was trying to kill me off with boredom.

But, I was taught that I must never disobey my Grandmothers. And that even thinking about disrespecting or talking back to my Grandma was a sin. The unspoken, eighth deadly sin. Unspoken because it is just understood that breaking this code was punishable by cookie denial and an empty candy dish. I still think that.

And, so, I took the ball from my Grandma, letting it jingle.

“Come on, Tina. Let’s play,” I said.

Tina chased after me, excited about playing her favorite game.

“You’d better piddle her first,” my Grandma called after us.

I took the dog out in the backyard and patted her back until she piddled herself dry. (NOTE: we had to do this whenever Tina got excited…or else).

We came back inside the house. She waggled her tail, waiting at the top of the basement steps. Looking back at me, her whole body wiggling and her mouth open in a dog smile, she waited for me to toss the ball.

Jingle, jangle, jingle, jangle. The ball bounced down the steps.

Tina waited for the ball to get all the way to the basement floor before she rushed down after it.

Now, if you know anything about daschunds, you know that they have long bodies and stubby little legs. Not necessarily the best for a dash down the stairs. And yet, Tina did it without too much trouble.

She brought the ball back to me. Barked until I threw it again.

We did this back and forth for the better part of an hour. On the brink of insanity by way of jingle bell ball and wiener dog, I told Tina, “This is the last time”.

Well, I whispered it. Had my Grandma heard me, she would have instructed me to keep playing until Tina was worn out. I’m convinced that I would still be playing that stupid game in that case.

Tina growled at me as if to say “Throw the ball. I own you.”

“I hate you,” I thought, not daring to utter the words for fear of breaking my Grandma’s heart.

The ball left the palm of my hand, lightly touching my fingertips as it went spinning down toward the basement floor. Its silent flight ended against cold, gray cement.

Bounce. Jingle. Bounce. Jangle.

Tina pounced, bounding down the steps. This time, though, her back legs got the better of her. Her hind end lifted until she was essentially doing a handstand on the steps. In a feat of gymnastic grace, she did the perfect back flip. End over end over end, she flipped down the steps.

She landed on on the floor out of my view. Standing at the top of the steps, I didn’t know if I should be afraid or impressed by the performance.

It seemed like the stairs multiplied as I inched down one at a time. No jingle jangle of Tina’s ball. She hadn’t found it. No barking of impatient dog.

When I at last reached the bottom of the steps, I saw her. Her long, brown-red, stumpy legged body lay on the floor. No movement. Eyes closed.

“I killed Tina,” I whispered.

The ramifications of killing my Grandma’s favorite creature in all the world made me dizzy. No more cookies. No more access to the never-ending Brach’s candy. Oh goodness gracious! The punishment was more than I could bear.

“Tina?” I said, my soft voice trembling.

Squatting near her, I inched my hand closer to her. Would her body be cold already? Stiff? I pulled my hand back, too afraid.

“Susie, Tina!” my Grandma called from upstairs. “Time for a treat!”

Taking a deep breath, I once again put out my hand to touch the dog. This time, I didn’t retract it. Her coarse fur under my fingertips, I pushed against her shoulder.

She jumped! Up on her stubby feet. Growled at me.

Falling back, I gulped air, my heart about to explode from fear and relief.

Jingle. Jangle.

She found the ball. Up the steps she bounded. When she reached the top, she turned and put the ball on the floor. Barked at me.

“Oh, I guess Tina’s not done playing,” my Grandma said, looking down the steps at me. “I’ll just put these cookies away so you can finish your game.”

***

Just a note: The next night, while I was sleeping, Tina pooped on my pillow. Right next to my head.

Oh, that dog.

FIRST: I’m celebrating today. What could possibly be the significance of October 15? Well, it’s 3 months until the digital release of PAINT CHIPS! Let’s celebrate with a give away! Each of the following actions will get  you extra points! Comment on this post and share a link to this post on your favorite social network (one point for each…and share a link to your post below and/or tag me). The winner of the drawing will win a “What’s Your Story” necklace! The winner of the random drawing will be announced here on Wednesday. (The winner will choose the color of beads in the “What’s Your Story” necklace)

I spent the last weekend at the Breathe Christian Writers Conference. I was honored to be on the committee this year, in charge of hospitality and food. The job stretched me and, quite honestly, I didn’t think I could be so organized. Not that I want to make a habit of it.

As a result of this weekend, my brain is more than a little tired. As well as my body. Coffee is part of hospitality. Let me tell you, I carried pots of it around all weekend.

I owe you a story. And a story I will give  you. Just don’t be disappointed that it’s not about the conference.

***

I taught Bible at an after school program for several years.

Kevin sat in my class every day. I just knew that the kid didn’t listen to a word I said. He wiggled and rolled and fidgeted through Bible class every day.

“Hey, Kevin,” I would say.

“Yeah?” He’d answer, not looking at me.

“Can you please sit still and pay attention?”

“Probably not.”

Well, at least the kid was honest.

One day, a week after Easter, I taught about Jesus going up into Heaven. About how He promised to send “The Comforter”. How He promised to prepare our forever home for when we arrive. That one day He would return from us, just the way He left.

And Kevin sat against the wall, messing with the Velcro on his shoes.

“Kevin, would you cut that out?” I asked.

“No thanks,” he answered.

Later that afternoon, we took the kids outside. Spring in Michigan is a glorious thing. Bright sun after months of gray winter. Birds singing. Flowers blooming into color. Michiganders spend as much time outside on days like that.

“Go play,” we told the kids.

Most of the children piled in the sandbox or climbed up the monkey bars.

Kevin stood in the middle of the playground. Looking up. Standing perfectly still.

“That’s a first,” I thought.

After a few minutes he moved to the far side of the yard. He did the same thing. He moved all over the place. Stood still. Looked up.

He made his way closer to me.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. “What are you doing?”

He shrugged his shoulders, still looking at the sky.

“Is there an airplane up there? Or a bird?”

He shook his head. “Nope,” he said.

“What do you think that cloud looks like?” I asked, pointing. “Does it look like a rabbit?”

“I want to see,” he said.

“What do you want to see?”

“I want to see Jesus come out of the sky.” He moved away from me, still looking up.

Today, as we continue our What’s Your Story series, I welcome Cindy Johnston and her adoption story. Cindy is a “communications guru” at Ada Bible Church, wife, mom, writer, and all around great woman. Cindy writes on her own blog (check it out HERE). She is a contributing author at the Burnside Writers Collective (read her story HERE) and Circle of Friends ministries (read her articles HERE). Please join me in welcoming her today.

I’m in the middle of a million chapter novel and the main character is me. And let me tell you, I have been the hero, the villain and everything in between.

I’m exhausted. And if writers live their character’s lives, then I can only imagine that God is more exhausted than I am.

That being said, I think one of the best and most difficult chapters in my recent history has to be the adoption of my two boys, David and Wilson.

I always knew that I would adopt children. Seriously, since I was very young I knew it was part of how my family would grow. It didn’t really happen the way I had intended but it definitely was not a last resort to have kids as so many people tend to think.

I somehow managed to get locked on the endless, traumatic fertility cycle that wreaked havoc on my body and my psyche. The level of pain I endured and for the length of time I endured it, is really nothing short of a miracle that I survived as well as I did.

But the day came when I said “no more”.

My heart was set on adoption in the U.S.

There are so many children in the States that will wind up in the foster care system and bouncing from house to house; their lives a sea of inconsistency and insecurity.

So an agency was chosen and I did everything I was told to do.

Literally.

I went to every Waiting Family class that dealt with everything you could imagine from the best bottles to use to birth mother presentations to how to survive the holidays. Some of them were inspiring but some of them stripped away already raw flesh and left me feeling more vulnerable and insecure than I ever thought possible.

I followed the agencies’ advice and networked to find a birth mom. In January 2004, we did just that. She was a beautiful young girl and was due in June. I leaned into her life, cooked for her, helped her with school work, helped her mom, bought her little do-dads and trinkets just because I loved her.

Truly, I loved her.

Erica went into labor early. I was in Vancouver at the time and trying to decide whether or not to fly back. The doctors were able to stop the contractions and she told me to stay. Everything was fine.

In June, Erica gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. We named her Hannah Grace.

And then it happened.

Erica decided to parent.

There are simply no words to describe the feeling of knowing the child you deeply love is not coming home with you – and worse, she is going into an abusive home.

It was as if Hannah had died right in front of me – but worse because we knew she was going into a home where her life was going to be brutally challenging at best.

I received the news at work and raced to the bathroom where I was sure I would die.

The entire office staff showed up in the bathroom and held me and prayed with me as I sat curled in the fetal position struggling to breathe, struggling to keep from vomiting, desperately grasping at any semblance of reality.

The next few months are a blur.

I get why a lot of people want to adopt overseas. There is risk with any adoption but it is different here in the States. Overseas you more often than not have no connection with the birth parents. Here, first they both have to agree to adoption, then release their rights in a court hearing, and still they have time to change their mind and choose to parent.

But God has placed on my heart it needed to be a U.S. adoption and somehow I managed to summon the courage to keep moving forward.

In spite of everything, I still wanted to adopt.

In September 2008, just three months after Hannah, a call came from the agency that a birth mom had chosen us to parent.

My answer was a very cautious yes.

I had limited communication with Audrey. Her mom updated me from time to time but mostly I waited, and loosely prepared a room for the baby boy I prayed would soon be mine.

Six weeks later the call came and Audrey was in labor.

It was probably the scariest time in my life as I stepped out in faith and allowed myself to try and be in the moment – to open my heart just a little so that I didn’t miss out on the memories.

I was in the waiting room down the hall when I heard it…a cry that was loud and strong. He was here and I found myself holding my breath.

As I peeked through the nursery window at this tiny miracle, I was filled with love but my heart was still guarded. What if it happens again? What if she chooses to parent? Could I survive that again?

I was startled out of my thoughts with the nurse exclaiming “Well come on, Mama! He’s starving!”

It was a beautiful miracle when she placed him in my arms and the years of infertility treatments melted away, the agonizing memory of Hannah replaced by this beautiful moment with my son.

The tears started to flow and soon I was so overcome with emotion I was sobbing, holding him tightly, and praying. I have no idea what those words were. I believe the Holy Spirit interceded for me in that moment…speaking what the tears spoke.

Time marched on and I found myself pregnant. After seven years of infertility treatments and being told I would never have kids, I was pregnant.

I was stunned and elated.

But again the tide turned and I was facing a pregnancy where my baby had died but my body was refusing to let go.

At that last ultra sound I looked, pleading with God for a movement, a twitch, something that would say it was OK and my baby was fine.

But there wasn’t a heartbeat. There wasn’t movement.

And I was faced with surgery and letting go – again.

It seemed to me that if God was going to wire me to be a mom, that the process shouldn’t be so hard. That at some point, the doors of mommy-land would open and children would pour through the doors.

But that isn’t my story.

Two years after my miscarriage, I decided it was time to tell the agency I’m done. I felt God had decided that I am David’s mom so I was preparing to lean into his life in ways I would not be able to if I was a mom of several children.

I was OK with that.

I was.

So on December 31, the home study would expire and I could breathe and live my own life without being tethered to an agency or living in the constant state of wondering.

Naturally, that’s when God spoke loudly and said “Cindy, I’m not done with you yet!”

December 30 a call came saying a baby boy had become available. And with less than 24 hours notice, I was driving across the state and just like that became a mom again to a sweet, curly headed boy we named Wilson.

This chapter in my life, this quest to parent-dom, is long and I can only touch upon it here. The memories are deep, vivid, wildly complicated and at the same time, breathtakingly beautiful.

Adopting in the States is a tricky process but adopting from anywhere is a tricky process. In the end, I was simply following God’s call for my life in this season.

So often people will tell me how lucky my kids are to have me. My response is always the same: I am blessed in ways beyond what anyone can imagine. I am connected to these kids in ways that that permeate my soul. I breathe for them and feel for them.

I have no idea what I am doing about 90% of the time but I love them with everything I am.

Luck has nothing to do with it.

It is a beautiful story only God could have written.