Ever have one of those nights when your brain refuses to shut down? (Now that I’ve got that old Soul Asylum song, “Runaway Train” stuck in my head, my night may have just gotten even longer.) I have them often. My runaway brain nights are typically A.) when I am thinking about the past, B.) when I am dreaming about the future, or C.) when a creative writing or songwriting bug hits and I can’t shake it. Tonight, it’s kind of all three.

As I sit here about to embark on some new adventures in my life, I can’t help but think through all of the details and all of the possibilities that come with each new thing. What will come of this initial trip to Kenya? How is the first course of my new college career going to go? How in the world are we ever going to pay for this new adoption? What about Lucy’s adoption? (I must admit, there is still a lot of anxiety in that one and there will be until the day it’s finalized.)

And yet, even as I look forward, I’m also looking back. At the encouragement of a friend, I am writing out the complete story of how Melody and I got to where we are now. I will be posting it in a series of blog posts on our new adoption blog. And, what reflection I’ve done up to this point (I’m up to 2001) has brought back a flood of incredible memories and set my mind to wondering about some of the people we encountered along the way.

All of this, the looking forward and looking back (and now I have a Paul Abdul song in my head…great) has spawned a little creative monster in me. He creeps up now and again and REALLY doesn’t want me to sleep! But sleep I must, because I have a 14 month old who will wake up early tomorrow whether I want to sleep or not. So, I’m hoping that a little bit of writing here will calm that little monster down. Here goes:

Journeys longed for; adventures sought
Joy experienced, but pain brought forth
Forged by skilled hands, I stand alone
Unique among creation, just like everyone else

My story, not so unusual as to be remembered
Not so drab as to be left untold
Seemingly enjoyed by my Father
As he reminds me of its arc

Yet, once again, my particulars,
Not singularly spectacular,
Amass in strange ways
Which seem, somehow, to matter

Matter, at the very least
At most, perhaps, to shape
The course of another’s destiny
A story not my own

Would that one day a great he or she
Would put pen to paper and write
Not of my life or deed
But of that which by some divine plan
I have imparted