Day 6: Jesus & Johnny Cash

When I first started doing #AdamsActs, four years ago now, I didn't really know what I was getting myself into. I think my goal was to create a more positive outlet for my grief than, well, spiraling into clinical depression. I didn't really realize it at the time, but what I really needed was the opportunity to process my grief as an adult for, probably, the first time. My oldest daughter, Annalee, just started middle school. She is the exact same age that I was when Adam was killed. I cannot imagine her enduring the traumas that I endured at her age. I cannot imagine her calling family friends to inform them of such a tragic event. I cannot picture her standing in front of a court room, asking a judge for the maximum penalty for her sibling's killer. I cannot bear to imagine her private grief, her guilt for surviving when her sibling did not.

I can't believe that I did those things. And honestly, I can't believe that it took me this long to realize that inside, I was still grieving like a middle schooler. When you always feel a thing, it's hard to identify that thing as dysfunctional. And the "thing" I always felt was this crushing, devastating belief that I should have been the one to go. That God made a mistake, and it was me who should have died. Adam was so good. 

There was a scene in the movie Walk the Line about the life of Johnny Cash, where he and June Carter are talking about Johnny's older brother, Jack, who died from an accident with a table saw. In the scene, Johnny is just coming to after detoxing from a long-battled addiction to various pills and narcotics. He sees that June is by his side, despite everything he has done to make a mess of his life. He looks at her and says, "You're an angel." And the rest goes like this:

June: No, I'm not

Johnny: You've been there with me.

June: I had a friend who needed help. You're my friend.

Johnny: But I've done so many bad things.

June: You've done a few, that's true.

Johnny: My Daddy's right. It should have been me on that saw. Jack was so good. He would have done so many good things. What have I done? Just hurt everybody I know. I know I've hurt you. I'm nothin'.

June: You're not nothin'. You are not nothin'. You're a good man, and God has given you a second chance to make things right, John. This is your chance, honey.

I love that scene. I love it, because I know what it's like to look at all your sins and your flaws and to think, "I shoulda been the one on that saw." I could not help but see my life, my worth, my circumstances through this lens of loss and guilt and grief. It was this notch that had been cut out of my world... and I could not see or hear beyond what was missing. When something so big and central is lost at such a formative time in one's life, it frames everything else and perspective gets lost. That is what it was like for me all these years, except I didn't know it. 

So, when I started focusing my grief outward, and really letting God's promises of healing and redemption take root inward... I healed in a way that I never had as a girl. I've done some bad things, that's true. But, there is nothing better than the moment when June Carter tells Johnny Cash that God's second chances are bigger than the things he done wrong. 

Now, Day 6.

Jay and I had an appointment with the audiologist because he lost one of his hearing aids. It's a big deal, not being able to hear everything everyone else takes for granted. So, the hearing aids are a huge gift, and so are the people who make it possible for him to hear. For my first act of kindness, I give you this video of the first time our son could hear everything for the first time. It's had over 170k views. Because it's precious. Expect to sob...

Okay, don't these people deserve some treats!?

We thought so too.

Jay was super excited!

But, mostly because he thought we were going to eat those treats for dinner at the audiologist's office. He was less excited when I explained those were not his dinner.

Apart from one weak moment when he didn't like the ear mold goop, and said that the audiologist "breaked him," he did awesome, got fitted for his new, neon yellow ear molds and had his hearing re-tested and his hearing aid re-programmed as a result. 

The interesting thing about Jay's hearing loss is that she referred to it as "notch hearing loss." This means that most of his hearing is in the normal range to mild hearing loss, but at a certain frequency, there is this notch that just sort of cuts out for him. Within that notch, are several common speech sounds and multiple every day things that he cannot hear. It is the strangest thing to see one's child respond during a test to a barely audible whisper at one frequency, but not even register a louder sound of a different frequency. It's like an auditory blind spot. 

Doing these acts of kindness, publicly grieving and re-processing Adam's death as an adult has been a lot like getting hearing aids for the first time. It's as if I discovered this "notch," a child's grief that won't ever go away, but needed to be redefined and reprogrammed in order to function properly. It was my Johnny Cash moment, where I had an opportunity to keep hating myself and hurting people... or I could accept that God's grace really was sufficient. And so I did, and so it is.

It's not really about me, it's not really about doing for others, it's not even really about Adam. It's about the God Adam loved. It's about his Jesus, it's about my Jesus.  It has been a lot of things, but a big part of it is confessing the sin of unbelief. I have claimed to have faith in a God that I believed made a mistake. I did not trust and I did not let him lead. Not when it came to this notch of pain... the blindspot in my faith. 

June told Johnny that "you can't walk no line." And that's what this is about, deciding not to walk the line any more. 

"How well I have learned that there is no fence to sit on between heaven and hell. There is a deep, wide gulf, a chasm, and in that chasm is no place for any man." - Johnny Cash

Day 4 & 5: A Gentleman and a Holler

So, I forgot to mention that sometimes it's hard for me to post on the weekends because I have hundreds of children. I assure you, though, that I am doing my daily #AdamsActs and feel perpetually nauseated until the blog is updated. If that helps.

Day 4 was a fun one for Marlie and I because it was our last night away so we went out for dinner. When you have five kids and only one income, dinners out are a huge treat! Shoot, ordering pizza is a treat in our house... so she and I both were excited. Finding something open wasn't easy, because where we were staying is a bit more rural and spread out than we are used to. So we went to the only restaurant in town. 

I knew that a generous tip for the server would be the easiest and most obvious act of kindness for the day, although I was tempted to bring homemade brownies to the alpaca farm across the street from where we were staying.

In light of recent legalization efforts around the country, however, I figured most people would Just Say No to questionable brownies from strangers. So, we went with the generous tip plan as originally intended. 

Our server was very friendly and did an excellent job. He remarked on how well-mannered Marlie was and he even brought her a complimentary piece of birthday pie. It was all very sweet. (He and the pie.) He mentioned that he had only been working there for a couple weeks and was just returning to the area and didn't have a car. We joked about how it is not exactly a great commuter town. I refrained from suggesting he try to rent an alpaca to ride and instead decided to make a very small contribution to his car fund, to write him a little note and then let his manager know what a great job he had done waiting on us. 

I wasn't sure how much to tip at first, but when I got the bill for a little over $17, I knew my answer. Adam was 17 when he passed away, 17 was his soccer number... AP #17 was worn on his teammates jerseys, warm-ups and cleats for years. It was my soccer number and my sister's soccer number and it is now my nephew's jersey number. My nephew, Adam, name after his uncle. So, the $17 tip on the $17 bill was a no brainer.

For Day 5, me and this stud tried to be neighborly and bring in everyone's garbage cans. 

My youngest son, Jay, was quite the gentleman, responsible for the recycling bins. He took the job very seriously, as you can tell by the fishy face.

It felt a little trespass-y I'm not gonna lie. But, we pushed through those social norms and just did it. It went fine, unless the house did not have any recycling bins... In that case, Jay would stop in horror and shout "I not a gemmamin!" And then this happened.

Face down. Sobbing.

And maybe a little rolling.

But as long as the house had recycling bins to tote, he was back to being a perfect gemmamin.

I am blown away by the creativity and hard work so many people have been putting into #AdamsActs! I am truly so thankful and pleased I was able to boss so many of you guys into being kind. No seriously though, you guys are amazing and you deserve the gift of this epic flums up.

Day 3: Uncle #AdamsActs

Oh, hey there Day 3.

If you are just now joining us, well, then... a plague on both your houses. No, I'm kidding. Welcome. For your convenience, here are Days 1 and 2 so you can catch up.

No seriously, read those posts. We'll wait.

Okay, great. Now that we're all caught up and on the same page, let's talk Day 3.

As I mentioned, Marlie and I are out of town for her coming of age chats. We have discussed all the necessary topics and early reports suggest that she is experiencing "pure disgust." I think my job here is done. #momfail

In addition to our planned act of kindness for the day, a couple also fell into our lap. Maybe "fell" into our lap isn't the right expression. These ones waddled across our path. Despite the road rage behind me, I came to a complete stop to allow approximately all of the brown peacock babies in North America to safely cross the road. It took a while because they kept coming, but I considered it an act of kindness. (And a bit of the adult version of my passive aggression I displayed in 8th Grade Earth Science.)

If those birds waddled into our path, this one fell. Or more accurately flew. Into the window. And then died.

I would normally pretend I didn't see the tiny bird corpse because I wouldn't want to touch it, but after all my internal preaching to the guy with the road rage about how birds deserve kindness too, I felt obligated to give this poor little thing a proper burial. Plus, our friends were so gracious and generous to let us stay in their cabin, that I really felt terrible leaving dead things around. 

Once I got close enough to pick it up for it's proper burial, I panicked and just sort of flung it off the deck with a toilet paper tube. It was truly my personal best, though I can understand why that seems hard to believe. It was really gross and I am pretty sure I got the bird flu from the whole interaction. But I did technically remove the bird. So I am giving myself at least one point for that. 

Then, this beauty and I spent some time altering her flower girl dress, and then got to work on our intended #AdamsActs.


Our friend Joe (who allowed us to stay here) and his new fiance, Katie, are very dear friends of ours. They literally got engaged a week ago, and we failed in a major way in the engagement gift department. But Joe and Katie wouldn't even want gifts. They care more about quality time and good conversation. So, we thought that a fun way to bless them would be to make a Date Night jar (which is filled with creative ideas for dates) and a Deep Thoughts jar (which is filled with questions they can ask each other to grow them closer together.) This might sound cheesy, but trust me, it is right up their alley.

Marlie brought a lot to the table with her date night suggestions...

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Ahh yes, knitting. A beloved dating favorite!

And just to be as obnoxious as possible at all times, I threw in a few twists... like letting Joe's youngest son select their date attire. It should keep their relationship interesting!



When I was a little girl, my brother would put me in a figure four and would force me to say "I love you Uncle Adam." I don't know why he always said Uncle Adam, because he was just my brother not my uncle... but he would demand that I say exactly that. I would giggle and say "Okay, okay I will say it!" and I would proceed to say "I love you..." (insert dramatic, giggly pause) "...AUNT Adam!" And he would yell "ehhhh, wrong answer!" right in my ear, then straighten his leg causing me to laugh even harder, partly in pain, and fear that my femur would snap, but mostly in sheer delight at our little game.

As I sat with Marlie tonight, writing down silly things and deep things and all the things in between, I told her how much her Uncle Adam loved games and being silly and how he would have loved this. And I caught myself...

Uncle Adam.

You would think it would feel strange saying Uncle Adam because he never got to meet a single one of his 13 nieces and nephews. But it's not. Because even as a 15, 16, 17 year old kid... he went by Uncle Adam. And it breaks my heart a little every time they say "Uncle Adam" because they won't ever know their Uncle, but it is such a sweet gift to have heard him say it, to call himself by that name so many times. It's those small things that I remember, and it really is the small acts of kindness and silliness that he would have loved.

It's okay if these #AdamsActs are small or silly. It's okay if it's just a friendly smile or a good old fashioned, out-loud compliment... It's okay if it turns out that you can't do the proper bird burial. Sometimes just a toilet paper tube and some ice breaker questions are enough for now. I think that sometimes it's the littlest things that matter.

"I love you Uncle Adam..."

Day Two: Reunions, Tips and a Toddler Takes Notes

Welcome to Day 2.

Based on the 7,100+ hits on yesterday's post (which you can find here if you are  a deadbeat  just joining in) I think it's fair to assume that some of you reading this are strangers. There is a fairly good chance that at least 83% of those hits are my mother... but even so, I don't know that many people, so it's safe to assume that at least some of you do not know who I am.

I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Lara and I miiiiight be a bit of an over-sharer. #shockingiknow 

I live with my family in New York. (Upstate, not the cool NY.) My husband and I have five children. We are a colorful, adoptive family, so some of my babes came to me via adoption, and some are biological. My husband, Tom, borders on sainthood at all times, so you may find me playfully abusing him a little bit, because you simply cannot have two saints in one marriage. That'd just be obnoxious. We just moved to a new house a week and a half ago, so life is a little hectic, always, but especially while we don't have laundry hook-ups yet, and all seven of us are still living out of boxes. I am going to need all of you to set your expectations of me to a nice, low standard, and let's just go ahead and accept that my not harming any of the children during this crazy season will likely be my greatest act of kindness. 

Now that I have introduced myself and crushed any lofty expectations... let's talk Day 2.

I had a few ideas up my sleeve for today, but I settled on a surprise reunion between my two older girls (Annalee -11 and Marlie -10) and their favorite teachers from their former school. When we moved, we left some really fantastic teachers behind and I wanted to bring the girls by to say hello and that we miss and appreciate them.

Both of my parents were public educators and at one point or another, so were both of my sisters, my brother-in-law, my step-sister and step-brother and step-mom. It goes without saying that I have a healthy respect for what teachers have to do on a daily basis. Teaching is often a thankless job, and I gave some of my teachers a serious run for their money. 

In 8th grade, I refused to take notes in Earth Science because I believed myself to have a somewhat remarkable auditory memory. However, note taking was required and my teacher refused to change the overhead slides until everyone had taken thorough notes. I acquiesced, however, I did so in the most irritating way possible. I did take notes. With my left hand. It took me approximately one thousand minutes to write a barely legible sentence. I remember, quite clearly, realizing that I could technically obey, but still punish him for making me do the thing I did not want to do. So, I took my sweet time, writing like an enormous toddler.

And my teacher did not hit me with a bat.

If I could go back in time and hit that passive-aggressive version of myself with a bat, I would. Since that is not an option, I have resolved to work very hard to build good relationships with my children's teachers, since I sort of owe it to public educators for my generally bad behavior.

We had grand plans to show up with coffee and donuts, but we found out that they had an assembly scheduled so we had to high tail it over there sans treats in order to see them. Still, the teachers and students that we saw agreed that bringing my two sweet girls for a visit was treat enough.

After popping in to see the teachers, Marlie and I left for our Double Digit Getaway. This is a tradition I started in order to force myself to have my Claire Huxtable mom moment with each of my girls.

(Tom can do the guy thing, and I don't want to know anything about any of it, Because, no. Because, gross.) But for the girls, the tradition goes like this: I give each girl an invitation on the exact birthminute of their tenth birthday. This is the moment they hit the double digits, going from 9 to 10. We schedule a weekend away to discuss all the things that are about to go down in the double digits. It is a lot to cover, ya know... everything that happens between ages 10 and 99. So, we talk body stuff, we talk birds and bees stuff, we talk modesty stuff, we talk boy stuff, we talk Jesus-and-daddy-are-the-only-men-you-really-need kind of stuff. I am pretty terrible at it because I am a middle school boy at heart and anatomically correct verbiage either grosses me out or makes me giggle uncontrollably. It's a problem, Still, it is a great kindness to give a child one-on-one time when they have four other siblings vying for my attention.

Even if you make them learn about periods.

We were at least able to give the waitress a generous tip when we got Marlie some hot cocoa. (Chocolate is a big part of a girl surviving the Double Digits, so this felt like it tied in nicely.)

And for my final #AdamsActs for Day 2. I would like to publicly apologize to all my teachers and coaches for being a giant pain much of the time, but specifically to my 8th grade Earth Science teacher.

Mr. Holwerda, I am so sorry. I think you and I both know that I am not left-handed. I am sorry for my behavior and I thank you very much for never hitting me with a bat. 

So, that's that, Day two. I cannot thank you all enough for joining my family and so many others who are sprinkling kindness confetti around the globe in memory of my brother Adam. He was a phenomenal student and, incidentally, could actually write very nicely with both his right and left hands. I often grapple with this feeling of survivor's guilt, like if Adam had lived he would have done so many more important and astounding things than I have done with my life. But, as I see the impact his legacy of kindness is making here in the US, but also in India, Ghana, Japan, France, Australia, Germany, etc. I can't help but be overcome with gratitude. For though Adam's life was cut short, you all have helped me to do something important and astounding. Nothing can bring him back, but for those that loved and knew my brother... this sure does make it feel like a part of him never left. 

The Hardest Story I Never Told

Deep breath.

Day 1. 

Four years ago, a few friends and I decided to change the way we did life in October. I want to explain why I needed to change my Octobers, but if I had to rewrite this story for the fourth time, I would just bag the whole thing altogether. Still, each year we have new followers, and new participants, who deserve to know the whole story.  So, I will start at the beginning. There is something very heartbreaking about the beginning. The fact that each year that I do this, the story is always the exact same. That despite all that we have done to change October for us, and for so many people, this story never gets a new ending. It just is. 

So instead of trying to change it or rewrite it with a fresh twist, I will take you back to the first time I had the guts to tell my brother's story so publicly, and I will trust my former self to know what she was doing.  

Last October, I asked and encouraged whatever participation you can muster. Please share the links to your Facebook pages, and why not tag everyone you know? (Unless you hate kindness.) Spread the word. Do any act of kindness you can, no matter how small. I truly believe that the things we do this month would be acts of kindness that Adam would have spent a lifetime doing. To follow along and contribute to our collective journey, please hashtag #AdamsActs in pictures and posts so we can all see how far reaching an impact our kindnesses can make. 

Thank you for allowing me the privilege to share my family's story with you. 

----

I am going to tell you a story. 

I haven't done this before, told this story, so detailed and so publicly.  But, I am going to try something big this month, and I think I need to tell this story in order to do it well.  So, here goes nothin...

It was Halloween night many years ago, and my 17 year old brother, Adam H. Provencal, was driving home from the Regional Championship Soccer game.  He was a senior in high school and the captain of the soccer team, and this victory was worth celebrating, and it was news worth spreading for our small Michigan town.

When my brother (and his friend Mike) were driving home and passed some of their friends out playing some harmless Halloween pranks, it was the perfect time to spread the news.  So Adam pulled the car over and was telling his friends about the big victory.  I have no idea what my brother was thinking or feeling in that moment but, my guess, is freedom. I imagine a boy - crazy about sports, working so hard to maintain his 4.0 GPA in mostly advanced placement classes, editor-in-chief of the nationally recognized school paper, and all-around nice guy - and the pressure that that brings on a kid. I imagine him in this moment, and the hard work (for now) is done and has paid off with a regional championship.  And he's free.  He is young and free, and he wants to tell to his friends.

So, he pulls over and he and his friends are joking around and talking and hanging out, and they are young and free in this moment.

The whimsical youth of the moment ends when a homeowner comes out and is irate about the pranks and, though my brother had not been involved in them, he had the car and perhaps that made him seem to be the ringleader somehow.  I don't really know if that was why Adam felt the need to go to the door or not, but he did.  He decided he would walk up to the door, to apologize for being there and to offer to clean up the toilet paper in the yard, and he no longer felt young and free. He was probably terrified that he was going to get in trouble. So, he dutifully walked up to the man's door and knocked twice. 

The man did not open the door and hear him out, he did not yell at Adam to leave, he did not call the police. When my 17 year old brother knocked on the door that night to have a hard conversation, he had a baby face and scrawny limbs and braces in his mouth.  And when Adam knocked twice on that door, the man gave no warning before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun, sending one, single blast through the closed front door. 

One bullet.

One bullet changed many lives, some lives even devastated.  But only one life was ended.  My only brother, my parents' only son, my hero, my friend... the only person strong enough to jump on a trampoline with me on his shoulders, and the boy who led me to Christ, and taught me to dance like M.C. Hammer, and to be funny enough to joke my way out of trouble.  He was gone. 

His murderer was in and out of jail after two years, for a boy's life taken in a rage over some harmless pranks.

Needless to say, when October rolls around I get stuck.  It is almost like my body involuntarily braces for a trauma.  The crisp fall air, the smell of leaves and bonfires... they are all beautiful reminders of fall, and nightmarish triggers that put my physical and emotional self on high alert, tragedy-ready. 

So, here we are, heading into the 31 days of October, and I am 34 years old... Not only have I outlived my big brother, but I have now, officially, had twice as much time on this Earth as he did.  I need to do something. I need to be productive and I need to spend these 31 days focusing outwardly, or I will implode with my seasonal misery and depression.  So, I accepted a challenge, a plan designed to get out of our own heads and focus on other people. 31 days of kindness toward others.

I want to commit myself to honor all the good Adam would have done to the glory of God if his life had not been cut short. I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Well, here is my chance... 34 is pretty grown up, so here goes nothing. 

For Day One, I am sharing this story. I am rallying the people around me to participate, and I am bossing you into participating too. 

Your welcome. 

I wish that for day one I could adequately describe what most of you are missing by not having had the privilege to know my big brother. He was something. Although the story of Adam's death does not change with each year that passes, the way his life inspires me to live mine... well, that can certainly change a lot of things. And over the next 31 days, I will do my best to continue his legacy of kindness. And I hope you will too. 

 In loving memory of my buddy.