Lighting the Fire of Risk | Rachel Trigueiro

My friend Rachel is writing a legacy of “yes” by walking in faith through both the big, scary things, as well as the smaller, unnoticed things. I asked her to share a bit of what being a risk-taker looks like for her, in this season. I have read this post at least six times for my own personal benefit and encouragement and I am thrilled to get to pass it along to you. May your soul be strengthened and blessed by Rachel’s lovely and vulnerable words. 


 “Make your choice, adventurous Stranger,
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew

Uprooting our family from California to Seattle was just the beginning.  THIS WAS IT. We had made the (huuuuuge) decision to go, so now we were official RISK TAKERS.

So brave, so scared, so excited, so CRAZY.

In 30 days we made the decision to up and move our family: no job. no house. no plan. no community (except a few friends) AND 3 KIDS in tow. It felt pretty brave. Pretty risky (actually, felt like it couldn’t get much riskier). But it wasn’t until we moved that I learned the bravest moments were yet to come.

It wasn’t easy leaving, emotionally or practically. We were sad to leave our families-for our kids to leave their grandparents and cousins. And it was a lot of work with tiny children, a big house and A LOT of stuff in very little time (thank you, Lord for sisters who help get that crap done).

BUT, it was exciting. New. Thrilling. It was an ADVENTURE. And if you’re anything like me, you know exactly what I’m talking about because just hearing that word feeds your soul. There’s a desire deep down in you that craves adventure. Something new and something risky. And it’s those adrenaline-pumped emotions that make the tough ones easier. Saying good-bye is hard, but looking ahead to the unknown—endless possibilities—is life giving.

But all of that quiets down. The fanfare, the excitement, the mystery. Your people are no longer around. Eventually, those dreams, prayers, promises & hopes turn into waiting… Wondering. And you find yourself asking questions… Read More

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When Saying “Yes” Takes You To China…

I am so grateful for the opportunity to share our adoption story on www.ChristenSpratt.com. Please read and share. God is good and life is hard. Reading stories of His faithfulness is good for our souls. 

My adoption dream began around age seven after accidentally finding a picture in one of my mom’s Women’s Health books of a screaming lady with a baby coming out of her “lady parts.” I was traumatized and asked my mom what my options were. Sure I wanted to have kids someday but, dear Lord, not like that. She humored me and, after putting the book on a higher shelf, talked to me about adoption. A seed was planted in my little-girl-heart that day.

Fast forward about 20 years. I’m married to my high school sweet-heart with two young kiddos who entered this world just like that Women’s Health book said they would. My husband had finished school and was working as a Prosthetist, building legs and arms for amputees. We were settling into life nicely.

Continue reading at www.christenspratt.com…

His “Yes” Legacy: Happy Father’s Day, Dad

Much like that piercing I got my freshman year of college, I probably should have asked my parents permission to write this post before going through with it. Oops.

Also, much like my post on the time I took on my school’s uniform policy, there are a few people who will read this post and want to make it about the “uniform policy” rather then the lessons learned from the risk I took to take it on. Please, please, please, I beg you. Let my words, dedicated to my father on Father’s Day, be about the lessons I’ve learned from my dad and not about your defense of a “policy.” Trust me, you don’t want to go there with me.

Deep breath. Here we go. Read More

Risking Home: Deborah Avinelis

My longtime and very dear friend, Deborah, graciously agreed to be my first “guest contributor” and what she has to say will not disappoint. There is so much goodness to be had in listening to and learning from one another. Our stories are important and need to be shared. So, without further ado, please enjoy and be blessed by my friend’s tale of risk. 


 

They say home is where the heart is. Sure, but I’ll tell you where home really is. It’s where you can wear your stretchy pants and make a mess and feel totally ok doing it. Home is where you feel comfortable and secure and you don’t have to worry about impressing people; that is home. I love home. I love the people in my home and I like the safety, security and familiarity of home. And I love when I have friends and family in my home because when my house is full, my heart is full. Ah home, what is there not to love? It’s hard to love when you have to move to a new city. It’s especially hard to love when you didn’t want to go to that city in the first place. And it’s always hard when you are in that new place and you have to make a new house, home.

I am not a risk taker. I like safe and familiar and I like to call it living wisely so I don’t have to face the reality that I’m a sissy.

The most adventurous thing I’ve ever done was work for a white water rafting company…as the nanny. I was not a river guide. I watched the owners kids. I was living in a tent for 4 days a week those two summers. It was pretty rough for this non-outdoorsy girl, but it hardly qualifies for risk and adventure.

It’s probably my fear of failure that drives my reluctance to step out, to try new things and to be the risk taker I admire in the women around me. Oh,perhaps it’s my worship of comfort? Either way, God in his goodness pushes me to places I would not willingly go on my own, for my good and his glory; and that is how I found myself as the new girl in town a few years ago.

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School Uniforms: A Failed Risk

I want to be a parent that supports my children in taking risks. I want to champion them as they step out and navigate who they are and what they believe. This “chronicle of risk” is about a time when I was young, impulsive, independent, and confident. I could be all of these things because I had parents who were safe and supportive, even in my impulsiveness. They guided me in my independence and allowed me to think for myself, even equipping me to stand up for my convictions when no one else would stand with me. I am so grateful for their guidance and partnership as I matured into womanhood. What a gift.

I recently read an article about a girl in Australia who “won” the right to add the option of pants to her school uniform due to her mother’s tenacity in fighting along side her daughter.  After reading the story, I so wanted to high-five this Aussie mom. I completely understood both her daughter’s frustration and the empowerment that comes with knowing you’ve got parents willing to get in the ring with you.

I attended a very small, private school during high school and uniforms were mandatory. I hated them, as did most of the student body over 12 years old. The school was Kindergarten through 12th grade and we all wore the same clothes. As a 17 year old, I wore the same things the 6 year old’s were wearing. I was bothered by this. In fact, during my junior year, I wrote a persuasive essay where I argued that allowing the upper classmates to dress like young adults, rather then the 1st graders in the portables next door, might create a desire for more mature behavior, and so, produce less disciplinary issues. It was a darn good paper. I know because my dad, who is an excellent writer, was my editor. He was just as excited as I was to see what change might come as a result of my essay. I get my “dreamer” genes from him. The results were I got my first “C” and a trip to the Principal’s office to discuss my irreverence.

Not joking.

But I didn’t let my crusade stop there. Later in the year, during the snowy winter months, I petitioned the school board to allow the girls to add pants to our uniform. Tights and Mary Jane’s can only go so far in 35 degrees and 6 inches of snow. I organized my thoughts, prepared my case, practiced my speech in front of my folks, and appeared before the school board at their monthly meeting. I was told “no.” Us girls needed to be dressed like “ladies.” Skirts were feminine. We were females.

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