new year | old fear

Things are all dark and unknown in the womb, yet we all felt safe there once. We had no control, we knew no answers, it was dark, and we were content and comfy there, right?

Babies are so content with that feeling that we try desperately to recreate that for them when they come out. We swaddle them. We shield their little peepers from the bright sun. We use white noise machines. They liked the dark, tight, unknown place. We all did once. But then we grew and….. yikes.

When did that happen? At what point did we decide that darkness and not knowing is terrifying? I don't remember some precise, life-changing moment when it became a thing for me, but geez— has it!

People ask me if it feels different now that Corinne is adopted.

YES.

I feel free. I feel in the light. I feel like I can move, and breathe, and sleep, and enjoy things, and not be constantly anxious, or unsure, or stressed.

I'd love to tell you that I felt perfect peace and rested confidently in God's sovereignty at all times of that journey. Ha! I didn't. I believe God is sovereign, and I believe He's good, but that doesn't mean that everything that happens FEELS good, right? So, that's where I felt I was. In the darkness, in the not knowing, and generally freaking out and eating a lot of junk food because I didn't know how I'd feel the next day, or the next, or ever.

Fostering, to me, felt like sitting a dark room. Pitch black. And people would come in and out all day, but somehow never open any doors, so I never saw the way out, and nobody EVER flicked on a switch or told me anything. Sitting in the darkness, knowing nothing, powerless to make my own path or know what the end looked like, or even see what was going on around me.

At some point I thought to myself about how I felt, and then I thought, "shouldn't that be like a womb? Why is it so hard? Why do I feel so dark about this darkness that I'm in?"

Because I have forgotten how to be a child.

"At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, "Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of Heaven?"
He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them.
And he said: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." matthew 18.1-4

There's spiritual value in "becom[ing] like little children." When I think of how the 502 days of fostering Corinne felt, it felt dark, and like I was powerless, and most upsetting of all— like I didn't know things. I'm convinced that I don't need to be in control. God has proven that to me. I'd make a horrible God, but He's a good one, and I am not Him, and things are GOOD in Him, so I don't need to be in control.

But my struggle really was in the not knowing. I wanted to accept whatever God's will was… but I needed to know it. The darkness felt oppressive. I just wanted to see what was coming, what would happen, just to prepare my heart and feel settled one way or the other. I just so desperately needed to know the things. All of the things. But I sat in the dark.

See, though, little children don't do that at all. Not even a little. They wake up, they play, they eat, they find comfort in their parents, they struggle to learn and accept discipline, but they don't feel trapped in a dark room because they don't know how their lives will work 502 days from now.

They trust. They follow. They know that we are right there to help them if they just call out. They are okay with only having a "lamp unto their feet, and a light unto their path." Me? I want to turn on my brights. I don't want to see today's path, I want to know what to do with my heart forever, beginning today.

We're gearing up to do this thing again. I'm not sure when exactly, or exactly what it will look like, but we know we aren't finished. And, I'm walking a fine line between feeling more prepared now that I've done it once, and also more terrified than ever.

We've been through something dark, and twisty, and difficult [and really we're still in it because adoption always has its foundations in brokenness, and that fight to overcome and heal doesn't end when the judge bangs the gavel], so looking at doing it again is different this time.

I KNOW how I will feel.
I KNOW how much I'm not like a child.
I KNOW my heart and my shortcomings the depths of my own sinful heart.
I KNOW what it feels like to be grown through this, and while it's good, it's hard, and I'd be lying if I didn't say it hurt too.

My struggle is needing to know. I'm a total lunatic. I can't stand not-knowing.

"Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

I feel an unquenchable need to know the things. An almost paralyzing need to know. I'm weak, and if I'll admit that, then it's easy to place my trust in the One who is strong, the One who KNOWS THE THINGS, just as a little child knows he's weak and trusts his parents will protect him.

Instead of feeling like I'm putting on my gloves for round two and getting to feel strong and pumped— I know I need just the opposite. I need to remember how to be like a child. To trust. To rest. To learn to walk through each place with tiny steps, not sprinting to the end or chewing on complex questions, or feeling strong, but relaxing because I know I'm weak, but cared for by a tender, yet fiercely strong Father.

Lastly, I find it delightfully paradoxical that these kids who come from hard places have to grow up before their time, deal with hard truths and needs that only big hearts should have to handle… yet in order to serve them well, we have to become like little children, trusting, and not scared of being in the dark, but comfortable in the womb-like darkness of not knowing the outcome because we know we're protected and loved by our Father. What a beautiful place to meet and grow together. Right in the middle of childhood.


Friends, I've just told you all about how dark and hard it felt… but we're doing it again. Hear that? YES, it's hard… but not so hard that the joy of it is lost. The goodness we find in the love our family has for this child far outweighs the fears and trials of it all. This could be true for you, too! Could this be the year that you do hard things, sow in tears, and reap abundantly in joy? If you think it could be, let's talk! 

moved by compassion

I almost can't watch TV anymore. Half the shows are criminal justice shows, and it's too real. My child came from a home where those stories are REAL. Just 45 minutes from my front door. What if she'd stayed there? What about the other kids in that environment? It's real.

[[ SVU- Olivia Benson finds an 8yr old in a cage ]]

[[ photo of the closet where 8yr old Lauren Atkinson was found after being locked there for 4yrs just outside of Dallas ]]

It's not "entertainment," but heartbreaking REALITY. 

In the New Testament, when Jesus does something to help someone, we often read that he was "moved with compassion." This isn't just a feeling of sadness, the Greek word here, σπλαγχνίζομαι, is a fuller word that means that your insides, your organs, are upset by what you've seen and you are so uncomfortable that you have to DO something. It's not "I feel sad" but "I'm suffering with you because of what I see and I HAVE to help, I'm MOVED to help." 

Pictures like the one above tend to disgust us, make us turn our faces away. They make us wish we'd never seen them. But what if it wasn't a picture? What if you opened that closet yourself and saw that little girl, 8yrs old but the size of an average 2yr old? Would you turn away? Would you close the door?

No. You'd reach in. You'd reach into that filth and pull out that little girl because she's REAL. You'd be moved with compassion to help. You couldn't turn away if you were right there. 

Dr. Amy Barton of Children's Medical Center Dallas says, “Unfortunately, we see many kids like this — children who come in who have injuries of multiple ages,” she said. “This means that this child has been injured several times over a period of time, and people may have seen, but because they didn’t intervene, they [the children] are now in the ICU. The severity in Dallas is worse, honestly."

From a 2011 Dallas Morning News Article by Sarah Kraemer, "Last year, 33,000 cases were reported in Dallas County, and 6,000 of them were confirmed. Each week, Barton sees between 20 and 35 abused children, with injuries ranging from bruises to broken rib cages and skull fractures."

This Dallas based doctor sees 20-35 abused children per week. PER WEEK. 

Where do those kids go?

To foster homes in the Dallas area.

Who speaks for them besides their attorneys? 

CASA workers of counties like Dallas, Collin, Denton, etc.

Could you be moved to help? Does it just make you sad when you hear that kids in your town are locked in cages, starved, beaten, sexually abused, born addicted to drugs, and more, or are you sick to your stomach about it and feel the need to help?

The thing is that we don't see it. Not really. We live in our sterilized suburbs. We know the stories are out there, but we aren't moved to help because they aren't in front of us. But we're grown up people with grown up hearts, right? 

What if we CHOOSE to open those proverbial closet doors? What if we choose to be the ones who see them? What if we, instead of happening across a closet door, stand, holding open our own front doors, waiting to help?

Could you be a foster parent? Maybe a CASA? 

Could you be feeling, deep within you, moved by compassion to do something?

dear birth mom

Dear Birth Mom,

You're young. So, so young. You're beautiful. You're brave.

I've seen you. I don't know if you know that I've seen you, but I have. You have these exquisite, high cheekbones that I honestly wish I had too. You smile, and you look happy, but I know that you are hurting and scared.

I've heard that you're smart. Everyone says you're cunning. You've been mistreated, and you've had to learn how to survive, so you know just the right things to say and do to protect yourself.

Today I thought I might see you. I thought I might get to know what your voice sounds like. I thought we might cry over the same things at the same time across a table from one another. On opposite sides of the struggles, opposite sides of the solution, but broken over this child who we both love in the only ways we know how. I thought we might feel awkward. I thought we might both be angry. We might both find that it's possible to love, and be grateful, and be full of fight all in the same moment.

I thought I might have to explain. I thought I might have to tell you that you are important to us, to this daughter that we share. That you'll be important to her for her whole life, and because you gave her life you'll always be important to us. You chose life. You chose her. You wept when they took her from you, and nobody helped you cope with that loss. They just told you to try harder. To prove yourself worthy. I hate that for you.

Here you were in the pit of agony that it must be to have a child, newborn and wrinkly, sleepy and warm, fully trusting and ready to love, with that sweet smell that's unlike anything else in the world… anything… yanked right out of your arms by people who told you that you'd failed again. Here's your checklist. Do better this time, and check those boxes faster-- or else.

But nobody ever checked their boxes for you. You weren't shown how. You were failed.

Today, I wanted to tell you that I can check those boxes for your baby, but I want you to check some too. I want to share that list with you because there are some things I can never be to her. I wanted to invite you into what could be a long, hard, but joy-filled road to healing. I wanted to invite you to help write a different story for your child. I wanted to empower you to choose what was never chosen for you. But that's not exactly how it happened. I didn't get to say anything. The lawyers did.

Your lawyer did a good job. She did her job well, and she should have. She stood strong for you and tried to say that it doesn't have to go this way. She tried to give you hope, to help you fight for one more chance. But I heard that hope got snatched right away from you.

People started listing all the times that you messed up. They just sat there and read your mistakes in your face, and I'm sorry. They had to. There wasn't a way around it, but I'm so sorry. 

I have made mistakes. We all have. We are ALL broken and just trying to do better. None of us is good. Not one. If my mistakes weren't forgiven, weren't erased, weren't forgotten, weren't let go of or dismissed, but they were tossed in my face and they cost me my children… I would crumble. I would absolutely come undone. I wouldn't believe that I could do anything. I wouldn't think I should. I wouldn't be able to try.

Who holds a record of wrongs? Not Love. Love doesn't do that. But the State does. They have to. You probably didn't experience or feel any love today. You probably felt shame. You were reminded that you failed, and you were reminded that everyone in your past failed you, too.

And when they reminded you of all the times you've failed… you picked up a pen.

I confess I wanted you to pick up that pen. I wanted you to sign those papers. But not like that. NOT LIKE THAT. I'm sorry. I'm so, so, so deeply sorry. With that pen in your hand you asked what you could get. What might still be yours. They told you that we love your daughter. That she has a good home, and that if she stays here we would still let you see her. They told you that some strangers would give you permission to see your own child. I'm sorry. I feel like screaming it. I'M SO SORRY. It wasn't what I imagined. It happened all wrong.

I've been imagining this all week. It's gone so many ways in my head and I've tried to think through every detail. I stood in my closet this morning and felt paralyzed. I told my husband that I didn't know how to dress. Do I dress like I would for court? Formal, professional, conveying a sense of respect for the building we're in and the honor it holds… or do I dress more casually because I don't want to seem haughty or sterile when I meet you? I don't want to distance myself from you in this moment. It was dumb, but I thought about how every detail about today could possibly make you feel and I felt awful in all of it.

I'd imagined a moment when you finally said we could come in. I imagined that maybe you'd want to see us, to meet us. You knew we were just down the hall. You knew we would come in if you wanted us to… but would we just be two more people to tell you that you'd failed? Wouldn't we just remind you that you made mistakes? I'm sure you thought so. But it's not what I wanted for you. You were hurting. You were broken. You were being broken by all of those people who were handing you back all of your wrong choices… as if those things hadn't hurt you enough already. Who wants to meet someone in that state? Who wants to be that vulnerable in front of new people?

But I didn't want to throw your mistakes at you. To tell the truth, I wanted to hug you. I would have been terrified. Probably would have broken into an embarrassing sweat, and cried all my makeup right off… but I wanted to be brave and offer you all of the tenderness I could, because Honey someone should have. Someone should have long ago. And I'm sorry.

I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I wanted to thank you for making this child. I wanted to tell you how crazy-super-impossibly-hugely important you will be to her for her whole life. I wanted to tell you that I think you're brave to show up today. To show up alone. Totally alone. I'm terrible at being alone, and terrified when I am. You looked so brave to me. I wanted to tell you that we want to give your child everything that you should have had. Everything that everyone deserves. I wanted to ask you to trust us, but to let you know that as a mother I know that sounds crazy. To trust someone else to raise your child? Insanity. A mind can't wrap around that kind of nonsense. That's unimaginable. But I wanted to ask you, to invite you to share a story that looks so different from your own, but so different from ours too.

Instead a woman with a very strong personality who does this stuff day-in and day-out with an unusually loud voice and high level of energy went back and forth between us. She pushed us both. She figured it out, and we both spoke through her to one another. I felt like I needed a minute. I bet you needed one, too.

You broke. The strain was too much. The cost of your mistakes far too high and nobody would let you forget it. You signed, you cried, and you left. You left before they gave you the picture I'd brought for you. You had to get out of there. I don't blame you.

We both cried. That loud lady caught me crying and asked if they were happy tears. I wanted to kick her in her knee. No, they're NOT happy tears. How could they be? This isn't at all what love looks like. This isn't how I want to handle anything with anyone, EVER. This feels just as dirty as the sin that got us all here because a young girl's choices were used as ammunition against her. That's evil… even if it's in the name of "best interest" for a helpless child.

I live every day in a place where I've been told that I'm smart, strong, capable, forgivable, worth helping, worth knowing, worth loving. My parents both loved me as best as they could. My childhood mistakes didn't follow me because my parents never let me make ones big enough to stick. They protected me. The same man who loved me as a girl loves me still. He's strong for me, he forgives me, he helps me, he's gentle with me and he still wants me. After all this time and all my mistakes my friends and family are still here. And, I'm safe. I'm a slave to nothing. I'm free.

I am not a slave to sin. I'm not a slave to the things that whisper in this world that they will satisfy. They won't. I remember them. I was young, but I remember those things trying to convince me that they would make me feel what I wanted to feel. Sometimes I still hear them whispering. But there's One who gives all, freely, and with full satisfaction. Real Love is all that will ever satisfy. Love keeps no record of wrongs and my record is clean. Not because I'm good, but because I'm loved. You are too, though. You have been bought at the highest price. You've been loved more deeply than you can imagine. You've been given the extent of all of the love in the world… but you've been lied to and told it's not for you. You've had demons whisper in your ear that the things they can offer will be better. There is nothing better. Nothing.

After I learned how things went in there today to convince you to pick up that pen, I wanted to go stuff my face with some tacos, lay in bed, cry, and hold that little brown baby that we both love while I read God's Word. I'm afraid for you, though. I'm afraid of what things you were longing to do to find relief from the depths of pain that you had to go through today. I pray that those lies don't entice you further. I pray that the weight of what you felt today doesn't crush you. I pray that somehow, in all of this, you feel the love that we have, that we want to have for you even in our own sin and fear, and ultimately the love that God has for you.

It's not over. We're all waiting. Nothing we signed is real today, and won't be for a few weeks or possibly longer.

But you picked up that pen today and you took a step toward what I believe is something that took an immeasurable amount of bravery to do. You aren't finished fighting, and no real mom would walk away without trying everything she could so I don't blame you, but for the steps you took today I want to say…

I'm grateful.
I'm proud.
I'm hurting.
I'm hopeful.
I'm scared.
I'm nervous.


Most of all though, I'm sorry. I wish you were still tiny. I wish you could start over. I wish I could help. I wish so many things for you, and even though I wish the best for your daughter, and I believe the best for her can be here… I wish it hadn't happened that way today. I'm sorry, and I love you. I hope you let me love you.



With deepest sincerity,
The Other Mom

more of the "I couldn't"s

[this sweet, soft image is here to distract you from the gritty content below]

"I mean, I love other kids, but not like I love my kids... so I just don't think fostering and adopting is for me." 

"I just don't think I could love another child like I love my own." 

"It wouldn't be fair to the child, because I know I couldn't love them the same." 


Y'all... my blood boils when I hear these. Hot. Bubbles right through my veins and I taste the salty, rusty taste on the inside of my cheek from my silent biting that is my best attempt at self control. AND, you'd think it ticks me off because it's not true, because the love is just the exact same. But, that's not the whole reason I get irked. I get mad because it's kind of true. People say it to us like we're over here just throwing love around like it's confetti... but it's hard work. It's a secret that foster moms talk about together, huddled in quiet corners, not wanting everyone to hear because it makes us feel like big fat failures. We have to build the love. It's not immediate and perfect, and mushy and fulfilling, and OURS right away.

The love doesn't FEEL the same. Remember when we talked about that? I'm real with you guys here. We want it to. We want all of those moments with the babies who weren't ours to begin with. We want the wash of hormones that makes us feel all mushy gushy and forget the hardness and the frustrations of parenting. We want to feel exactly the same levels of everything with our fostered and adopted kiddos that we felt when we held our slippery, cheesy, screaming, ten-months-of-waiting-but-still-brand-new, born-to-us, born-of-us, little babies to our chests the day they were born. We want it all. But it's not ours. 

We try.
We reach.
We stretch. 
We hope.
We desire.
We grow.
We learn.
We cry.
We question.
We doubt.
We struggle. 

...we love. We CHOOSE love. When we want those moments-- those bliss-filled moments of overwhelming emotion that come so easily with our born-to-us babies-- we have to choose them. We have to make them. We have to pull them out of thin air sometimes. 

Not because these babies [even if they're 16 yrs old they're babies, k?] are unlovable, or horribly smelly, or awful, or anything other than just kids... but because there's a piece missing. A piece that should be there but isn't because sin broke it, stole it right away from these children and it never belonged to you or me to begin with. 

Want to feel those sweet connections with that child who's so foreign to you? It doesn't just come over you. It's not something you can just decide to feel... but you can help yourself get there. 

Want to feel those feelings? 
Do the things. 

You have to do the things of love to get the feelings of love. Because we all know, love's not just a feeling. It's a choice. It's action. 

So, we do the things. The things of love eventually bring the feelings of love, too. When we want to feel all connected, when we know we're not, we have to draw near, press in, reach out. See, when your born-to-you baby does certain things, looks like that man you love with all of your heart, seems so familiar, seems so YOURS... you draw in because the feelings tell you to. The feelings woo you. This thing we're doing is sometimes sort of backwards. We have to woo the feelings to come to us. When we want to feel the feelings, we do the things. 

Babies born to us grow in us. We grow together. Our bellies grow big with the days they grow in us. Our breasts grow full to fill them. Our tears well up and over when theirs do. We are grown together. Naturally. Organically.

Then someone drops off a stranger's child on your doorstep. A stranger whose body grew big, too. Her breasts got full with what that child needed, too. Her tears probably ran the day she met her child, too. But something broke along the way. Their growing together didn't work quite the same. Maybe she grew to love something else more. Something that told her it would love her back, but it didn't. It lied to her. It wooed her away from her child. But that child still needed it all. Still needed to be growing with someone. Still needed all of the love that the Mama should be able to give. 

But here that child stands... on our doorstep. Asking, "Can someone love me? My Mama tried, but she couldn't. Can these people love me? Can we do the growing together? Is that possible?" 

Child, yes. Oh my soul, YES! You are worth the love. All of it. It got broken, but we want to help. 

When we want to feel the feelings, we do the things. 

When we feel disconnected, we intentionally connect.  
When we feel like we're holding a stranger's child, we hold them a little closer. 
When we feel like they aren't ours, we kiss them and sing hymns over them.
When we feel like what they're doing is so different and confusing, we invite them to do things with us.
When we feel like giving up because some days the feelings are so different and so hard, we scoop them up and plant kisses on them while we teach our hearts to memorize their smell and the way their hair tickles our noses as we breathe and hold them close. 
We hold them close and pray for them. 
We rock them. 
We play with them.
We read to them. 

We do the things... and you know what? The feelings come. 
They do, friends. 

These precious children aren't unlovable. There's nothing wrong with them [that wouldn't be wrong with us if we were abandoned, neglected and abused at our most vulnerable times]. There's nothing about them that makes them any harder to love than our born-to-us babies [because let's be real, our born-to-us kids aren't perfect and can be absolutely difficult sometimes]... except we have brokenness in us. Brokenness that lies to us and tells us we should only love what's ours. What looks like us. What smells like us. What we're used to. What feels familiar. What we've grown and built. What feels like me. Mine. 

Sin. That's what I believe it is. You might believe it's some leftover animal instinct or something, but isn't that just as bad? Aren't they both things to overcome? Things we know are poison to us living higher and better? 

Ever asked a couple who went through rocky times how they mended their marriage? They drew in. They pressed in and did the things of love so the feelings of love would come back. I promise. You might have married someone and felt head over heels, but what about when those feelings fade? When that person changes [because we all do]? Do you say, "oh, I guess I just can't love him/her like I loved the old him/her so probably marriage just isn't for me." No. I hope not. You press in. You find the love again. 

Because love is a choice and the feelings are the result of the choice. Not the other way around. 

We're supposed to love others the way we want to be loved, and the way we love ourselves [luke 10.27]. You know one way you love yourself? You love your children. They're yours. You love them because they're yours. If we're loving others like we love ourselves shouldn't we love children who need parents, children who aren't ours, like we love our own? 

But that feels weird, not like love. But when we want to feel the feelings, we do the things. 

This isn't just Jesusy stuff, either. I mean it is... because all truth is His truth... but the world is catching up to what God's already told us to be true about love. For example this excerpt from an article in Psychology Today: 

"Many people assume that the link between emotion and behavior is one-way: Emotions shape behavior. You love him, therefore you kiss him. You hate him, therefore you hit him. This view is incorrect. In fact, the relationship is reciprocal. Much of the time, behavior actually shapes emotion.
Ever wonder why so often the actor and actress who play a couple in a movie fall in love on the set? Multiple processes are involved, to be sure. Both are usually young and attractive. They have much in common. They hang around each other a lot. All these are known predictors of mate selection.
But they also do love scenes together. They have to act like people who care deeply for each other. They look into each other's eyes, they touch each other. They act out the behaviors of love. No wonder the emotion of love often follows."

When we do the things of love, we invite the feelings of love. All of it. We grow it, we feel it, we give it, and we get it. And, when you're connected to a source of unending, unconditional, uncompromising, real Love... the Lover of our souls, then you won't run out of it. You won't run dry. You won't fear. Perfect love casts out all fear [1 john 4.18]. 

So-- try this on. Just say it to yourself out loud:

Our children are so fantastically amazing because they're born to us! To AMAZING WONDERFUL ME! They're just like me in so many ways so I can love them so freely. They're adorable and I can just build my life around them because they're half me, and half that man/woman whom I love and am smitten with. You're welcome world, for the gift of MY kids. MINE. MINE. MINE. Those other kids? I couldn't love them the same. I shouldn't even try because I just know I couldn't. I only have that kind of love for the things that belong to me. 

Feel icky? Feel shameful? Feel wrong? That's what my ears hear whenever people say "I just don't think I could love another child like I love my own." 

Plus, would we say that to our kids' faces? Would we dare to look at them and say, "Mommy and Daddy only have enough love for you and your brother/sister. We love you, because you're ours, but we just couldn't love anyone else like we love you." Imagine their little faces. Would they look at you with questions? What if they asked "Why, Mama?" Does that not punch you in the gut? If they asked "why?" what on earth would we say? But what if they just took it? What if they just ate it right up and began to think that they are more worthy of love than others? 

My kids haven't looked at me yet and said, "You know, it's easier to love my brother/sister than it is to love this baby because she's not ours." We told them that for today we have a baby sister. She might get to stay, she might not, but for today she's our baby. You know what they did? They fell in love. They adore her. Isn't there something pure and precious about that? They love a baby, as a sister, just because for today this child is here as a sister. What sweet freedom they have in their hearts, and oh that we could find a measure of it in our own hearts too!

I'm not saying it's easy or the same-- this love. But I am saying this thought is the absolute wrong perspective and motivator. None of us are perfect love-givers. Hear me! None of us are loving exactly like we should. A lot of us feel like we're just trying to keep from drowning in our best efforts. We aren't any different from you or somehow more magically able to love, except that we've said yes to doing the things. The hard things. The uncomfortable things. The things of love. 

Love isn't ours to give or not give. Love is a command. 

Don't think you have enough love to give to children who aren't yours? Then you're choosing not to without ever really considering that maybe you could. You're choosing not to draw from and trust the ultimate Love-Giver. And it's a shame, because love grows, and it gives back, even when it isn't "the same." So, please don't let that be the thing that holds you back. Ask yourself the hard questions. There are legitimate reasons for some folks to say no to opening their homes... but this... this "they aren't mine so clearly I couldn't love them right" thing can't be the reason. Can it? 

2015 and the 50/50

[this has nothing to do with what I'm writing... but it's funny]

2015. Baby Girl has been with us 6 months now. Half a year. 

The beginning of this new year is a bit different than any I've experienced before. With every past January, I've had a pretty decent idea of the big milestones that were to come, and about when they would happen-- graduations, weddings, births, moves, etc.-- or totally caught off guard by the things you could never expect-- deaths, accidents, promotions, surprise pregnancies [let's be real y'all], a new Starbucks opening closer to your home [a girl can dream].

2015, though. 

I know that this year is likely to bring big answers about Baby Girl's future. If she stays or goes. If she goes we'll live, we'll be remarkably sad but we'll keep living. My kids will grieve too, and we'll all weather that storm together because we've known it could happen since before we even met her, and we've been real about the possibility in our family. If we find out that she'll stay we'll rejoice. We'll settle in. We'll talk about futures. We'll buy stock in the company that makes Aquaphor. 

The best thing I can relate this feeling to is the feeling I had when we knew, going into a new year, that James' former company was struggling and there was a chance he could be laid off. It was 50/50. We wanted him to stay, but we knew things would be fine if he didn't and he'd find a new job. We had a some savings, and we were prepared.

Then it happened. He went to work on a Tuesday, and he called me just a bit too early in the afternoon.  He shouldn't have been coming home yet, but he was. He'd been laid off. After almost ten years with a company, they cut him. We were in the not-so-good half of the 50/50 we knew was coming. Not that saying goodbye to a child is comparable to losing a job. Far from it. But, that feeling of uneasy suspense, knowing that we don't control the decision that is coming, but that will impact us so greatly, is sort of the same.

I know that we might have to kiss her sweet, soft, chubby little brown cheek and say goodbye... but we also might be told that we'll get to kiss her little face forever. Total HOPE, with a healthy, underling understanding of reality. [This weird dichotomy of emotions is why I stress-eat tacos and had to buy new pants. Welcome to foster parenting. You will need new pants.]

Regardless of what decisions are made, or what happens to any of us, we will praise God and look forward. The verse that I'm clinging to for 2015 is: Mark 9.24

“I believe; help my unbelief!”

In Mark 9.14-29 there's this dad. He comes to Jesus with his child. His boy. He explains that the child not only has seizures, but that he believes he's been possessed because at times he's physically forced into fire or water as though something is trying to kill him. Regardless of speculation about whether this could be something medical, psychological, or truly demonic, it doesn't matter. When we consider this boy's dad.... when we put ourselves into his shoes... does it matter? No. What matters here is a father pleading with God to save his child. To fix the mess. To make it right. To heal. To restore. To HEAR him, and in His compassion, to step in. That dad. Oh, goodness! That poor papa. Imagine being him. FEEL his plight. He's standing there. Jesus is in front of him, and he wants nothing more than for his child to be made whole, to be healed, to be safe and well. He's probably been told by anyone who was deemed qualified to help that his child was a lost cause. That his seizures couldn't be stopped. That he would suffer like this forever. He was probably tired. Right exhausted by the constant concern. He was desperate. He was afraid. He knew that this was the only thing left. Nothing else had worked. He probably didn't honestly believe, 100%, beyond a shadow of a doubt, with all of his heart, without reservation that his child would walk away healed. That he'd never again have to hold his child's convulsing body in his arms, and pray that this wasn't the one that would take him. That he could sleep, without fear that he would wake to find that his precious son was compelled into flames or into depths during the night. Rest. Rest probably didn't seem real to him at all. [mad props to Matt Chandler for making this so real, beginning about min. 39 in this sermon] 

BUT... he asked anyway. He WANTED to believe that his child could be healed. That he could rest. That this struggle and fight could end. He wanted to believe. His belief might not have been solid. Might not have been all that it needed to be after so many disappointments and so much uncertainty, but his desire to believe was true. His want to believe was 100%. His longing to hope was sincere. 

“I believe; help my unbelief!”

Faith is a gift. It's a gift from God, from the Spirit. We aren't faithful because we are just so capable of mustering this strength to believe up inside of ourselves. We're faithful because we're given faith by the Spirit, because faith is grown in us by The Grower who honors even our tiniest attempts to trust Him.

So, I pray that throughout 2015 my faith is grown. And along the way, I plan to pray:

“I believe; help my unbelief!”

Regardless of what side of the 50/50 we fall on with Baby Girl, I want to trust fully that God is in control. That if she stays, He faithfully delivered her to us because we were the right family for her. Because in our own mess God saw that she could grow and fit here, and in His goodness He entrusted her to us. If she goes, I want to believe that He knew she wasn't to be our daughter. That she didn't belong here forever, but that He would do a work in her life wherever she goes. And, I want to believe that in that loss, The Healer could heal my broken heart. 

“I believe; help my unbelief!”