Becoming Brave and Opening the Door

I was reminded of this story from Acts 9 while I listened to a recent sermon from Austin New Church (which can be found here).  This serves as our introduction to Saul, a Pharisee and persecutor of the Way, Jesus' followers.  Saul will become Paul as a result of his encounter with God on the road, and will go on to write most of the New Testament letters and spread the gospel message further.  But in Acts 9, Saul is traveling and is suddenly struck blind and hears a voice from heaven.  He does what the voice says, which makes sense, because even with our modern Western medicine and technology, if I suddenly lost the ability to see, and I heard someone giving me instructions to restore my sight, you better believe I'd follow those words down to the letter.

And then the story takes an interesting turn.  God has called out to a man who will make a radical life change and plant churches all over Asia and Europe, but then he also speaks to a man named Ananias.  Ananias is already a believer, already fully committed to God and His Church, so when he hears the voice, he responds, "Yes, Lord."

The Lord told him, "Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street.  Ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul.  He is praying.  In a vision, he has seen a man named Ananias.  The man has come and placed his hands on him.  Now he will be able to see again."

"Lord," Ananias answered, "I've heard many reports about this man.  They say he has done great harm to God's people in Jerusalem.  Now he has come here to arrest all those who worship you.  The chief priests have given him authority to do this."

But the Lord said to Ananias, "Go!  I have chosen this man to work for me.  He will carry my name to those who aren't Jews, and to their kings.  He will bring my name to the people of Israel.  I will show him how much he must suffer for me."

Then Ananias went to the house and entered it.  He placed his hands on Saul.  "Brother Saul," he said, "you saw the Lord Jesus.  He appeared to you on the road as you were coming here.  He has sent me so that you will be able to see again.  You will be filled with the Holy Spirit."  Acts 9:10-17

As I reflect on the word brave this month, I am reminded of how often God's calling to me has been the same as for Ananias.  Open your door.  Take down your walls.  Let others in.  Ananias had every reason to stay away from Saul.  He'd heard all about him, and he didn't want to get locked up or put to death.  He just wanted to worship the Lord in peace.  But God had a plan not just to redeem Saul's life, but Ananias' as well.

The world is teeming with stories of hate and violence and fear and isolation.  Sometimes it is impossible to separate the people of God from everyone else, because we allow ourselves to hear these tales and we shut our doors.  We try to keep it out.

"For God has not given us a Spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love and self-discipline." (2 Timothy 1:7)  God calls His people to be brave.  To open their doors and step out in faith.  Nowhere in my life is this more evident than our decision to become foster parents, and then adoptive parents.  Plenty of people warned us and tried to talk us out of doing it.  We would be opening ourselves up to something unknown, possibly dangerous.  We rejected that mentality, because we don't believe in fearing what we don't know.  Instead of some horror, we became the parents of a beautiful little boy, who nestled himself firmly in our hearts.  And that little boy, in turn, opened us to a whole family of people of look like him and share his personality quirks.  Though it is sometimes difficult, it is a beautiful expression of God's kingdom that we are able to walk this journey openly.

Sometimes being brave means opening the door of an adoption agency, and beginning the process of placing your child in someone else's home.  Sometimes it mean opening your door to a child (or children) in need of a family.  Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is let go of the labels we've borne in the past (unloved, abandoned, unworthy, ashamed) and let in people who will walk with us towards healing and wholeness.

God didn't give up on Saul, even though he persecuted God's people, sometimes to the point of murder.  God didn't let Ananias stay in his house, scared and alone.  God brought these two men together to accomplish the work of His kingdom, and generations of believers have been blessed by their courage.

God hasn't given up on you either.  Every morning, He gives us the chance to be brave once again.  So who will you let in?

Adoption: Love is all you Need

I remember so vividly the scene in 16 & Pregnant when Tyler and Caitlin told their parents they were giving their baby up for adoption.  When they listed all that they couldn't provide for their child.  And Tyler's father's response was "Love is all you need."  And I was dumbfounded when this 17 year old boy responded, "No, you need more than love.  You need diapers, you need food, you need a job!"  How telling that this kid realized that you need more than feelings (or Beatles' lyrics) to raise a child.

Some children are adopted because they come from poverty or young parents, like Tyler and Caitlin.  And some kids are adopted because someone intervened to protect them from abuse or neglect.  Either way, children who leave their birth parents experience a huge loss.  As I have traveled on this road of adoption as a foster mother and adoptive mother, I have learned more and more about the deep wound of separation and loss.

Hearing adopted people talk about their grief makes my heart constrict.  Partly it hurts me to watch people experience this level of trauma.  After all, it was the deep love and compassion in me that led me to fill out all the papers and make a place for this child in my home and in my family.  I don't want him to hurt, to grieve.  My greatest desire for all my children is wholeness.  But part of me is selfish.  Part of the pain I feel centers on my wish to be enough.  I want to be the only mom some days.  I want to fill all the empty places in my child's heart.  The reality is that I can't.  I can't be the cure.  I can't erase the past.  I can only love enough to fill one piece of my son's heart; that love can't fix everything.

As adoptive parents, we have two choices.  We can stick our fingers in our ears and hum "La La La" as loudly as necessary to drown out the voices telling us that adoption is painful, or we can surrender our pride and accept that our children need more than our love to come into adulthood with healthy, intact hearts.

Brother and Sister 2014

For me, this means doing all I can to maintain relationships with members of my son's first family.  We are not necessarily close or in daily contact, but we are able to get together once or twice a year and celebrate this boy that we all love.  It means letting another woman share the title of "Mom", of stepping aside so she can bond with our son.  It means sharing my weaknesses and frustrations and selfishness with my husband behind closed doors, and not making a child responsible for my happiness.  It means learning and researching adoption issues and preparing myself for future conversations.  It means pointing out people who have already walked this road, whether they are friends and neighbors or Buddy the Elf.  It means parenting without a map.  It means delving into the Beatles' catalog and choosing to quote from the song "Help!" when discussing parenting and adoption.  It means I need more than love; I need openness, grace, and support to keep going.

Two mommies

On Getting Messy

A few years ago, Chris and I decided it was no longer enough to say and do all the right things without actually touching the hurting world around us.  We weren't satisfied to remain in our comfortable suburban life, raising our two biological sons, so we went out.  Outside the box, outside the established order, outside what we knew.  We looked complicated and messy in the eyes and rolled up our sleeves.

It would be inspirational to say that we love this life.  I would challenge you to join me in this messy work because I would show you pictures and tell you amazing stories and I would say, "It's so worth it."  But the truth is that stepping out of comfort and into the messy lives of other people, touching their wounds and sitting through their dark nights is hard.  And there are days when I wish we hadn't changed anything.  Days when I long for suburban comfort and simple answers.

And then I pull out my Bible.  Something that has been hitting me hard lately is where I find Jesus in these stories.  Jesus is never at the extreme.  He isn't supporting sexism or racism or elitism or terrorism.  Because those are easy.  It's easy to say you don't like people who don't look like you or live in your neighborhood or speak your language.  It's much, much harder to take each person as they come, to get to know them all and realize that some poor people are great, and some are kind of obnoxious.  Just like some rich people are kind, and some are huge a-holes.  Good leaders can be found among men and women.  Jesus knows that, because He knows people.  Jesus can always be found in the middle, in the tension between two extremes.  While politicians debate and opposing sides entrench in their beliefs, Jesus walks among the crowds, healing and teaching.

This is where I am tonight.  I am frustrated and tired and not sure what comes next.  I am looking back with longing at the life I could have continued in and wishing for easy answers.  I don't feel like an inspiration or a paragon.  I can't promise that you won't get dirty in this tension.  But it's the only place I know to find Jesus.

Love or Fear

This past year has brought a new relationship into my life.  It's exciting, like most new relationships.  It's challenging, like most new relationships.  And it's tender, which makes me take a protective stance over it, which makes me hesitant to write about it.  But this is what I do, how I process, so here goes:

  My youngest son is adopted.  We took a leap of faith and became foster parents and he came to live with us and joined our family.  That is the happy story that we like to focus on.  That is the truth, but only part of it.  Because every adoption has another side to the story, one that is not so happy.  Every adopted child came from somewhere, someone, and this child is no different.  He was born to a man and a woman who lost custody of him, who seemed to disappear for a few years.  But this past year they resurfaced.  In February, I was invited to meet with his birth mom.  She was in recovery, she was doing well, she wanted to see us.  Me and him.  So we went.  We bundled up and braved the roads on an extremely snowy day, and we waited for her.  As if that isn't weird enough, I was excited.  I kept thinking I should feel nervous or afraid, but I was only looking forward to it.  She came through the door and we hugged and she smiled and I felt a surge of connection with this woman who shares my son's eyes and smile.  We shared a meal, and then she asked to contact me again.  I nodded in agreement and passed our son to her arms so she could walk around with him a bit.  Until that day, the woman we called Mama Jenny had just been a face in a photo, an idea that we talked about from time to time, but now she was flesh and blood and snuggles and laughter.

Two Mamas, February 2014

  A few weeks later, she called us.  Once again we met for a meal and once again she snuggled our son.  And then I invited her to come to church with us the next day.  And she did!  We met again and walked through the park, with all of my kids in tow this time.  We talked more and hugged and took pictures.  My husband and I talked things over and decided we were ready to invite her to our house.  On Memorial Day, we grilled food and my parents joined us and there was Mama Jenny, sitting on the lawn and chasing Michael and talking to my folks.  Every week or so, we would meet up, spend time with the kids, and return to our homes.  We text.  We post photos of each other on Facebook.  We share meals.  We go to the park.  We have picnics.  It feels a little like I got to adopt a sister along with a son.  Because we have more in common than just him.  We played the same instrument in our high school matching bands.  We love animals.  We like coffee and donuts.  We think Michael should eat more vegetables.

  Right about now you're thinking there should be a "but".  People love to interject their concern.  But doesn't Michael get confused?  But you are his "real" mother, right?  But what if someday he chooses her over you?  But what if she takes advantage of you?  But what if she tries to take him?

  Sometimes I'm tempted to let fear creep in to this thing we are doing.  There is no road map, there are no self-help books to guide us, there is only the love I have for our son, which spills over to the woman who gave him life.  Because this is the very bottom line:  I love her.  I love her the way you love your family.  And the Bible says that perfect love casts out fear.  When I'm tempted to draw a line between us, to see her as "them" and the people in my house as "us", I dig into that love.  I choose love, because love is the most powerful force on earth.  I choose inclusion because it just makes sense.  I refuse to give in to hypothetical scenarios that are decades away, when each of us will be different versions of ourselves because we all will have grown and learned more and participated in life together.  As for right now, no, Michael doesn't get confused.  He has always been able to understand this idea of two moms and two dads and brothers that live in the same house and sisters who live somewhere else.  We get confused because our minds are stuck in this mentality that only one woman can be Mom and if he is calling her Mom then I have somehow lost that position.  It's ridiculous.  And this thing about "real" mom vs. (I don't know) fake mom?  It's not a competition.  It's not about labels.  Because I would lose.  I mean, sure I've kissed booboos and changed diapers in the middle of the night and read stories, but she has the trump card.  Without her, he wouldn't be here.  So I don't keep a tally of who is doing more or who is more important.  We are both the Mamas, and I'm fine with it.

Fourth of July 2014

  As far as custody or kidnapping, I can't say for sure, but I'm thinking that our current arrangement is working well for everyone.  I have a beautiful son whom I love.  He has two women who are over the moon in love with him.  She gets to have a relationship with a child she lost once before.  Why would any of us jeopardize that?  Love comes swiftly and without much effort for us, but trust is something we develop over time.  I see the way she cares for him, I see how much she loves him.  I am trusting her more each day, as she continues to show up and be his mom.  I'm learning the beauty of sharing, which didn't seem to make sense all those years ago when I fought with my sister over Barbie dolls and clothes.  It reminds me of the women who came to Solomon, both claiming to be the mother of one child.  The wise king proposed that they cut the child in half, and each woman get part of him to take home. The woman who agreed to this horrifying "solution" was deemed the liar, because a REAL mother would rather see her son raised by another than hurt him.  And so it is with us.  We are both willing to sacrifice a sense of ownership over this boy in order to keep him in one piece.  And love wins.

Even When Your Heart is Breaking...

Tonight, I'm nursing a broken heart.  It's happened before, of course, when the boy that I liked didn't feel the same way, when the person I loved, a fixture in my life, passed on.  I felt that shattering inside, cried those nonstop tears, wondered how I would ever get through it.  But this is a brand new heartbreak, because today the social worker called.  Instead of vague ideas and hypotheticals, she called to give me a date.  Two weeks.  In two weeks, our little girl will be moving back home with her family.  All I could say was, "Oh," as the lump formed in my throat.  Because we knew this was coming.  We had been told this was the plan.  This is what we signed up for.  And yes, I can think of a hundred different reasons why this is going to be good for everyone, how this is the best plan given the messed up nature of the world we live in, where parents aren't always the best people to raise their children, where a flawed but well-meaning foster care system is necessary.  I won't have to worry about that hair anymore.  She won't talk back to me when I speak.  Our next holiday celebration isn't going to be hijacked by her behavior.  She won't be able to teach my sons anymore bad habits, and maybe the ones they've learned over the past eight months will die out over time.  She'll be with the people who look like her.  She'll be able to see her mom more.  She'll be someone else's responsibility, which would mean I can finally relax.

But every time I think of it, the actual date, packing up the dolls and hair products and clothes and shoes that have drifted to every corner of our house, I just keep crying those non stop heartbreak tears.  Because we are her family, and I am her mother except in the one way that matters to a judge.  After living with us for eight months, she has become my daughter, and I love her.  I just hung our new family photo yesterday, the one with Chris and I surrounded by daffodils, with four kids spread across our laps, 3 blonde boys and one brown girl.  That is my family, but in two weeks, it won't be.  Instead of listing all the ways she bugs me, I keep thinking how much I'll miss her.  I'll miss seeing her grow up.  I'll miss all the development that will happen after this point, won't see the final result of all that we've poured into her.  I won't know for sure that she is safe, that she is being fed, read to, hugged, given appropriate boundaries.  Maybe her (other) family will still call and invite us to see her, but it's not guaranteed. 

We knew this was going to happen, theoretically when we signed up to be foster parents, and practically, when her social worker told us she would be moved sometime this summer.  And I've said myself that I just can't see us adopting her, signing up for another 15 years of being exclusively responsible for her, making her a permanent member of our family.  Right now, I wish I could be more calculating, more rational about all of this.  I wish....I don't know.  That I wasn't human?  That the very act of caring for someone day in and day out didn't forge a deep and lasting connection between two people?  That I could just smile and wave and tell her goodbye and never think of her again?  I honestly kept thinking that when it was time for her to go, we would just go back to our regular lives.  But now I see the flaw in that thinking, because there is no going back, there is no life previously in progress that has just been waiting, static.  We are all different than we were 8 months ago, both because the boys are young and that is just the nature of early childhood, but also because this girl came into our house and she infiltrated every one of  us.  How are my boys going to react to losing the person they have started calling their sister?  Part of me thinks there will be some relief, a welcome quiet in the mornings and in the car and all day long,  Probably they will notice and appreciate that there is one less person to share with, one less person to occupy their mother's time and her lap.  But at the same time, I think they'll miss playing with her.  I think they'll miss her nonstop energy, her whole-hearted joining in of whatever game they devised.  We've laid the groundwork to answer their questions, of course.  They know she has another mommy, another home.  We've said she's just here for a while, but they will never have to go.  I've whispered that this is their forever home and I am their forever mommy in the quiet minutes before they fall asleep.

I keep thinking back to a conversation that Chris and I had at Friendly's (because, of course it was at Friendly's, where every pivotal moment in our relationship has happened, every deep conversation, every big decision) a few years ago.  Michael was just a baby, only a few months old and just coming out of the infant drug addiction that brought him to our family.  His social worker had informed us that she was contacting family members, looking for a kinship placement for him.  We sat across from each other, the little guy fast asleep next to me, and Chris said, "I think we should have another baby."  I shook my head.  No.  I didn't want to be pregnant again.  I was no longer interested in growing our family biologically.  And besides, I knew the real reason he wanted me to get pregnant was to salve his heart as he faced the loss of Michael.  He wanted to make a baby that they wouldn't be able to take from us, because there would be no conflicting loyalties, no one standing before the king and asking to cut him in half.  Another baby would be all ours.  But that wasn't the solution to losing Michael, and I told him that.  Chris was disappointed, but he knew I was right.  I wish I could summon that calm person right now.  Because I just keep thinking about how nice it would be to get pregnant, to have a new child to look forward to while I am losing this one that I love.  It won't happen, because we took that option off the table about a year ago.  There are always more foster kids though.  More babies and toddlers and preschoolers who need a home, a safe adult to look out for them.  As much as I want to call Children's Services and ask them to send me another, I know that I need a break, at least for a few months.  I need to let myself grieve.  I need to feel what I'm feeling, because there is no "fix" for this.

Time heals all wounds.  Right?  So if I can just give it time, maybe I can stop crying.  If I just think about all that she has learned and experienced while in our care, maybe I can tell myself that we did what we could, what she needed, and release her.  Maybe if I can quiet this internal storm, I can hear the voice that reminds me that He loves all His children, that she will always be in His care, that His love is big enough and deep enough and transforming enough that we'll all be able to get through this.  And I need to remember the look on her face, the huge smile that broke out when I finally dried my eyes long enough to tell her that she was going to see her grandma, that she gets to have a sleepover this weekend.  She knows who her family is, every last one of us, and she belongs with them as much as she belongs here.

Becoming a Family

I've written before about the process of becoming a foster parent.  There were so many thoughts, so many fears, just the months leading up to receiving our license provided enough material to keep this blog going.  So here's another from back then: I worried that becoming foster parents would ruin our family.  I would lay in bed at night and think about this beautiful, amazing, increasingly rare thing we had.  Chris and I did it all in the "traditional" order: we got married, we had a baby a few weeks after our second anniversary, we waited 18 months and then we made another one.  I gave birth to two healthy, beautiful boys, and the four of us were a family.  Chris earned the money, I stayed home with the kids, we all had the same last name and the same skin color and the same love of buttered popcorn and movies on the couch.  When the time to enroll the boys in school came around, we just showed up with a birth certificate and immunization record, filled out some papers, and it was done.  We got to skip over the lengthy sections detailing custody agreements.  We got to travel when we wanted, to make all the decisions affecting our kids.  We made a family from our own DNA, and I thought being in that exclusive club held us together.

We got the call, we brought home a baby, and it was different.  When I held him, when I gave him his bottle (no breastfeeding, which was a bummer), I didn't search his features to find the ones that matched mine.  Between the pediatrician and the caseworker, we made arrangements and implemented their decisions.  We tried to be considerate of the strangers who visited with him each week, the people who bore the titles of Mom and Dad.  We had to get a court order to take him out of state to visit my sister.  And then, one day, he began talking.  His first word was "Dada", and he said it while he was in my husband's arms.  A month later, he called me "Mama".  And I was confused at first, because he called the other woman Mama too.  I thought there could be only one, but he showed me how silly and narrow that was.  At church, we began meeting with other families, and we talked about being a family to others.  The doors of my heart opened to the people coming through the doors of my house.  Michael was just the beginning, as we reached out to his sisters and the relatives taking care of them, the other Second Moms.  And, despite not having a title, a roll-off-the-tongue name to describe how we fit together, I knew we were becoming a family.  My preteen neighbor started coming over, and bringing her friends, and we would stop by her house and spend time with her parents, and another branch was added to our tree.  We got another call, a little girl this time, and she quickly joined the other kids in calling me Mom, and she loves to tell people that she has two Moms, two Dads, two Grandmas and one Nana, and a Grandpa.  And she began to use a word we hadn't taught her to describe our boys; she called them her brothers.

All these people, they taught me that family isn't about looking alike and living in one house together.  Family describes the people we love, the ones who live in our homes and the ones who find a place in our hearts.  Family is who we show up for, it's who we take care of, it pulls us together.  When Michael's First Mom contacted us, when she came back to the land of the living, it was the easiest thing to share a meal with her, to talk to her, to let him sit on her lap.  Of course we want to see her, to help her, to clear off a chair for her to join us.  Because she's family.

On Eugenics

When I was a flight attendant, I had the opportunity to observe all types of people.  Every so often, someone would hug me.  The huggers had one thing in common: they weren't harried businessmen (those guys whipped out their cell phones as soon as possible and were already deep into "important" discussions by the time they passed me), or parents (fumbling to carry all the accessories for their little kids)....all the huggers had Down's Syndrome.  The only group of people I met in all my travels who didn't care that I was a relative stranger, that weren't upset at the seat they were assigned, who weren't rushing to their next gate or destination.  There are tests that can be performed on pregnant women to let them know they are carrying a child with Down's, and 70% of women who receive this diagnosis set up another appointment to terminate their pregnancies.  There is no test that can let a mother know she is giving birth to a future serial killer, to a man who will someday rape a woman or embezzle millions of dollars.  There is no way to guess if a baby will grow up to be someone horrible, who will make this world a worse place.  But that test that detects trisomy 21 (aka Down's), it doesn't just tell us that our babies will look a little different or have heart problems or cognitive delays...that test also indicates that a woman is carrying a person who will bring joy and laughter and unabashed dancing into the world.  The kind of person who hugs their flight attendant.  The kind of person who sees and lives a little differently.  Yet that's the one who gets aborted.

James, before diagnosis

My son James was three years old when he was first labeled with the word "autism".  It was the first time I perceived anything different about him.  What if there had been a test, a routine part of pregnancy for a healthy 24 year old woman like myself, that would have revealed what the future held for James?  What if I had been given a choice to end it before it even began, and what if that choice was informed only by statistics and words like perseveration and nonverbal and out of control and institutionalized?  What if someone had told me then how hard it would be sometimes, how much thought and worry and struggle would mark our lives?  My choice back then would have been affected by an extreme selfishness...the kind that is eradicated when you care for a child with special needs.  Instead, I proceeded in ignorance, I gave birth not knowing.  For three years, I cared for him, fed him, studied him, engaged him, cuddled him.  I fell in love.  And so, when the doctor used that word, that scary label that seemed to imply that he was less than what he should have been, I took my beautiful boy and walked out of his office. (If I was a less polite person, I might have given him the finger)  I should clarify, we followed the advice of the other professionals who evaluated James: he began speech therapy and attended an early intervention preschool.  I became a student of developmental disabilities and sought out solutions to make this world more liveable for him.  And while autism affects his life, it isn't all that he is.  He is kind.  He is silly.  He has a terrific memory.  He loves nature.  He is a great driver (in video games at least).  For the past two years, he has exceeded the goals set for him by his teachers.  And it is thrilling to hear our celebrations of all he has accomplished drown out those warnings the doctor proclaimed over his future.  My son isn't perfect, but he is precious, and he has changed the way I look at people.

James, after diagnosis

 My pro-choice friends have been vocal and clear about why they believe in abortion rights, and I would just like to take a moment to explain why I feel differently.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because abortion is the end of the story.  That's it.  You won't face the difficulties that you would have if you had given birth, but you will miss out on the joy and wonder too.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because even if you are a parent for a day, a week, five years, twenty-nine years, or until the end of your days, it's worth it.  There is no other experience on earth that comes close to it.  There is no artificial re-creation of it.  I say CHOOSE LIFE.  Because that child that you can't imagine raising, who may seem like a burden, to me he is a wonder.  I belong to a special group of women (we call ourselves "adoptive moms") who literally ache to hold that child in our arms, to nurture and raise and love him.  If you can't do it, friend, we will.  And so again, I say CHOOSE LIFE.

This is My Son

We've all heard the phrase, "God is a mystery."  And its true.  There is so much that I don't understand, that I don't get, so much that just completely baffles me about this guy who is the Lord of the Universe.  But sometimes...sometimes the words jump out at me, and they are so true, and so in tune with the language of my heart, that the doubt is pushed aside and I fully worship this God that I love.  God sent us Jesus, His Son, and when Jesus' ministry began, when he was baptized by his cousin and started to live the life he had been sent to live, "A voice from heaven said, 'This is my dearly loved Son, who brings me great joy!'"  Oh God.  I get you so much in that one sentence.  I know how you looked at him, I know how your heart swelled with tenderness and love because He. Was. Your. Son.  I know those feelings, because you blessed me with three sons, and each of them brings me great joy.

James

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  When I look at him, I see bright eyes and a strong body.  I see the child who made me a mom.  I see an amazing big brother.  I see a boy whose brain is wildly, wonderfully different from mine.  And maybe having that difference makes you think that he is a challenge, that my life is harder or less enjoyable because I am his mother.  Maybe you hear the word "autism" and a myriad of behaviors or disabilities cloud your vision.  Maybe you think it makes him less...less of a person, less important, less intelligent.  But you would be wrong, on all counts.  Because I consider it my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to learn from him just as much as he is learning from me.  Because I chose a while back to CELEBRATE my son, to cheer his accomplishments, at whatever rate they happened.  To be his safe haven in a world that doesn't "get" him.  To cherish every hug, every kiss, every cuddle. (to pause blogging and read a book about starfighters with him)  To stop comparing him to other kids, and focus on what makes him uniquely HIM.

James and Winston

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  Because my first child gave me a new sense of purpose, a title and a role that I never thought I would be good at.  So I said, Let's do it again.  And he was worth the uncomfortable pregnancy, the expansion that took place in my body so that it would never return to its previous glory.  He is bright, and open, and full of life.  He is a performer, who will repeat himself over and over and over if he gets applause or even a laugh the first time.  He loves to watch videos of himself, and finds them more entertaining than any DVD in our collection.  He is bossy, and a perfectionist, and can be very emotional.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, who learns from his big brother every day, who wraps his arms around me and says, "Oh Mommy, I love you!  You are so beautiful!  Hug me tighter!"  Who takes off his clothes at any opportunity, and shows the world what God gave him.

Winston, Michael, and James in a fire truck

This is my dearly loved son, who brings me great joy.  From the first time I held him in my arms, I wanted him to be mine, and mine alone.  But he has shown me how much room a human heart has, space for two moms and two dads, for two brothers and three sisters, for cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents ad infinitum.  When I look at him, I see her.  I see his first mom, the one who gave him life, who left him with me, who has no idea just how amazing her child is.  And when I look into his blue eyes, the beautiful eyes they share, I pray for her.  I pray that she is safe, that no news is good news, that someday she will come back to him.  So she can see how much he loves trucks and action, but also what a tender nurturer he has become.  So she can see his short little legs pumping and swinging to keep up with his big brothers.  So she can experience his smile, his frequent kisses, his possessive occupation of laps.  I consider it to be my great privilege to watch and raise this child, to soak in all these moments and tendencies, to watch over him in her absence.

These are my dearly loved sons, who bring me GREAT JOY everyday.

A Good Match

I call this one "Baby Faces"

Its nerve-wracking, that whole dating thing.  Isn't it?  Does he like me as much as I like him?  Does he like me a little too much and maybe I'm just not really feeling it?  Will we last?  Does he love me enough?  Is love enough?  Is it even worth jumping in, when you watch your parents or your recently married friends struggle, give up, set TNT around their marriage and just blow the whole thing up?  I don't miss those days.  I don't miss the uncertainty and the sense of how important it was to choose correctly.  And what was supposed to guide me?  Should I listen to the advice of friends?  Should I go with my "gut"?  Is there such thing as a soul mate...and is he The One?  If our relationship is nothing like a movie or CW show, does that mean its wrong? (*to clarify, it actually means you are doing something VERY right...the truth is way better than fiction)  And in the end, and how many of you married folks can say a big Amen to this, the things you were looking at while you were dating end up not being as important after the I do's, and if you are lucky and have made a good match, you will find a depth of love and tenderness and faithfulness that you couldn't even imagine existed before you were husband and wife.  And nine years later, I can look at this man beside me and say YES, we are a good match.  You and me together make a TEAM...we knock out the dishes, we take turns cooking dinner, you bathe the kids and I dress them, and on the rare night that they are all asleep before 9:30, sitting on the couch together and watching a movie is the absolute best thing ever.  He goes out every day and makes the money to pay for the house that I clean, the groceries I buy, the clothes and games and books for the kids that I spend all day with.  We challenge each other and grow together, we share ideas with each other (again, on the rare occasion that we can talk without screaming over four little voices).  He encourages me, tells me I can do it when the self-doubt reaches crippling mode.  I give him the once over before he leaves to make sure clothes are on right-side-out and collars are laid down evenly.  Despite the uncertainty I felt as a newlywed, the intervening years have made me appreciate how well we go together.

Three generations: Linda, Chris, and Winston

So then, when you start adding children to the mix, and you wonder how many?  And what will they be like?  Will we still be a good match?  Will they fit into our family?  When you give birth to a child, these questions are small and easily answered.  Of course he fits here.  He looks just like me.  He laughs like his dad.  He shares his grandpa's interest in moving little figures around in different patterns FOR HOURS.  He is undeniably ours.  But what if you go outside the box (no dirty pun intended) to get your kid?  What if you adopt from Ethiopia, a beautiful chocolate baby who requires homework and training to care for?  What if you become a foster parent and open yourself up to all the issues and problems that mal-treated children bring with them?  Then the doubt comes, and it reminds you so much of high school and dating and crushes, but its so different at the same time because its children who are joining your family and living in your home, and there is no divorce once the judge bangs that gavel and a new birth certificate is printed up.  Will she love me as much as she loved her first mom?  Does he wish we hadn't brought him here, made him one of us?  Is love enough?  And this is what I know, having passed from the hypothetical to the practical, transitioning from the foster mom to the mom (no qualifiers).  Just like I made a list of qualities that my future husband needed to have (not anything crazy, just a few items like having the same religion), a child who comes to our family has to fit within a parameter in order to be a good match.  We got lucky the first time around.  We got Michael, a sweet, angel baby who looks just like us and was our son (and James and Winston's brother) from day one, and I learned that sometimes your soul mate weighs six pounds and wakes up every three hours.  He doesn't know anything other than living with us, nor does he find it strange that he lives with his brothers but only sees his sisters a few times a year.  We rolled the dice a second time, not knowing if this had been a fluke, if it was possible to find, in this system of broken children and hopeful parents, another good match.  But we did.  A little girl has come to stay for awhile (oh, how we love the vagueness of caseworkers, but honestly, there is no way to know what the future, or even next Tuesday, holds for her).  And she runs around with the boys and learns their songs and teaches them to play with guns.  She yells and laughs and jumps on the couch.  She practices karate moves and plays Fight.  She calls me mom, and a few days ago, asked why she isn't in our family photo, the one we took a year ago, long before we met.  And I see, the way I see with Chris, that we are a good match.

Could you say no to that face?

Its not without challenges, don't get me wrong.  But my marriage has plenty of challenges too.  That's what happens when two imperfect people come together and live on top of each other and eat all the Oreos and knock over piles of folded laundry (am I talking about the hubs or the kids?  I can't even tell).  Its why we filled out a profile, we will consider a child with this, we cannot take a child with that.  Right now we can only handle little kids...later, we hope to make room for some older ones.  And our family worker knows us, knows what kind of kid would do well here, and what kids will do better in a different family.  It doesn't mean that it is wrong.  It doesn't mean we made a mistake.  This is why love exists in the first place, to overcome those difficulties.  And love is enough.  Big, perfect, fearless, humble, compassionate love.  It moves mountains.  It changes lives.  It makes strangers into a family.

Moses and Foster Care

When we finally took the leap and started our paperwork to become foster parents, Chris and I realized that we needed to explain what was happening to our kids.  We needed them to understand how our family was going to change, who the new kids would be, why they might leave and never come back.  Because foster care is not just my job or Chris' job...our whole family participates.  And while Chris and I spent 36 hours in training classes just to get licensed, James and Winston spent four weekends playing with their grandparents, oblivious to the upcoming changes.  I thought and thought and researched and researched, trying to find a clear, simple way to tell our four and two year old sons that they were going to become siblings in a non-traditional way.  Finally, one night during our story time, I found what I was looking for.  I turned the page in the Bear Bible to the story of Moses.

 

"Moses was in danger, he was hiding in a stream.

A princess came to take a bath, and heard a baby scream.

She hugged that tiny baby, and carried him back home,

And loved that tiny baby, as if he were her own.

Just like Baby Moses, we are always in God's care.

He will love and keep us, now and always, Tiny Bear."

 

It was perfect: simple, to the point, and Biblical!  It even rhymed.  And I was struck for the first time that Moses was kind of the first recorded foster kid.  He saw his mom, he knew who his siblings were, but he was raised in another home to keep him safe.  That's exactly what we're doing, I told the boys.  There are more baby Moses' out there, and Mommy and Daddy want to help them be safe and grow up big and strong, just like you.

 

Then we got our first placement, and it was a baby boy.  A real, live Baby Moses to complete the explanation.  I held him when he cried.  I gave him medicine to soothe his aching body.  I bathed him and changed him and bought him clothes.  And I came to a wondrous, surprising realization about parenting:  he is not mine.  Of course, it was very literal at first, because every other week, I dropped him off with the social worker to visit with his parents.  But even after they stopped coming to see him and the judge rescinded their rights and we moved to an adoption, I knew that he wasn't mine, any more than the boys I gave birth to.  My children aren't my property.  They aren't an extension of myself or my husband.  They are little people, little versions of the self they will become someday, and I'm given the chance to be their mom, to watch over them and care for them, for a while.  I'm not perfect at what I do, I yell and lose my temper and forget to bring the diaper bag (always when a huge poop is imminent, too).  These boys came from God, and they are always in his care.  And when they no longer need me to wipe their tushies or rock them to sleep, they'll start to pull away and eventually leave my home.  This realization made me cherish our time together.  It made me stop trying to do, do, do, to push them to enjoy the things I enjoy and dislike what I dislike.  I started looking at who they really are, and finding ways to cultivate, rather than dictate that.

 

The story of Moses stuck with me.  It was the lesson in the 2s class I taught the weekend we took custody of Michael.  It was the sermon preached the first Sunday we came to church with our new placement.  Its the story I try to impart to all the foster kids I meet.  He was just like you, I tell them.  He could have been killed as a baby if his sister and mother hadn't made arrangements for him, and his new mom hadn't had compassion on him.  But that's not the end of his story, and its not the end of yours, either.  Because when he became a man, capable of making decisions for himself, Moses came back to his people, and he spoke for them and he cried out to God for them, and he led them out of slavery.  You can do that too.  You can come back to this place of hopelessness and confusion where you live right now, and you can lead other kids to safety.  You can break their chains because you know exactly where they are bound.  Your childhood doesn't determine the rest of your life.  I know this, because its my story too.

Our Adventure

Back so many years ago (okay, like 9 years), as I was preparing to marry my love, I read the John Eldridge book Wild At Heart.  Say what you will, but that man can energize with his words.  I was bouncing up and down, ready to take on the world with Chris.  I remember excitedly talking about the book with him, about our future together, and ready to dream big.  "What is our adventure going to be?" I asked.  Chris gave me the dubious look I have come to know and love and sometimes resent.  He said our adventure for the time being would have to be living on a single income, as he was still looking for real, full-time work after dropping out of college.  Not the answer I was hoping for.  But we got married, he did find a good job to help pay the bills, and life started happening.  Within two years we were expecting our first child, Chris was going back to school, I was thinking about quitting my job to be a stay at home mom.  It seemed like adventure was on its way in the form of midnight feedings and exploding diapers.  We bought a house and settled in, getting used to being parents and a family of three.  Chris kept at the work and school, I tried to figure out what I was doing with my baby.  When the first year passed and we had kept our little guy alive, we started thinking about another baby, and shortly after James turned two, we welcomed Winston.  Chris finally finished school and we were a family of four, just your typical suburban dream.  But still I longed for Adventure.

It started small, a yellow highlighter through the books I was reading, a whisper as I scanned newspaper headlines.  When I look back now, I see a bright ribbon woven through my life from the very beginning, a ribbon that leads to children.  Children who are hurting, children who have been abandoned.  And the voice whispering, "They need good people to help them.  They need parents who will heal them."  And the realization: We are good people.  Chris and I are good parents.  They need us.  Slowly, timidly, we talked about foster care.  Slowly, timidly, we looked into the reality.  Slowly, timidly, we went to a local children's home for the weekend.  And that was when we said the bold YES.  Yes, we will do this.  Yes, we will be the parents who help children heal.  Yes, there are many reasons to hold off and wait, but there is one reason (one way more important reason) to say yes now.  Because they need us.  Now.

We began our training classes in March.  In fact, we spent our sixth wedding anniversary learning about attachment disorders with Miss Jan.  At one point, as we left another totally depressing class, Chris turned to me and said, "I don't think I can do this.  Its too much, the hurt and the brokenness."  I nodded.  He was absolutely right.  Our hearts broke each day as we learned about what happens to kids who are abused, neglected, abandoned.  Then I said, "There are always going to be kids in foster care.  The abuse isn't going to stop.  And knowing what we know now, I can't just go back home and pretend like its not happening.  We have the opportunity to help."  And the doubt was gone.  We were full-steam ahead through all the paperwork and interviews and inspections, and in eight months time, we were licensed foster parents.  They called us to take baby Michael after a month of waiting.  That placement became an adoption and now we are the happy parents of three amazing boys.  So we became open again.  We waited five months for a call, and were so excited on the day one finally came.  But within 15 minutes the circumstances had changed and there was no placement.  We waited some more.  The next week, a call came to provide respite.  This is a short-term placement wherein one foster family watches the foster kids of another family while they are out of town, medically unable to care for the kids, overwhelmed, whatever.  Only one thing gave me pause.  There were two kids needing beds, a brother and sister.  If you're doing the math, that would mean five days with five kids in the house.  Maxed out for space in the car and the beds.  Food disappearing from the fridge at an even faster rate.  I looked at the phone for a beat, and then said yes.  This is our adventure.  This is our calling.  This is our heart.  (And not to brag or anything, but we totally nailed it.  It was exhausting, it was challenging.  But we did it.)

While we were hosting these two spunky siblings, I read the story about Davion and his plea for parents.  I cried at how many children are still waiting for that placement, stuck in group homes or an endless parade of placements because there aren't enough good people willing to become foster parents.  I remember how scary it seemed to open our home to an unknown child with unknown issues.  I know its different from the Hallmark picture of giving birth in a halo of light to a child who will be yours and yours alone forever.  But if you are reading this, nodding your head and agreeing, Yes, they need parents!  They deserve parents! Please.  PLEASE.  Consider what you can do, right now, to change the life of a child in foster care.  Because as long as there are people looking for a way out of their present reality through drugs or alcohol or World of Warcraft, there will be dealers and enablers, and the children will suffer the most.  As long as there are cycles of abuse and poverty, with no one to intervene with education and healing, children will be at risk.  They are the most vulnerable people in the world, and they need someone to stand up, to speak out, to give them a safe place to grow.  Its my adventure, and it might be yours too.

For local folks: www.starkadoptfoster.com
For the US: www.heartgalleryofamerica.org

Waiting

Two years ago, we opened our home.  We made room for another life to join us for however long he needed.  I am ready to do it again.  Its not just the extra bed that is waiting.  I've cleared room in my heart for another child to fill.  While he or she may occupy the extra room for a short time, the love I have will stay as long as my heart is beating.

I don't do this alone.  There is a man who stands beside me.  Although he isn't certain that he is ready, because he tends to worry and think about the worst things that could happen, he agrees none the less that every child deserves a home, a family, and while I wait with my arms wide open, he waits too.  Its why we are a twosome, his fear and my optimism together make us considerate but brave.  It means that we don't jump without looking, that we don't charge ahead without a plan.  We evaluate and discuss and decide together.

We're in a groove now.  This family-of-five thing is running smoothly, with a shampoo-rinse-repeat reliability.  The weeks begin with a full fridge and each day planned out, the laundry sorted and placed in the dressers, the house clean and the grass mowed.  As the days go by, the food gets eaten, the house gets trashed, the clothes are messed and tossed in the waiting machines, the library book pile grows, and always, always, we must be doing something, going somewhere, running running running because these boys are balls of energy that must be constantly engaged in some activity or else they will make up the activity, and there will be cracked eggs on the kitchen floor and flooded basements and footprints on the ceilings and toys down the heating vents.

But every time we add another person to this household, the whole family leaps out of the groove and we have to hold on tight as we figure it out, how does this work now?  It takes months to get back to that well-oiled place of understanding our roles and what needs to be done every day, every week, what can wait?  Its knowing this, that our lives will stall out, go off course, move from order to chaos, that actually makes the waiting bearable.  I can wait for a grumpy husband informing me that there is nothing to wear to work and he needs me to find something in 20 minutes, wait for the children asking for snacks and realizing that the cupboards are empty, wait for the inevitably difficult attempts to leave the house all together.  But, oh, the newness.  The energy that seems to well up from nothing, the excitement and the YES I CAN spirit that have helped me overcome the jarring transition three times now...I know it will be there.  And so I wait.  With open arms.

Adoption: Words

I've mentioned before how important words are, how they affect people, and nowhere in my life do the words become more emotionally charged than adoption.  Especially labels.  What do I call the woman who gave birth to my son?  Sometimes, for fun, I call her my "baby mama"...because I'm a woman, and this is my only chance to use this term.  Some people choose to say "biological mother" or "birth mom", and these terms are accurate.  The worst thing someone could call her is his "real mom" or "natural mother".  Because what is natural about abandoning your child?  What makes someone a "real mom"?  Is it giving someone your DNA, or is it wiping their tears and changing their diapers?  The phrase I've come across that I like best is "first mom".  I love how it rolls off the tongue, and I love how it represents her best.  She loved him first.  She held him first.  She called him Michael first.  And just like a first love, he'll never forget her.  She is there in his blue eyes and pink lips, in every beat his heart makes.  I also like how "first" can be applied to all the other family members we have gotten to know, the aunts and grandmas who long to see him and keep him in their lives.

Its scary, this forging of new relationships.  When the judge made him ours, and the social worker told us he has three sisters, we knew we had to do everything in our power to meet them.  He needed to know them, to bond with them.  But we didn't know what would happen, what we would find when we sought them out.  Who were these other caregivers?  Would we get along?  Would they want to stay in touch?  Would they murder us and dump our bodies in the woods and take Michael away?  Fortunately, we found the one thing that makes this whole crazy situation work: LOVE.  For Michael, for Gianna, for Melodie and Kelcie.  These other moms and dads who stepped in to care for them, their love is so powerful that it makes the visits and the picture exchanges possible.  It is a love that sacrifices self to do what's best for the kids.  And we all agree that what's best is for them to play in a yard on a cool spring day.  To play catch with each other, to chase cats and fight over cars.  To play peek-a-boo and dance to One Direction songs together.  I did the math today.  When his oldest sister is a senior in high school, he'll be starting first grade.  What is going to bridge that age gap?  What is going to be the common denominator when he's not a cute little baby anymore?  The answer is love.  This space that we are giving them now, to know each other, to play together, is going to matter in the future when they are the ones deciding whether or not to call each other, when they are deciding who to invite to their graduations, weddings, baby showers.  When they no longer have to use qualifiers, but can just call each other "Friend".