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?

Back to School

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking back.  Remembering five years ago, the battery of tests (and isn't that a great phrase? because I remember feeling quite battered by the time it was all over) our son went through just before his third birthday.  All the forms and interviews and professionals that we visited, all pointing to one thing...an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  Although I remained unconvinced, desperately trying to find the reason why my son fit into the autism category when what going on with him had to be something else, anything else, something that we could fix in a day or a month or a year but not this word, this lifelong label.  Knowing that if his brain was different that it wouldn't be a quick fix and back to life as usual, but years of IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, because doctors can fix broken bones and teachers can make children literate and parents can give their children love and nutritious food and a safe home but no one can change a person's brain.  So I listened to the experts and held firm to my belief that I could figure this out, I could solve the mystery of what was going on inside my child.  In the meantime, I would follow the advice that everyone seemed to agree upon: enroll James in an early intervention preschool and begin speech therapy.

Preschool Graduation

I remember visiting the preschool, meeting the teacher who would have James in her class for two years, and I remember so vividly the fear.  My son was essentially non-verbal, and they wanted me to drop him off with these people for three hours a day.  How would I know what was happening to him for that period of time?  There was no way he would be able to tell me.  And they said they never physically disciplined children or locked them in closets or left them unsupervised, but of course they said that because it's illegal.  But the reason why we have laws against those things is because they have happened in the past, and what's to stop a preschool teacher from going power mad in a room of 3 and 4 year olds with developmental disabilities and sketchy communication skills?  I lived with this anxiety for a few weeks, as we prepared our son for school and more so after we dropped him off the first day.  What it basically came down to is a lack of trust.  I know how much I love my child, how powerful the desire to nurture and protect him is.  But I didn't believe that anyone else would feel the same way when they looked into his big hazel eyes and held his chubby little hand.

They might save the world, but today their mission is CANDY!

I still don't know how that year went for him.  I have no idea what he thought of school, how he was treated by the staff and the other children, what he learned and what he wished was different.  All I know is that he kept going.  That he quickly stopped crying when I brought him to the door to drop him off and that he smiled when I came to pick him up.  That the boys in his class called him "Little Screamer" and attempted to hoot and squeal with him, thinking that was his primary language (in a way, it was).  That he frequently hugged his teacher and occasionally brought home art projects that he had made with assistance.  That his teacher did a unit on the story books of Mo Willems because James loved the Pigeon books and Knuffle Bunny.

It continues to be a guide to me, watching my son for signs of happiness or distress.  It is the best indicator of how he is being treated when I'm not around, if the time has come to withdraw from a place or activity or if it is okay to continue.  I know he loves his swim lessons, because we passed the exit recently and he told me to turn around and go back.  I know he had a good time at VBS because I came to pick him up and he was dancing to the music (Let me pause here and say that beyond the baby booty shaking to Elmo songs, James does not dance. Ever.)  I know he has found a good friend in Ian because he gets excited when he comes over and willingly shares video games with him.  I know he is surrounded by caring adults at church because he hugs them and sits with them and remembers their names.

And then, this summer, he shocked me by doing something new.  We spent the fourth of July on a riverboat cruise of Pittsburgh, which the kids LOVED because it was water and boats and they drank Sprite and it really doesn't take more than that to delight them.  We were on a walk later and James turned to me and asked, "Mommy, did you like the boat ride?"  I felt like kneeling and kissing the ground, or picking him up and twirling like Maria in "The Sound of Music".  It was a huge development, and it's something he's never done before.  But I kept my mom cool and I answered his question and then asked if he liked it.  He responded and there we were having an actual conversation about what we did that day.  It happened again a few weeks later on a more mundane summer day, but we talked back and forth about what we liked and what we did and I got to hear in words how my son feels.

First day of 2nd Grade

My kids head back to school next week.  Now that the supplies have been purchased and the calendar is marked, I find myself thinking ahead.  What will James experience this year?  How much will he be able to tell me about afterwards?  Yes, his brain is different, and our lives involve IEP meetings and speech therapy and adapting, and there is no way to change a person's brain.  But this kid is surrounded by people who love him and help him learn and protect him.  And there is no limit to what he will do.

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.

Camp

Eight years ago, I hopped in a van full of middle school kids and drove to a camp in Pennsylvania for a week of adventure.  I'm trying to remember now why exactly I agreed to go; I had spent the previous year leading a group of 6th grade girls in a Wednesday night small group/service experience, constantly wondering what actually qualified me to be in charge.  I loved them, don't get me wrong.  We had fun talking about Polly Pocket and High School Musical and why boys are gross (except sometimes not...?) while we visited sick people at the hospital and organized clothes at the Salvation Army.  We even had some deep, meaningful talks about baptism and prayer and what it means to follow Jesus.  Maybe the girls talked me into it, telling me about all the fun stuff we would do.  Maybe the youth pastor really needed another woman to chaperone.  Maybe I thought I would have fun, remembering my own time at summer camp on the cusp of adolescence.  We arrived, settled into our dorms, met the camp staff, and had a meal together.  It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what the week would really be.  It was way more than campfire discussions and silly games, trust falls and hiking in the woods.  It was an Adventure Camp with a thousand foot zip line and high ropes course and mountain biking and white water rafting, each morning and afternoon a different extreme activity planned.  And I was supposed to lead.  And participate.  And I am deathly afraid of heights.

  

Do you see those two young girls working their way up the rock wall?  Do you understand how high it was?  As I stood on the ground, I knew I couldn't just be a spectator.  If I was going to lead, I needed to strap into a harness and give it my best shot.

 

This is Bob (the other adult leader of our group, and father of half of the girls we brought) and myself making our way up the wall.  I included this photo partly because of how fabulous my backside looks...I like to pretend it still looks that way, that the past almost-decade and children haven't changed it one bit, and since its my back, I can believe this pretty easily.  I climbed that wall, and constantly looked down.  I saw how far away the ground became; it was hot and the stress and exertion were making me sweat.  I wanted to give up, I didn't care about reaching the top.  And then I heard from below, sweet little Allison (pictured above in purple) yell out, "Keep going Rachel!  You're almost there!"  And I finally looked up, ahead, and realized she was right.  I only had to make my way up a few more feet and I could say I DID IT.  I could go to dinner with bragging rights and maybe even the respect of my girls, many of whom did not reach the top that day.  And so I kept at it, and I made it.  And that night I told Allison how her voice carried up to me, how her encouragement was the push I needed to finish.

 

 

 Here is another of our "fun-tivities".  Bob is standing at the base of a tree with the dude who hooked us into our harnesses and led us around in the woods.  I can't remember his name, probably because I spent the whole week trying to get the girls to nickname him "Hanson" because he resembled Taylor Hanson.  They just got confused, thinking I was saying "handsome", and I realized they didn't know who Hanson was.  I'm old.  Anyway, if you look up, and I mean UP above Bob, you can see a little perch in the tree.  This time, we climbed the tree, using hooks that were attached to the trunk, and jumped off the perch in an attempt to grab a trapeze bar that is suspended like five feet away. 

This is me, pretending not to be terrified.  Seeing the faces of 8 girls looking up at me, some cheering, some laughing, and that trapeze bar seeming a million miles away.  In the end, I just jumped off rather than turn into Gregory Peck in Vertigo; how could I not, when the girls each took their turn, completely trusting that harness to ease their return to earth.

Here I am again, swinging through the trees, the girls and Bob on the other end of the rope that kept me in the air.

 See that platform?  Yeah, the next day, we each climbed up the tree, strapped into a harness, and went down the thousand foot zip line.  That was the hardest activity for me, even though I had seen many of our group climb, jump, and zip to the bottom of the hill safely.  I just couldn't make my brain believe that I wouldn't come crashing down and break every limb of my body.  I don't know if it was a good experience for the girls to see a 24 year old woman crying

Before white water rafting

I still remember each day of camp, nearly 8 years later.  The girls are high school graduates, off at college and working, falling in love and so very different from the people they were during that week.  In many ways, I'm different too.  The week after I got back, I peed on a stick and found out I would become a mom.  Now there are four little people who call me that.  I no longer lead a group of teenage girls.  Recently, my husband and I have been given the task of leading other adults at our church.  It feels a lot like that zip line.  I don't see how we won't crash and make a mess of things.  But when I think back to that week, I realize that was when I first became a leader.  That was when I spoke and people listened.  I climbed and young girls followed.  I was aware that I was only a few steps ahead of them on the journey of life.  When I look at other adults, I think probably I am a few steps behind everyone else.  And yet, they call me a leader.