On Thanksgiving and Giving Thanks

It was Thanksgiving yesterday.  The day we welcomed our families into our home.  The day we turned the kitchen into a room where adults could eat and talk and laugh and give thanks.  Not the room where peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are made, where pictures are drawn, where board games are played, where junk mail piles up week after week.  We did some actual work to transform this room, but mostly it was smoke and mirrors.  It was "Nobody go upstairs."  It was a time to pretend it always looks that clean.  We said our thanks.  For the support of friends.  For employment. For a year of sobriety.  For family.  For health.

This year, I feel thankful for so much in my life.  For the marriage that is about to celebrate its 10th year.  For the children who continue to grow and change and occasionally offer hugs and kindness.  For the house that keeps us warm and together.  For the friends who actually support me and encourage me.  For the new pastor at our church.  But mostly I'm thankful for all that has changed since last Thanksgiving.

Last year at this time we were a family of six.  Two of our members had spent a total of 7 days in the hospital.  Our cupboard had filled up literally overnight with several new prescriptions that we were still learning how to administer.  When the preschool teacher asked our son what he was thankful for, he burst into tears.  Life had been reduced to figuring out how to get through each day.  There was nothing beyond today, no long-term projects, no plans for the future.  This was especially hard for me, as I am a planner.  I like to look ahead, to be working toward some larger goal.  But I was overwhelmed by each day's needs, only able to think about how to keep each child alive until bedtime.  And even then, I lurked outside doors, I listened to the little breaths, I wondered if they were coming too fast or too slow or too shallow or too raspy.

Life became very narrow.  There wasn't time to discuss, to argue, to talk things through.  And so we put it off.  There wasn't time to fix, to replace, to repair.  And so we put it off.  There wasn't time to rest, to recuperate, to be restored.  And so we put it off.  There was barely time to eat and bathe and wash and read and brush and hold and drop off and pick up.

This is not to complain.  It was what we signed up for, it was what we were promised in those foster parent meetings and trainings.  This is just to explain that it was hard.  That it took everything we had.  It wasn't all bad.  There were many moments of love and understanding and so much growth, the kind that comes from months of difficulty.  I was reminded of the importance of scheduled rest, of intentional nights off, of friends who will step in to carry the load.  I learned that my frequent response to stress was (is?) to withdraw, to hide out with a bar of chocolate and a good book (or a trashy show on Netflix).  And I took steps to make life more sustainable and less draining.

When the call came that our little Girl was leaving, I spent days in tears.  In the busyness I hadn't realized just how attached I had become, just how much I loved this little one who required so much from me.  And after months of feeling as though I had shouldered the burden of our family, of needing to be strong and to keep going so that we didn't all just fall apart, I found myself done, exhausted, unable to maintain the exterior calm.  She left; I cried.  I fell asleep on the couch, in the boys' room, in a lawn chair.  I searched for the energy to cook, to clean, to do anything really, but my reserves were spent.  At the point when I had to say, "I just can't...", my husband stepped in.  He let me sleep.  He made meals.  He rounded up the kids and took them to the park.

This is how life has gone since then.  First, we had to rest.  Like literally sleep.  We had to say No to some things we really wanted to be part of.  I read a huge stack of books.  We had conversations with our kids about why the Girl was no longer living with us.  Next, we had to relearn how to be a family of five.  We couldn't go back to who we were before; we had to learn who we had all become.  We had to stop buying so much food.  And finally, it was time to catch up.  It was time to address all that had been put off.  We had to reconnect in our marriage, we had to reconnect with our kids.  We had to prioritize those home repairs.  We had to clean out those boxes, that room, that closet.

As the holidays approached, I began to feel once again like an equilibrium had been restored.  The kids are doing well in their new schools and new grades.  They are tackling new responsibilities and developing new interests.  I feel like I am once again able to be the giver in my relationships, able to connect with my friends and my husband instead of beginning every conversation with all that is hard in my life.  We finally fixed that drawer, that leak.  Maybe we will even be able to say that we are preparing for what's next instead of catching up with what was left undone.  I'm still reading a few new books each month.  And my days became rapidly easier as school began just a few weeks after the Girl left, and I am left with one child at home.  It felt selfish at first, all this time for myself after doing so much for everyone else.  But rest assured, I enjoy it now.  I am renewed in the afternoon quiet.

Some families stay open immediately after a placement leaves.  Some parents are ready to jump right back on that horse.  As Amy Poehler says, "Good for you, not for me."  We have needed these months of restoration.  We are once again strong, we are once again comfortable.  Perhaps we are now ready for a new challenge.

We are blessed with an abundance for which we give thanks.

On Living in the Light

I love the light.  I like good things.  I follow Facebook pages that share stories about Encouragers and Survivors and Overcomers.  I like funny people.  I like to laugh.  The first thing I noticed about my husband was his sense of humor.  I focus on the positive.  I promote happy stuff.  This is who I am; this is my preference.  I love the light.

But this is reality:  my life can be difficult.  My oldest son has a developmental disorder known as "autism", which is a scary diagnosis to receive while your three year old is clinging to you for dear life.  I make decisions daily which affect his life and his future, even though I only have knowledge of the past and the present.  Should we try this new therapy?  Which school is right for him?  Should I push him, or is now a time when he just needs his space?  Does he understand me?  Do I understand him?  I have lived through days and weeks and months and years of darkness.  I have cried out of frustration, I have cried because I felt inadequate, I have cried because sometimes it is just so hard.

Here's the thing though, that brings me comfort:  light and dark are not equal, opposing forces.  There are more hours of sunlight than dark every day.  When light shines in the dark, the darkness can't overcome it (Hey, that's in the Bible!).  Darkness only comes when there is no light.  The sun sets, the switch gets turned off, the bulb burns out--that's when darkness comes.  So then, we don't have to stay in the dark!  We just have to turn the light back on!

When I've been in the dark, I know how hard it is to find the switch.  And that's where you come in.  Yes, YOU!!  Would you mind turning the light back on please? (As my boys say, "Light please!") You can see it, can't you?

When you bring me coffee on a random weekday and stay to chat.

When you offer to watch my kids.

When you invite us over for dinner.

When you post an encouraging message on Facebook, or drop that card in the mail.

When you call and ask how I'm really doing.

When you wash my dishes.

When you hug my kids.

When you hug me.

When you say, "We can do hard things."

When you say, "You're doing a good job."

When you say, "I love you."

You are turning on my light.  You are beating the dark back in its cage.  You are throwing me a life preserver.

I am so grateful for the people who help me live in the light.  I don't know who I would be without each of you.  And here's the most important part: this is a dark world, and we need more LIGHT.  We need to take our light out into the streets and SHINE.  We need to give and share the light like there's no tomorrow because there might not be.

When you are overwhelmed in the dark, you won't always be able to find the switch.  So ASK.  Scream it at the top of your lungs: I can't see!  Someone turn the light on!  And if you are the one hearing the call, RUN to help.

** I wrote this in response to the recent murder of London McCabe, by all accounts a little boy much like my sweet James.  Please do not pity those living with disabilities or their families.  It is a joy and an honor to be the mother of my autistic son.  It is hard, but every day I am thankful that my son is alive, challenges and all.  Please extend a helping hand and open your eyes to the worth and value of every human life.**

Five Minute Friday: Still

Welcome to another week of Five Minute Friday — an online community where bloggers who mostly don’t even dare to call themselves writers put their brave on week after week and bring the internet alive with their beautiful words.

It’s a place where we write free and deep and wide, where we let it all spill onto the screen in all its messy, jumbled up glory. It’s a place to link arms with others, to lift them up, to shine a light, to give hope.

Ready?  GO.

Still.  There was a time when I couldn't do it, couldn't find the peace and inner quiet to just let myself be still.  There was so much inner agitation, so much that would appear unbidden in the stillness, so I got busy.  I made my body busy.  I made my mind busy.  I made my life busy.  Surprisingly, it was the arrival of children that broke through the busy.  It was the decision to stay home with the beautiful baby that brought me face to face with stillness.  And it was hard, those early years.  I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts, yet what was there to distract me with this newborn who slept and ate all the time, never giving me anything to fill the stillness?

We have a practice now called Quiet Time.  I crave it each day.  I get through my busy mornings with the promise of a chance to sit, to be still, to think or write or read or lay down.  The children like it too, although the youngest claims to hate it.  He is like I once was, afraid to be still.  In his case, he is afraid of the sleep that will overtake him, afraid he will miss all the fun we are possibly having while he naps.

So what made the difference in the middle?  When did I change from a girl desperately running away from the quiet to one who presides over stillness in a house full of active, loud boys?  It took time, certainly, as nothing in my life has come about overnight.  It took writing, this act of sitting down and putting it down, bringing forth the ugliness and the parts I'd like to forget and pulling them from the dark recesses of my heart and giving them a home outside of my body.  I used to be so anxious, so impatient, and over the years I have come to delight in a few moments of delay, a postponed event.  It gives me time to be still.

STOP.

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.