On Mistakes

This past weekend was the IF:Gathering, and I was able to watch with 39 friends and strangers at my church.  There were several good speakers, and a few moments that simply electrified me.  I want to talk about one of those moments, which happened when Rebecca Lyons interviewed Larissa and Katherine.  Larissa's husband suffered a traumatic brain injury before they were married, and Katherine had a stroke as a young wife and mother at age 26.  Their stories are exceptional and if you missed this special weekend, you should seriously consider finding a rewatch near you or downloading the weekend when it becomes available.

It lifted my spirits so much to see two women representing different aspects of disability on the stage at IF.  They were honest and gut-wrenching and challenging, and I wished I was there in person to hug them both for sharing themselves with hundreds of thousands of people.  The most poignant moment for me was when Rebecca asked them what had been their darkest moment in facing the new reality of life after disability.  Katherine shared a moment when she lay in the hospital, partially paralyzed and unable to speak, when she thought, God, did you make a mistake?

Do you ever have that feeling when another person says something that cuts straight to the core of who you are and what you've lived through, that you feel almost strapped to your seat, unable to move?  That's how I felt in that moment.  Because I remembered the day (or, more likely, days) when I asked that very same question.  When I looked at my very young son, recently diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder, and I wondered if God had actually meant to give that child to me.  It wasn't what I was expecting as a mother, but mostly I wondered if God realized how inadequate I was for the task.

I want to share with you one of my deepest beliefs, one that has been forged in the dark nights and long days, that came from my lowest moments and from my son's unexpected life.

God doesn't make mistakes.

It was easy to see why my mind would go there.  Nine years ago, traits like compassion and grace and selflessness were basically non-existent in my life.  I heard an expression that said "If you vote Republican when you are young, then you don't have a heart."  I proudly shared that, and went out to vote for George W. Bush.  (The saying continues "If you vote Democrat when you're old, then you don't have a brain."  If the choice was between having a heart and having a brain, then I chose brain.) I had goals and ambitions for myself, none of which involved other people, something that my husband pointed out to me while we were still dating.  I was unapologetic about all of it.

Then one day I peed on a stick and two lines popped up immediately, leaving no doubt that my life was going to change.  I had a hard time realizing how much.  The little life grew inside me and before he was even born, he had taken charge.  I ate hamburgers slathered in mayonnaise and apple after apple.  I ate kale.  Kale, people.  Long gone were the breakfasts of Snickers and Dr. Pepper, the late nights talking with friends, the size 6 jeans.  And when he came out and I held him in my arms, I knew I would do whatever it took to give him a good life.  I just had no idea how hard it would be to accomplish that.

So yeah, I questioned why God in His infinite wisdom wouldn't put this child in the home of a trained speech therapist or intervention specialist.  Or, at the very least, someone less selfish and cold-blooded.  Having a son on the autism spectrum wrecked me in the best possible way.  It's easy to see it now, when so many years have passed and I have changed so much.  It's easy to see what God was thinking when he lovingly and tenderly created a little life inside my body.  He wanted to help me become a better person, a better mom.

Tonight, the thoughts are swirling, as I think of my mom friends who face similar diagnoses and challenges.  And maybe it's because a lady from my Bible study died this week, but there doesn't seem to be a better time to tell each of you...

God doesn't make mistakes.

The child you are holding, or watching over, or struggling to get into bed, the child who is challenging every idea you ever had about motherhood or life or just everything...He is not a mistake.  And you are not parenting him by mistake.  You are both exactly where you are supposed to be, exactly how you are supposed to be.  There is a God in heaven who created each and every one of us and He wants you to give everything you have to this life.  He wants you to grow in the challenges and revel in the joys and be surprised and broken and restored.  He wants you to live.

He doesn't make mistakes, but we certainly do.  I don't know who originated this saying, but I heard it from Master Oogway in the movie Kung Fu Panda (I'm a mother of boys, after all).  "Yesterday is history.  Tomorrow is a mystery.  Today is a gift.  That's why it's called the present."  And what a mistake it would be to waste your gift.  To spend your gift thinking about what is history, or speculating about what is a mystery.  What about today?  Don't think about what you got wrong in the past or what scary unknowns wait in the future!  Focus on today.

What do you need to learn today?  What can you do today to keep your family going?  What services do you need to investigate?  What is happening today, right now, that you will never get to experience again?  For me, it was hearing my son, the one with all the delays and the expressive communication difficulties calling my parents' dog to come sit in his lap, then giggling in delight when the dog licked his face.  It was disgusting but it was also huge.  It was something he couldn't do even six months ago, something I thought was impossible when he was 3 years old and crawling under tables during his assessments.  Today, when I showed his younger brother a gift I got for him to give his teacher tomorrow during the Valentine's party, he asked if he could take a gift to his teacher too.  I was surprised not just by his words, but that I had been so short-sighted that I didn't pick up two gifts.  (Apparently I have a ways to go in that whole "gracious, think of others" thing.)  Today, at bedtime, he asked me to come sleep in his bed.  I cuddled for a few minutes before excusing myself to my bigger, more comfortable bed.

What if I compared my life to other people I know?  What if I'd let that diagnosis dictate who my child was?  What if I'd resisted the changes developing in me?  What if it was fifty years ago and his doctors had advised me to leave him in a home and focus on my "normal" children? (Side note: I have two other kids, and none of them are normal.)  I would have missed the gifts that today held for me.

Friends (and strangers, if there are any of you reading this) DON'T MISS IT.  Don't miss the challenges of living your life.  Don't miss the trials and the changes they'll bring about in you.  Don't miss the joy to be found on the other side.

College Memories

"Failure. Anyone working toward meaningful change will taste it often. When that happens, the frustration we feel turns inward, and suffocates. Self-loathing and a toxic sludge of shame can follow.

If frustration is the fuel for the engine of change, then grace is coolant that keeps the thing from exploding. When we fail on the path to New, extending grace to ourselves is vital. It is only with grace that we can stand back up and keep walking, smiling and laughing at how we fell."  -"Science" Mike McHargue

Commencement May 2002

I have an uneasy relationship to my alma mater.  I am a college graduate, which makes me proud, but I don't use my degree, which makes me feel bad.  I am an alumni, but not one who is able to make generous financial contributions.  And because I don't have a "job", I don't really need to network or make connections through mixers and alumni events.  But I still read the magazine that comes in the mail and check the emails.  It's how I got this lovely computer that I am typing on.  With that positive experience in the recent past, I decided to accept an invitation to bring my family up to Kent for the annual "Tray Fest" aka sledding down the hilly Front Campus.  This sounded fun.  And since I didn't do social activities when I was actually a student, it would give me the opportunity to create memories with my kids.

But the yucky feelings began as we loaded up the car with gloves and sleds and extra clothes.  I got on the familiar road that I traveled so many times alone, this time with my whole family.  And I felt a sense of dread.  It has been almost 13 years since I graduated, and at least 10 since I've been on the campus.  College was easily the worst few years of my life.  It was a time when I was the least healthy version of myself, when I was chasing all the wrong things and dissatisfied with what resulted.  I lost myself in the crush of brick buildings and well-dressed girls and heavy books and emptiness inside.

Apple Hall girls

Why was my reticence so linked to this place?  I mean, it's not the location that caused my depression or deprived me of friendship.  It's not like anyone actively sought to destroy my happiness and peace of mind.  It was merely the setting, the backdrop of my misery.  I ran through the usual list of regrets, all the things I should have done differently.

Upon arriving, there was a jarring sense of worlds colliding: thirty-something me with kids in tow revisiting where young adult me used to walk.  My irresponsible and immature past overshadowed by the people who depend on me everyday.  And, inexplicably, a fear that no one would talk to me or even say something mean.

Daredevils January 2015

Then my kids worked their magic.  They eagerly climbed aboard their sleds and shrieked and laughed and hollered as they rocketed down a very slippery and very steep hill.  We took turns riding down with them and helping them mount their plastic chariots.  People talked to us, mostly to comment how much fun was being had and how determined and brave the boys were. (They really are. Wow. So proud of these kids.)  By the time our fingers and toes and noses were red and stiff with cold, I was enjoying myself.  I was filled with a sense of nostalgia, remembering the classes I took in the buildings around us.  I found myself wondering if the boys would come back here someday as young men.  I pointed out the places I used to go as we drove around the campus.  I showed them the library and the parking lot that I was only lucky enough to use about four times, as it filled quickly each morning.  We passed the massive gym, "the Rec", and they begged to go inside.  Chris told them they would have to grow older and become students for that to happen.  It didn't fill me with fear for their tender hearts.  I think these kids are going to be okay.  Sure, they will struggle and fail at times, but their struggles and failures will be their own; they won't be mine.

We drove home with french fries and laughter, and I felt my memories reset.  Yes, I could have done things differently...but I know that now, only because of the pain I experienced to learn about myself. Is it fun to be lonely?  NO.  But it helps point me in the direction of healthy relationships.  Is it exciting to feel your mind sink into despair and lose sight of the future?  NO.  But I am grateful for each day since then that has dawned and the life that continues to grow and evolve out of that desperate place.  Is it pleasant to grasp at the pieces of yourself as they disappear and realize that you are left with nothing?  NO.  But sometimes we need to empty ourselves for better thoughts and ideas to take root and grow.  My years in college were miserable, but my college didn't make me miserable.  I was suffering the pains of growing and becoming something new.  And you guys, I love who I have become.  I am so glad to be the woman sledding down the hill with her wonderful boys and laughing with her husband.  I love the friends who surround me and encourage me and redeem all the hurt from toxic relationships in the past.  I'm glad for the distance from who I used to be, and the promise of who I am becoming.

Future student? January 2015

Let me end with a quote from Mikey, who is very eager to plan his future and experience EVERYTHING:  "When my teeth fall out, I get big, and I grow tall, then I can go to the gym and be student at college."

In My Place

I was making communion bread the other night.  It's something I enjoy doing, something I volunteered to do a while back.  That's where I like to be.  I like baking in my kitchen.  I like playing with my kids.  I like listening to sermons in my pjs while I fold laundry.  That's how I like serving God, serving my church.  I want to be the proper church lady who bakes food for Sunday morning and teaches the three year olds about Moses and listens attentively as her pastor preaches.  That's what I can offer, that's my place.  Or so I thought.

This past year, our church went through a transition and we got a new pastor.  I was excited to meet him, to learn more about him, to hear him speak from the pulpit.  Imagine my surprise when our first conversation involved him asking if I preach.  Um, NO.  Not at all.  So I invited him over to the house for dinner.  So he could see me in my place.  So he could eat the food that I cooked, so he could meet the children I chase around all day.  But he came with other plans, and that night, he gave me a date, told me to get ready.

Well, okay, maybe, I thought.  Maybe I could get up on a Sunday morning and talk about orphans or why it's so important for adults to care about children.  I told my pastor that if he ever wants to address those issues, I'd be happy to help.  A few weeks later, he called with my first topic: giving.  He asked me to talk during the time of offering, something about why we give money at church.  Again, I thought, Um NO.  I don't even have a paying job, I have no income.  What could I possibly say about giving money at church?

Our pastor came over to the house again.  It was after I began talking during the offering; he wanted to make a video about our family.  And once he'd gotten the footage, he turned to me again with a date and told me to get ready.  He wanted me to do a *sermon* (cue fainting and hysterics) on prayer.    All I could think is, Why me?  What do I have to say?  What could I teach?

There are two ways to learn something: school and experience.  I love school.  I love sitting in a  classroom and taking notes and reading books.  I love the smell of libraries and the quiet of study halls.  I went to school for years, excitedly shopping for new folders and notebooks every August.  I went to college and studied political science with an international focus.  I briefly minored in French but dropped it to graduate early.  I never studied the Bible in a classroom.  I was never in a theology class, or even a philosophy class.  When I left college, I started working.  I took a job as a flight attendant and later at a bank, and I received on the job training, since my degree had little to do with either position.  When I became a wife and later a mother, I tried to learn from books.  I studied for these new roles, ones I wanted to badly to succeed at.  But in both situations, experience proved the better teacher.  Our families are ridiculously unique and personal, and we just have to figure it out as we go, what works best for us.

For me, it turns out that life has been a much better teacher about God too.  In the last ten years, He has become real to me in a way that I doubt I could have been taught.  Apparently God has more He wants me to learn, from a new place in His church.  The time has come for me to get up from my seat, and not just receive, but to give, to instruct.  I took the advice of my friend, Mandy, to talk about my experiences.  I don't know the big, theological words for this stuff.  I've never read the Bible in its original languages.  And maybe that's better.  Because no one can argue that my experiences are wrong the way we disagree over ideas.

So I stood before my church, the people who have loved and supported me and become some of my closest friends, and I talked about the changes in my heart.  I talked about who I was before, the events in my life and the reactions I had that put distance between me and God, and how it was hard to pray.  And then I talked about what happened to change my thinking, how Jesus became real to me in my early twenties and over time prayer became an easy and integral part of my life.  This experience is echoed in a book I'm reading called "The Way of the Heart" by Henri Nouwen.  He writes,

 "Real prayer comes from the heart...The prayer of the heart is a prayer that does not allow 

us to limit our relationship with God to interesting words or pious emotions.  By its 

very nature, such prayer transforms our whole being into Christ precisely 

because it opens the eyes of our soul to the truth of ourselves as well as to the 

truth of God.  In our heart, we come to see ourselves as sinners embraced by the 

mercy of God.  It is this vision that makes us cry out, 'Lord Jesus Christ, son

 of the Living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'  The prayer of the heart challenges 

us to hide absolutely nothing from God and to surrender ourselves unconditionally

 to His mercy.  Thus the prayer of the heart is the prayer of truth."

And in this way my experience has taught me and my studying merely reinforces (and much more eloquently so) what I know to be true.

Ready to leap

Sweetly Broken

I've been spending time revisiting the past.  It was my choice to go back to those places that I had walled off and tried to forget, but it hasn't been easy.  It isn't easy to be a child in this world, to be vulnerable in every sense of the word, because we live in a harsh world.  We break our children through cruelty and abandonment, through our words and our touch.  All it takes is one adult to violate a child's sense of safety, her sense of self.  One moment of selfishness, one moment of anger, and WHACK!  Life breaks her with force, with no concern for what comes next, and she clutches desperately at the pieces, tries to put herself back together before anybody sees.  She tries to go through life pretending that she doesn't limp, that her jagged exterior doesn't reveal what is inside.  But her attempts to fix herself don't really work.  She has been mangled, like a broken limb that isn't correctly reset.

And we can continue in this way.  We can finish school and get jobs and maybe even start a family.  We can buy a house in the suburbs and join the PTA and fill our days with Pinterest projects.  But just like the broken arm that didn't set right, the human heart won't do everything it is capable of without an intervention, without REAL healing.  How do we fix something that happened years ago, decades ago?  How do we repair not only the damage, but the way she's been carrying herself ever since to hide her weakness?  She has to be broken again.  Not with the baseball bat.  Not blindsided and bewildered.  No, this time it will be her choice.  This time she will be a willing participant.  This time she won't break in the dark, in secret, but in the light.  And she won't break alone.  He will be there with her this time.  He will make sure the broken pieces fit back together, that the fractures will heal completely.

Courtesy of FreeFoto.com

As the song goes: "At the cross you beckon me.  You draw me gently to my knees.  And I am lost for words, so lost in love.  I'm sweetly broken, wholly surrendered." (emphasis mine)  Not every break is bad.  Sometimes we need to break, to repair, to build again, because in the process we are refined and made new.  And this is where I find myself, sweetly breaking, becoming vulnerable once again, allowing the cleansing waters to penetrate and flush out all the bitterness and shame, letting go of all the ways I tried to cope, and allowing myself to be bandaged, and waiting nervously for the final result.  It's all new for me, and I ask that you all be tender with me in the process.

"The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves.  He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing." Zephaniah 3:17

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.