Letter From Us: No Hands But Ours

When newly home two years ago with three year old, Eli, and one year old, Evelyn, life felt turned upside down for such a very long time. A few months in, I found myself focusing more heavily on the changes I was feeling and experiencing than on how my two little ones, who had been carried away from their worlds in China, might have been feeling. In order to reorient my heart, I spent some time processing through what my kids might have told me if they could.
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Dear Momma,
We first walked through the doors of what you call home two months ago. Can you believe it? Seems like longer.

This has all been so confusing to us. It was just an ordinary day of playing at the orphanage when you suddenly appeared. You had tears in your eyes, and it seemed like you knew us, but we didn’t recognize you. Our nannies handed us to you, and then they stepped away. You looked so different, and your hugs and kisses felt strange. All the fuss unnerved us. We weren’t used to being touched so much. You even smelled different, and we couldn’t understand your words. Your smile was friendly though, and we loved all the fun things you had in your bag. Then, you carried us out the doors of the only place we’d ever known. As we drove toward all things new, our cribs, nannies and friends were moving farther and farther away in the rearview mirror. It’s like our hearts stopped beating and our heads started spinning. It’s been really scary.
  
Remember that our little hearts are still trying to make sense of it all. Our worlds just stopped when you added us to yours.

We know we brought some crazy into your ordered, comfortable world, and sometimes you and daddy seem tired, frazzled, and grumpy. Maybe we turned your life upside down. Ours is upside down too.

Despite it all, we catch you looking at us and smiling. And when you pull us close, it feels hopeful now, even if we still aren’t sure how to handle the touch.

You guys are kind though and take such gentle care of us. Slowly, safety is calming us. The best thing? It hasn’t ended yet. We keep wondering if it will. Every morning we wake up and you are still there. This thing called family feels like something special. We don’t quite get it yet, but it is starting to settle into the deep places of us.

We’ve noticed that when we go places, we always come right back to this same place. It’s like we all belong here. This house is fun too. Everything is soft and cozy. Tile, concrete and lots of kids sharing the same things are what we were used to. Here, interesting things seem to be in every drawer and basket. We like to dump things out and investigate, because we were never allowed to explore before. There wasn’t anything to explore.

More great news? We are growing more attached to you. You feel safe, so when you aren’t in the room, everything feels off. You’d probably prefer that we not sit on the rug beside the tub during your end of a long day bath, but we just love the feeling we get when we are with you. And those little almond eyes you see under the bathroom door? That’d be us. There is a deep place within us that wonders if you’ll leave and never come back. Could that be part of our story more than twice?

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We might call everyone “mama”, but in our hearts, we are learning who you are. You are different from all the “mamas” who have taken care of us. You are gentle and constant. Something in us just knows that you’ve changed everything.

As you can tell, we require a wee bit of extra grace. You didn’t think it was funny when we stuffed things in the toilet, dug dirt out of plants, peed on the couch, played on the carpet with water filled toy dishes, smushed oatmeal in our just washed hair, got into the medicine cabinet, and ripped pages out of your library book. There might be some words that you said that we shouldn’t repeat. And those “child safety” things you just installed? Probably a real good idea.

Can you keep showing us grace? We’re just checking out our new world. Deep breaths might be a good idea as well.

Sometimes we just can’t process how the newness makes us feel. It’s hard to understand-even the good parts. When the feelings are too much, sometimes we cry, scream, grow silent, run away, or hold on hard and not let go. Does your grace and love have a limit?

Keep singing “Jesus Loves Me” into our ears. It quiets our shaking souls. Someday soon we’ll learn the words.

Don’t worry so much about us learning to talk. Our ears just need more time taking in all the English. You sound so different from the nannies.

You’ve got baskets of books everywhere. We think they might be something special. The sitting still thing while you read is a bit hard, but please don’t stop trying. Your lap feels good, and the cadence of your voice a simple comfort. Be patient.

American food is funny, isn’t it? We ate very different food in China. Give us time, and please serve lots of rice and noodles. We’ll get used to the rest.

We get the feeling you’d like for us to sleep better at night. Sometimes when we cry because we aren’t right next to you, you seem really grumpy. Remember that we used to sleep in a room with all our friends. There were even night nurses who would play at midnight. We’re afraid if we wake up and you aren’t in the room. The good news is that you make us feel safe. Is that what love means?

When we first came home, you were doing well just to give us all baths and clothe us. You sure have come a long way. You and dad are SO productive now. It’s like you got on a mission to handle it all. Accomplishing tasks seems to make you feel good. That’s important and all, but instead of an empty dishwasher and a plan, maybe we could just BE together. When you take the time to hold us, look in our eyes, and react to our smiles and cries, something new stirs in our hearts. 
  
Thanks for the healthy meals and folded clothes in our drawers, but maybe one day we could just eat hot dogs, wear the same clothes two days in a row and dance in the kitchen. Daddy has some great moves.

And outside? So cool. That’s new to us too. Let’s go out there more. We’ll try to remember not to walk in the road.

Sometimes, just for a passing minute, do you ever think about life before we met and miss it? Yep, us too. Everything has changed for all of us. Let’s not forget though that God made us some promises, and that He writes stories with great endings.

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Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours.

Coming Home: Tips for Medical Needs Families (No Hands But Ours)

You are a newly home medical needs parent, and life might be feeling like triage. Your child needs to be catheterized, tube fed, dilated and medicated. They need therapy, glasses, wheelchairs, oxygen, blood transfusions, walkers, cochlear implants, casts, g-tubes and ostomy bags. They’ll need MRIs, IVs, ultrasounds, sleep studies, anesthesia, echocardiograms, X-rays, EEGs, CT scans, transplants and lab work.

You need to find therapists, schedule appointments, administer meds, inquire about test results, schedule a home health nurse, research treatments, order medical supplies, call the pharmacy, question the insurance company, and ask for specialist recommendations.

You’ll have to learn how to check oxygen levels, give enemas, administer PICC line meds, feed through a tube, and dress your little one around casts, braces and extensions.

You have other kids, husbands and jobs, and a life before that already had its own needs.
 
You’ve just begun the journey, and your emotions dart between fear, hope, sadness, weakness, hero mode determination, numbness, faith, weariness, a new understanding of joy, and gratitude. Human feelings and supernatural strength will step simultaneously together.
The journey might involve a surgery and a few appointments or maybe chronic care, surgeries and interventions.

You are navigating new waters.

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Swimming just ahead of you in those waters, I offer a compilation of suggestions. Though your journey will be your own, may these speak hope into your experience.

1. Let your people be your people. This is the time for a community rally, not fierce “I can handle it” independence. Accept help. Lower your protective guard. If someone offers dinner, carpool help, or to launder your socks and sheets, you say yes. Let them step into your world, even if your house is chaotic and your thoughts scattered. Be honest about your needs. Let God include the village he’s surrounded you with in the story. The new intimacy you’ll feel will be one of the gifts you are given.


2. If your child’s health allows, give yourself time before tests, therapy and surgery. Bond. The rest will come. Establish family before poking, prodding and invasive tests performed by strangers. See one specialist at a time. Guilt and urgency will fight for attention, but it’s a marathon not a race.
 

3. Be ready to address medical trauma in your child. Pray against it, but be knowledgeable, sensitive and intentional.

4. God has something to say. Lean in. For me, I figured out quickly that this was bigger than adoption and medical needs, bigger than me and my child. It’s about heart change and relationships between a Father and his children.
 

5. Gather your team. Tap into the expertise of medical needs moms on FB for referrals. Your doctors, specialists and surgeons need to be attentive, gentle, team playing experts. Your gut and your God will give you discernment. Trust it. Don’t be afraid to get second opinions and try different specialists. (We saw one local specialist a few times and then decided that we needed to travel for better care. It needs to feel “right”.)

6. Grace for the “rules”. Normal parenting and adoption best practices don’t always apply. Don’t obsess over routine and schedules. Sleep, rest, play and snuggle whenever you can. Cocooning is recommended and helpful, but may look different if your child is critically ill.


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7. Find victories to celebrate. The hard has its place, but so does celebration. Your family needs cones of ice cream, movie nights, special dinners and the volume turned high on dance tunes.

8. Admit that it is hard. Don’t fake it, cover it up, chin up or try hard to act normal. No matter the internal or external pressures we feel, we must give ourselves the freedom and time to feel what is to be felt. To look at the dark parts of the trail and not look away. God is allowing it, so we must consider that He’d prefer we not shut my eyes and pretend it is all fine. Our child’s pain messes with us. There is trauma to process.

9. Rarely do we take self-care advice, but expect there to be physical, emotional and spiritual fall-out from being hyper-vigilant, over-tired, worried and over-extended if you ignore your personal needs. Be intentional about caring for yourself while trying to swim upstream.

10. You will make mistakes. You will forget to give meds, make wrong decisions, wait too long to cath and miss appointments. Have grace on the ready.


11. Don’t get too far ahead. Focus one day at a time. Fight to let your tomorrow be tomorrow. If you spend so much time anxious about the next doctor’s appointment, you just might miss your appointment-less today.


12. Part of turning corners with a special needs child is YOU getting over YOU. Their limitations can consume you. You’ve stepped well past your limits, and must rely on good health insurance, medical expertise, therapists and our limitless Lord. Be wise in your care, but also let the childhood that they fight so hard for, be theirs. Let’s not always see them and only see limits, because then we miss out on little people with gifts and big personalities. Wake up to the wonder and fun of your fearfully and wonderfully made child, outside and in between all things medical.

13. Connect with parents of children with the same medical needs. Join a closed FB group to ask your flood of questions, gain hope, connect, giggle, flounder and vent with people who face what you face.
 
14. Move your marriage up the triage list. You have a partner, so practice good partnership.

15. Release your grip and accept that in much of this, you are rendered helpless, but not hopeless. Weak, yet not defenseless. Consider who God is to your children, and let your faith roots grow deeper still.

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May your smallness illuminate God’s bigness. Courage, dear heart.

– photos courtesy of Emily Adcox

Saying Yes to My Kids More

I want to say yes more.

Yes to pitchers of lemonade.
Yes to one more lap around the neighborhood on bikes.
Yes to popcorn for dinner.
Yes to bowls of water carried outside for toy “car washes”
Yes to digging in the mud with my wooden cooking spoons.
Yes to little hands flipping the pancakes.
Yes to jumping on the trampoline for “ten more minutes.”
Yes to jumping on the trampoline WITH you.
Yes to “just one more” book read aloud.
Yes to staying up “just a little bit longer.”
Yes to the jar for collecting worms.
Yes to stopping for ice cream.
Yes to tables covered in brushes, paint, and masterpieces.
Yes to putting on swim suits and turning on the hose.
Yes to crumbly, gets everywhere Play Doh.
Yes to those alluring Rolos in the check-out line.
Yes to binge watching the Brady Bunch.
Yes to blanket forts.
Yes to playing outside long after bedtime.
Yes to the cousin sleepover.
Yes to decorating the table with flowers picked out of my flower pots.
Yes to looking into little eyes and listening to “just one more thing.”
Yes. Yes to being more intentional about finding things to say yes to.

This momma has found lots of reasons to say no far too often. Too much to do. Too distracted. Too much to manage. Too tired. Too messy. Too unhealthy. Too unsafe. Too hard. Too risky. Too time consuming. Or, I’m too grumpy.
 

I have four young kids. I am crossing very few things off my to do list beyond meals, laundry, and homework. I am not in the get ahead stage in my parenting life. I’m just squeaking by and trying to make it to bedtime without too many tears or too many household items destroyed. I know the season that I’m in, yet I still make an idol of order. I still expect so much productivity that I miss yes moments. Moments that would bring joy, but are avoided because I fear the chaos and dread taking off my “manager of all things” badge.

It doesn’t feel like I have margin for more yeses. It’s much easier to manage and control my kids with lots of nos. Because I am still tired, still have too much to do, and still can be on the grumpy side, sometimes saying yes is a stretch. But I still think there is more room for saying, “Yes, kids. Why not?”

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

God is (Still) Good

Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.  Psalm 34:8

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Sometimes I don’t like what God does. 
Sometimes I can’t taste the sweetness, because of the hint of bitterness in the heart lesson.
I don’t like when He calls me to something and then makes me wait. 
I don’t like when I’m in one country and my baby is waiting in another. 
I don’t like when governments get between me and my adoption.  
I don’t like when Gotcha Day is less perfect, less easy, than I thought it would be.
I don’t like when being “newly home” is harder than I expected. 
I don’t like when my-already been through too much- medically complex warrior, faces more. 
I don’t like when my child questions where her birthmother is.

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Adoption can push the limits of how good we think God is.  We can start to wonder if He’s fully good all the time, in all things.

We begin the application process spilling over with hope, anticipation and purpose. And then, somewhere along the way, we start feeling the stretch. We start having doubts, obstacles, longings and hurts. We realize adoption is not easy. That the redemption of hearts comes at great cost. We’d long heard that it’s not “for the faint of heart”, but suddenly faint is exactly how our hearts feel.     
The journey reframes our thinking, teaching us its deep and wide lessons. Some lessons settle into our hearts sweet and easy. Others take longer to embrace. And some. Some are only learned from days strung together pleading from our knees.

We tend to love success stories, speedy, positive results and miracle turn arounds. We prefer happy endings. And when we get what we hope for, on the timeline we prefer, we tell each other, “God is good.”

When we hear good news, we proclaim it. Under Gotcha Day photos, friends comment, “God is good.” When a little patient gets good medical test results, “God is good.”

But what about when endings are hard, or we don’t get what we want?  When the timeline we drafted doesn’t match our reality? When a child’s medical needs are more extensive than the file promised?   When attachment doesn’t come naturally?   When the adoption community loses a little life that we’ve all battled for in prayer.   Do we type, “God is good” then?

When we don’t like what is in the cup we’ve been given, we wonder if God truly is good.

There have been many times on this adoption trek, when circumstances felt bleak, that I’ve wondered if “good” meant all the time, for everybody. A few times I allowed myself to consider whether or not I would still think God good if the adoption didn’t happen, or the surgery had complications. When I wondered why a good God wouldn’t clear the world’s orphanages of its waiting children. And post adoption, when so many special needs little people come home with miraculously cured hearts, or are healed after one surgery, but mine had to keep battling, I felt a little greedy annoyance by the “God is good” posts.  

And if not, He is still good.  Daniel 3:18

Since my fleshy feelings don’t always align with my faith, I’m learning to lead my heart. Learning that when I’m raw and unraveled by adoption and parenting high need little people, I need to speak, write, read, sing and meditate on the truths I can’t always feel.

You are good, and what you do is good; teach me your decrees.  Psalm 119:68

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

*special thanks to Tish Goff for the photos

Let Tomorrow Be Tomorrow

The surgeon walked out in his blue scrubs, mask still hanging around his neck, and found us awaiting word that the surgery was over.  The stitching, repairing, and testing was complete, and he offered  reassurance.  But, as we tend to do, we pressed.
What is the prognosis? How long is recovery? How much pain? Worst case scenario? When is the next surgery? Infection likely? Limitations for her?
We must ask, advocate and prepare. But must we be consumed by tomorrow, even in this?
Our news was mixed. Good news? No overnight stay as planned. Bad news? Her little body just doesn’t function as it should and the medical marathon continues.  More tests, appointments, and surgeries.

So I had a choice. Start spinning around the tomorrows, or celebrate today’s victory.   

I think God is a fan of today, designing each with intention. I think He wants us to engage ourselves in each 24 hours, fully in, gathering the day’s manna, and listening for His voice. He’s been whisper shouting that my whole life. But I still tend to reach for tomorrow, longing for it and worrying over it. And adoption kicked it up a notch, or three.

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I spent most of our adoption journey tomorrow-ing. 
Application approved.  What is the projected wait?How much longer until referral?
Why must we wait?  We are ready.  Our child is waiting. 
Will the funds be there?
How is our girl? Are the nannies kind and meeting her medical needs?
Are we prepared? Have the right medical supplies? Can we handle this? 
I have her, but she’s terrified/shut down/angry. When will this pass?
I’m in China, but longing for home. How many more days?
Will we survive the dreaded flight?
How soon can we see a doctor?
My heart just isn’t attaching, my feelings not where I want them to be.  How long until I bond?
He clings to me, not letting go. How long will this last?
She doesn’t sleep. Is this our new forever?
What hard news will I hear at the next appointment? Next surgery?
When can I go back for another child?

These are natural, essential to the process, questions. But, I spent too much of the adoption ride tomorrow-ing. And tomorrow-goggles block out today. They diverted my attention from the day I stood in and the people I stood beside.

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Our adoption adventure has been wild and precious, with the days falling like dominoes. Some sweet, some hard, and most in-between. I wanted faster movement between milestones, but I’m glad they weren’t mine to control. Because I am living now in awe of the Story Weaver, humbled by how the manna arrived daily at our feet, at every bend in the journey, right on time. The miracles are many. Three times, the referral arrived. The PA, LOA, and TA all came. The funds came. We clutched our babies on Gotcha Days, flew home and got needed medical care. The attachment came, as did the sleep. We walked into hospitals and back out. Not at all easy, but right. Sadly, I often failed to celebrate the longed for milestones because I was already scratching out tomorrow strategies.    

 

Maybe I missed celebrating PA because I was already making a home study task list.
Maybe I missed baking cookies with the daughters at my feet, because I thought only of the daughter in China.
Maybe I missed soaking up more of China because I was focused on getting home.
Maybe I missed snuggling with my boy and his bottle because I was determined to normalize us all.
Maybe I missed fun on doctor’s appointment free days, because I was mentally at the next appointment.
Maybe I missed out on being my kids’ right now mommy. 
Maybe I missed out on being a right now wife. 
Maybe I missed out on right now life. 

And the whole time, He whispered “today”. I think there were times when He wanted me to rest. Wanted me to celebrate. Wanted me to be present with my within reach people. Wanted me to trust Him with tomorrow. Wanted me to scoop the day’s bounty.

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

Permission to Ramble

I’ve grown too efficient. My life is so full, so bullet listed, and so scheduled that I’ve forgotten how to ramble. I’ve lost the knack for lingering long in conversation. My overfilled calendar and productivity addiction have limited me to directly to the point communication. Being long winded, and fully open, seems a luxury.

I don’t email anymore. I text. It’s faster. An actual phone call? Forget about it. I’ll get off task. I pursue efficiency. Unless a favorite author pens a blog post, I tend to only read short and catchy posts or numbered tips. For social media, I prefer the photos and concise descriptions of Instagram. It’s 2015 after all. I’m a mom with 100 tasks to attend to.

Isn’t that the direction we’ve moved? Our thoughts whittled down for quick consumption. We share brief updates, then we scroll on by and read 100 other friend’s summarized social media highlights.
We’ve made an exchange. More friendships, but less time to deepen them. Our networks have exploded, but our time to dip beneath the surface diminished.

We find people we connect with, that we could learn from, but our schedules are so full that we plan a dinner together six weeks from Tuesday, after 7:30 PM. When we finally sit knee to knee, again, we have time only for highlights.
But that’s not who I am. Not who I want to be.

Back in the day, I lingered. I had space for a good ramble.

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I remember the steady stream of my Mamaw’s stories of farms and kids, mischief and sons. She rarely stopped talking, rambling on whether we were in the room or not. I loved it, learned from it, and miss it.
I remember afternoon rainstorms when my family would sit on our covered porch. I can’t remember the conversations, but I’m guessing we rambled a bit to the cadence of roof tapping raindrops.
I remember nights of lying on a trampoline with my best friend. Our teenage eyes on the constellations, we chatted unedited about dreams, fears, and boys.

I remember relationships. Sweet moments when those I loved didn’t feel the need to make long stories short. 

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There is a time for being concise. In business, classrooms, or group meetings, intentional words are important. Other times, rambling has beauty to it. It’s a rare art, fading away along with sitting on benches and iced lemonade sipped on porch swings.

I think there is more to blame than rushed living. I think rambling now takes bravery. Since we mostly exchange buffed and polished tidbits, we’ve gotten in the habit of fine tuning what we share. You’ll rarely read a FB status of mine that doesn’t have the word “edited” by the date. I keep it tidy.

Sharing unedited, not yet composed thoughts, is a gamble. I risk bothering, and burdening, busy friends with my in-process thinking. Further, my rambles expose my less impressive side. The selfish, unrefined, weak, judgmental, and needy one.

So I wonder:

Does he have time to listen?

Will she be annoyed by my tangents?

Can he handle my messy thoughts?

“I’ve spent most of my life and most of my friendships holding my breath and hoping that when people get close enough they won’t leave, and fearing that it’s a matter of time before they figure me out and go.” ― Shauna Niequist, Bittersweet

True community leaves space for unrushed, imperfect exchanges. It assures, “I value you, and want to live out this messy, beautiful life together.” Authentic friendship makes sense of life together. It’s raw, flawed, and untidy. It spurs me on, refuses to let me be anything but true, and doesn’t hesitate to challenge my selfishness, judgments, pride, or lacking faith.

Read the rest, and get rambling permission, over at Ungrind Webzine. 

10 Ways Life is Like a Box of Chocolates (Ungrind Post)

“My Momma always said, ‘Life is like a box of chocolates.
You never know what you are going to get.'” ~Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump came out in 1994, and like the rest of the cinema loving world, I knew it was special. I even purchased the loaded with folksy, 70’s tunes soundtrack. I was twenty when I watched the bus stop bench scene with Forrest holding a box of chocolates, sharing his momma’s wisdom. Momma Gump’s words sounded like truth, but I had no depth of understanding. At that age, I couldn’t grasp how life might be a like a box of chocolates. But now I get it. Let’s not do the age math and just trust that I’ve lived enough years to better grasp the analogy.

Life is in fact like a box of chocolates.

No doubt life is an assortment of clusters, cordials, and truffles. Amen? When the sun rises each new day, the twenty-four hours that follow just might be nutty, fruity, fancy, simple, messy, sweet, or just not good at all. We can guess how it will go, but we don’t really know until we’ve taken a taste and lived it.

I’ve relished some chocolate in my day, mostly of the semisweet variety. It comforts me in stressful times, pampers me on happy occasions, and has been a guilty pleasure for as long as I’ve had taste buds. On each Valentine’s Day throughout my childhood, my dad gave my sister and I velvety, red heart boxes filled with an assortment of chocolates. Those boxes of Russell Stover’s sweetness made our February fourteenths extra special each year. When we lifted off the heart-shaped lids, sniffed the candied scent, and peeked under the wax paper lining at the luscious chocolates resting organized in golden foil, we knew we were loved.

 

Like life, a box of chocolates is typically given as a gift from someone who loves us. And that box is like a banquet, like a visual of life’s moments laid out before us, filled with individual gifts meant to be tasted and savored. Those yummy truffles derived from cocoa beans do in fact mirror our days.

 

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If Forrest were to have asked his sage momma to elaborate, she might have advised…

1. We don’t know what each piece contains, what each day will hold, but we know that the One who made them creates with great intention. Release your need to know, and trust the Maker.

2. Though gifted with many chocolates, and a lifetime of days, our number is limited still. See each as a luxurious gift.

3. Each delicious chocolate, each individual special moment, is meant to be savored. Slow yourself down and truly taste it. If you get too excited and focused on the full feast before you, you’ll miss life’s littlest gifts.

4. We want control over what candies are in our box, over the hand life deals us, but we can’t have it. Release your grip and free yourself to enjoy the adventure.

5. Some of our chocolates, some of our circumstances, are a letdown. We expect to love every last morsel. We want every nibble to be perfect, but life is an assortment of the sweet, the bitter, and the in between. Remember, even in the let down, there is sweetness to be mined for.

Grab some semi-sweet and go read 6-10 over at Ungrind Webzine. 

 

Chronic: The Race Set Before Us

I am coming to terms with it.  This is not passing.  It’s not over after a surgery, or two.  Or after a therapy session, or three.  The first year is behind us, but there are more miles in this marathon.  I’m discovering what chronic means.  I’m learning that adopting a child labeled medically complex truly does mean “continuous care” and it will “require services from different practitioners in multiple settings over time“. 

 

We knew it would be a stretch, but we didn’t expect to unravel completely.   We cherished our comfy, together feeling, unaware we were wound around the wrong things.

 

Life is now a marathon of appointments,  surgeries, X-rays, nurse calls, research, MRIs, infection, complications, testing, PICC lines, anesthesia, ultrasounds, therapy, and care taking.  And our emotions dart between fear, hope, tears, weakness, hero mode determination, numbness, faith,  exhaustion, new joy, and gratitude.   Human feelings and supernatural strength step simultaneously together.

 

So we must face what chronic and complex mean.

 

The antibiotics will continue. 
The appointments will continue.
The care taking will continue.
The “catastrophic” insurance medical cap will be met. 
More procedures. More medical supplies.  More hurt.  More miles to go.

 

We wonder if our prayer team will start dwindling.
We wonder if people are weary of medical talk and prayer requests. 
We wonder if we’ll figure out how to truthfully yet concisely answer, “How is she?”
We wonder if telling the truth is whining, because we should be running the race better. 
We wonder if doctors are making the best decisions.
We wonder if God wants us to hope for miracles or accept realities.

 

Well intentioned people in our lives regularly encourage us with, “It will be fine.”  “She’ll be fine.”  “You’ll be fine.”  But what do you do when your heavy heart simply doesn’t feel “fine” watching your child endure continual procedures, tests and hurts?   Should we try harder to be fine? 

 

We wonder how parents of more complex children do it.  We think, “Well that family adopted a child with the much harder XYZ disease and they seem together.”  Or, “That family has adopted four kids with complex needs, and are adopting three more, what’s my problem?” 

 

But our child’s pain messes with us.  When discomfort comes daily, tears flow regularly, painful tests are ongoing, and caretaking that hurts is required, there is trauma to process.    Is my faith growing?  Yes.  Am I feeling blessed and refined?  Yes.  But there is still trauma to process. 

 

No matter the internal or external pressures we feel, we must give ourselves the freedom and time  to feel what is to be felt.  To look at the dark parts of the trail and not look away.  God is allowing us to walk through something chronically hard.  From the world’s perspective our child might end the race “fine”, but a parent’s heart still has steps to take.   

 

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

 

Special thanks to Tish Goff for her beautiful photographs.

Chosen for a Heaven-Sized Gift (No Hands But Ours)

Mary and Joseph’s road to parenthood was out of the ordinary. Their path to family was different from that of their Nazarene neighbors. God’s request of them was heaven sized, yet as simple as parenting a child. They were asked to make space in their lives, in their hearts, and in Mary’ s womb, for a baby. They didn’t have to a have a dossier, a plan or a bank account.

All that was asked was faith induced willingness. So they allowed God to be the author of their days, said yes, and started making room for the baby that would change everything. And how the angels must have celebrated. The Rescuer of the World had been matched with a family. The Gift for All People was to be a son to two of those people.

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We’ve all heard told how arduous the expectant couple’s eighty mile journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem must have been. How Mary, heavy with child, might have ridden down the dusty road on a donkey. Years of watching costumed Mary and Josephs walk pensively down aisles in church Christmas pageants leaves us imagining the couple being solemn and resolute.

But, despite the hard, can you fathom how awestruck they must have been? Imagine how filled with absolute joy they must have felt to have been chosen to bear this God-Son?

 

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall call his name Immanuel” (which means, God with us). — Matthew 1:23

 

The story is for us, adoptive families. We can relate. Like Mary and Joseph, we’ve said yes to an extraordinary gift of a child from another world. God whispered dreams of adoption into our hearts, so we too made space. We released authority of our families and said yes to something sacred and outside our capability. We’ve had to be resolute, as not everybody around us understands, and the road has sometimes been heavy and difficult.

Our children are different too. They have different DNA and different skin pigment. They are medically fragile, cognitively delayed, hearing impaired, and have physical and emotional challenges. But God is still writing chapters in an epic love story, and the children He’s gifted us with have a role to play. And my guess is that you, like me, and like Mary and Joseph, are struck with the wonder and pure joy of being chosen to be the parents of very special children.

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The stable birth was a gift to us, a promise that God is in it with us.

 

For waiting mothers with stockings hung for children you have yet to hold. Like Mary, God has given you the crazy promise of a child from another land. Hold fast. The story is for you. God is with you.

 

For adoptive fathers who said yes to adoption and are now trying to faithfully walk out the call. You, like Joseph, are struggling to provide for your families, keep them safe, and guide them down a road mapped out by God. The story is for you. God is with you.

 

For the families with newly home children, whose adoptions have changed everything. You, like Mary and Joseph, were asked to parent a child whose life pushes the boundaries of your comfort and stretches your role as parents. The story is for you. God is with you.

 

For the orphan who waits. For the orphans who will be chosen and the orphans who never will be. Though you might not have heard it, the story is for you. On these last evenings of Advent, you might not be wearing red stripped PJs or nibbling sugar cookies with sprinkles. Your orphanage, foster home, or healing home might not be decorated with twinkly lights, elves sitting on shelves, or ornaments dangling from Fraser firs, but Immanuel was born on Christmas for you. Bethlehem’s good news is for you just as much as it for those of us with houses festively adorned.

 

The Christmas story is written in your language, relevant in your time zone and intended for you. The babe wrapped in swaddling clothes laying in a manager is your great rescue plan. Your radiant hope. The Creator of All Things sent a Father to the Fatherless in baby’s skin. God is with you.

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Read the conclusion over at No Hands But Ours.

 

Thanks to the talented Tish Goff for the beautiful photographs. 

God of My Children

Nil per os. A Latin phrase meaning “nothing by mouth.”

For six days, an NPO sign has been on my two year old’s hospital room door. The sign will stay up for another two days. She is recovering from colorectal surgery, and her fragile system requires it. Dextrose, sodium chloride, and potassium flow from an IV bag to a PICC line to nourish and hydrate her tiny, 21-pound body.

It seems cruel and unusual punishment for a little person and her “show love with food” momma. With pleading eyes, she asks, “Loller? Mom, loller?” Her fingers make a W against her chin signing, “Water?” I melt inside, divert my eyes from her confused expression, and distract with toys.

God sometimes allows our tender spots to be punctured. My heart is most fragile for my kids, and as much as I want them to be off limits, they aren’t. When they are vulnerable, this momma bear stands at attention. Yet, slowly, I’m learning to release my grip and trust more.
  
For my first years of parenting, I lived contently with the illusion that I could protect my kids. That it was me, myself, and I who met needs. I planned their days, fed their bodies, and claimed full control of their little lives.

I let myself believe that I was their God.

Then, little by little, I’ve surrendered them. God pierced holes in my control bubble. First came surrenders to inevitable backyard scraps and playground hurt feelings. Then to Kindergarten classrooms and the deep end of the pool, watching from afar. We mommas must choose between hovering overhead to insulate them from bruises, bee stings, and bullies or releasing them to the adventure of fields, trees, swing sets, and new people.

The Lord has pressed into my control illusion, increasingly asking for wider submission. Next, a mission trip put an ocean between mother and children. I labored over leaving, and planned every activity, outfit, and meal they’d have. To board the plane, I had to sever more control. And when I returned? I found new independence, new appreciation for me, and new connection with grandparents.
  
Then came hurts that couldn’t be treated by Tylenol, infections not cured by amoxicillin. First was elbow surgery for one daughter, then spine and two bladder surgeries for another. Walking away utterly helpless from my child lying limp under anesthesia in operating rooms filled with computer screens, instruments, and doctors in sterile scrubs, left me defenseless.

Each experience challenges who I think God is to my kids.

Read the rest over at Ungrind Webzine. 

Love Starts Here (Love Without Boundaries Guest Post)

Just as mine is, Kelly’s social media feed is filled with images of orphans waiting in China. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes those little faces get lost. But in February of 2013, my friend didn’t scroll past LWB’s blog post, “Jenny, Jenny”. She read it and took a moment to share it, urging, “Jenny needs a family.”

And our love story started there. With a keystroke, a friend introduced us to our daughter, and love came fiercely.

Her face appeared on the screen and our journey began. “Oh, we’d love her,” I responded in the comments. It was a casual response, but my heart was gripped. I smile now, unsurprised that first words spoken of her included love.

A long list of potential families had already responded on the LWB blog and Facebook page. Hands trembling, I emailed our agency, and they responded, “We will inquire, but prepare yourself, because it is a long shot.” We understood, but this little soul had seized our hearts.

As turns it out, love is a potent force. More compelling than agencies, countries and a long line of families in line for, or reviewing, a file. Miracles manifested, and remarkably, her file landed in our hands, requiring only a “yes”.

Before we could board a Beijing-bound plane though, we had to push and pray through a wall of doubt and fear over what “complex medical needs” might mean. Also in our way was an ocean of logistics, eight months of paperwork, fingerprint rejections, an extended LOA wait, and two countries’ worth of red tape.

As we awaited travel approval, our “Jenny” was hospitalized again and again for infections. We studied images of her in the care of “ayis” in hospital rooms from Beijing to Shanghai, and it was evident that she knew love.  Finally, we fully felt and understood the mission of Love Without Boundaries. Love. The true, breathing, active kind.

Despite the costs, our daughter received ongoing treatment and specialized attention at the Heartbridge Healing Home. She was listed as “urgent” on the list of children needing surgery sponsors, and people gave and sponsored, prayed and gave some more. Though she had no parents by her side, she had an army of individuals who’d said, “Love starts here.” And in the truest way, they made all the difference.

The day finally came when her new, terrified parents felt the weight of her in their arms, knowing her needs were urgent, but unaware of the severity. Cycles of surgeries, infections, and hospital stays in three cities had left her organs beginning to shut down, and we had no idea.

All we knew is that our beloved Han Huizhen was a feisty little one with a high fever, who either slept or watched us from a distance with traumatized eyes. She’d only known the care of nannies and nurses and they’d been taken from her. Her experience with love started with them. It was the best and most gut-wrenching scenario we could have asked for.

Read the remainder over at Love Without Boundaries. 

365 Days "Upon the Waters" (No Hands But Ours)

One year ago, we were somewhere over the ocean between East and West, with our two newly
adopted, Mandarin speaking children. We were a muddled mix of joy, weariness, readiness to be home, heaviness from leaving our children’s birth country, and profound gratitude for our intensely beautiful time in China. Feeling the joy of long awaited little people in our arms, but surrounded by ocean and fear, my husband and I were deeply aware that we’d surrendered our former lives and were hurdling at high speed toward all things new. 

Our son and I were wet and stinky from a double diaper blowout, and my husband dispensed antibiotics covered in Mandarin script to a feverish daughter while simultaneously attempting to catheterize her in the airplane lavatory at 10,000 feet.   Much like the next 365 days would turn out to be, that flight was an exhausting, yet sacred adventure. Our goals were to care for medical needs and to minimize mid-flight chaos by dispensing Chinese rice crackers and walking the aisles. Survival. We trusted the pilot was guiding us to where we needed to be.

Feeling like we’d been “called upon the waters”, Hillsong’s “Oceans” had been our adoption anthem.  Our former, safer life with two daughters had ended, as we adopted two children at once, one with complex medical needs. We’d adopted before, but this was deeper water to step into.
We touched down on Thanksgiving day, but it felt like we’d landed on water. In a jetlag stupor, we spent the next days searching for solid ground. With a hundred needs coming at us like waves, we began our year of triage sorting them by urgency.

Septic child? Top of the list. Hospital admission, MRIs, antibiotics, and ultrasounds. Clearly it was to be a bumpy ride.

Next on the list were pediatrician appointments, blood tests, stool samples, and shots. Then a mix of sleep issues, feeding issues, anxious attachment, indiscriminate attachment, coping skills, and language learning. Specialist referrals from neurology to nephrology and plastic surgery to audiology, then clinic visits, evaluations, and assessments. Our safety belts stayed buckled. 

Have you been there, adoption friends? Each story is unique, but year one is a strenuous and sweet triage for most.

Medical needs? Our full attention.

Sleep issues? High on the list.

Sensory needs? One day at a time.

Potty training? Can wait.

Orphanage behaviors? Consistent training.

Emotional needs? Hugs and prayers.

Speech therapy? Not yet.

Dental work? No time.

Attachment (theirs and mine)? Takes time.

Academic needs? Sigh.

Oh yes, and we have other kids with needs and emotions, each treading water themselves.

And then there is this marriage rocked by the waves.

And me. Tired, feet failing, weight gaining, and limits stretched.

Seeing over the waves becomes challenging. There are more needs than we can meet. More hurts than we can heal. More trauma than we can fathom. More burden than we can carry. The triage list is overwhelming. And when we reach the end of ourselves? We cry weakly out to the Lord, the surrendered prayer of an adoptive parent. We call for Him as we hold our sleepless little boy in the middle of the night, when a sibling regresses emotionally, in doctors’ offices as we hear test results, when a son sits unafraid in a stranger’s lap, when a daughter only eats soft food, and in hospital waiting rooms as we wait for surgeons to emerge.


Triage burned through our family with a refining fire. How money was spent, what we said yes to, and what we spent time thinking about all changed. The first year brought lots of treading water, but it had its sweetnesses too. It cultivated faith and polished attitudes, purified hearts and clarified focus. When our days involved therapies and hospital stays, family nights became more special. When we sat beside a two year old on a hospital bed bravely raising her arm for vitals checks and IVs, our perspective changed. Gratitude enlarged.   Former worries seemed less like worries.

It turns out deep water is cleansing. Our feet didn’t fail and our family didn’t sink. God is bigger than I thought He was.

Our mourned former life now seems less alluring, and the new life has a fullness to it. Our bedrooms are full and so are our arms. Our new children experienced their sweet year of firsts, developed trust and took tentative steps into family life. They blossomed before our eyes, and we watched with awe and wonder, celebrating the ordinary extraordinary. Hearts expanded in siblings too as they grew to love new family members and sacrificed their toys, space, and mommy and daddy time. We discovered the courage to walk into hospitals and specialist appointments, and the strength to handle emotional needs. Faith, family and life-giving friendships were all we had time for. We missed meetings, skipped parties, and rethought commitments. There is more to celebrate now and less that distracts us. Walking through turbulence has its beauty.

Strung out on Perfection

“What if you wake up some day, and you’re 75 … and you were just so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness…. It’s going to break your heart. Don’t let this happen.” – Anne Lamott

Hi, my name is Rebecca, and I’m a recovering perfection-aholic. Believing it meant clothing myself in attention to detail and hard work. I once boasted about my addiction.

Perfectionism raged loudest when I wore the hat of young, confident classroom teacher. I arrived early, worked late, and drug work home. I obsessed over units and redesigned every handout that landed in front of my students. Determined to appear professional and capable, I labored over my parent newsletter, ensuring the layout and content were perfect. Standing by the copy machine each week watching my work zip out, I thought myself fabulous. Exhausted and frazzled, but meeting my self-imposed expectations for “good teaching.”

Then, a new teacher moved across the hall. Sillier, more relaxed, and probably the better teacher, my antennas went up. She worked hard and loved the art of teaching, but left on time. I caught a glimpse of her newsletter and discovered that she was writing by hand into a template. I’m guessing it took her about 15 minutes, including copying. It was informative and adequate. She was a master teacher, gloriously unburdened by perfection.

I saw my perfectionism with new eyes and didn’t feel like bragging. Realizing I’d wasted hours obsessing over details that had little to do with effective teaching brought regret.
Later, blessed with kids, I designed a mental catalogue of mommy excellence, and pulled my perfection addiction back out of the closet. I read books and blogs, noticed stylish mommas and Gap kids on Facebook, and hung ideals onto hangers: a pantry with organic food; healthful meals around our table; a playroom with minimal, educational, creative wooden toys; classic literature read aloud; daily art projects; clutter free rooms; museum play dates; Bible study; monogrammed, matching outfits; and entirely obedient kids who never embarrassed their momma. I adorned myself with a sneaky perfection that I labeled “good mothering.” I also layered on social events, date nights, keeping life calm and controlled, serving in ministries, and flawlessly hosting parties with every detail attended to.

Here’s the deal though. All organic food got expensive, PB&J was easy and kinda yummy. Giant tubs of plastic, handed down toys spilled across the carpet brought squeals. Six people created staggering laundry piles. I ran out of paint, grumped about glitter, and was too tired to read. Little boys didn’t flush the toilet, and my kids threw tantrums on farm play dates. I was too cheap to pay a babysitter for date nights and am more Patagonia than monogram. I started thinking I was letting my family, my friends, and myself down, so I snuck into my closet to eat dark chocolate almonds and pondered how I got so darn off track. Again.

Using ideals to measure mothering, I came apart at the seams. I’d picked out some beautiful intentions, but wearing every garment at once is not practical or possible, and makes me more fussy than fun, more vigilant than creative. More focused on agenda than memories, and on appearance than souls.

I stood in the mirror layering on expectations that had little to do with mothering hearts, while my little people stood behind me peering around for their momma, just wanting me to smile more.

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” – 1 Peter 3:3-4

Having “great worth in God’s sight” is my soul’s desire, but adorning the outward is my tendency. For too long, pockets full of perfection kept me from pursing the kind of beauty that doesn’t fade.
My spirit isn’t gentle when I’m wound so tightly that my family could never please me. My spirit isn’t quiet when I care more about being embarrassed by kid behavior than I do about guiding hearts.

Read the rest over at Ungrind, and sign up to get Ungrind updates. 

Worth the Fight: Bridget (17 of 31)

This little face is heavy on my heart.

Meet Bridget, found just days ago in Guizhou, China. 

Thankfully, she was placed in the care of Love Without Boundaries Foundation.   Suffering from one of the same conditions as Evelyn, her story wrecks us. 

She needed emergency surgery to survive, but LWB founder, Amy Eldridge, reported that "none of the local hospitals wanted to care for her because they didn't want a mortality to be recorded on their records."

The cards are stacked against her, but we are praying that she keeps on fighting.  She's been dealt an unfair hand, but she was found and now her redemption story has begun.  When found, she was one month old, having survived without treatment for those weeks.  Her belly was hard and she was in great pain.  One can only hardly fathom her birthparents' heartache.   

Flown to Shanghai and provided with a nanny by LWB, she survived, but still fights for her life. 

$6,480.00 was needed to pay for her surgery.  That surgery is very similar to one that our Evelyn will have in just a week. Their two stories are so parallel, and this momma's heart is burdened for Bridgett.  Because we have medical insurance, I'll get to hold my daughter's hand when she is wheeled into the recovery room.  Bridgette's parents likely did not have medical insurance, so she now fights alone in a city thousands of miles away from them.  If Blue Cross and Blue Shield could be convinced to pay for both surgeries, the world would feel a bit more just.  Instead, LWB is depending on those with hearts burdened to stand in the gap for orphans to cover this cost. 

I'm so grateful that she now has a nanny, but sad that her birth parents can't be by her side. 

I don't know how to raise funds.  I stink at it actually.  But I can donate myself, and can share her with you.  I believe she's worth the fight.  That she's worth any small donation made on her behalf that some reader might feel led to give. 

This is why I want to write. 
This is what I want to write about.
This is what stirs my heart. 

My heart longs for God to use my words to rally readers on behalf of little ones who need a team to fight when they can not. 

Love Without Boundaries still needs $5,029 to cover this surgery.  Anybody want to join her team? 

Acceptance (14 of 31)

“To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”
~EE Cummings  

 

I love how writing stretches both the reader AND the writer.  I've stepped into a scared place over these past months, and more intentionally with the tending involved in this series.  I've offered up an inclination within myself and must admit the doubts have shown themselves fierce. 

 

I've typed the words, shared the thoughts and uncertainties, posted, considered deleting and then laughed at myself.  It's a cycle that repeats itself, and is a battle to accept the me that writes and publishes.  Such is writing for me at this stage. 

 

Here's the deal though, it scares me and rustles up some pesky reluctance, but it also thrills me, and I choose to write bravely.   Though I gave myself some space from the series to write a few articles, I've been writing.  I've been dreaming.  I've been filling my journal with titles and topics. 

 

And I've been reading about writing.  Natalie Goldberg's Wild Mind landed in my library stack all battered up in its funky cover glory at one of the moments when disbelief raged.  She's wild, brave, vulnerable and now she's in my head. 

"We have to accept ourselves in order to write.  Now none of us does that fully; few of us do it even halfway.  Don't wait for one hundred percent acceptance of yourself before you write, or even eight percent acceptance.  Just write.  The process of writing is an activity that teaches us about acceptance." 

 

She tells me its a process, even suggesting that it will teach me. Maybe this is why for so long, I neatly folded up my hankering to write, tucking it safely in a bottom drawer.  Tapping fingers to keyboard forces me to be nobody but myself.  Doing it well forces me to look at myself in the mirror and linger there when I'd rather not. 

 

This is post 14 of a 31 day series, "Tending to the Writer in Me". 

 

Filling Up (13 of 31)

So, you didn't think I was planning to actually write for 31 days in a row, did you? 

Oh good. 

 

Because although that sounds perfectly dreamy, it is just not possible in this life season we're in.  I've still been tending though. 

I've been filling back up on books.  Turning off social media, granting myself permission, and turning some pages. 

 

My margin for reading is so very small in this current season, that I really want to read only well written books.  The writer in me loves to read words woven well together.  The reader in me likes nothing more than to get lost in a story. 

And when those words form chapters rich with creativity, heart and beauty, I find myself longing to craft sentences of my own. 

 

This is post 13 of a 31 day series, "Tending to the Writer in Me".



Generous Thoughts: Gratitude to the Commenters (12 of 31)

To the sharers, the likers, the commenters, the message senders, the in person encouragers.  To all who are generous with their thoughts. 

 

Thank you. 

 

I read through blogs almost every day.  I click on them when shared on FB and follow a list of favorites on Bloglovin. 

 

Yet how many times have I thought a blog post to be lovely, challenging or well written, but never let the author know either in person or with a comment?  How many times have I been inspired by passionate words, but never said so?  Shaken my head in agreement with an opinion piece, yet not typed out that "yes"?  How many times have I considered asking a question to learn more from someone's perspective, but never followed through?  Read a blog for years but given no praise?  Followed instructions on a tutorial with no thank you? 

 

So many times I've recognized beauty in a writer's words but kept the appreciation to myself.  I've suppressed my generous thoughts a million times, with busyness and an avalanche of attention vying media to blame.  

 

We are bombarded with words.  A mix of gripping, maddening, illuminating, informative, funny, disturbing, personal and poetic words. 

 

Articles and blog posts seem so anonymous until you plunge in and start sharing the outflow of your own heart in those ways.  Here and there people have offered me the gift of a comment or message, replying to my side of the conversation with their side, sharing their thoughts or story of how God used my words to encourage them.  I've been digging up courage and posting my thoughts into what feels like an online gallery, and occasionally someone engages with a shot of interaction. 

 

Then, suddenly, I realize with gratitude how valuable not "suppressing your generous thoughts" truly is.  Each offering has mattered to me.   

 

I deeply desire not to write for attention or praise.  There is SO much of that online, and it scares me because my very flesh and blood self loves those things too. My "Me Monster" always lurks nearby. I'll need to keep praying through how to love interaction with readers, but not pursue laurels. 

 

I can't help being blessed by connection when you comment with  "me too" or spurred on to keep typing when you tell me that God used my family's story to speak to you.  I believe that each of our stories is powerful, and when humbly offered up, WILL be used.  So, I am learning to graciously accept those "generous thoughts" as fuel to keep the laptop plugged in. 

 

I've realized the blessing of reader feedback and am working on suppressing less of it by offering my "me too", my appreciation and my gratitude, freshly aware that I am browsing through another brave writer's online gallery of words.  In a web of a zillion words, every so often a post centers my attention and causes me to pause before it in appreciation.   Think I'll start letting them know more often. 

 

 

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.”  

 ~Leo Buscaglia 

 

 

This is post day 12 of a 31 day series: "Tending to the Writer in Me".   1600 other bloggers are sharing their 31 day series here.