No More Absence

Sometimes it’s the absence of something that is more obvious than the presence of that very same thing.

I don’t very often pay attention to a gentle breeze.  But on a hot, sticky, August afternoon, I sure feel the absence of that breeze. 

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about or looking at my keys.  But when it’s 9:45 am on a Sunday morning and everyone is dressed and ready for church and waiting for me and the key basket is empty, the absence of those keys is suddenly the most stressful thing in my life.

When my girls were small, I didn’t always pay attention to their persistent chatter, bouncing off and through walls as they directed plays, argued over toys, giggled about some sister secrets, or asked the relentless, “why?”  But in a quiet moment, when the house became still and my mama ears perked up to the Trouble that most certainly occurs when children are silent, it was the absence of that chatter that clued me in. 

Batteries.  (Because seriously, who ever thinks, “gee, I’m so glad for batteries.  Until our kid’s favorite toy runs out of batteries and there are no replacements to be found and the World.  Has.  Ended.)

The TV remote that is nowhere to be found.

Running water.

Heating and air conditioning. 

The door that doesn’t open when we are expecting a loved one to come home on a snowy evening.

The phone that doesn’t ring when we are waiting for a call.

The room or bed that lays empty when the person who is supposed to be there is gone. 

But nothing has taught me more about this idea of noticing what is absent more than parenting a handful of children that were not my own.  And then parenting Zion.

There are so many children out there who spend years of their life in a world that is full of absences.  Absences punctuated by inconsistent moments where those things that were missing are suddenly present.  But far too often, things that you and I take for granted, are absent in a child’s life.  A home.  A dad.  Food.  A warm place to sleep.  Safety.  A clean diaper.  A clean anything.  Hugs.  Cuddles. 

Those absences?  They change everything.  They create a Great Hole that can’t be filled by the simple presence of those things that were once missing.  I have seen how those absences can cause cracks in a child that was knit together in her mother’s womb by a God that created her to be whole.  I have watched those absences lay quiet like a still pond, then suddenly without warning start to swell and foam and bubble over in a head bruised on frustration and bedposts, and sheets soaked in blood and pain that finally worked its way outward.  I have also seen cracks that should have shattered, be mended in a heart that found Refuge in its Savior.  And I have seen waves that were stilled by a God that calms storms, both in and around us.  I think it is a heart that knows absence that most desperately clings to the promises of a God that is ever present.  But that heart wasn’t created to be so desperate.  It was created to be cherished.  Protected.  Known.

I have seen and felt and experienced some difficult things in parenting these children.  I have been angry, I have cried, I have prayed.  I have rocked this child so broken by absence, then put her to bed.  And then I have rocked my son.  My little Zion, who knows very little of absence.  He cries, I respond.  I change a diaper, sing a lullaby, shake a rattle, fill his belly, swaddle him tight, put him to bed.  Wash, rinse, repeat. 

I once heard someone share how they visited an orphanage (incidentally this was NOT an orphanage that partnered with or was sponsored by our church).  They went into a room filled with babies.  Likely, some of those babies were hungry or had dirty diapers or were bored.  It’s a statistical impossibility to have multiple babies in one room and all of them have their needs met at any given moment.  I have one baby in my house and he needs about 5 things at this precise second – or at least he thinks so.  But this person shared with me how as they stood in that orphanage, in that room full of babies with a mountain of needs, they noticed the absence of something: crying.  There was no crying.  Babies lined up in rows of cribs, quiet, not one of them crying to be fed or changed or held.  Babies who learned quickly that when they cried, no one came.  So they just stopped.  Absence begot absence. 

I share these things with you because I have 2 things that I want you to take away.  These are important things, vital things, things that should not be absent.  I am fiercely protective of our little ones’ Story – I hesitate to share even a glimpse of that Story because it is theirs and I don’t want to be careless with it.  But these 2 things are important, so I trust you to steward their Story in a way that honors them and kids like them across our city and country and planet. 

Here’s the first thing: moms and dads, what you do matters.  (or Grandmas or Grandpas, Aunts or Uncles, or Kids World volunteers or Sunday School Teachers...) You do not probably think much about feeding your children, wiping your baby’s backside, or responding to a midnight nightmare.  I highly doubt you pat yourself on the back for taking your toddler with you to the store instead of leaving them home alone and unsupervised.  You do not put on a resume or list of talents the fact that someone would have to climb over your dead body to cause your child physical harm.  These things, these realities that are present in your child’s life may seem so inconsequential that you do not think they count for much.  Or anything at all. 

As someone who has seen the absence of those things, let me tell you.  They matter.  They are everything. 

So the next time you wipe a nose or scoop up cheerios or climb in to a too-small-bed  for a late night cuddle, or sing Jesus Loves Me, you relish the reality that you, warrior mom or dad, you are doing something amazing in that moment.  Not necessarily glamorous or even sanitary, but amazing.  Don’t write yourself off because you don’t feel like super mom or super dad.  Don’t you dare compare yourself to the illusions that are photographed and posted every day on Facebook or Pinterest or whatever.  I don’t care if you sing like an angel or bellow like a sick donkey.  You just sing that lullaby like you own it.  I don’t care if you pack a gourmet lunch filled with organic food in a reusable lunch sack or if you throw down some PB&J in a brown bag.  You just pack that lunch up like a boss.  Formula or breastmilk?  Kudos for a healthy baby that gains weight instead of losing it.  And for getting them to those well child visits every other stinkin’ week.  Cloth diapers or chemical laden disposables?  Way to go for having a baby with a clean patooty.  TV or directed creative playtime?  If your preschooler is happy, you go ahead and do that victory lap.  Get the picture?  And in the moments when your fed, clean, loved child is having a meltdown, don’t you dare for a moment buy the lie that this moment defines you as a parent.  Or that it defines that toddler (or gradeschooler or teenager… let’s be real people, tantrums don’t end with the terrible twos) as your son or daughter.  They cry/talk/whine/scream/beg, etc.  You respond.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  You are present.  You have been blessed with a life that gives you the capacity to be present.  And that simple fact makes your child whole.       

Now the second thing: once you celebrate those things that are present in your child’s life because you are present in your child’s life, grieve for the absences in the lives of children who are less fortunate.  But don’t stop there.  (Maybe I should have told you there’s technically three things).  Do something about those absences.  Start filling some holes.  Can you go on a Go Team or Missions trip and hold some babies?  Do it!  Can you volunteer with Safe Families or become a foster parent and provide basic needs for children who are without food or a warm bed or a safe place to just be at this very moment?  Get on it!  Do those things seem overwhelming or impossible for you?  THAT’S OK!  Not everyone is called to the trenches.  Not everyone needs to fight those battles on the front lines. 

But everyone can do something.

Everyone is called to do something (and if you doubt that, read Matthew 9, the part about the sheep and the goats.  Serious stuff).

Everyone can donate to a local food pantry (did you know Mac n Cheese is on the top 10 list of needed items for most food pantries?  Who doesn’t love to buy mac n cheese?).  Everyone can drop money in the bucket at Salvation Army.  Everyone can pray for a child or children in need.  Everyone can go through their overflowing closets and donate what they don’t need to someone else who does (and not the junky stuff, either, people.  Nobody wants your ripped up, broken stuff).  Everyone can give an encouraging word to a person in need.  Everyone can give a smile to a struggling mom.  Everyone can help fill a hungry belly or warm a lonely soul.

Most of us can give so that a needy family can have enough blankets this Christmas, even if it means we have less of what we don’t need under our own tree.  Most of us can pick up an extra toy at the toy store to donate to another child, even if it means our own kiddos have one less thing that will be broken in a month anyways.  Or worse, out of batteries. 

Most of us know a foster family or a safe family – we can thank them for making not just that child’s world better but ours as well.  We can offer to babysit, or bring a meal give a gift card or make a diaper run when the child that was just dropped off has only one diaper and it’s spilling over like Old Faithful.  Incidentally, I can make this shameless plug because we are out of this season of being a Safe/foster family.  So don’t go thinking I’m asking for handouts ;)

So many of you have been following our journey with Audrey.  We have been blessed and overwhelmed as you have loved on her and prayed for her and mourned her loss with us.  As this part of the journey has come to a difficult close, some of you have asked:

What can I do? 

And I would tell you, implore you even – these two things.  You can do these two things. 

1. Keep doing the many Things you do with your child and celebrate that they matter. 

2.  Do something about the absences.

Do these 2 things for me.  Do them for yourself, for your family.  Do them for Audrey.  Or better yet, do them because Jesus said in Matthew 9:40: ‘I’m telling the solemn truth: Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.’

Extra Credit: (yes, people, I’m a teacher.  I love extra credit.)  Throughout December, post/tweet/pin some examples of how YOU are doing these 2 things.  It doesn’t have to be fancy – just a “hey, I just dropped a quarter in the little red bucket” or “woohoo I poured my kid some Cheerios!” will do.  Then throw in a #nomoreabsence.  Let’s start filling those holes.       

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

Matt and I were watching one of our favorite shows the other night - Parks and Recreation.  We had one of those rare and much needed moments of gut-busting laughter when Ron Swanson made the following comment: "There's only one thing I hate more than lying: skim milk.  Which is water lying about being milk."  If you aren't laughing right now, I feel sorry for you, or maybe just embarrassed for me because I find that statement to be hilarious.

Regardless of your position on skim milk, you probably have strong feelings about lying.  There's a No Lying policy in the Big 10, (as in the 10 Commandments) so it's pretty clear that God is not a fan.  (I wonder how He feels about skim milk.....)  In fact, Hebrews 6:18 says that "It is impossible for God to lie."  When I consider the promises found in Scripture, promises that we depend on, cling to even, I am so grateful that my God is completely trustworthy.  Titus 1:2 speaks of "A faith and knowledge resting on the hope of eternal life, which God, who does not lie, promised before the beginning of time."  But God's truthfulness goes beyond an incapacity to lie.  James 1:17-18 says that "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning."  We serve a God who's steadfastly trustworthy.  He doesn't just speak the truth, He is the standard for truth.  He doesn't vary, or waver, or veer off the path of truth.  Not even by the slightest shadow.  So when we read His Word, we can be confident that it is true.  And as we read His Word and seek to become more like this God who speaks truth only and always, how can we not be offended by even the slightest of lies?

Many parents that I know and respect have a strong policy against lying in their home.  Most homes have a few "Big Rules" and No Lying is often one of them.  It is not ever tolerated and is met with swift punishment.  After reading the above paragraph, and with even the most basic knowledge of the Bible, this makes perfect sense.  But I have a confession to make.  You may be tempted to judge me, but I implore you after your initial horrific reaction, to continue reading and give me a chance to explain myself.

If I were to list our family's "Big Rules, " I wouldn't include "No Lying."

Gasp, shock, horror, judgement.  "Um, hello, your husband is a PASTOR!  And you don't think lying is a big deal?!?!"   I can hear what you're thinking, and I know, I know.  And someday, if my children become derelict, lying cheats, you can say "I told you so."  But until then, hold the judgey comments and let me unpack this.

I don't like being lied to any more than the next guy.  Or mom, for that matter.  And please understand that we do not allow or condone lying.  But I have become a student of parenting, and while I'm no expert, I can honestly (seriously, I'm not lying) say that over the years I have watched and studied and all but stalked perhaps hundreds of parents in my pursuit to figure out what successful parenting looks like.  As a teacher, parent, and former children's pastor's wife (I'm still married to the same guy - he's just no longer a children's pastor), I have had the opportunity to observe many parents and families.  One thing I have seriously and specifically studied is how parents handle lying.  Because just like you, I want my children to be truthful and trustworthy.  The problem with taking a hard and strong stance on lying is that it is often difficult to catch.  I have watched teachers and parents accuse a child of lying, convinced based on evidence that they are correct.  And then after the punishment has been doled out and the child serves their sentence, new information comes to light and the child is proved a truth teller and the adult finds themself in a terrible position.  Because now, the child has learned that it's not so important whether or not they tell the truth, as it is important that the adult believes it.  Conversely, I have watched a child lie and their parent or teacher believe them.  With punishment avoided, or even reward handed out, that child learns that the truth is far less important as the ability to sell a lie.  Children learn quickly that there are times that the risk of being caught lying is worth it, when the punishment they will receive if they tell the truth is bad enough to attempt deception.  It's a gamble, and some children enjoy gambling, especially the ones that are good at lying.  I myself was a terrible liar as a child - I have a feeling my parents could tell when I was lying even if their eyes were closed.  In fact, I was a bit of a chronic confessor.  Most of the time I was so burdened by guilt that I would tell my parents everything I had done wrong before they had a chance to ask.  I have this memory of riding in the car on the way home from church, and as I was confessing to my parents like they were the local priest, my mom gently said, "you know, you don't have to tell us every mistake you've made today."    

Fast forward 20 some-ish years and we are raising 3 little girls who are quickly showing themselves to be these abstract mixtures of their parents' personalities.  Translation: not all of them are chronic confessors.  Several weeks ago we began to notice a pattern of, shall we say, untruthfulness, in our middle child.  She's not an outright liar so much as she has her own "creative" version of the truth.  Oh how that girl loves a technicality.  Ask her if she did her homework, and you can see the wheels turning in her head as she reasons "I did do my homework, I did a lot of homework."  So she answers yes.  But after further investigation you find that she hasn't even begun the packet of reading homework due in 3 days.  Busted?  Absolutely not, because, incredulously she'll exclaim, "I didn't know you meant ALL my homework!  You should have been more clear!"  And because she technically hasn't lied and she technically hasn't even failed to do the homework that is actually and imminently due, you, the parent, are completely hosed.  Sigh.  After a few of these incidents were starting to run together and become a pattern, Matt and I knew we had to figure this out.  As a professional stalker, er I mean studier of parents, I knew that if I played this out with a black and white approach, punishing my daughter for lying and accusing her of what was obviously becoming a sin pattern in her life, it would backfire.  My brilliant and creative-thinking daughter would only focus on her version of truth and our obviously unfair reaction and at best she might learn to be a better truth-teller so she didn't get in trouble and at worst she would learn to be a better liar so she didn't get caught.  But I don't want my daughter to tell me the truth to avoid punishment - that's not a win for me.  What I want is for my daughter to love the truth, to be compelled to honesty, and most importantly for God's truthful character to become part of who she is.  So instead of focusing on the lie, we chose to focus on the truth.  I pulled Sofi aside, after we had a confrontation where I believed she had been dishonest with me.  She had thrown something at her sister, and claimed it was an accident (and I believe she had convinced herself that this was true), while I sensed that it was more purposeful.  We discussed Truth - how God is truthful, how His Word is truth and how those truths are full and complete and worth celebrating.  Then I gently brought up the fact that I had noticed a pattern of partial truths coming from her mouth.  I told her what was most important to me was not whether or not she admitted her mistake to me, but that she acknowledged the truth with herself, and then allowed that truth to come into the light.  John 8:32 says that "you will know the truth and the truth will set you free."  This verse isn't specifically talking about lying - the truth that it refers to here is the Truth that leads to salvation.  But throughout Scripture I believe we see that over and over again, when sin is brought into the light and dealt with, when truth is spoken and a course is corrected, there is freedom.  Jonah ran from God and was swallowed by a whale - when he admitted his sin, he was literally set free.  Joseph's brothers lived with the lies that covered up what they had done to him in secret and when that lie was laid bare and they were forgiven, there was celebration and freedom from not only their sin but from starvation as well.  When Adam and Eve lied in the Garden, God brought forth the truth.  And while yes, there was a consequence for their sin, God also provided for them and put into motion His plan for redemption.  I could go on and on.  So I told Sofi I wasn't going to ask her for the truth right now, because I wanted her to take some time to talk to her Heavenly Father to see what He was trying to teach her.  And I left it at that.

Later that evening Matt and I called her into our room and again, let her know that we wanted to know the truth of what happened, that we wanted to not only deal with her sin but celebrate the freedom that comes with the truth.  This time, she openly confessed, not only what I suspected - that she had intentionally thrown something at her sister - but also, that she had been dishonest with herself and with me.  I could tell that this had been a true revelation to her, that God had shone His light of truth into her humanly deceitful heart (as all of our hearts are) and she had discovered something for perhaps the first time.  There was a consequence doled out, but more importantly we stopped and thanked God for her truthfulness and the freedom it offered her.  And you know what?  My little girl's face just shone.  Because God's Word is true, and when it promises freedom, it delivers.  That night she learned that the cost of lying - the bondage that comes from truth denied - is higher than the reward of getting away with sin.  And while I have no doubt she'll lie again (because as sinners we inevitably sin repeatedly), I also know that she thinks differently about telling the truth.  Over the days and weeks since that conversation, I have seen a pattern of deceitfulness emerge into a pattern of truthfulness.  Not because she doesn't want to get into trouble, but because she knows the freedom of telling the truth.

Fast forward a couple of weeks and again, the Monster of Lies reared its ugly head, this time with our youngest daughter.  Because she has only spent 1 of her 4 years of life on this earth in our home, we're still early on in this process of teaching our values, and more importantly God's values.  Truth was in no way valued or modeled in her home and so convincing her to be truthful when she might get into trouble is an uphill climb.  Seeing as she rarely (possibly never) tells the truth when she thinks she can get away with a lie, we seldom find the opportunity to celebrate truth telling with her.  It was getting to be overwhelming, in that "I give up I've already failed and there's no hope" kind of way.  The heartbreaking thing was that the thing she continually lies about (incidentally it's wetting her pants), is not something we even discipline her for.  Over and over again we promise her that she won't be in trouble, we just want to know the truth so that we can take care of her and keep her safe.  However, the fear substantiated by years in a home so different from ours, continually drowns out our promises.  But oh how that little girl loves Jesus and is thrilled to hear and learn His Word, so I kept telling her over and over again how the Bible says the truth will set you free.  The first time I told her, she gasped, with her tiny little hands clasped together and said, "Free?!  I want to be free!"  But it would be weeks before that desire would overcome the years of pain and experience that had taught her that lies are acceptable and even safer than the truth.  A few days ago we were again faced with one of those moments where I knew the truth that she desperately wanted to hide, and so I prayed that God would help her have the courage to be truthful.  It may seem like a little thing, completely inconsequential.  But when that little girl admitted with trembling lips and shaking hands that she had just peed her pants, I was so proud of her and I know that Heaven celebrated with as much enthusiasm as we did.  "I'm free!" she exclaimed, so completely full of joy.  And when she experienced me keeping my promise not to punish her, it did more for her little heart than a thousand words ever could.

So I ask you this: is your home simply a place where lies are not tolerated?  Or is it a place where truth is celebrated?  When mistakes are made, sin is brought to the surface, and your child is caught in a lie, do they feel backed against a wall of punishment?  Are they forced to choose between the harsh bricks of that wall that will certainly cause them pain and the escape hatch of a lie that might just save the day?  Or can they find truth like a gate in the wall - which may bring momentary discomfort but is also a doorway to freedom?  Take some time this week to read what God's Word has to say not only about lying but about truth and freedom from a sin forgiven.  You might find that "No Lying" isn't such an important rule after all.        

April Fools

Warning: this post may contain some awkward or TMI anecdotes, mostly about pregnancy.  If you do not wish to think or read about what goes on during the 9 (actually 10) months it takes to grow a tiny human inside of your (or actually my) body, please feel free to return to perusing Facebook or Twitter, or more appropriate posts from the blogosphere.  If you continue on, don't say I didn't warn you.  

One of the annoying unique aspects of being pregnant is the frequent trips to the doctor.  With a "normal" pregnancy, you'll visit your friendly ob/gyn practitioner over a dozen times.  If there are complications, say you have a low riding uterus that threatens to release your still developing tiny human before his due time, you get extra visits.  Lots of extra visits, complete with extra ultrasounds.  (And not the nice kind where they squeeze goo on your belly and look at the baby through said gooey belly).  And at every visit you pee in a cup, hobble onto a scale (like I want to know what I weigh these days), have more of that goo smeared all over your belly, and answer a myriad of awkward questions.  I have to say, some of those questions are hard.  Like, shouldn't there be multiple choice or something?  There's a lot of pressure in having to accurately describe each type of pain, it's duration, it's origin, and it's reaction to a dozen different factors from my position to the state of my bladder.  What happens if I forget?  I can barely remember my name these days!  Other questions feel ridiculous if not down right insulting.  If I wasn't smoking at the beginning of my pregnancy, what makes you think I'd take up a nicotine habit just in time to screw up junior's neural pathways?  Good grief.  But the question I hate the most (and screw up the most often, incidentally) is "What number pregnancy is this for you?"  

I remember after each of my pregnancies with the girls feeling grateful that my number of pregnancies was equal to my number of healthy, full term babies.  I breathed a sigh of relief not to be in the more-pregnancies-than-live-births club.  So the first time I went for a prenatal visit with this pregnancy, I answered The Question without thinking: "This is my 3rd pregnancy."  It took me a couple of minutes to realize my mistake at which point I bumbled all over myself that it was actually my fourth pregnancy, I had a miscarriage a few months ago and totally forgot... not the miscarriage, but to mention it."  Of course my doctor already knew about my miscarriage so I think the question was part of a test to see if I had started smoking.  Good grief.  Then of course there is the added complication that I have 3 children.  So now I'm explaining how I have 3 children and 3 pregnancies, only one of the children isn't biological or even mine actually, but that's a long story.  At which point I'm wondering why she doesn't just screen me for drug use.  But I digress.  

Back to miscarriages.  I've been giving it a lot of thought because today was the due date for my third pregnancy.  I am not a very superstitious person but I remember calculating my due date after that positive pregnancy test (who am I kidding, I had the due date calculated at least a week before I took the test...just in case...) and when I saw that it was April 1st, it made me paranoid.  After a year and a half of trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant, an April Fool's due date seemed like a bad sign.  Month after month I calculated possible due dates and decided each time that it was truly perfect timing.  Then came April 1st.  And while I still don't believe in bad signs or the power of a practical jokester holiday to end my pregnancy, I can't help but think it's ironic.  The whole mess of infertility and the miscarriage and now a complicated pregnancy has been ironic.  And when I think of how we got pregnant with Sofi while I was breastfeeding my 5 month old and on birth control, well, it all just defines irony I guess.  

So today as I've been thinking of a pregnancy lost even as I give thanks for the little guy I'm carrying today, I thought I'd share with you some of the things I've learned after going through a miscarriage.  Because while it is statistically common to suffer a miscarriage, it is far less common to talk about it.  There were things I wondered about or foolishly assumed when I heard that someone had miscarried, things that I see or feel or experience very differently now.  So for those who have wondered, but have been fortunate enough not to find out for themselves, here are some things that I learned from my miscarriage.  

First, miscarriages hurt.  Not just figuratively, but literally.  You walk around for days trying to forget what happened or move on at least, only your body has to constantly remind you that it's getting rid of the baby you had pictured yourself holding.   My miscarriage happened really early (I was only 5 weeks along), so I would imagine it would be more painful the further along you are.  I was also fortunate enough to miscarry on my own, without medical intervention.  In the future, I will be so much more compassionate towards those women who have to face medical procedures on top of coping with their loss.  

Second, miscarriages hurt.  Ok, I know that was my first point.  But this time I mean emotionally.  It's not just the feeling of loss and disappointment and guilt even (because even though you logically know it's not your fault, you also intrinsically know that it was your body alone that your baby depended on to give him or her the chance to grow into a tiny person who would love math or play soccer or grow up to be a nobel peace prize winner...).  I think I had a fair idea that those feelings would be difficult to sort through after a miscarriage.  What took me by surprise was the actual sense of life lost inside of me.  Like death crept in and life seeped out, leaving this hollow place that should have been filled with fingers and toes and a beating heart.  It may sound dramatic, but it's the best way I can describe it.  

Third, getting pregnant again is terrifying.  We waited until we were 3 months along before we shared the news, and even then I immediately wished I could take it back.  Other people we knew were announcing pregnancies at 8 weeks or even earlier and I remember feeling jealous that they had the luxury of taking for granted the fact that their pregnancy would result in an actual living, healthy, breathing baby.  I was throwing up several times a day at that point, completely exhausted and constantly anxious.  And I remember thinking that it was so hard to constantly feel sick without allowing myself to also feel excited; to be exhausted from growing a tiny human that I couldn't allow myself to connect with.  I had this tradition where I went out and bought something for the baby the I day I found out I was pregnant.  Isabel has a little pooh bear and Sofi has a giraffe she named "Raffey."  I loved telling them that I bought their stuffed toy the day I knew they were in my belly.  So the day I found out I was pregnant last July, I went out and bought a little baby Cookie Monster.  I still have it, and honestly I don't know what to do with it.  It seems too sad to get rid of it, but sort of morbid to keep it for the "new baby."  Incidentally, with this pregnancy, I didn't go out and buy the traditional gift.  I couldn't bear the thought of losing this baby and maybe more after, and then ending up with a closet full of toys for babies that were never born.  I know, so totally depressing.  (I did break down and buy a little Mickey Mouse the day we found out we were having a boy).  Finally, Matt gently pointed out to me that I always referred to the baby as a possibility rather than a reality - as in "if the baby's born" or "if this pregnancy gets to x weeks..."  So slowly and deliberately I began talking about our baby, planning for his arrival, getting excited about all the things you're supposed to celebrate with pregnancy.  I still feel anxious, I calculate the days and odds of survival if he was born right now, and sometimes I have to force myself to think of his birth as an eventual reality and not just a possibility.  And I wonder if it will take holding him in my arms to know he's really ok, or if even then I'll worry obsessively that he'll stop breathing in his sleep.  I've always prided myself in being an intentionally non-obsessive parent, but that may go out the window.

Last, getting pregnant again doesn't erase your thoughts of the baby you lost.  I find myself wondering, especially today, if it would have been a boy or a girl.  I wonder what he or she would have been like, if they would have looked like one of the girls (who looked nothing alike when they were born), would I have worried obsessively about him or her or would I have taken their health and existence for granted the way I did with my first 2 babies?  I always wondered if you had another child after a miscarriage, would you look at that child and love them so much that you'd be able to accept the loss that made their life possible?  I wonder now, once I hold my son if it will all feel worth it.  And I force myself to believe and say out loud, that in only a few more months I'll find out.  

I started the book 1000 Gifts just before I had the miscarriage and continued to read it even as I struggled with the range of feelings, only a few of which I have had the time to share with you.  I don't have any real answers, I don't know why I spent months begging God to give me a baby only to wind up asking Him why He allowed me to experience the joy of life given and devastation of life lost.  But as I read that book and practiced gratitude for all things, great and small, I felt Him carry me through death and offer me peace that passes understanding.  It was a month later that we faced the possibility of cancer with Isabel and then celebrated her healing.  And it was a month after that when I held another pregnancy test and told God I would trust Him no matter what.  I can tell you that the only reason I trust God is because He gives me the strength to.  My story, while it has some dark pages and periods of loss and pain, is truly a gift.  I have on many occasions felt guilty for the brief pity parties I have allowed myself to attend.  Many women struggle with infertility without the blessing of already having given birth to 2 beautiful, healthy babies.  And while today is a due date that came and went without the baby I hoped to hold, this week I begin the 3rd trimester and final countdown to meet my firstborn son.  This world is full of life and death and hope and disappointment.  But today, this day of fools, the day after we celebrated Christ's resurrection, we are reminded that we don't belong here anyways.  We were created for so much more and this world will always feel empty as long as we try to find our meaning within it.  

One more thing I've wondered since the miscarriage (and by wonder I mean more abstractly, not in a needs-to-be-settled-in-theological-debate sort of way): When is our soul created?  I don't know if the baby I lost had a soul, if he or she is in heaven or if it even matters.  But happy due day little one - you were loved and you are missed.    

Happy Anniversary

One year ago today I received a phone call that would change our lives.  I had agreed to another placement with Safe Families after telling Matt "This case is perfect - the mom is just in labor and needs help for about 2 weeks.  It's an open and shut case."  We still laugh about that comment.  I can remember the phone call like it was yesterday, the woman from Safe Families asked me if I would rather take the 1 year old boy or the 2 year old girl.  It didn't matter to me - it was fun to have a little boy around for a change, but then we had all those girl's clothes and toys... so girl it was.  It seemed like a simple choice, inconsequential.  After all, it would only be for a couple of weeks.  

Matt was the one who picked her up.  I called him while he was in the car with her to see how things were going and he warned me, "Oh, Noel, she's so cute!  We are in big trouble because we are just going to love her!"  It was a Monday.  She loves to hear the story, which I think she still remembers parts of.  I know she remembers Matt picking her up, and he loves to recount their trip to the grocery store on the way home where she talked non-stop for hours!  (He likes to exaggerate)  And all through the grocery store she talked and talked without taking a breath: "can I have a cake can I have a candy I love cake!  I love candy!  Oooohhh look at that it looks yummy can I have some it looks so yummy I love cake and candy! can I have some?!!!!!!!........"  I wasn't there so I can't verify, but I have to say I tend to believe the story.  She talked to me from the moment I helped her take her coat off, through the multiple baths I had to give her to try and wash the gosh awful mess of gunk out of her hair (I ended up having to cut a chunk out), while I put on her pjs and rocked/sang/read to her until I finally put her in bed.  At which point she screamed for what seemed like hours, only stopping when I checked on her and tried to rock her to sleep.We had no idea that a couple of weeks later, the morning after we had filled out adoption paperwork to begin the process of adopting a baby from China, we would get another call.  This time to tell us that the little girl that we fell in love with instantly would be leaving our home for a foster home.  They didn't have to ask us - we knew immediately that we were supposed to be her foster parents.  We were ready to travel across the world to rescue a little child in need of a family, when God had already put one in our own home.  And the rest is history.  

It's been a year since that Monday, and while she still talks nearly non-stop all day long, she no longer screams when I put her to bed at night (I finally figured out she was afraid I was going to leave her.  As in alone.  In the house.  While I went to the grocery store or something.  Sheesh!)  

People are always asking how we do what we do and the truth is often times I hate foster care.  But I love this little girl.  So I endure the system with its failures and limitations and I remind everyone within the system who will listen of all this little girl has gone through and continues to struggle with in hopes that they will have to listen and make the right choice for her eventually.  The maddening thing is that we are always being told "It's still early.  These things take a long time."  As if a year of living two lives and never knowing where you belong isn't punishment enough for a little girl who's only mistake was being born into a home that couldn't or wouldn't take care of her.  But the courts and the powers that be don't rock this little girl when she's scared to see her biological family.  They don't (still) have to explain to her that when she takes a nap, they will still be there because they don't leave preschoolers home alone.  When she panics and asks if she had breakfast today and it's 3 in the afternoon, they aren't there telling her for the millionth time that in this house we eat 3 meals a day.  Every day.  And we don't run out of food or forget to feed children.  And when she wakes up screaming, they aren't the ones rocking her and promising her that the monsters in her past don't know where she lives and can't hurt her right now.  They read neatly typed reports of what we say she says happened to her, they don't have to hear the stories from her tiny mouth and shaky voice.  Today they didn't have to tell her that she has to go back to wearing pull ups because the last round of visits and bad memories has completely undone the toilet training(s) I've done with her.  I can't help but wonder, if the people who made the laws and executed them were the people that cared for the children those laws most deeply affect, what would change?  If they saw faces instead of statistics, would they look at me, shrug their shoulders, and say "it's still early?"  

I could soapbox for hours, but I'm assuming I'm preaching to the choir.  And it should be noted that the system is flawed because it's run by man and mankind is flawed.  However there are great people working in the system - social workers and lawyers and foster families who fight hard for these children every day.  The greater truth is that 3 years ago when this little girl was pulled from her home she was placed with a family that taught her about Jesus.  And today she is in a home that does the same.  God has a plan for her and won't let her go.  Sometimes people ask me how I can be so calm about all of this.  How I can know that she may have to go back to her biological home, and know exactly what will happen to her if she does, and not lose my mind.  All I can tell you is that she is God's child and He has made it clear through His Word, through His actions, and through the peace He speaks to me that He is in control.  I want to rescue her.  I want the system to wake up and protect her.  I want her mother to make the right choice, let her go, and not let anyone else hurt her.  But she is God's to rescue.  And the more the system fails her, the more the family she was born into fails her, the more I struggle with the fact that I can't save her, the more it is clear that only God is her refuge.  I pray and I know others join us that God will rescue her, and I have peace in this chaos because I know at the end of this story it will be clear that only He was her rescuer.  No one else will get the credit and that will speak more clearly to her than paperwork signed by people who will forget her face and never hear her story.  So we fight knowing that the battle is the Lord's.  I felt like God gave me the story of the persistent widow in Luke 18.  I hold tightly to verse 7 and part of verse 8: "And will not God bring about justice for His chosen ones, who cry out to Him day and night?  Will He keep putting them off?  I tell you, He will see that they get justice, and quickly."  So I pray most of all for justice, and quickly.

I was talking to my mom recently and saying how I wish there were more families who would fight for these kids.  And while we discussed all the great reasons that families like ours wouldn't want to throw themselves into the mess of foster care (I swore we would never become foster parents for those very reasons!), it got me thinking.  First of all, we aren't foster parents because we want to adopt children who will fit perfectly into our family.  We became foster parents because we believed God called us to be a part of His plan to rescue the little girl that was living with us.  And while there are many, many difficulties and drawbacks, ultimately there is nothing better than being exactly where God wants you.  More importantly, there is nothing more rewarding than being a part of God at work, and being used by Him to accomplish His plan.  We use the stories of Moses and Jonah all the time as illustrations of how ridiculous it is to run from God's plan.  Because we can skip ahead to the end of the story, we see how foolish it is that Moses tried to use a simple stutter to pass off the responsibility of leading God's people in a mass exodus out of slavery and into His promised land.  God could have used someone else to accomplish the same rescue plan.  But then Moses would never had felt God's power course through his walking stick to part the Red Sea; he never would have looked over his shoulder at the waves of people following him towards freedom; he never would have climbed Mt Sinai and seen the face of God and been so transformed that his face literally shone with God's glory.  We don't limit God by our refusal to be a part of His plan, but we miss out on all that God will do in and through us if we lay aside our excuses and jump in.  I think of all the times I've used Jonah as an (obvious!) example of why we should obey God, and how ridiculous it is to try to run from Him.  But we know that whale's coming when we open the book - pretty sure if Jonah had been able to skip ahead he would have made a different choice.  And hindsight being 20/20, there are so many times that I have ignored God's voice because I didn't know what was coming.  Wouldn't it be great if we just did what we told our children and followed directions the first time?  While I swore up and down we wouldn't do foster care, now that I'm in the thick of it and have hindsight and all that, I see things differently.  Yes, it's messy and difficult and at times painful.  And yes, we have plenty of other things on our plate without adding a traumatized child with way too much baggage.  This year we have struggled with infertility, a miscarriage, and the possibility of our oldest daughter having cancer.  We carry enough baggage.  And while I haven't felt God pass through my walking stick to part the local body of water, I have watched Him transform a little girl.  I have felt how powerful His words are when spoken in her voice.  I have been granted more peace and patience and strength than I would have dared asked for.  And when I look back, I have watched God's faithfulness prove true in our family over and over again.  So while I hate this process, I am humbled and grateful to be part of God's plan.  I'm not saying that God is telling you to be a foster parent.  But I am telling you that here in this broken world in need of a Savior, He wants to use you to be part of His rescue plan.  There is a job He is calling you to do, and you won't regret throwing your excuses out the window and jumping in.

More than anything, this journey of foster care has taught me to depend on God.  And this little girl, who clings to Jesus and the hope He brings, has taught me that God will work in and through us if only we allow Him to.  So happy one year anniversary, little girl.  We are so thankful God brought you into our lives.        

Be still and know

You know we're under stress when you can hear 90s worship music playing while my husband makes dinner.  My slightly weird wonderful husband seems to access his inner Pentecostal when life gets out of control, which is why God's Property was blasting as he made tacos last night.  Incidentally, as long as he continues to make tacos, he can listen to any music he wants.  GP are you with me?  (Consider yourself very cool if you get that reference).  

While Matt faces problems with worship music, I take the less mature approach and try to avoid them.  Which is why I've watched way too much television in the last few days and would prefer to fast forward my life to Thursday.  Why Thursday?  Because today and tomorrow stress me out, and I'm not a fan of stress.  Today we have our 20 week ultrasound.  And as thrilled as I am to feel this little guy kicking and squirming inside of me, I don't think I'll shake the fear that something will go terribly wrong until they place him securely in my arms.  Call me crazy, but I don't have a lot of confidence in my uterus these days.  And tomorrow we are going (back) to court.  Not for the usual check in and review of the same motions lawyers have been filing every month for almost a year.  This court date seems to actually matter in the great debate of where these precious children will grow up and most likely I'll be asked to testify and answer questions about our 3 year old's story.  She's been talking a lot lately about what happened to her when she was at home, and I'm the voice that will speak for her tomorrow.  My voice doesn't carry much weight, it doesn't get a say in decisions that will be made.  But my voice is her voice, and for at least a few moments, I have the chance to make her voice heard.  The terrifying part of this isn't just knowing that in the grand scheme of lawyers and judges and social workers, my voice is powerless.  It's the fear that my voice is inadequate.  I can't control a courtroom with my words, and I can't give this little girl the life she deserves with a little speech.  So my prayer is that tomorrow it will not be my voice that speaks for her but it will be God's.  Because His words don't return void.  They don't lack authority.  They won't fail her.  His words spoke the world into existence, and I know they can speak truth that will set her free.  

Today before the girls left for school we practiced the verse they are working on at church: Psalms 46:10 states "Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."

Be still.  Know that I am God.

I put too much faith in people and systems, in judges and lawyers and court rooms.  Not because I believe in them, but because I believe in their power.  In a sense, I exalt them, because to exalt means to lift up, to raise or elevate.  Over and over again God has proved to be this little girl's refuge, her safe place.  He has rescued her, He will redeem her.  I'm just given the privilege of being a part of His plan, a tool that He uses.  Plenty of people have competed to be the villain in her story, but only He is the hero.  Because her story is His story, and throughout Scripture we see that while suffering happens, pain is endured, and hardship threatens to overwhelm, God never leaves or forsakes us and He promises to carry us through it all.  

So as we listen to outdated worship music and watch too much television, and most importantly drop to our knees in prayer for wisdom and peace and victory, we ask that you join with us.  (Not in the music or television part, although that's fine too).  Pray that we will Be Still.  Pray that we will trust our Father.  And pray that as we gather in that courtroom tomorrow that He will speak through us, with words that are not our own and with authority that man cannot resist.  

Because when this is all over, God will be exalted.