Truth

I remember when Jesus first set me free and I remember when I first loved Matt. They were around the same time.

It was all so schmoopy, so mushy, so cluelessly dumb. It was so idealistic, so full of “I Will Nevers” and “We Will Always.”  So easy and blindly optimistic.

Fast forward fifteen years. I now have a love that has been tested by fire; love that has withstood swelling waters. It was not easy. I have done most of the “I Will Nevers” and dropped almost all of the “We Will Always.”

Our love has been shaken and torn down and rebuilt at least a dozen times.  And just when I am sure we have our footing, the bottom drops out again. Just when I am sure of what it is, something comes along and proves me wrong; more breaking, more burning, more tearing down. It hurts like hell and it is terrifying.

But every time it happens, when the smoke clears and the waters recede, I look up and see Him more clearly. I love Him more honestly, I know Him more intimately, and I trust Him more completely; I am more sure of Him. When the scar tissue begins to form, I understand more than ever before that He is It. He is my one true thing. That life is horrible, hard, heavy, and heartbreaking but without Him, it’s nothing at all.

Where is God on your very worst day? Where is God when the bottom drops out? Where is God when the absolute worst outcome becomes reality? When all your hopes are dashed? When the healing doesn’t happen?

When we hope in anything but Him, we will be crushed. When we hope in the healing and not The Healer, we have put something besides God on the throne. When we rest our faith on a move of God above God himself, we have worshipped an idol. When we buy into the lie that a life of faith will buy us material blessing and protection from pain, we are believing heresy.

The Good news is this: He loves us. He never leaves us; when everything in our world burns, including us. Everything we thought to be true about ourselves, the world, and Him, shatters. When all that falls away, we are left with Him. Eternally Him. Unshaken, unchanged, unbroken. Eleven months ago in my Darkest Hour, He spoke to me. He did not leave me. And He did not leave Paul.

I have wrestled, fought, questioned, pushed back, accused, flailed, spiraled. I have doubted His existence, questioned His goodness, I have lobbed flaming accusations.

I am still out here in the wilderness. Yet I am not alone; I know He is with me, eternally.

2 Corinthians 4:7-18

But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.

Since we have the same spirit of faith according to what has been written, “I believed, and so I spoke,” we also believe, and so we also speak, knowing that he who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and bring us with you into his presence. For it is all for your sake, so that as grace extends to more and more people it may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God.

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.

See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. The reason why the world does not know us is that it did not know him. Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is. And everyone who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure.

On being "back"

Lately I have a little bit more bandwidth. Lately I have started being able to do some of the things I used to do. And lately, people have been saying to me: “You’re back.”

Please don’t be mistaken, friends. I am in no way “back.” You see, there is no coming back from where I have been. To say that I am “back” is to imply that somehow I have returned to the girl I was before eleven o’clock in the morning on December 11^th, 2014.

Before I got that horrible phone call. Before my world was shaken and my heart was shattered.

That girl is gone. She will never return.

 I think you could more easily resuscitate my brother than the girl that I was on December 10th.  People have said often that they “miss the old me.” I can tell you this: Not as much as I do. I would give anything to undo the damage that has been done.

Mostly because undoing that damage would mean that my brother would still be here laughing and scheming and breathing. But he is not. And because of that, I carry a weight and a scar that will go with me until Jesus calls me home.

Do not misunderstand me. I am not without hope and peace and joy. I have those things. But I also have anguish and pain that sometimes levels me. Sometimes I look at a picture of him and the realization that he is really gone and he is gone forever, it punches me straight in the gut. Most days I feel completely irreparable.

I am moving forward. But I will never move on. His death will now always be a part of me, just like Paul himself will always be a part of me.

 

This week is Suicide Awareness Week. Light a candle. Buy a shirt from Sevenly (their campaign this week benefits National Suicide Prevention Lifeline). Pray for my family. Remember Paul..

The man, the myth, my brother.

Back in the Saddle

This past Saturday we went to the first training that we need to become an active foster home again. It's been over two years since we have done foster care. A lot has happened in two years. We have fought an appeal, adopted, and moved in a young mom and her son. We have been busy, but not with foster care.

On the way driving out to the training I had a pretty epic meltdown. I said it was about hamburgers and running late but I know myself well enough to know that my freakouts are never about what I say they are about.

While we were driving and I was crying, Matt offered to turn around. "We don't have to do this!" he said, "We can go back!" I considered it for a second. We don't have to do this. My life is full enough. Complicated enough. Then, I remembered the thing that I always remember.

I remembered the kid. The kid I haven't met. The kid I know nothing about. The kid that's already out there, most likely experiencing a version of hell that you and I have not had to survive. That thought made my heart shrink down to the size of a raisin. That thought makes me want to simultaneously lie down curled, and run through walls.

As we come up on our sixth year doing foster care, knowing what we know, seeing what we've seen, the question has gone from: "How can we do this?" to: "How can we not do this?"

My husband lied. The first part was right, we don't have to do this. But his second statement was a lie...
We can never go back.

The truth about Emman

He skidded into our lives on the tail end of the hardest placement in our foster care career. I often liken the time with that placement to wearing shoes that were too small...for nine months.When Emmanuel came, we were emotionally drained from caring for these extremely needy kids whose personalities just never really meshed with ours.
Emman came with some diagnoses on paper that, once we got him in our home, we realized we were dealing with someone very different than who we had met on paper.  We went from having a kid with cerebral palsy on paper to a kid with a very real sensory disorder and attachment disorder.The implications of these new diagnoses were much more abstract and much less concrete than what we expected.
Then, right before we were supposed to consummate the adoption, we got news that his bio dad was going to fight. That fight lasted seventeen grueling months. Sometimes, when Emman has the hiccups he says: "I am hiccup," I smile and agree. He is hiccup.

Nothing with Emman has gone as planned or as expected. He has been hard won. From his legal standing, to his services, to his affection, to his diagnoses. Fight of my life. That phrase echoed in my head when the appeal began. The appeal was the fight of my life in a lot of ways. It felt heavy and awful. It was an invisible cloud of uncertainty. An unbecoming filter that colored everything I did and everywhere I went. The chance of losing him was crouching in the corner of every room I walked into for seventeen months.
I wanted to hold back from this kid who desperately needed me to give unreservedly. I wanted to protect myself from the pain of losing my son. I had to fight to keep hope, and faith that all would work together for my good. Or that, if it didn't, would God still be good? Could I still proclaim that? I look back on the seventeen months and all I know is it felt like what war must feel like. That it felt like something was pinning me down. That hope was always one inch beyond my fingertips.
I look back through my journal and it's pages and pages of scratching out verses about the character of God, of the promises of God, and begging them to be true. Begging Him not to change my life, but my heart.  It took up most of my emotional energy most days. All the while trying to fight for his affection. And trying to fight for control of this little tornado.
He bucks everything from my boundaries to my affection. We were at Hope Connection Camp last month and the family counselor and I were talking about my competitiveness (shocking, right?) and he said: "When it comes to kids in your peer group, like the children of your friends, who is winning?" I didn't hesitate. "Me." I have held back from writing about Emman because I don't want to be misunderstood. Or because I felt like having a different relationship with him than Isaiah is wrong. Bonding with a two year old when you have just twinned your two year old is...the truth about Emman is that he is HARD. He is stubborn and contrary. He is volatile and unpredictable. He is complicated. He pushes you away while clawing to keep you close.

I am constantly assessing whether what we are facing is developmental, sensory, or just cheekiness. He bucks and fights me every step. He is exhausting. Someone asked me the other day if I mainlined cocaine to keep up with him. I don't. He is a constant vibration of whirling energy.
The truth about Emman is that I lose sleep over him. I worry about him making friends. I worry about him in school. I worry about if he will ever attach to us in the way I want him to. I worry if he will be misunderstood. But the truth about him is that he is hilarious and quirky. He is brilliant. He is affectionate and friendly. The truth about Emman is that all of the fighting, the hiccups, the complications, the missteps, mishaps, and set backs have only added richness to my life. The truth about Emman is that I have gotten so many things wrong in the last two years and many days have felt like losses.
The truth about Emman is that he is my beloved son and that is a win. Its THE win.

Buying the Field

"The Kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field."

Matthew 13:44

This verse has been rattling around in my brain the last few weeks as I reflected on the last year for our family and looked ahead to the next year. As I have prayed and asked the Lord for vision, this is what keeps popping up. 

So I think maybe this year is about buying the field. 

I have been thinking a lot about the cost of following Jesus on my life, my kids, my family. I have been counting the cost of the Kingdom. I think this year, more than any other year, the cost has become very real to me. We have had to truly consider and sacrifice things we thought were important, the things we thought we needed and the things we thought we valued. We have had to lay down our lives and follow this call. It has been painful and uncomfortable and stretching. This year more than any other year I think Jesus has become very real to me.

Before I didn't really believe that the Kingdom could come in my minivan, at my dining room table, in my time, in my finances, in my life. But that's because I never made space for it to come. I never let God have it to do what He pleased with it. But once I started, I couldn't stop. I handed Him a piece and He transformed it from mundane, plain, and ugly to a thing of beauty. I handed Him another piece and He cleaned it up and multiplied it. I handed Him my Saturday and He filled it with picnics and baby showers with these precious mamas and their babies. I handed Him my minivan and my gas budget (for real) and He filled it to bursting with life and friendship and laughter and the CUTEST babies ever. I handed Him my plans and my spare room and He grew people into my family in a way I could never imagine, but now I couldn't imagine my family without them. I handed Him my heart and He transformed it so I could love Him better and filled it with a deeper love for his people. 

At the end of my life, I probably won't have aged beautifully, I probably won't get to retire early, or travel the world. My kids will probably not have new clothes or the finest education. But maybe I will have the field. See, the cost of the Kingdom is that my kids spend a lot of time in their car seats while I shuttle people around to appointments and school. They share me and they share their stuff. That I don't get a lot of ME time. That my husband and I don't hardly have date nights. Our house is always messy. There is always too much month left over at the end of the paycheck. 

But we have the field. And we are selling everything else.

Revival

The good news of the Gospel is that God came down and made my problems His. How do I reconcile walking out the Gospel if I don't make the problems of others mine? 

We belong to each other. We all belong to Him. It is what the Kingdom of God was designed for. Bearing one another's burdens. People tell me ALL. THE. TIME: "You cannot save them all!" Damn right. Actually, not a single one; but that's not what I was designed for anyways. What I can do is lighten the load. I can come along side. I can feed, clothe, and shelter. I can defend and educate. If I am not using that with which I am blessed to bless others and if I do not use my position to lift others, then what is it for? 

A life spent on yourself is a wasted life. 

This week I was trying to help a young pregnant woman find housing. I called one of the local mega churches and received an 82 page document referring other local resources that could help. That was all they could offer. They have a huge campus with a coffee shop, and tons of other amenities.

We have the opportunity to be the hands and feet and we blow it all the time. We have the opportunity to make the Gospel real and we cannot be bothered. 

We long for revival and the words of Isaiah still ring true...

 If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
    with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
10 and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
    and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
    and your night will become like the noonday.
11 The Lord will guide you always;
    he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
    and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
    like a spring whose waters never fail.
12 Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
    and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
    Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

I used to think that feeding the homeless or clothing the naked or visiting the sick made me a "good Christian" - whatever that is - but really, that just made me a decent human. Christ calls us to something bigger and more final. Death. When we settle for this lukewarm brand of Christianity, this self-insulated life, we are doing something worse than selling ourselves short. We are selling The Gospel short.

The good news is that when you die to yourself, your plans and your comforts, you truly do find life. I can say with every one of my deaths I have found so much more life, so full it is bursting at the seams. Dizzy and pulsing. More gut-wrenching and more spirit-filling. Life harder than I could have imagined yet better than I would have ever expected, because it is so out of left field and miraculous I would have NEVER dreamed it.  

He is using me. I see it all around me now. Not because I am good, but because He is Good. He is weaving my story, my insignificant thread, into the stories and lives of others in this incredible master tapestry of redemption. He is bringing revival in my dead heart.

On Missing Out and Miracles

Today, I was in the room where a baby was born.
I was honored to witness a mama push her baby out into the world. A miracle, no doubt.
I have never wanted biological children. And I don't know all the reasons. I can't name them. Birthing just doesn't appeal to me. Not the way that adoption and foster care do. Sometimes, I wonder if there's something wrong with me. People say things to me like: "But it's what you were created to do." Or they say: "Don't you want to experience the miracle of creating a life?" And then: "Aren't you worried you're missing out?"
So when my path crossed with that of the young pregnant girl six months ago, I would never have thought I would be standing in the room while she labored and pushed for her baby. Honestly, during the last three months of going to classes and sonograms and preparing for today, I wondered in the back of my mind if all this would start a certain itch or scratch or I'd hear something biological tick or whatever.
Welp, it didn't. But I did come out of that room certain about some things. Maybe I was created to do this. Exactly what I'm doing. I shudder at the thought of missing out on this right here. On what we get to be a part of creating.
And maybe that young mama, just maybe, she is my miracle.

Let's Be Clear

Many people say to me: "I could never do what you do." They mean they couldn't foster or adopt or, more recently, move in a seventeen-year-old who is expecting in 5 days (GULP!) I understand that. This life we have been called to is not for everyone. These last four years have been crazy, exhausting, and emotional.

But, you. You have lifted us and held us. Steadied us and carried us. You have done room makeovers for our foster kids when we were drowning. When we were so underwater with being new parents and learning the system, you swooped in with curtains, diapers, formula, and meals. When we were talking down a terrified kid on his first night here, you dropped off bananas and Cars pull-ups because those were the only words he could choke out. You showed up with a bottle of wine and sympathy. You brought bikes and helmets. You have thrown us about ten showers in the last four years. You have supplied us with probably about $5000 in gift cards. You have bought our kids beds. You threw our new "roomie" an amazing baby shower and have helped supply her every need. You've handed us envelopes full of cash over dinner because you "want to help" and it's "no big deal." You heard about our car window being smashed and you cut a check for the whole amount to replace it. You have provided us roughly 150 meals. You email, text, and call. You ask: "What do you need?" and then go to work supplying paint to make a room feel like their own, plus double strollers, cribs, and groceries. You buy my kids Halloween costumes when I am too busy going to meetings for a placement transition. You babysit FOR FREE! BLESS YOU! You buy bus tickets and hotel rooms so our girl can have family at the birth. You drop off bags of clothes on our porch. You replace our radiator for free! FOR FREE! You PRAY for us endlessly. You celebrate with us. You grieve with us. You welcome our kiddos so well. You send them off so well. You send us scripture and encouragement.

Let's be clear. We could never do this without you. I look around at this life that I get to have. This life that you help me have. And while some days I wanna yank my hair out, there is some point EVERY DAY where I am overcome with gratitude. It might be when we are all sitting around the dinner table. Or when Matt and our new big kid are killing flies together in the kitchen at midnight. Or when I look through pictures of the last four years of ALL my kids. Or when I write a blog, detailing all the ways God used all of you to provide for and care for us. I am thankful every day.
So, thank you.

Tireless

I get tired of so many things in this life. Tired of the drama . Tired of the failures. Tired of the suspense and the not knowing. I tire of the trauma. I tire of the transition. I tire of case workers. Standards. Countless appointments. Of training's. Of the burden to educate others. Of the constant need. The tension. Heartache. Frustration. The feeling of running up hill through rapidly drying concrete. The stigma. The misunderstanding. The alienation that comes with being a different kind of family. But I doubt that I will ever tire of watching God chase after his children. I doubt I will ever bore of getting a front row seat to God ransoming his children and using our extra bedrooms and places at the dinner table to do it. I will never tire of watching in total surprise as the Creator of the Universe takes our brokenness and produces fruit with it.

HE IS

"I am just ready to know, ya know?" said Kiki, my fellow trauma mama. She was referring to the status of her current foster kids' case. I laughed and responded and said, "Yeah, I know. I've been waiting to know for about three and a half years."
We both laughed and joked that maybe we were living the wrong kind of lives for that, for knowing. Because our families have been called into this ministry where we never really know. We never know who is coming or who is going. Or if, after they are gone, they are safe. Or if they are okay. And by "okay" I don't just mean fed and clothed and what not.
But these babies we love and send back out, are they gonna really be okay? In their souls, their hearts, in their spirits? Will they know Jesus? Will they know love? Will they finish school? Will they be loved? Will someone help them with math? Will someone teach them to tie their shoes? Will someone tell them how valuable they are every day? Or will they carry on a cycle of poverty, of drug addiction, abuse, or prostitution? But will they somehow rise above it? Will their parents rise above it?
Questions, mountains of questions.
Then, as soon as you know the answer to one, as soon as you know that one is staying or this one is going, you don't know something else.
Who is on their way to you? What are they going through right now? Have they even been born yet? Are they safe? Are they being neglected? Are they being abused? Are they living in a hotel? Are they living in a car? Are they hungry? Are they scared? Is there someone watching who knows something is wrong? Will they report?
Questions pulling trailers of questions.
I have been thinking lately and maybe foster care answers only one question for me. And that is: Is God or Is He not? I can say for certain since we followed Him down this road years ago that He is. So if He IS, which I believe, then He is also loving, caring, faithful, a conqueror, a savior, a friend, a redeemer, and a Father. HE IS.
Maybe that is the only question I need to be answered. I am not saying this from a place of being worry-free about Supreme Court appeals, the kids coming my way next, or the kids who have moved on, or the impact of all this on my sons. My flesh can spiral into the whirlpool of questions.
Something in my spirit says HE IS, and because HE IS, all of the other questions - no matter their answers or how they turn out, will be redeemed. I don't know much, but I know that HE IS...HE IS... And maybe that is the only answer I need.
At least for today.

Foster Care is My Haiti

I read this blog back in November and it so resonated with me. I think back to the girl I was, waiting by the window in August of 2009 for my first placement. I think if she had known where it was all gonna lead, she would have locked the door and lowered the blinds. I think if she had known just how tied her heart would become to a system that would pulverize it over and over again, she would have run. If she had known that she would learn more than she ever wanted to know about despair and brokenness, both her own and that of humanity, she would have made up an excuse or been too busy to answer the phone that day. If she had known how much sleep she would lose or how many breaths she would hold, she would have never agreed.

My plan was never to be a trauma-mama, or a mother-of-many. My plan was to adopt, preferably a baby or two -- I couldn't for the life of me figure out why God said foster care and not Uganda, or Haiti, or the Philippines. But it was loud and it was clear, and honestly, once we started down the road, we didn't look back, question, or consider much else. If that girl had known, she would have never agreed. 

I am so glad she didn't know. See, she was OK with the idea of laying down her life when she didn't know what it meant. She prayed: "Your will, not mine" without really counting the cost.

I hate foster care and I say that with deep affection for it. 

The grief and loss I carry from it is so heavy, but I wouldn't trade it. You see, the only way to trade it is to have never known or parented those six children who came through our home. To trade it is to not have my boys. The other night I was praying and talking to God about the waiting. I said: "God, I feel like I have been in transition for three-and-a-half years. Waiting. Waiting to hear about a placement, a permanency plan, a selection staffing, a hearing, a trial, an appeal. I have been waiting three-and-a-half years to move on with my life." 

Very clearly, I heard: "Beloved, this is your life."

Limbo

See that post down there? Man that was great. Like a big exhale. For the first time in years I didn't have to worry about who was coming and going and when. No bio visits, no drama, no looming court dates, no permanency hearings,  no time lines... well just one. National Adoption Day (NAD). We were going for the second year in a row. We were going to adopt our son. I had a plan. Finalize on NAD take off til June then start looking for my daughter. But three weeks ago I got a call that put all that to a screeching halt..Emmanuels biological father was trying to fight the termination. We were taken off the NAD list, we would just have to wait and see. First he had to go before a judge and see if he was even allowed to appeal. The judge ruled in his favor so here we go to appellate court and from what we know that is a minimum six month (most likely more) process. The ironic thing is the morning I got that call I had a moment while I was watching my two boys run around in the front yard that Emman's "mine-ness" clicked into place. Don't get me wrong I loved him from the day I learned about him. But there is this thing with the kids that come to my home (foster or adoptive) where at some point something clicks in my heart and they become mine (though I don't always experience this). So that morning mine-ness click, afternoon nightmare phone call. I was angry, upset, shocked, and so on. I was supposed to be on sabbatical, and I was right back in that place. Court dates, uncertainty, anxiety, fear, anger, crying in the shower, nightmare, and general heaviness.....I was praying and telling God how I was just so angry because I wanted a break from feeling afraid, a break from worrying, and waiting. I felt he said "That's up to you if you go back there. You could stand on my word instead. Hope in the unseen...but it's totally up to you" So here I am trying to stand on these words. Trying so lift my hands when everything is out of them, Trying to trust when my heart is laid bare, trying to sing praise when I don't know the ending.

Deuteronomy 31:6
Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Isaiah40:28-31
The Lord is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He will not grow tired or weary,
and his understanding no one can fathom.²⁹ He gives strength to the weary
and increases the power of the weak.
³⁰ Even youths grow tired and weary,
and young men stumble and fall;
³¹ but those who hope in the Lord
will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
they will run and not grow weary,
they will walk and not be faint.

<sup>Hebrews 4:16
 Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.

Phillipians 4:6-7
 Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life


Pray for us. Pray for us to trust the Lord with laughter and singing. That we would rest in His promises. That we would turn to God in our times of weakness and fear. That we would allow Christ to displace worry and the center of our lives. I heard a song lyric that said "We lift high His glory ,Shown throughout our stories" Let it be Jesus, Amen.</sup>

Sabbatical

For the first time in three years we are closed, inactive, off THE list. No adoption submissions, no emergency placements, no calls, no new kiddos. No Transitions. I know who will be here when The Fair comes, when the leaves fall, when it's time to carve pumpkins, to eat turkey, to celebrate Jesus's birthday.
The cast of characters will stay the same through these next seasons. This fact makes me feel rested, tired, peaceful, and anxious all at the same time. It is right. It is ordained. It is what I need. It is what they need. It is what we need.
But it felt foreign and wrong at first. When my caseworker called me and said we would have to go inactive before we had planned on going inactive, I struggled a little bit. During the last three years, these eight kids have been so hard and so, so good. And while I know it is just for a bit, mostly it feels kind of like a death.
Last week, we went to Galveston as a family. The first night we were there, we took the boys down to the beach to see it. We were running in the water and playing and laughing. Watching my boys with their Dadda, I was so thankful. That I was here and I had not missed this.
And right then and there in the Gulf I gave it a proper burial. I ate all the mistakes and grief and joy and washed it down with salt water and a little bit of hope. And finally, after three years of waiting and praying and searching and bracing, I stopped and breathed.
I let us just be a family. I allowed myself to stop being a crusader and just be a mom. I relished the fact that for the first time in three years everyone was where they should be and I knew what my family would look like at least for a little while...and it felt like coming home even though we weren't.

                                      

Abide

I recently went through a very long dry season spiritually. For a lot of reasons. But the other day I was praying and just going on about how dry my spirit was feeling and how desperate I was for fresh water on my parched soul. I felt like the Lord said "Of course you are in a dry season you have not been coming to the well of living water" I am sure this is Christianity/Spirituality 101 for all of you but it is revolutionary for me. So I have been going to the well trying to be consistent in prayer and devotion and the word and worship. I am trying to learn to abide in peace and joy and the Holy Spirit. Sometimes I do ok. Then my toddler locks himself and his brother in my van with my keys and my cell. Or a huge bill accidentally gets paid two times out of our account. Or my other toddler wont nap. Or someone gets sick. Or .... or...or...or.....
How do you abide then? I know God is bigger than my circumstances. I know that toddlers not napping is cake compared to what other people are wrestling with. But I want to know how do you abide in the midst of the chaos that is life? Does it get easier with practice?

Days like this

                                          When I started fostering, it was for days like this:

    

 or this:

    

 or, more recently, this:

But last Friday, I got to drive my most recent foster kids home. They had been in our home since August. Their parents have worked hard. They have turned their lives around. They have earned back the right to parent their children. I have cheered them on every step of the way and I am truly impressed at what they have overcome. I drove up in front of their home, decorated with balloons and was able to witness a very happy reunion. I got to pray with their family and take a family pic of them and drive away. I never thought I would love days like that; days where I hand over the kids I have raised for the last ten months, five months, or a year to their parents. I never thought I would love letting go or that I would realize that if I am really for the kids I parent and love and minister to that I MUST be for their parents too. I never thought that I would relish my loss and their gain. I am suprised; not by their redemption or healing, but by mine.

On Mothers Day

To the woman who mothered me and really taught me what it's all about. Who labored for me for nine months plus thirty six hours plus thirty years and counting. Who sacrificed herself. Who raised me up and launched me. I cannot say enough. Thank you for letting me be who I am. For always supporting me even when you don't understand or agree. For Thai lunchs and pedicures, and laughing, and crying and grieving for being a soft place to fall but not so soft that I don't get up. It takes incredible grace which I am sure I still don't fully understand or appreciate.

For the ones who made me a mother for the first time.

 And for the ones who made me love being a mother

And for the ones who made me a forever mother

And for the ones who gave birth to my babies I honor you. And for the ones who have mothered my babies while I was still looking for them endless thank you's. For the mother's whose babies I have mothered for a season I am honored. For the mothers who I have watched fight to get their babies back...you humble me and make me proud. For all you who walk beside me. For you who mentor me. Thank you thank you thank you.

Alongside

A while back I wrote this post. I cannot express the utter generosity of the community that supports us. Amazing support in the form of meals when we get placements, gift cards, and showers , and parties when they stay, and wine and chicken nuggets when they don't,  prayer, bikes on Christmas, diapers, formula, clothes, car seats, and on and on. We are always floored at how they all show up for us. When we started this journey even though we had a great community, the life we have been called to can be lonely. There is constant adjustment and transition. There is a lot of grief and loss. There is a lot that is hard to explain and understand unless you are in the thick of it. So the first year or so we were lonely and we prayed and prayed for someone to come alongside us. Someone that we could call and not explain what legal risk meant. Someone who would know what it was like to have a child just for a season but love them for a lifetime. People who we could talk to about CASA workers, permanency plans, levels of care, respite, Star Health, bio visits, and all the other intricacies of this life. We prayed for one couple. One couple who would do life like us. Who would do family like us. In the last year we have had four couples come alongside us in foster care. These are couples at the same life stage we are that feel passionately about orphan care also. So about a month ago when we had three couples (plus us) at our house and all of them were somewhere on the road of foster care I couldn't believe it. Then a few weeks ago when we were at our shower for our new addition and those same couples were there (plus another couple who just filled out the preliminary application to our agency) I thought why not this is what God is about...multiplying things. And He is just so good at it.

                                                   Here I am with my fellow foster mama's

Read their stories here, here, and here and be blessed and challenged!

What makes you want to run through walls? or 13 miles?

Months ago after watching this video a foster friend of mine said it made him want to run through walls. I agreed. For me its the orphan crisis. Its orphans. I want to run through walls. It sets my heart on fire. It keeps me up at night . It keeps me pushing myself and my family out of our comfort zone. I talk about it. Dream about it. Recruit for it. Cry about it. And now I run for it. There is a race and a family. The race is the Chosen Marathon and the family is the Garza's. I will be running and raising money to help bring their babies home. 

Films About Ghosts

I am finally doing our last placement's book. It has been over a year since they left.

When kids leave, I make a book on Shutterfly of the pictures I have of them. It is something I need to do; yet, it is something I hate to do. I have to write the ending to a chapter when I don't know the ending. I scroll through the picture files on my computer and one day, the kids are there; the next, they're gone. *Poof* One day, we are feeding ducks as a family of five. The next, we are at a restaurant as a family of three. I seal off their rooms and donate the stuff they couldn't take. I zumba, remodel, eat dump cake, drink wine, and somehow find a new norm. Until two more kids appear in my picture files. Then, we find another new norm until they disappear. Sometimes, I think I forget. Then I start making their book and realize I never forgot at all. I arrange the pictures. I label the pages. I give name to their time here. I remember all the things documented, and all the things not. I remember the truck pulling off and turning away before it disappeared because I could not stand to watch it roll out of sight.

God Is With Us

We got THE call again. You know - the big call for adoptive parents. The one that says you were picked to be a little boy or girl's forever parent. The first time we got the call, it went like this.

Our new son's name is Emmanuel. Emmanuel means God is with us. He is 22 months old and he is beautiful.

Here's where it began for him. About a year ago, last February, we were considering a legal-risk placement named Miracle. On the intial email we got about her, there was info about another child in her foster home named Emmanuel - which is unusual. Ultimately, we didn't get picked for Miracle. We moved on and continued submitting for and pursuing adoptions as they came up. We started feeling like maybe the next child we were going to adopt would be a teenager, so we started pursuing teens.
Flash forward to February of this year.
We had just submitted for a 14 year-old named Will and I got an email from my adoption caseworker about a child named Emmanuel which asked: "Is this the same Emmanuel who was with Miracle?" It was. They hadn't found him a home. On a whim, I told her to submit us, thinking nothing of it. We submit for adoptive placements as often as we change underwear. Seriously. We have NEVER been picked for one; even Isaiah was a foster placement.

Weeks went by and we heard from Will's caseworker. They wanted to move forward with us. The next step was a selection staffing which is a meeting where everyone discloses more info about the child and everyone has the opportunity to ask more questions. My caseworker had said to us: "If you move forward and end up getting Will, you will not be able to move forward with Emmanuel." We felt peaceful about that. We believe God brings the right kids, at the right time and for the right amount of time. We went into that Tuesday selection staffing thinking we were submitting for a fairly typical teenager who had been in fostercare. This turned out to not be the case as the meeting disclosed some shocking info. We were heartbroken about his story, but ultimately did not feel that he would be a good fit.
The very next day, we got a call that we were chosen to go to Emmanuel's selection staffing the following Tuesday. Tuesday came and we waited and prayed. I didn't even realize how much I wanted him until I was faced with the possibility of not getting him. On my way to get my foster daughter from school, on the side walk pushing Isaiah in a stroller, and holding the hand of my foster son - halfway between my house and the school - my caseworkers called me on speaker to tell me that Isaiah would have a brother. And that I would be a forever mom again. I cried right there on the sidewalk. Humbled and awed by the plan that God has for me and my family. Cried from thankfulness that God is with us, and He just gave us a daily reminder.