Thanksgiving

Tomorrow marks the 3rd anniversary of the day our daughters were placed in our home as foster children. Each year the weight of their short lives and the reality of learning to parent them well grows in my mind and in my heart. This year especially, I am more aware of the enormity of the blessing and responsibility that God has entrusted to my husband and I. 

One of the hard things about being a foster mother is the empty, black space that is your children's past. No matter how much information you learn about your children and their past, you just can't know it all. I wasn't there. I didn't see. I don't know. This year, on Thanksgiving evening, I was given another little peek into my daughter's lives before I met them. It broke my heart. Everything came flooding back. All the reports we have read. All the fears, behaviors, tears, and struggles we have walked through with our daughters. The pictures we saw. The court hearings we sat through. Everything came back in one huge rush and, quite honestly, I didn't know exactly what to do with all that emotion. 

How do you process that? How do you even begin to understand the horror, the depth of sin. How do you wrap your mind around the innocent suffering of those you dearly love? 

One memory came back into stark focus. It was a picture that we were shown shortly after the girls were placed with us. I think the fact that we were brand new foster parents taking on a huge responsibility prompted our case worker to show us some of the removal photos from our daughters' biological home. There is one picture especially seared into my brain. Forever. The picture shows all of my daughters. 

A tiny baby in a diaper, lying on the disheveled floor in full sunlight. 

Another daughter hiding under a blanket - only her face peering out at the social worker snapping the photo. 

And yet another daughter, only wearing a diaper but covered in her attempts to find anything...anything that would pass as food to fill her belly. 

Their eyes stare out of that photo right into the depths of my heart. The fierceness of my mother-love rises up inside me until it is nearly choking. Anger? Desperation? Longing? Protectiveness? I can't even fully decipher my emotions in those moments. All I know is that my arms literally ache with the desire to go back in time. To hug and hold them sooner. To hold and shield them until that fear is erased from their eyes. 

But I can't. I wasn't there. I didn't even know. They were hurting. They were scared. They were dirty, hungry, alone, and in danger. I was literally powerless to do a single thing. And so, in the wake of this weakness, this utter uselessness, I turn in anger. Where was God? Couldn't He see them? Aren't children some of the most precious in His sight? How can this innocent suffering be a part of His sovereignty? 
I look at my baby - now three - I see the innocence, the trust, the wide-eyed wonderful, sunshiney world that she lives in. And I see my 6-year-old - the daughter who was 3 when I met her that December day - and I know, I see with stark clarity that she has never, ever viewed the world that way. Her innocence was shattered so many times in unspeakable ways, and she literally could not survive without viewing everyone and everything as a threat. The responsibility for her safety and that of her sisters weighed heavily on those little 3-year-old shoulders. And again I turn in brokenness to my Savior - the God of the universe - and I fall, broken at His feet in confusion, pain, anger, questioning. 
Those eyes from the photo keep staring at me in hopelessness and I remember. I remember something that a social worker told me. When they enter a home and find children in that position they cannot run to them. They cannot hold, hug, and comfort them. To ensure the long-term safety of the children they must document FIRST. While those confused eyes follow their every move. And I didn't know it could, but my heart breaks again. Into even smaller pieces. Now the helplessness and pain of those who longed to help my daughters is added to the all-consuming weight in my heart. Where. Was. God?

And so I struggle. My mind swirls around and around trying to understand. I know I believe. I know I trust Him. I know His ways are not my ways. I know He was there. I know He cares. But my frail, broken, finite mind simply cannot connect the dots. The puzzle pieces just don't fit. How? Why? 

Yet, every time I call, He answers. Every time I am lost, He gently leads me. His abundant, unmatched grace pours out onto me even when I rail at Him in anger and despair. When I cannot go another step, His strength carries me. 

This morning in church the background of a slide caught my eye. 
A baby. 
Nearly naked. 
Wrapped only in a few cloths. 
In a manger. 

And suddenly I saw. I saw that God sent His only Son. His perfect, precious, royal Son. To the world. Completely helpless. To be raised by humans. Used and abused by humans. Tried and killed by humans. And He did that knowing that a day would come when He would have to completely turn His back on that precious Son. He would close His ears to the cries of pain. Refuse to look upon His precious child. Stop His arms from snatching that Son out of the grasp of those who inflicted punishment. All for those wicked, sinful, depraved, and hateful humans. All for His greater plan and our greater good. 

Please don't think that I fully understand. I don't. My mind still struggles with the enormity of it all. But, my mother-heart is comforted. You see, my God understands my pain, anger, sorrow, and struggle. He has walked through it all. He has watched His child suffer innocently. And, even greater than that, He understands the brokenness, abuse, fear, and neglect that my children have experienced. He sent His Son to experience the same. He didn't turn His back on my children. In fact, He made sure that His Son could perfectly understand them in a way that I never can. 

My heart overflows with thankfulness. Centuries before we were even born, my God provided the hope and healing that my family would so desperately need. And, as I have looked for it, He has shown other ways that He provided for my daughters before He tucked them into my arms. 

Can I leave you with one more picture? Please, rest your mind on this image. It was towards the end of the photos as we flipped through them: 
One of my daughters. 
Now dressed in a purple shirt and clean diaper. 
Being held close by one of those precious social workers. 
With a Ritz cracker in her hand. 

And so, I hold my daughters extra close. And with tears in my eyes I thank God for caring for them. Because He did.
Through caring, thoughtful, thorough social workers. 
Through loving foster moms whose arms held them and whose hands braided their hair when mine couldn't. 
And through His Son. Who suffered innocently so that I could be friends with God, saved from the eternal punishment my sins deserve. 
His Son. Who walked a hard and lonely path so that one day I could introduce my daughters to Him. So that I could say, "Walk with Him, dear daughter. He knows."

"For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin. Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."

~Hebrews 4:15-16 

Deeper

There is a little boy. With huge, deep brown, trusting eyes. He's a beautiful, sober baby. He studies things. He is slow to adjust to new things. He is precious. And ... I've fallen in love with him. 

He has not been my easiest little one. It took almost 4 days before I could hold him close without him crying in pain. I have spent hours lying beside his play mat talking to him. Just letting him get used to me, my voice, my face. 
Then, even after he recognized me, he did not want me. He never cried for me. He never cried for food. He never cried for his naps. I felt frazzled. Disconnected. Poured out. I prayed for a change. I worried. I cried out to God to help this precious little boy begin the hugely important journey of attachment. Of self-advocacy. I prayed for this little one to have a voice. To begin to trust. 
And then, one day it happened. He fell for me. He cried for me. He reached for me. His little body relaxed in my arms. He began to recognize his need. He began to rely on me. 

And that is the day I realized that what I had prayed for, cried out for, begged for God to give me, was a broken heart. 

A switch was flipped in me that day. I fell fiercely in love with a precious little person. I had loved him before that day. I loved him instantly. But this. This was deeper. This was scary. This was hard. The minute those eyes looked up and connected with mine. The minute that little body relaxed against me. The minute I felt the shuddering sigh. I knew. This was deeper.

Deeper hurts. Deeper is out of my control. Deeper asks for things I'm not sure I want to give. Deeper requires everything. All of me. Vulnerable. Open. Broken. 

This deeper is a heart that is torn to shreds over and over and over again. A pain piercing places I didn't know existed. Tears that can't decide whether to rejoice or weep in agony. 

You see, this little boy isn't my little boy. He is. But he isn't. I've met his mother. I've begun to love her. I've prayed for her. Wept for her. Rejoiced with her. Been angry at her. Understood her. I've handed him over to her waiting arms while my heart ripped in two again. I've jealously rejoiced when I have him back in my arms again. I've seen the pain on her face and known that my own is a mere trifle compared to hers. I've watched her struggle. I've watched her win. Watched her lose. And the deeper takes on a new form. A new face. A new kind of love. 

This deeper takes all of me. Brings me to the end of myself. Draws me to my knees. Sometimes in failure. Sometimes in humility. But always in desperation. There is no answer in myself. This deeper cannot come from me. I am not strong enough. I am not loving enough. I am not enough. 

And so, I turn. I turn, and I run. I run into His arms. Deeper. Deeper. 

Because He is deeper still.

Pro-Life?

Over the past few weeks, each one of us has been affected by the videos and statements released regarding Planned Parenthood and the harsh, murderous realities that are hidden in the safety of a “nice” word like “abortion.” My newsfeed has been full of reactions. From both sides. From all angles. All equally passionate and desperate to be heard. In case you didn’t know, I would be labeled pro-life. Of the two sides, that is the one I would pick. But today … today I want to challenge all of you that would put yourselves on this same side. Are you pro-life? Are you really? Please stay with me a little here. Life truly hangs in the balance of this discussion.

I don’t normally like to get involved in hot topics like this. I don’t enjoy conflict. I only enjoy a good debate after I have had time to deeply think about and process the subject. And so, I have said almost nothing over the past weeks. I have sat back, read through my newsfeed, thought, and prayed. But today is the day to speak. Today is an anniversary in our family. One year ago today, my husband and I sat in the courthouse and promised – under oath – to accept 3 little girls into our family. We promised that we would love them as our own, and acknowledged that they were a permanent part of our family. We gave those little girls a new last name – our last name. We are a family, and we are pro-life.

I want to speak to each one of you today that have watched the videos and read the statements. I want to speak to each one of you that has sobbed, railed in anger, fasted, prayed, called your senators, and shared links and articles. You are speaking out in support of life. Thank you. The lost voices of those precious little ones deserve a voice spoken out loudly in their defense. They need someone to fight a battle for them that they cannot fight themselves.

But, can I take you to another side, please? Can I speak out with a voice for others whose voices have been lost in this awful battle of life and death? Voices whose words are drowned out by angry, hateful judgments shouted at them? Voices who feel like the “choices” that they have aren’t “choices” at all?

v  May I speak for the woman who walked past angry, hateful protestors to enter an establishment to help care for her body after the loss of a precious baby she desperately wanted?

v 

v  May I speak for the children, all the children in our over-run foster system? The children whose moms chose life and now can't care for that life? Children who desperately need a mommy and daddy, sisters and brothers to step up and love them while they can’t be with their own? The children who need a place to stay for however long the courts declare it is necessary? The children who need love to truly, unselfishly be given to them as they face one of the biggest traumas in their trauma-filled lives? The children who are so often over-looked in favor of “clean” adoptions where there is no “baggage?”

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v  May I speak for the woman who is desperately fighting for survival in the midst of an abusive relationship? The woman who lives in such great fear every day of her life that she would rather end the life of her precious baby than bring him or her into the life she lives every day?

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v  May I speak for the woman going to college who was raped by a friend? The woman whose shame was so great that the only answer she could think of was to hide all the evidence?

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v  May I speak for the fathers – the men, the boys – the fathers who don’t know how to have a voice? The ones who have been told that this is the woman’s choice? The ones who would love to raise their babies, but feel they have no say?

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v  May I speak for the teenage daughter? The daughter still in school who truly will have no options without her high school degree? The daughter who truly cannot fathom how she would care for a little one, finish high school, and pursue higher education all together? The daughter whose parents are too angry to help?

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v  May I speak for the homeless woman who was raped? The woman who didn’t know if she could bring a baby into the world knowing that someday that little one would learn the truth of their conception?

v   

v  May I speak for the woman who is in slavery to her pimp? The woman whose life is in danger every single day? The woman who will face certain death if she fights for the life of her unborn child?

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v  May I speak for all the women, the men, the fathers, the mothers, the grandparents, the aunts and uncles, the cousins who are too broken, too trapped in their own situations to help even their own relatives?

Folks, people are broken, beat-down, trapped, helpless, without hope, and … dying. It’s not just the babies. And you know what I don’t want to hear about? I don’t want to hear about all the programs there are for the people and situations I have mentioned above. I don’t want to hear about how “if we just had abstinence training.” I don’t want to hear about how there are so many who would love to adopt. I don’t want to hear from you about the choices that men and women have.

I know all your arguments. I’ve even spouted most of them. I used to wear a t-shirt that looked like this.

Brothers and sisters, do you know that there are PEOPLE on all sides of this issue? People. Souls. And do you know what they need? They need PEOPLE. People to step up. People who will walk their talk. People who are humble enough to realize that all of their “answers,” t-shirts, and re-posting don’t replace the love and acceptance of a person. People who are willing to fill the gap, stand in the line and do their part. People who care about life - the unborn lives, the broken lives, the hopeless lives. People who are willing to get off of their spiritual butts, stop spouting spiritual fluff, step out of their cushy homes and friendship circles, take off their bold t-shirt, and do something.

Love. Be present in the lives of others. Foster. Adopt. Babysit. Become licensed to give respite care to foster parents. Open a room for a child in need. Sit and talk with a single mom. Give a ride. Give a car! Tutor for a GED. Give money. Give time. Cook a meal. Teach someone to cook. Counsel. Be a friend. Smile. Volunteer. Be patient with the woman holding up the line as she tries to sort out her WIC checks and food stamps. Buy her kids a treat. Help a boy learn what it is to be a man. Teach them to treat women with respect. Be a crossing guard. Become a CASA.

Do. Something.

I don’t know what it is for you. I don’t know what it is God has given you that you need to start giving to others, or what you have been doing that you need to stop, but please, do it today.

Lives depend on it.

Barren

Barren: unable to have children

synonyms: infertile, sterile, childless

This isn’t a word we hear much nowadays. You probably haven’t heard it yet today. But, I was raised on the King James version of the Bible. “Barren” is the word they use. And, as a 17-year-old sitting in a surgeon’s office listening as the words going back and forth between him and my mother faded into the fuzzy distance, only one word became clear in my mind:

 Barren.

Barrenness in the Bible is never good. This word always accompanies stories with emotions like deep sorrow, depression, and inescapable pain. Barrenness was a curse. Women who were barren turned to trickery, manipulation, or lies to try to get the one thing they so desperately craved: a baby. Those women were unloved. Outcasts. Unable to fulfill their “role” as a woman. I did NOT want to be barren.

Now, this is most certainly not the word the surgeon used to describe my condition. Truthfully, I think most doctors try to avoid saying something so concrete.  (Especially when they are talking to a 17-year-old!) I was not yet truly barren in the literal sense, but I felt it.

Barren: empty of meaning or value.

Above is another definition of the word "barren," and no matter what truths you shoved my way, this is how I felt. Empty. Empty of meaning. Empty of value. Suddenly, the future I had planned on, accepted as something that would surely happen, dreamed about... Suddenly, it was not sure. A shadow had been cast onto my dream. And my dream, my life, felt… barren. I was raised in a culture where pregnancy, giving birth, and babies - lots of babies - were the biggest blessings imaginable. Much like the Biblical culture I mentioned above, this was taught as one of the most beautiful gifts in a woman's life. And, while my parents never told me I was broken or second-rate, cursed or unloved, I still felt this shadow very deeply. I felt like I might miss out on the "best" path for my future. I might be one of those women. One of those women that everyone felt sorry for because she was missing such an amazing blessing.

Fast-forward seven years to another doctor’s office. This time I sat with my husband holding my hand. We were talking this time. We were telling the doctor that we had made the decision. We had chosen our treatment option. We had literally chosen for me to become barren - infertile - forever. But that second definition? The one that said “emptiness.” The one that said “without value.” That definition was nowhere to be found in that room. Not in my thinking. Not in my husband’s. Not in our emotions.

You see, God took me on a special journey beginning that summer day. That day as a teenager when I nearly cried trying not to scream at the surgeon that I didn’t care that “my scars wouldn’t even show,” and that “I could still wear that cute bikini.” All I wanted was for someone to understand that the scars were internal, and that I would gladly trade the “bikini body” for the assurance that I could carry a baby inside of it. And He gently led me, His beloved child, until I understood that His purpose for me was far greater than the ability to give birth to a child.

I went through lots of stages, I suppose. And I wrestled with God. I did not like where I thought He was leading me and so I took the bit in my mouth and ran. I fought to get married as young as possible – so that I might have a chance at children before the endometriosis became too severe. Then I decided a life of ministry as a single woman was definitely the path for me. Then I did get married. Then I loved children that were given into my care for a time, tucked into my heart, but not my home. And at every stage, every turn in the path, my God was teaching me, showing me, that His ways were not my ways. That His thoughts were so much higher than my own. 

That He is not a God of barrenness.

And He led me. He showed me that trying to force His hand only brought destruction and that He was all-powerful in my life. Then, He became the only thing left in my life and I learned that I could throw myself into His care with abandon. Then, He asked me to trust Him… by trusting one of His men… my husband… and I found that I had to be vulnerable. I found that walking with my God through pain and with nowhere to hide showed me evidences of His grace that I would not see otherwise. Then, He taught me about “today.” That every second of the day counts and that He knows the time of influence I have in another’s life. And it is enough. Because he is sovereign over that life as well. Because He is enough for them just as He is enough for me. And, at last, He showed me children. Children who desperately needed what I longed to provide. 

And step by step, little by little, I learned that, in Christ, the word “barren” just didn’t apply to me. Yes, the technical “infertile” definition may apply, but that definition has no control over my life. Or my dreams. Or my emotions. Or my God. It’s just not what God created me to be. And how my earthly, broken body functions has nothing to do with the fullness of my life. The abundance of my joy. The adventure with my God.

Now, if you know me, if you saw my family Christmas photo, if you happened to pass me in the grocery store, you might be tempted to feel angry with me. Of course I can write this post! Of course I can say that I'm no longer barren! You could shout at me and tell me that "of course" I can be joyful. I have children! And I do. God, in His amazing sovereignty saw fit to give me 3 gorgeous girls and the opportunity to love many other sweet kiddos in my home. But that day. That day in the doctor's office with my husband where we made one of the hardest choices of our lives to date. On that day, I had no children. And on the day of my surgery, I had no children. And throughout the healing process, I had no children. 

And so, even though I became "barren" in the literal sense, I was not a woman empty, or without meaning. I was not an outcast. I was not unloved. And I was living out the role that God had given to me as a woman. As His daughter. As His child. 

You see, God doesn't call His daughters to be "mothers." He calls us to be disciples and to make disciples. Motherhood is definitely a high calling and God does call many women to fulfill their calling through motherhood. But that isn't the only way and it isn't the "best" way. God's best is individual and personal. He cares for His children too much to have a "one-size-fits-all" plan. And, ladies, God's plan is bigger than this broken world and our broken bodies. I used to feel like my path was blessed in spite of the fact that I couldn't fulfill "God's best plan," when, in fact, my path is blessed because God has chosen me as His daughter. Period. I used to long to "just be normal," but now I rejoice in my unique path, my special family and circumstance. I rejoice because God has specifically led and gifted me for this path. He chose me to reflect His glory and who am I to argue with the "how."

I was blessed. I am blessed. 

Not barren. 

Blessed.


You can read more of my story and surgery in my blogpost "Healing"

Lilies

Every spring it happens. I am following my usual route through the grocery store, here lately with a kiddo or 4 tagging along, and suddenly I smell them. I always smell them before I see them. Lilies. Easter lilies. I love them. I love how pristine and perfect they are. I love how there is always a splash of bright yellow pollen on the smooth white petal. They are so tall and elegant. And I love how they smell. Their smell signifies the end of winter, the coming of spring. They remind me that Easter is right around the corner. But more than all this, there is something about Easter lilies that stirs something so deep inside me. So many memories come flooding back. So many emotions - strong emotions - come rushing to the surface. But the strongest feeling. The strongest memory. The strongest emotion. Hope. Easter lilies are a living symbol to me of hope.

The fall of 1997 was one of the darkest in my childhood. I didn't have a dark childhood. I had loving parents, tons of super awesome siblings, and a very warm and sheltered life. But that fall, pain reached our family in a way that it never had before. I remember the day in early November so clearly. It was cold but sunny. I was surrounded by my siblings and extended family. I remember the colors being very bright. The blue sky. The green, manicured grass. Deeper green evergreen bushes all around us. Planted in the shape of a heart surrounding our grieving family. A bright white casket. A tiny casket. Much, much too tiny.

I watched my daddy. My loving, God-fearing, tender daddy. He sat back on his heels next to that casket, his hand lovingly resting on it's side. And he tried. He tried so hard to communicate to the 9 of us kids huddled together that there was hope. This wasn't the end. It wasn't really our precious little brother inside that casket - it was only his body. Our little, red-headed brother was safe in Jesus' arms and, like King David states after the death of his son, we had the hope of seeing him again someday.

But I didn't feel hope. At 9 years of age, this was definitely the most traumatic thing I had ever been through. I was cold. The wind was blowing. My daddy was weeping beside the casket of my little brother. The little brother I had prayed for. The little brother we had so lovingly prepared for. And my mother. My mother wasn't even able to be there. She had been rushed back to the hospital with complications from our precious brother's birth that were threatening her life. We had the memorial service re-scheduled for a later time, but this time at the graveside was without my mom. My world was upside down and it didn't feel like it would ever be right again.

Barely 2 weeks had passed since we first heard the news. My parents had gone in for an ultrasound of their nearly full-term twin babies only to learn that my mother wasn't expecting twins at all. Just one baby. One precious little boy who was very sick. Before we really had time to process the news, there was the night of our church's fall festival when I came home to learn that my mother was in labor. I was awakened out of sleep in the wee hours of the morning to go hold my little brother. For the first and the last time. Then my mother came home from the hospital. Then she was rushed back. My dad was dividing his time between being with my mom, checking in on us kids, and arranging his son's funeral. The ladies of the church stepped in to help take care of us and to provide us with food. Everyone was so loving, but I'm quite sure I was very mean to some of those ladies. The food was weird - it wasn't my mom's - and, though their arms were loving, they weren't the arms I wanted to be hugging me.

But that day at the cemetery. That day was the darkest. It was the culmination of those last 2 weeks and I just wanted things to be "normal." I just wanted to take away my parent's pain. I wanted my mom. I hated seeing my dad weeping. I didn't understand how they could still have hope when they were so broken. I just didn't see how we could be whole again.

The following months were hard. My mom's physical healing was slow. Emotional healing was even slower. I remember the memorial service. I sat as close to my mom as I could. I remember about a week after my mom was back home from the hospital, another little boy was born in our church. A little boy with red hair. I remember that little boy's mother placing her baby in my mother's arms and I watched as my mother openly grieved and received comfort from the ladies surrounding her. I remember the gifts that people sent. Some sent the gifts they had already purchased or made before there was any hint of trouble. And some sent gifts that were made specifically for the little brother in heaven. A bib with his name. A Precious Moments angel - a little boy with a paper airplane. A beautiful blue and yellow silk flower arrangement that wouldn't whither.

The following spring, my dad brought home an Easter lily for my mom. They gathered all of us in the living room and explained that we would be taking this lily to the graveside on Easter morning. Why? Because it was on Easter morning that we remember how Christ conquered death and gave us hope.

Watching my parents grieve made a profound impact on me as a child. And that impact has stuck with me. I remember that Easter morning. I remember standing in the cemetery again with my family all around. Again, my parents were weeping. Again, it was cold and the colors are vivid in my mind. But this time, all their words began to make sense. This time, I began to understand why my parents grieved the way they did. Their grief was so deep, so open, so raw that as a child it scared me. But their faith never wavered. It never faltered. I think that is part of why they were able to grieve so well. They had a security in Christ underneath their pain. And that Easter morning, I began to realize the "realness" of the gospel story. We went to church that day with tear-stained faces and hopeful hearts.

And that is why, last Friday morning in Payless, when the scent of Easter lilies caught me off-guard once again ... that is why I smiled through my sudden tears. I can embrace those memories with a kind of deep joy. A deep thankfulness for parents that allowed God to shine through their extreme pain and demonstrate His hope to me - and countless others. These memories from my childhood were the number one thing that drew me to find my answers in God's Word instead of in the world when I had questions as a young adult. I couldn't walk away from that kind of hope. That kind of peace. I knew that the answers had to lie within this faith. This relationship with God.

And every springtime, I am given a sweet reassurance. A sweet reminder of the hope we have in Christ. A reminder in the form of a flower. Easter lilies.

Exalt

Back in January, when I was looking forward to a new year and reviewing my goals and dreams from the previous year, it became abundantly clear to me what I needed to work on. This year's goals can be summed up in one word: faithfulness. Last year, hubby and I really worked hard to trim our lives down until we held the priorities we believed God wanted us to be holding. Only those priorities. This year, I need to faithfully continue in those priorities. Those callings. 

One of those priorities was the upkeep of our house. Our home. I'm not great at keeping the house clean and cared for, and 4 little children definitely didn't help. But, because my home is clearly something that God has given me stewardship over, I have been seeking to grow in that area. As a result, I've been reading lots of different material on "how to keep your home clean when you're busy," or " how to keep a clean home with kids." The main answer I've been finding is to simply have less stuff. Purge. Sell. Donate. Minimize. Reduce. Prioritize your possessions until you are only caring for the things that are truly necessary for or important to your family. 

So, my mind has been focused. I have been consistently seeking to prioritize my home and life.

Then, this morning in the church service, I began singing these words:

"Your presence is all I need
It's all I want,

All I seek"

Words come easily when you're singing, but my conscience suddenly focused in on those last words:

"All I seek"

Is God's presence "all I seek?" Really? Truly? I've been actively seeking His priorities in my relationship with my husband, in my parenting, in my home, and in my business. But what about my life? My personal priorities? What do I seek? In those free moments, in my thoughts, in my personal wants and desires... What am I really seeking? 

My mind was whirling and the song continued on:

"I will exalt You, Lord, I will exalt You, Lord

There is no one like You, God
I will exalt You, Lord, I will exalt You, Lord
No other name be lifted high"

And suddenly I began to see what I really exalt in my life. What I really seek. I seek myself. I exalt myself. I know, I know... "Well, everybody does that, right?" True. But I began to see specific things in my life that just do not support the priorities we believe God has for our family. Things that do not exalt my God in my daily life. I do not actively seek God throughout my day.  Yes, I have a time set aside each morning where I actively seek God’s presence through my study of His Word. But … “all I seek?”

I began to see snapshots of moments in my day:

- rolling over in bed after my alarm rings … picking up my phone to scroll through Facebook first thing in the morning

- turning on a TV show while I do dishes to entertain me … even though my children are (or want to be) playing at my feet

- responding to the "ding" of an email on my phone instantly … even when a child is talking with me or when I am in the middle of a task

- spending hours on Pinterest or browsing my favorite clothing sites researching latest styles or trends … seeking to feel confident or beautiful … but really just supporting a jealous, discontented heart

- reading, watching TV, or browsing Pinterest … during times that are supposedly set aside for other priorities … multi-tasking?

- starting another TV show for the kiddos because I didn’t complete the chores I was supposed to complete during the first one … I was taking time for myself

- spending an evening of relaxation on the couch … when I have piles of projects that would serve the other people in my family left to complete

None of those things listed above are declared “wrong” in the Bible. No single one of them is in and of itself damaging or “sinful.” There may even be days when one or more of those things is actually necessary for my priorities. Sometimes those things actually help me to exalt Christ in my life and priorities. But … I can think of days when all of the above (and more) have been true. And, looking at my life as a whole, I can tell you … I have developed habits, priorities for myself, my personal time that do not exalt Christ. Time spent seeking my own desires instead of God’s presence.

One definition for the word "exalt" is: 

“raise to a higher rank or a position of greater power”

And, as I look at my personal life today, I am realizing. Something has got to change. Some things in my personal life need purged – gotten rid of completely. Some habits need to be changed. Priorities need to be re-aligned. Boundaries need to be put in place. Practical steps decided on and carried out. Christ needs to be exalted to a higher position in my day-to-day life. His presence needs to rank higher than my personal comfort or entertainment.

Because …

“Without it (His presence) there's no meaning … without it I’m not living.”

Growing

I’ve written a lot about my daughters. About fostering. About brokenness and about heartbreak. About challenges and trials. About new names and adoption.  I’ve read even more than I’ve written. I’ve read about RAD. About patience. About lovingly “re-training” all those habits that they learned. Habits that were built into them before they could even walk or talk. I’ve read countless stories of children “like them.” Of situations they may have experienced. I’ve read court reports and documents detailing my daughters' actual experiences and allegations of even more. And, more than I’ve written or read, I’ve experienced. I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve laid awake crying. Sobbing. Begging God to help me minister to these precious souls He has entrusted to my husband and I. Or the nights that I’ve been awakened to a screaming, terrified child. A child cowering in the corner of her bed. A child who refuses my loving touches because she is not fully awake. And then there were the days. The days when I truly wondered if I would make it through. Wondering if the weight of everything I was experiencing would crush me. Or wondering if any of this would ever get better. If they would ever begin to heal.

Guess what? Slowly, but surely, we are changing. We are growing. Today I’m weeping, my heart overflowing with different memories.

I sent my littles to play outside in the yard this morning. They went straight to the back corner where they found some long sticks and buckets. They are going exploring. They are traipsing through our yard collecting things for their buckets.

I couldn’t help but remember that the first time I tried to play outside with my little girls, they stood with their backs pressed against the sliding door. Nothing I did could convince them to venture any further into the yard.

And moments like this help me to remember other times…

The day my husband grabbed me in the kitchen to kiss me … and my daughter covered her mouth with her hands and giggled … instead of covering her eyes while crying.

The day I realized that my daughter had dropped the “Justin” from “Daddy Justin” and was just saying … “Daddy.”

The day another daughter ran into my arms for a hug … all on her own. Or the day this same daughter said, “Mommy, I want to hug you.” This daughter who wouldn't usually accept my love or comfort even when she was hurt or scared. This daughter is initiating affection.

The time when my daughter put her arm around my leg and said to a stranger in the grocery store, “This is my mommy" ... instead of seeming to know the stranger better than myself.

The day my daughter (almost 20 months old) spoke her first words ... my silent little girl was beginning to open up.

The day my daughter began to smile and giggle when I explained what “adoption” meant … instead of growing confused and concerned.

The day a friend told me my daughters were beginning to “look” like they belonged to us. That they were picking up our mannerisms and facial expressions.

The day my daughter threw a fit over a very normal, "small child" thing. The day she seemed like her 3-year-old self more than the almost adult self she tried to be most days.

The day I gave my daughters a snack on the couch in the living room … and I didn’t find any of it hidden away … saved … kept out of insecurity.

We haven’t made it yet. I still have a daughter who exhibits many of the RAD characteristics. I still have a daughter who flinches if I move my hands too fast too close to her little face. I still have a daughter who eats out of the trash can … even right after a meal. I still have a daughter who cries in fear over the idea of marriage. I still have long nights and longer days.

But...

Our God is mighty, powerful, and able to change brokenness.Just as my loving heavenly Father is slowly changing me, a broken, sinful, rebellious daughter into the precious image of His Son. Just as He is changing me. His love is changing my daughters. Days like today give me hope for tomorrow. 

We are growing.

Increase

My morning began with one child crying because (in our house) her refusal to eat yesterday’s supper resulted in a repeated menu for breakfast. And, because she did not like the menu anymore for breakfast then she had for supper, while I was in the kitchen fixing a bottle, she spooned about half of her portion onto her sister’s plate in an effort to appear finished.
After breakfast, 2 of my children chose to put the books they were supposed to be reading in the play yard with their baby brother so he could chew on them. (Please note that I had actually asked for this NOT to happen.)
Next, they snuck into the kitchen where they climbed a stool to reach my stash of semi-sweet chocolate chips where they proceeded to eat ALL of them. ALL of them. Like three cups worth.
The next activity was to move away from the coloring station I had carefully provided with a (BLACK!!!) crayon and color all over a wall/door in the bedroom.
Then while I was teaching this child to wash crayon off of a wall, another child was sent to the bathroom to throw away a piece of trash. Instead, she chose to pump the hand soap all over the bathroom sink and floor.
At lunch time, the saga continued. Instead of drinking the milk out of the sippy cup that had been provided, a child climbed out of her chair and crawled across the table to get MY cup of milk which she proceeded to spill over herself, the entire table, and the floor beneath. (*Sigh. I guess my floor needed mopped anyways??)

**One important side note: I WAS present and aware of my children this morning, I just am not omnipresent. I was also very aware of where my children were (at least where they were supposed to be), I am just not omniscient. Sometimes those little boogers just out-fox the system. Anyways…

Now it is naptime. Finally. I am sitting on the couch in a quiet (for now) house, eating my lunch… somewhat cold and sans milk, but lunch nonetheless. And I am encouraged. And not just because it is naptime and the house is quiet.

You see, I was growing weary in parenting. The perfect balance of truth and grace, of requiring obedience without modeling legalism, of understanding “they are kids” yet not allowing lawlessness, of discipline out of love and not out of embarrassment… well, let’s just say that the balance definitely wasn’t perfect. The balance was eluding me. And I was tired. Parenting is hard. I love my children dearly and want God’s very best for their little lives. I want them to grow up to love Jesus, to follow Him, to love and serve others. But, honestly, my kids are naughty! Often! And I was growing weary. Nothing seemed to “work.”

And then I went to church on Sunday. Our pastor always reads through the Bible passage before breaking it down and as he read these words a light bulb went off in my head and a huge burden was lifted.

“Now the law came in to increase the trespass, but where sin increased, grace abounded all the more, … leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

~Romas 5:20-21

The underlined words above were immediately underlined in my Bible as I turned to my husband in excitement. “It is part of the gospel plan when the girls disobey!! This is a ‘parenting’ verse!!!” Apparently our pastor thought so as well, because he did spend more time in the sermon sharing how this verse related to parenting. Oh the refreshment! The encouragement!

The purpose of the law is to INCREASE the rebellion, the sin, the trespass. The goal is not to have “laws” so that my children will obey all of them! The goal is to have “laws” so that my children’s inability to obey is made evident! Because grace must be contrasted with failure. Unless I understand what my consequences SHOULD be, I do not understand what God gives me instead! His grace! His endless, abundant grace. Grace. Favor that is not deserved. Not earned. Simply given. Christ’s righteousness given to cover my unrighteousness.

I know that the story I told of my morning was really quite funny. It’s one of those “I’m a mom of young kids” stories that we tell to laugh at or remember after they have grown up. But there are other days. Days where sin abounds in ways that just aren’t as cute. The hitting, the biting, the temper tantrums. The lying, deceit, hateful speech. Those are hard days as a mom at home all day in the midst of it. Those days can break a parent’s heart. Those days can feel like defeat. But a parent that has been redeemed by God’s amazing grace can recognize that those days can be used of God. Those days could be perfectly crafted by God so that the child’s heart can be drawn to something that cannot be created by itself. Grace. Grace that can reign through righteousness. Those days can be used – even at a very young age – to introduce our children to the grace that is offered from God through Christ. The grace that can lead to eternal life in Christ.

That is why God’s plan is so very beautiful. So different than any human plan. Because God uses the ugliness, the brokeness, the absolute depravity of our lives, to reveal His beauty.

So, take heart, Mommy. Be encouraged. Be refreshed. Patiently and consistently reveal to your children their inability to obey. They need God’s grace. They need it to reign through righteousness in their lives. And we get to help them understand. We have been given such a precious responsibility. And we can smile when trespasses increase because we know this is how God designed His gospel to be made manifest.