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Run

It is 8:02am. I'm barricaded in the bathroom aimlessly scrolling through Pinterest while the fighting intensifies in the living room. How many hours until the first wave of kiddos heads to bed? 11? Nope. 12. Who's idea was a later bedtime on Friday night anyways? Oh, yeah. Mine. 

It's 8:03am. Still scrolling. They're knocking on the bathroom door now. I yell something I hope is convincing and keep scrolling. They're still knocking. *sigh* Why is this mom thing so hard some days? They've been at each other all morning. Why isn't is socially acceptable to pour a glass of wine in the morning anyways? Shouldn't I have lasted at least until after noon?

8:04am. I'm starting to get really annoyed. The knocking has stopped, but they are clearly running amuck. I can hear footsteps where I expressly forbid footsteps to be. Why? Seriously!! My morning started out so well. Some good cuddle time with hubby dearest. Devotions and coffee. Wait. Scratch that. Devotions without coffee. Pretty sure my cup is still sitting there beside my Bible. Full. Probably disgusting and cold now. I hope it's not been poured onto my Bible...hmm. Oh, I remember. They were out of bed before their alarms rang. I was still trying to finish up my devotions. Why does God allow that anyways? That was our special time. I get up early for that! Can't it remain uninterrupted?

8:05am. I'm still scrolling through Pinterest but not really seeing anything anymore. I kept to the breakfast schedule. They fought over cups. I let them play tag while they waited for the bus to come for the oldest. There were so many fights! Why did they want to play anyways? Now it's time to get the babies up. But adding 2 more to the mess downstairs feels overwhelming and I'm trying to convince myself that they're probably still sleeping anyways. I want to cry, but I'm too angry. The hopeless cloud is closing in. How in the world am I going to make it through today? Where's the strength and grace that God has promised me? 

It was with that last question hurled at God from my thoughts that I suddenly saw myself. Sitting in the bathroom. Still in my robe. No coffee. Hair still tossed on my head from washing my face earlier.

Scrolling through Pinterest. 

I was in here because I needed a break. Because my job is overwhelming. Because some days just don't go well. And where was I running? To Pinterest? I'm just passively allowing randomly suggested worldly wisdom to be hurled into my dark hopelessness. Why did I think THIS was the rest I needed? The rejuvenation I craved? I'm sitting here accusing my Father of not providing His promised grace and strength, but I haven't run to Him for it!

I turn around and kneel with my phone turned off. Now the tears can come because the anger is gone. I am weak and helpless. Completely unable to continue on. But He isn't. He is there ready and waiting with open arms to remind me of what He has given so that I can run to Him as His daughter. His Son stands ready to intercede. To interpret my tearful, sinful words into the pleas of faith and trust that He longs to hear. 

8:09am. I dry my tears and open that bathroom door. I retrieve my girls from the various places and activities they have run to and hug them. Remind them of what book time is supposed to look like. Make sure that they have the books they need. The blankets. Kiss their sweet foreheads. 

8:12am. Open the babies' door. Oh, the smiles they have for me in the morning! Change diapers. Fix a bottle. Set breakfast on the trays. *deep breath* God has provided. Grace for each moment. Strength for the day.

I'll just go ahead and let you know... The morning still didn't go real well from a "mom of the year" point of view. There were so many failures. From me. From the kiddos. I was tired. I never really did get to that cup of coffee. But I tried - with feeble, wobbling steps - to run. Every time. To run back to the arms of the One who has provided all I need. Grace for each moment. Strength for the day. To run in humble, broken acknowledgement of my shortcomings. To run. To plead for my children's souls. To run. To beg for the desire to give love to such sinful little people from such a sinful heart as mine. To run. To find the rest I needed but wasn't going to find in my circumstances. To run. Run to the arms that sent His Son to the cross so I could be in right fellowship with my God. Run. Rest in Him. Run.

It can't always be a time out in the bathroom for mom. Sometimes it's a simple acknowledgement of trust and belief hurled upwards amidst the chaos. But His promises are sure. And He stands ready with open arms. Ready to catch us as we run with the last of our strength. Running to rest in Him.

Good

I'm so very tired. This past week has been so full. There have been so many good things. I am so very thankful. But this week has also had it's struggles. We are integrating a new human into our family. A new human who has nearly 10 years of experiences outside of our family. A new person who has to learn us while we seek to learn him. 

I am tired. I feel weak. I am full of sin. I have failed miserably many times. I have cried. And I have been irritated. I have snapped words in anger. And resented. And pouted. And cried selfish tears. I have wanted to give up. I have dwelt on thoughts of discouragement. It's not been pretty.

And in the middle of all my struggles, these are the words I keep hearing:

"Wow! You and Justin are such GOOD people!"

"It's so inspiring how you LOVE those kids."

"What a LIGHT you are to the community!" 

"You must bring so much HOPE to these little ones and families!"

I hear these things and my sinful, tired heart cries more and more. I am not good. I am not loving. I am not a light. I am hopeless. I wake up every morning with new plans, a schedule to follow, and the determination to "be good, do good, and give good" that day. And I end the day in a grumpy, selfish, weepy mess of discouragement. 

Why can't I just be good? Why can't I just love all these kids...and my husband...and everyone else more? Why do I keep failing to be a bright, shining light? Does anyone who interacts with me feel anything near a semblance of hope?

I cry myself to sleep and the cycle starts again with my alarm clock ringing in the new day.

I can tell you with absolute confidence. I am not good.

I want to be good. And I want to be able to be good by myself. Through my own effort. With Wonder Woman-esque strength. This has been my M.O. since I was 2. Since my first phrase, "self do it." I'm stubborn and a bit hard-headed and sometimes... well, sometimes it takes me a week to remember who I am. And who I'm not.

Because... God is good. God is love. God is light. God is hope. Not me. Not my husband. Not our home. Not our ministry. God. He, and only Him. No one else can lay claim to His titles or measure up to Him. And that is good. 

I get so caught up in my daily drama. In my failures. In the mess. In the overwhelming realization of my responsibilities. In the sameness of the same chores each day that are seemingly never ending. And sometimes, in all the busyness of looking around and trying desperately to tie up all my loose ends, I forget to look up. And I forget that my daily drama is part of God's larger story. My failures have been paid for. They are covered in Christ's blood. My mess is the reality of evangelism in my home. My responsibilities are being sovereignly ruled over by a God who is personal. A God who cares. The never-ending, every day chores call me to faithfully serve as my God faithfully serves me each and every day. 

So tonight I am crying again. But not because of what I'm not. Because of who He is to me. And what He has done for me. Tonight, I rest in Him. 

My children - even though they desperately need goodness, love, light, and hope in their little lives - my children don't need me. They need a Savior. And in God's mighty plan, He has ordained that His goodness beautifully contrasts my brokenness. His love endures faithfully when mine is short-tempered. His light shines unblinkingly while mine sputters and spews. And His hope. His hope is never discouraged or tired. 

So, I will continue reaching out my hands and gathering those who need goodness, love, light, and hope. Because I know Who has those things in abundance. 

God is good, He is good when there's nothing good in me.

God is love, He is love on display for all to see.

God is light, He is light when the darkness closes in.

God is hope, He is hope, He has covered all my sin.

So, I'll run into Your arms! I'm running to Your arms!
The riches of Your love will always be enough.

Nothing compares to Your embrace.

Light of the world forever reign.

My heart will sing, no other name.

Jesus.

(Lyrics from "Forever Reign"
Written by Jason Ingram and Ruben Morgan)

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?”

v   

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?

v   

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?

v   

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?

v   

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?

v   

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?

v   

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"