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. 

Threat

This morning, while out finishing up the grocery and last minute Christmas shopping, my oldest kept noticing my painted nails. She LOVES anything girly and painted nails are no exception. She kept asking “could you paint my nails?”, “when can you paint my nails?”, and “could we paint my nails today?” I strove, and mostly succeeded, to maintain an even temper and gently answer each question. (Please know: my painted nails were NOT the only subject) My oldest struggles with quietness. She feels that if the space around us is quiet, something must be wrong. Talking and maintaining the relationship is something that makes her feel safe.

So, even though her questions tested my patience this morning, when she laid awake in her bed for almost 2 hrs this afternoon, I took pity on her and allowed her to get up from nap before her sisters were awake. And, because I had been touching up my nails, all my nail supplies were out, and, I decided to offer her an extra blessing. I painted her nails. And here is where the real story begins.

While I was painting her nails, my daughter relaxed, remained silent, and leaned her head against my arm while I finished up.

She relaxed, remained silent, and leaned her head against my arm.

I have younger siblings. I have loads of nieces and nephews. I have babysat countless adorable little ones. I know this is not a weird behavior. It is an action of trust. A lack of fear. A sign of comfort. It is natural for children to feel this way around their parents. However, this is very rare behavior from my daughter.

You see, my daughter still views the world through a lens of fear. She is not comfortable the majority of the time. She does not trust me entirely.

My daughter learned, during the first 3 years of her life, that she was the only one. If she cried, she was the only one who could meet her need. When she felt scared, she was the only one who could keep her (and her 2 little sisters) safe. When she was unsure of where her next meal would come from, she was the only one who could who could control her surroundings. She created a little world where she was safe. She was comfortable. She was in charge. This was a system she could trust. This was a system that worked. She could count on herself. She wouldn't stop caring for her. She was safe…in her care.

And do you know what I am in her world? I am a threat. If she trusts me, she can no longer trust herself, and this is scary. This is life-changing. This is real. This is a behavior that she learned. A behavior she had to learn. She wasn't given a choice. But, this is also something I must begin to show her can be "un-learned." I must begin to teach. I must begin to show that this is not the only reality she can know.

If you know my daughter, you know that she is sweet. You know that she is loving. That she is lovable and loves to be cuddled and loved. She will latch on to you and seem to give herself completely into your care. It's not an act. She loves big and loves to be loved. But you are safe. You are not a threat. You are not in her life every day. You are not the one asking for a special place in her life. The place. The place she has not surrendered to anyone since her infancy. That place in her little world where she is in charge. Where she is safe. Where no one threatens her reign. No one seeks to de-throne her terrified little heart.

I get it. I live this way often myself. I want to be safe and I will do what it takes (even sinfully) to ensure that happens. Just ask my husband. I am a master at manipulating situations so that I can control my feelings. My safety. My emotions. So, I get it. I understand. I can see right through the armor that she has carefully constructed to keep herself secure.

And so, when my daughter silently relaxed and leaned her head against my arm, I remained silent. I simply enjoyed the moment. I finished painting her nails. I kissed her sweet forehead.

And I gave her up. I gave her to the only One who can truly care for her.

"My darling daughter. I understand that, in your eyes, I am a threat to your safety at the same time that I am the security you are most desperately seeking. I understand that you are not trying to hurt me. I understand that it will take time. I understand that I will have to prove myself. That you will have to learn to trust me. I understand that you have been trained to think so differently than I do. I understand that you have experienced things in your short life that I will likely never experience. I understand.

And, dear daughter, I want you to understand something. I love you. I will be here. As long as God gives me breath, I will fight for your heart. You are mine. Mine to hold. Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to treasure. I will continue to seek to win your trust through consistently loving you. By being there when you fall apart. By sitting calmly through your outburst. By sitting quietly and waiting until you are ready to talk.

You see, my precious little girl, I will do all these things because I understand something else. I am not enough. No matter how much I love you. No matter how patiently and consistently I seek to help you understand. No matter how much I give to you. I am not enough. You have a gaping wound. A hole. A longing that I cannot fill. There is only One who can love you perfectly. Only One who can be trusted completely. Only One who cares more for your safety than you. And me. Only One who gave everything to make you His. And, I pray, my little one. I pray that you will one day belong to Him. That you will recklessly choose to abandon your heart to His goodness. 

Because He… Jesus Christ… is not a threat to you."

Adoption

Three months. It has been three months since the day we adopted our daughters. I have tried to write this post multiple times and it just seems like I can’t. For some reason, these memories are too precious, too sacred to write about with any structure or finesse. I’ve tried to write it as a story, as a cohesive thought, or even with poetic lyrics, but I just can’t. I can’t pull these precious, precious memories together with any type of structure or flow. These memories are stuck in my mind as fragments that are wrapped in light. Like my wedding day. Too precious to try to string together. Beautiful moments that are frozen as stills in my memory.

So, you all get to view the unfiltered, gorgeous, fragmented, mess of beautiful memories that represent our adoption day. I want these memories to be documented and I truly hope they will be a blessing, an encouragement, or a reminder to you all of your own precious memories. Enjoy.

I remember that my parents were here. In town. All the way from Idaho. Because adopting from foster care is a crazy, beautiful mess, we didn’t know our exact date until after their plane tickets were purchased. We had just given it our best guess and prayed God would work it all out. He did.

I remember my little brother was here, too. My girls just love “Uncle.” 

I remember friends: Joey and Cara, Drake and Sarah, coming over the weekend before the adoption to help fix our yard up and clean our house.
I remember our neighbor, Dustin, bringing over a stump grinder to help take out the old, ugly bushes that were in front of our house.

I remember sitting in the living room at my sewing machine that morning. My wet hair was hanging down my back. I was doing little bits of mending or altering to make our outfits "just right. The girls were running around helping Grandma and Grandpa "hide" the clutter that had accumulated.

I remember Justin calling. I remember him teasing and laughing as he told me that it was time for me to stop whatever I was doing to go get ready. He didn't want me to be stressed or running late. He knew these pictures would be some of the most precious we owned. He wanted me to smile genuinely without concern.

Grandpa Kim and Grandma Tina were there, too. There to rejoice with us. And, so was Aunty Jordan. How precious to have family come to celebrate with us!

I remember that...even though my hubby had me start getting ready waaaaaaaaaay earlier than I thought was necessary... we still had to stop at Burger King for lunch. 

I remember that I cried the ENTIRE way to the courthouse. My girls kept asking what was wrong and I just said "I was so happy." To this day, Norra still tells everyone who asks about her adoption day that I cried because I was "so happy."

I remember being nervous. The words "formal proceeding" were used very frequently when speaking of our adoption. I had visions of sitting in a courtroom with 3 little girls, a strict judge and procedure, and trying to keep the girls from wiggling or talking. I imagined much stress.

I remember our lawyer. He reminded me of my dad. He was so excited for us and so careful to take good care of us.

I remember that the judge smiled. He chuckled when he asked Justin and I to raise our right hands to be sworn in and all the girls raised their hands as well. He gave the girls suckers, and he told us that this kind of proceeding was a bright spot in his week. He said that in a world where his job was to require people to fulfill their responsibilities, it was a blessing to meet a couple who were voluntarily adding to their responsibility.

He said that "without hesitation" the courts were granting our request to adopt.

I remember Annie Hill being there to document our adoption. I remember how relieved I was when I saw her walking down the hall towards us. I was still nervous about the whole proceeding, but I was relieved because I knew we would have good pictures!

I remember Annie snapping this shot right before the judge reminded us that no photos could be taken during the formal court proceedings.

I remember the judge asking our family and DCS workers if they had anything to add before he ruled. I remember our family case mangers, our parents, and my brother all sharing about the love and care they had seen in our family. About their excitement that this day had come. About how happy we were to all become a family.

I remember that, when I was asked to state my full name, I said, "Lydia Dorice Peabody." I remember the whole room pausing and then my sweet husband saying, "Wait, Lydia, that's not right!"

I remember that our CASA was there. The sweet, "grandma" figure who had popped in on us unexpected many times the previous 20 months. The one who had always loved how we "let our kids be kids" and how "real" our family was. (This may have just been a nice way of saying that our house was always on the messy side, but it always encouraged me anyways!!)

I remember that our current family case managers were there.

I also remember that our first family case manager was there. This was extra special because she was the one who introduced us to our daughters. The one who pushed our license through early so that we could take this special placement. The one who asked if we would consider taking a placement of 3 little girls.

I remember the judge mentioning that "now I definitely had the big family I always wanted" and I remember chuckling to myself thinking that this was just the begining!!

I remember taking pictures outside the courthouse. It was so surreal to take pictures knowing that we were finally a forever family!!

Then, we re-enacted a picture we had taken for our 2 year anniversary. So fun to see how the kids had grown!!

It was also extra fun to kiss my hubby that day. We hadn't "made a family" in the traditional sense, but a family we were!!

I remember sitting down in the car after the adoption. After taking pictures. I remember suddenly feeling absolutely, completely exhausted. 

I remember that when we got home, I asked my parents and hubby if I could just go lie down. Then I remember waking up and coming downstairs to find them all sleeping in our living room. Adoptions are exhausting!

I remember trying to take pictures of the girls on the couch before we left...

And I remember trying to take pictures of the girls on the bench before the adoption proceedings...






...And I remember Annie finally getting a good picture of all of them!

I remember all the people who came to our open house that evening. I remember just standing their in our dining room with this giant swarm of people all around, all through the house, filling the back yard. I remember not knowing what to think or how to process it all. How in the world was it possible that we had been so blessed.

I remember all the precious gifts that were given to our family and to our girls. So much thoughtfulness, time, and care was put into many of those gifts!

And, I remember lying awake that night. Crying. Just remembering. The roller-coaster was finally over. We are a family. 

Forever.