My Christmas Babies

December 24, 2010 - I took a pregnancy test that turned out positive
December 23, 2013 - We got the call that Jordan had chosen us as adoptive parents

If you think you are sentitmental about your kids at Christmastime, you have no idea.
I very much believe that God was intentional in timing the news of my coming children - their hearts were gifted to me in the same season that God gifted Jesus to the world.

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, I needed to know that God was orchestrating something larger in my life, and Mary's story rung hope-bells in my heart. I wrote this a couple years ago about the night we found out:

During the Christmas Eve service, I was (understandly) a litte absentminded. The weightiness of my pregnancy hadn't hit, but I knew on some basic level that my whole life has just changed. I was already starting to worry about what this meant for my life, and was desperate for a word from God. And then, during one song, it occurred to me: my Christmas gift was not unlike Mary's. Granted, there were some significant differences - I was married, I wasn't especially saintly or surrenderd in obedience, there was no immaculate conception, and my baby was certainly not divine. But the unplanned, life-altering pregnancies? Mary and I most certainly had that in common.

That night, during that service, I distinctly felt myself a part of God's metanarrative. The story that began with Genesis included me and my unborn child. The character of God, as revealed in scripture, was being disclosed to me, and God's working in the world felt remarkably consistent. I felt an incredible kinship with Mary, and it was strangely comforting to know that the whole unplanned-pregnancy-thing had worked out well for her. Not that it was easy, but she was a part of God's redemptive plan.

When we were waiting for Jericho, I needed a very different word. Instead of being desperately afraid of having a child, my whole personhood ached to welcome another baby to the world. And, as I wrote last year, God used the Christmas season to re-fix my eyes on Christ, and to remind me that God does not withhold the greatest gifts from his children.

I read this (written by William Willimon) in my advent book a couple of weeks ago, and it seems an appropriate expression of how those two pajama-clad babies have wrecked and made my world.

"This is often the way God loves us: with gifts we thought we didn't need, which transform us into people we don't necessarily want to be. With our advanced degrees, armies, government programs, material comforts,  and self-fulfillment techniques, we assume that religion is about giving a little of our power in order to confirm to ourselves that we are indeed as self-sufficient as we claim.

Then this stranger comes to us, blesses us with a gift, and calls us to see ourselves as we are -- empty-handed recipients of a gracious God, who, rather that leave us to our own devices, gave us a baby."

Merry Christmas, friends.

Born to Us the Hope of the World

Hope has been, and continues to be, the greatest challenge set before me by God in this season of my life.

Just last year, my greatest temptation was to despair. Everything about the adoption process had worn at my soul, and only tiny filaments of faith held me together. After our failed adoption match, it took every ounce of my energy to keep my head above water. I couldn't see a way out of my pain and into the promises of God.

God, with a protective and preemptive heart, prompted me to pen some words about hope just days before we lost the chance to parent that sweet baby girl.

Hope is expectation tethered safely to present contentment. It is not a flighty, breathless thing, but decidedly deep and intentional. Hope does not neglect the moment at hand; quite the opposite, really. Hope recognizes that the present moment provides a firm foundation for the envisioned future. To hope means to work diligently, whole-heartedly, for a beautiful dream. Unconcerned with whether or not it's in her power to build that dream, the one who pursues hope leaps with great faith, knowing (even in a free-fall) that God is greatly kind.

I have returned to those words again and again and again when God asks for fresh hope in some arena of my life. 

Today, again, I return. 

Despair, like a predator, stalks me when wounded. In this season, loneliness is the most raw ache of my heart. And where I would be tempted to dwell on what everyone else is doing without me, God is asking me again to dwell on the promised Coming. Asking me to take those pangs of hurt for relationship and turn to Emmanuel for connection and love. Asking me to believe promises of friendship and community.

Last-year-me would be astounded at the fulfilled promises that adorn my life. Most specifically, my Jericho baby and our financial freedom. I could not have imagined how God would move me from longing and bondage -- but that mystery, the unconnected dots are the playground of Hope. 

Some of the artists at our church put out a CD for Christmas (listen HERE) that has been my soundtrack for the last couple weeks. Most specifically, I've had "Born to Us" on repeat - it's a beautiful declaration of the hope that saturates this season.

So where your world feels engulfed in darkness, there is a glimmer of light on the horizon. Yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. Born to us is the hope of the world. 

Still Sanctuary

"What if on Christmas Eve people came and sat in the dim pews, and someone stood up and said, "Something happened here while we were all out at the malls, while we were baking cookies and fretting about whether we bought our brother-in-law the right gift: Christ was born. God is here."? We wouldn't need the glorious choruses and the harp and the bell choir and the organ. We wouldn't need the tree strung with lights. We wouldn't have to deny that painful dissonance between the promise and hope of Christmas and a world wracked with sin and evil. ... And no one would have to preach sermons to work up our belief.

All of that would seem gaudy and shallow in comparison to the sanctity of that still sanctuary. And we, hushed and awed by something greater and wiser and kinder than we, would kneel of one accord in the stillness." - Loretta Ross-Gotta 

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I read this passage in my advent book a few days ago, and its been haunting me ever since. For the last few months I've been musing about how to create a magical Christmas season for my children, and all that mental energy afforded some carefully laid plans. Work, miscommunications, circumstances and forgetfulness have already laid waste to several of those well-intentioned plans. I want this time of year to be a treasure for my children - not because of treasures they accumulate, but because of the treasured Christ-child given to them and for them. And because the Incarnation declared with finality that families are a preferred weapon of God in the war for this world, I want our little family to function out of that love and power.

But the advent candles still haven't been lit. We didn't go on the hayride at Santa's Wonderland. St. Nicholas' Feast Day went totally uncelebrated. I still haven't gotten a picture of them in their matching Christmas pajamas. The gingerbread house remains a daunting project. I know we still have a couple weeks, and I still want to prioritize the fun and the traditions and the togetherness and the plans.

But the passage above really right-sized my heart. My expectations shouldn't settle on experiences that I can craft, because Christ was born. God is here. If that old-and-deep magic fills my soul during Advent, it will naturally overflow into the hearts of my children. A heart in awe of holiness brings deeper and fuller joy to that table than a calendar full of activities. 

As always, I'm thankful that God shuts down everything I muster up. May you also be "hushed and awed by something greater and kinder and wiser" in the remaining Advent days.

I Write

To ask and to answer.

As pen-and-pulp commitment, a thought or feeling that cannot be undone.

The meaning of this moment, unlost in the future.

To marry my heart and mind again; softening their discord to melody.

Because sometimes words flow freer than tears.

To nail my feet to the earth.

To soar.

To rip seams of life-clothing fitted for someone else.

To sew Spirit into this particular life, at this particular moment

To see again my own depravity.

To see again my own divinity.

Because word-finding-work heals me.

As my fish-and-loaves offering.

Because ink flows in my veins.

And when I bleed, as we all do, it hits the page with purpose.

As worship.

As response and remembrance.

Because what is life if not poetry and prose?

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A friend and brilliant writer, Annie Morgan, just blogged a moving piece about why she writes. And she ended with an encouragement for all creators to do the same. I read her post right after laying my kids down for a nap, desperate for one myself. And I couldn't sleep until I wrote about why I write.

Go read her blog and don't exempt yourself from her challenge. Whatever your art, rediscover it.

Thanksgiving

A couple days ago, while I was working to finalize my Christmas shopping list, I turned to Phoenix and asked her, "Hey baby ... are there any new toys that you would like for presents?"
"I just already have toys in my room," she responded.
"I know, Boo, but are there any other toys that you want?"
"No."

What? Is this real life? I had wrongly projected my assumptions about children at Christmas time on to my girl, and then was blown away by her contentedness. I wasn't in town for Halloween, but apparently, at some point during trick-or-treating, she declared she had enough candy in her pumpkin.

Again, and always, she teaches me. Where it is often my impulse to accumulate (books, clothes, things for the kids, make-up, kitchen tools, whatever), she gave me a profound lesson in temperance inspired by gratitude. She has toys to play with, she enjoys them, and is therefore unconcerned with the next thing.

I love that just before the Christmas season begins, we take an intentional day to reflect and be grateful. How appropriate to stop from the barrage of emails, sale ads and gift lists to take stock of our abundance, both material and intangible.

There is a song by Audrey Assad called "I Shall Not Want" that speaks multitudes about gratitude.
Here are some of the lyrics:

From the love of my own comfort

From the fear of having nothing

From a life of worldly passions

Deliver me, O God

From the need to be understood

From the need to be accepted

From the fear of being lonely

Deliver me, O God

Deliver me, O God

And I shall not want, I shall not want

when I taste Your goodness I shall not want

when I taste Your goodness I shall not want

 This is my prayer for myself and for you this holiday season: that we would taste of the goodness of God, and be left wanting for nothing. Not things, not people, not acceptance, not success ... just basking in the fresh mercy and kindness of God. I recognize that the holidays are hard for many people -  missing home, missing family, mourning loss or estrangement. Even in that hardship, which we have a small taste of this year, may God deliver you from anything and everything that clouds the Presence.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends.

Friendship

I recently finished reading Father Fiction, by Donald Miller.
Since attending the Storyline conference, I've been trying to read books by all the presenters. Theoretically, I should have done this before attending, so that I could've been as star-struck as my peers. But once I caught a glimpse of the wisdom from the platform, I knew it would serve me well to dig into more of their offerings.

Miller mentioned at the conference the healing process involved in the writing of this book, as he processes his wounds from growing up fatherless and lends fatherly advice to others (specifically men/boys) with similar circumstances. Since I am not the intended audience for this book, much of it's gusto was probably lost on me. 

On an unrelated note: I will likely return to this book when my boy is older, because Miller talks some about abandonment. Jericho will grow up with a strong and loving father, but there will be a very real wound created by separation from his birth parents (even for their heroic reasons). Our parental love will simply not be big enough to heal it, so I will seek to understand those places in his heart (from any avenue available) and pray that he turns to the healing power of God.

One of the last chapters was on friendship, reminding the reader that you become like the people you spend the most time with. And, while reading that chapter, I couldn't help but feel abundantly thankful for the friendships I've been gifted over the years. I think God has been intentionally sowing remembrance into my spirit, first with our return trip to Atlanta and then a visit from some college friends this weekend. I have friends all over the country who know me (the best and worst from different seasons of life) and still love me, who challenge me, who encourage me, who are discontent with the shallow, who make me laugh, who give me hope, who spur me on, who carry me and who dream for me. The preciousness of this gift is not lost on me.

And it gives me great excitement about the friendships that are being forged now, and those that I can't forsee - I am excited to be changed and loved in community again. And again. And again.

If you have the wrong friends, be brave enough to find new ones.
If your friends have expectations of you (instead of dreams for you), find new ones.
If your dearest, inner circle friends aren't pointing you to Jesus, find new ones.

Because I've had the joy of real friendship. It is worth searching the world for, investing years in, and protecting at all costs.

Sibling Prayers

"See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms to uproot and tear down, to destroy and overthrow, to build and to plant."

I think about this verse a lot, and have for many years. Like much of my spirituality, it was sown into my heart during my days in Philly, though I don't remember the specific context. 

More recently, I think about it in the context of my kids. I'm a name nerd. and I pray that their character will someday be a reflection of the ideals woven in their names. I pray that Jericho, with his wall-tumblin' name, will break sin-chains, demolish strongholds and weed out selfishness. I pray that Phoenix, with her ash-rising name, will minister redemption, heal heartaches and spin beauty from pain. And I also pray that someday, in some way, they will minister together. What a team they would make, destroying evil and building love.

I already see echoes of answered prayer in Phoenix's sweet spirit.

I was frantically searching for my phone earlier this afternoon, and admittedly overreacted. I was harsh, intense and just plain angry with Phoenix, who was an innocent bystander hit by my crazy-shrapnel.

She found it, I apologized, and we headed to the post office.

While we were driving, her little three-year-old brain processing the earlier events, she said, "Mommy ... sometimes when grown-up girls get frustrated, big-sister girls can make them happy. I like to make you happy because I love you."

It is not her role or responsibility to attend to my emotional health. But she has always been very empathetic, very aware of the emotional realities of the people around her. Her generous, loving response to my frustration was to not to hide but to heal. 

I feel very grateful to have a front-row seat to the lives of my children, to the unfolding of their being. 

And I was reminded tonight that I also get to help write the script in a small way, not just though my day-to-day parenting, but through prayer. 

So I keep turning that verse from Jeremiah over in my head and my heart, asking that God will appoint them over nations, that they will love God and take territory for the Kingdom.

Autumn Marriage

This past Sunday morning, I woke up early to meet a friend for breakfast. I was driving along a back road, largely zoned-out thinking about coffee and impending wedding details.

Then the beautiful, early morning fog caught my attention as it rolled through a small field into autumn-tinted woods.

With the miracle of marriage on my mind, the sacrament was all I could see in that landscape.

Engaged, one stands in a clearing, looking at the beautiful but shrouded path ahead. A long walk through the woods, like marriage, it is at once mysterious, magical, tedious, exhausting and enchanting. It requires tenacity, patience, endurance, purpose and attention. At times it will be terrifyingly dark, and other times the light will dance through the leaves like a dream. At times momentum will carry you quickly forward, while some inclines will turn mere steps into gargantuan feats. There will be loss of direction, back-tracking, walking in circles, stumbling, and horrible changes in elevation. You become scarred and weathered, yes, but also strong and seasoned. And you see the face of God - the mountains, the clearings, streams, flowers, stars, songbirds - the miraculous moments that drew you to the woods in the first place are bread for the journey.

Sunday night, I watched two dear friends commit to this wooded-walk, knowing little of what lies ahead but certain of their Sustainer. It was a joy to watch them commit their strength and tenderness to one another, and we are eager to share this new season of life with them.

I distinctly remember the first time Yanni brought Kelly over for dinner at our house. She is gentle and soft-spoken, but, within minutes of meeting us, she was fearlessly singing an Aussie birthday song. We were sold.
Over the last couple years, we've had a small window into their relationship - we've seen them grow in communication, in purpose, in kindness and in sacrifice. They are both better people because of their love.

Congrats, Kelly and Yanni. You have all our love, all our support, and any ounce of walking-wisdom we can offer. 

Doug's Home

We are in Atlanta for a few days, and June Irvine so lovingly and graciously opened her home to us. When we were planning this trip, her home seemed the obvious choice - she has the space and we wanted to spend time with her.

As we walked into the house last night, both Josh and I quickly faced an emotional intensity that we weren't expecting.

Just a few short months ago, my hands rested on their siding as fifty of us gathered to pray for Doug's healing, eyes full of tears and atmosphere full of Presence. As I walked out to our car yesterday, I had a vivid flashback of June coming out her back door to update that group of intercessors, leading us all through our suffering while bearing her own.
I honestly spent very little time in this home while Doug was alive, yet every room beckons the memory of him.
The room where we would find our kids playing when we came to pick them up after a long adoption meeting.
The world's most complicated and (apparently) awesome TV - Doug's biggest contribution to the landscape of the house.
The table where we gathered after the funeral, eating sandwiches and tearing up with every story.

And the chair.

June has oh-so-beautifully redone much of their home, with peaceful earthy tones and thoughtful accents. So, in keeping with her new decor, much of the furniture is new.

But the office (where our kids are sleeping) has a chair that is not new ... it is one of the chairs where Doug spent most of his last days, where his body held off the cancer for as long as it could.

I don't want to sit in that chair. I know this is so irrational, but it feels like there must be something left of him, some Dougness that shouldn't be wasted on me. Again, this is going to make me sound crazy, but I want to just plop Jericho right in the middle of that chair and leave him. Doug never got to hold Jericho; it saddens me that Doug's intangibles, his goodness and graciousness and ferocity, were never made tangible through an embrace. I, quite literally, want Doug to rub off on my boy.

That evening when we gathered around to pray, I prayed all the things you are supposed to pray.
The theologically correct things, like "If it is your will, Lord, heal Doug for your glory." But the weeping came when I prayed the real things, like "Spare him for June. Spare him for his girls. Spare him for his grandbabies. Spare him for Josh. Spare him for my babies."

But perhaps facing the emotional intensity of this home is exactly what we, and most specifically Josh, need. To look our loss in eyes, to decidedly grieve again, to attend to the scars.

I wish soul-healing was more like scrape-healing. If I trip and scrape my knee, I can put a bandaid on it and passively trust my body to do the rest. Pray for me, Josh and all those still reeling from Doug's passing, that we would tirelessly and intentionally do the difficult work of healing.

Home

My return flight landed minutes before 10 PM on Sunday night.
We just finished stuffing our minivan with everything we've ever owned so that we can leave at 3 tomorrow morning (or is that tonight?) to head back to Atlanta for a wedding.

The last two days have been a blur of errands and laundry, and I have very little brain space that isn't occupied with a list or a nagging fear of forgotten items. And my two little shadows have been sewn back on, which is such a wonderful blessing and an added dimension of crazy.

I posted a picture on Instagram of my cuties in the cart at Costco, and a couple friends made sweet comments about me being "home."

There are so many places that feel like valid contenders for the title of "home."
Denver.
Waco.
Philly.
Atlanta.
Houston.

Opening the door to my dingy, undecorated apartment didn't really feel like coming home. But I'm not sure any place would.

I am still a transplant. My deep, strong Atlanta roots still ache from being largely severed, and my roots here (while life-giving and new) are understandably underdeveloped. 

In a rare solitary drive tonight, I listened to the song "Lift Your Head Weary Sinner" (David Crowder) over and over and over. This lyric arrested me:

If you're lost and wandering
Come stumbling in like a prodigal child

On one level, the music makes me feel like my vagabond heart is swampy and gritty and romantic in the most earthy way.
More importantly, it's a reminder that "home" is where my Father's doors swing wide for me.



(Here is a video with the song ... forgive the cheesy background picture):

Haunting Word

Words are my love language, my most natural form of worship and my medium, and therefore they wield great power in my heart. And there is a word that has been (quite literally) keeping me awake at night for the last week.

Squander.
     To waste (something) in a reckless and foolish manner.
     To allow an opportunity to pass or be lost.

I can't nail down its entry point into my brain, which is what makes me suspicious that God brought it to my attention.

A whispered warning.

I went to the Storyline conference in Chicago this week to hear from God about writing. And I definitely heard from God - about writing, about my past, about redemption, about my heart, about God's love, about agency, and so much more.
It will take me much time and reflection to bring more specific lessons to this space.

Here is what I do know: I don't want to intentionally waste or passively forgo the invitation of God. The invitation to be a co-worker in creativity, a contributor to the Kingdom and a child of second-chances.

More to come.

My Beach Babe

She was wearing a mismatched napping outfit - white pajama bottoms with pink pigs and a gray bird t-shirt. Her tiny toenails were pink from a recent pedicure, though her fingernails were already scraggly bits of purple from her bad habit of picking them. Her hair - oh her hair! - was an amplified version of its normal self, made extra curly by the humidity and extra crazy by the nap. A little larabar-mustache completed her look. It was the perfect package for her beautiful, sweet, quirky soul.

No plans. No phone. No baby brother. No imminent errands or packing.

Just us.

On the beach.

Her love language is quality time, just like her daddy. Unfortunately, in the last two weeks, I haven't had the margin to time-love her. She has heard a lot of "Hang on, baby" and "Not right now, baby" and "Would you like to watch some Daniel Tiger?" in the last two weeks.  Not something I'm particularly proud of or ashamed of - a moving momma has to do what she has to do.

But our last few days in Georgia were really rough for her. There were a lot of tears and quite a few meltdowns and plenty of defiance. She saw her whole world get packed up in boxes, and I know our stress and preoccupation was not lost on her.

I've been aching for some moments to just be with her.

Her body was still heavy with sleep as I carried her out to the beach, but it only took a few seconds of sea air to waken her. The temperature was perfectly neutral, the sun occasionally emerging from friendly clouds, and the water was warm. We started with no agenda, but one quickly emerged with her first exclamation of: "Oh look, Mom! A shell!"

And so it went for an hour. Every time she discovered a tiny shell in the sand, she lit up with the same excitement. Soon I had a sandy hand full of shells, because each of her discoveries quickly became a gift to me. And she said 'Mom' over and over and over, as though we both needed to be reminded of the importance of our relationship.

Because words are my love language, I try to be intentional about repeating important things to her when the moment is appropriate. One such thing I regularly say is, "I am yours and you are mine. I have access to your heart, and you have access to mine." In this stage of her life, she usually responds with a mischievous grin and the correction that, "I am MINE and you are YOURS" (I'm bracing myself for more abrasive reactions in the future). I know she is just being silly, but sometimes that rings truer than I'd like to admit. Sometimes I just don't make my heart (which beats loudly with love for her) available in the way I'd like to.

So I am thankful today for a God whose grace is fully accessible to me and sufficient for me.

And for salty, sandy, sacred moments with my girl.

Another Momma's Day

Apparently Mother's Day makes me really reflective (see my posts from the last two years HERE and HERE).
While each year makes me muse, my heart-eyes seem to see motherhood from different angles with the passing of time.
This year, I feel like a woman adorned. Not because of any particular temporal finery, but because my mothering crown has grown and changed this year. My son is steel and my daughter is diamond - both strong, brilliant, sharp and valuable. I hold my head high with great pride, fully aware of the great treasure entrusted to me. And I am humbled and moved by the kindness of God in fulfilling my longings for a second child. I feel markedly beautiful, perhaps even regal, when holding my children - I am thankful that God saw me fit to crown.
While I am deeply grateful for my precious adornment, it is heavy and slightly battered. This was a tough year for me as a mama, and I don't think I've emerged unscathed. Hopeful and healed, yes ...but not unscathed. Losing a baby in October left a grief-stain that has permanently settled into the fibers of my heart. And I cannot help but mourn the loss that Jordan will feel so acutely on Sunday. I was a hot mess in the Mother's Day card aisle at Target, where I desperately opened every single card, trying to find something appropriate to send to the mother of my child. How does one simultaneously acknowledge great joy and great suffering? I gave up and picked a blank card, penning some words that just seemed lifeless compared to the well of emotion I have carried with me this week. If it was in my power to skim over one calendar day, I would make Mother's Day pass as a whisper to spare her even an ounce of extra grief. Our two mama-hearts are more intricately tied than I anticipated, and her wounds feel (in some small way) like my own.
When it came time to pick our wedding bands a few years ago, I gravitated towards a thin, hammered metal ring. Josh was so hesitant to buy it ... he was sure I would change my mind. But it was a very intentional decision: I wanted a reminder that I was entering into an imperfect marriage, and thus committing to rough days and seasons as well as beautiful ones. Oh the heights and depths we have experienced in the last three years - my rings ring as a perfect symbol.
Motherhood seems to follow the same pattern - I am both elated and exhausted. Thrilled and thrashed.
Willing and worn. But I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Gratitude and Grief

In His kindness, God loved my husband by bringing Doug into his life and letting their paths intertwine for such a significant stretch of time. Our grief is both heightened and tempered by a deep thankfulness for having known this man.

Doug was family. It was no small thing for Josh to follow God’s call in moving to Georgia; he is a homebody, a small-town boy, a change-hater. He would never have stayed had he not found a place of belonging with Doug. When he had no one else, Doug embraced this fledgling leader and seamlessly made him family. He was a part of their home.  As Josh built his own family, we were welcomed just as lovingly. Papa Doug and Grandma June were a third set of grandparents to my babies.

Doug was a mentor. Being coworkers provided consistent opportunities for Doug to teach Josh about life, love and leadership; he very organically molded the people around him by simply sharing life with them. He was fiercely supportive of Josh, and was always going to bat for him. Even in his last days, he never stopped fighting for God’s best in Josh’s life.

Doug was a friend, in the deepest, most profound sense of the word. He was Josh’s confidant, encourager, sounding board, partner-in-crime … and Josh was the same to him. Doug was Josh’s “work wife.” It was a treasure to know that when he left our home in the morning, he was headed to an environment where someone deeply knew and loved him.

So much of the beauty of their relationship came from truly knowing one another … they frustrated one another, disagreed with one another, dismissed each other and hurt each other. Doug’s legacy in my husband’s heart is so deep and lasting because, despite all the pains that come from real relationships, Josh had an unwavering love and respect for Doug. He knew the best and worst of Doug, and still deeply desired to be a man like him. To be truly known and still honored … few men earn such a sentiment.

For whatever reason, I feel the loss most acutely for my children. They should have grown up knowing him. My babies have the most amazing daddy, and it is largely because of Doug’s influence in his life. I dreamed of them being tiny witnesses to the power of sustained, loving investment in unlikely people. Doug, having been the recipient of God’s great grace in his own life, had learned to bestow the same belief in other people.

He has been ushered in. Oh to see that reunion. Not a meeting, for Doug was deeply familiar with God. To see Doug reunited with the one who changed, empowered, motivated, saved and truly loved Him – we take great joy in imagining such an embrace.

Baby Boy Update

Sorry for the very long radio silence. I recognize that I ended my last post with a promise to blog again soon - that was two months ago.
Hopefully you will give me some grace and let me play the newborn card. I have been sleep-deprived and spread thin, and the idea of blogging just felt like too much effort. When I've had a free moment in the last two months, I've headed straight to my bed to nap, watch Netflix, or just lay there enjoying the blessed silence.

But now that Jericho has been predictably sleeping 10-12 hours at night for a couple weeks, I feel like I actually have bandwidth to communicate with the world.

Going from one child to two has been both easier and harder than I anticipated.
Easier:
- because nothing compares to the way a first child turns your whole world upside down (especially when your first makes such a dramatic entrance)
- because I already have two years of motherhood under my belt, which has given me a lot of perspective for this season
Harder:
- because we had a winter baby, which means we were stuck at home for longer to avoid flu germs (which gave both Phoenix and me some serious cabin fever)
- because it changed my relationship with Phoenix, which was more emotional than I expected (I had to just decidedly grieve the loss of how we related as a family of 3 in order to really embrace being a family of 4)

A lot of people have asked me about how the bonding has been. Honestly, I don't really have a normal bond-with-your-baby experience to compare it to, since we didn't even get to hold Phoenix for the first 18 days of her life. Because Jericho was ours within minutes of his birth, bonding has really felt intuitive and natural. When I get frustrated with him, there's a little voice in my head that wonders "Is this because we aren't bonded?" But then I remember that he's an infant, and they are just frustrating sometimes.

We are lucky to have another easy baby. I think because my babies are so hard-won, God has been kind to make them easy-going. He is really laid back and doesn't need constant attention, but he LOVES to interact with us. He smiled really early, and hasn't stopped since. He has this big, open-mouthed, crooked smile that makes me weak in the knees. He is quite the flirt, so I'm already working on my mommma-bear-stare to keep swooning ladies away in the future.
He was sleeping long stretches at night from the beginning (4-5 hours in between feedings that first week), and takes reasonably good naps during the day, especially when we keep them predictable.
His one vice? Feeding. Even while we were still at the hospital, feeding was an issue because he would puke SO OFTEN. Like, changing-his-shirt-every-five-minutes kind of often. Fortunately, he's slowed down on the puking but hasn't sped up the eating. Every feeding is an hour-long event, because his reflux requires significant breaks. This makes on-the-go-feeding fairly difficult, so we spend most of our time at home these days. I love all that one-on-one time, but I must confess I CANNOT WAIT for him to grow out of his eating issues.

It looks like our finalization hearing will be in the next two weeks, so he will be officially ours in the near future! Pray for favor with the judge ... we are financially capable of caring for a second child, but I'm sure our financial situation will surely pale in comparison to many adoptive parents. And pray that our legal grant comes through by that time, so that we can afford to pay our lawyer!

And, while you are praying, please continue to pray for Jordan and DJ (the birth parents). We have been faithfully sending our monthly picture/letter updates, and each time gently remind them that we would love to have relationships with them someday. Jordan actually did send us an email, but hasn't engaged any further than that. Pray as their hearts heal, that they would simultaneously soften to more openness.

And here are some pictures of our handsome man (follow me on Instagram if you want to see daily pictures of my sweet children ... because they are the cutest things happening in my world):

Jericho's Birthday

It's all the rage these days to write birth stories … and I am still glad that I recorded all the details of Phoenix's entrance into the world.
Fortunately for the squeamish among you, this birth story includes absolutely zero birth details. Because  we don't know them.

Jordan's due date was 1/1, but that date passed uneventfully. It was really funny to get a taste of what it's like to wait for your child to make their entrance; most mothers experience the impatience of the last few weeks, but that never happened for us with Phoenix. I was pretty much glued to my phone, which was probably obnoxious to everyone around me. I would even set it right next to my yoga mat during class that week, totally unconcerned about whether I would end up ruining someone else's shavansana.
My birthday is 1/2, so I was anxious to see if I would end up sharing a birthday with our baby. Honestly, people usually forget my birthday because of it's proximity to the holidays, and it usually goes largely uncelebrated. So I breathed a selfish prayer that we wouldn't have to share our special days, and God was kind in holding off his birth for one extra day.

Everything actually started on 1/3 as I was leaving my yoga class at 5:30 pm. My social worker texted me:
"J went to the doctor this afternoon and the dr has sent her to the hospital to see if they will induce. If they don't it may mean that her due date is off because apparently the baby is measuring a little small. She is going to let Cindy [the pregnancy counselor] know what they say at the hospital."
And then a few minutes later:
"Cindy said that J is getting admitted to the hospital!"

After a phone call to figure out whether we should head to the hospital (since inductions can take a really long time, as I learned while watching a dear friend navigate her daughter's birth this year), we kicked things into high gear. At this point I was at home, getting dinner for Phoenix and Josh. I headed out to Costco to buy some flowers for Jordan, and left Josh at home to pack his clothes and get Phoenix ready for her first sleepover. As I mentioned in an earlier post, Sean and Cassie Myers were so good to let Phoenix hang with them while we went to welcome our child to the world. Once I was home, we frantically loaded everything up (except we forgot the baby stuff, including the car seat -- go figure), and headed out the door. We dropped Phoenix off, and headed to Gwinnett Medical. We met our social  worker extraordinaire, Catie, in the lobby and waited for the hospital to figure out where they were going to put us. I've heard some horror stories about adoptive parent accommodations, so we were really thankful for how well Gwinnett Medical cared for us. We got our own room in back corner of labor and delivery -- it was large, quiet and perfect for the two days that we spent there.

While we got settled in our room, Catie went to check on Jordan. During the pre-birth adoption meetings, Jordan had expressed that she did NOT want to meet us. This was disappointing, but totally understandable -- if she needed to distance herself in order survive emotionally, we were more than willing to do whatever would serve her best. But something changed at the hospital, because Catie came back and told us that Jordan wanted to meet us. This was simultaneously exciting and terrifying - I had never considered what I would say or do, not to mention we both looked like total bums (I was still in my yoga clothes, and Josh was hangin' in his sweatpants when we rushed out of the house).
But we quickly surrendered the moment to God, and went with our social worker to meet Jordan, DJ (the birthfather) and James (Jordan's current boyfriend).

It was amazing. I am infinitely thankful that we had those few moments to meet them. Nothing miraculous transpired; we chatted about how she was feeling, what she's studying, and other small-talkish topics. But the intangibles were priceless. We got a feel for her understated, laid-back, fun personality. We got a few moments to study their faces, so that we can recognize those details as they emerge in Jericho. And we got to be the ones to tell her that the baby's middle name would Jordan, communicating to her (in such a small way) how grateful we were/are for her great love and sacrifice.

And it was fun to hear from them why they chose us. The very last page of our profile book (which you can see HERE) has a picture of me grabbing Josh's butt.

When we initially submitted our book draft to our agency, this picture was apparently a great source of controversy in the office - several social workers thought we should take it out. Catie had never told us that, so it made the cut. And that picture was the reason that they chose us … DJ said that it showed we had personality. That was so fun to hear - most of the example books that the agency had shown us were largely the same, so I worked really hard to make sure our profile book showcased our family's individuality.

Catie skillfully ended the conversation, and we went back to our room to wait. We watched a lot of "Say Yes to the Dress" (I had another lady on my side when it came to programming selection), snacked a lot, and chatted. We really could not have asked for a better social worker; Catie has been supportive, encouraging, kind, funny, and a truth-teller. It was fun to sit and catch up with her, see her latest sewing projects, talk adoption/foster care, and hang out.

Around 11, Catie went to check on Jordan again. She came back quickly, reporting that she had heard a lot of screaming and so she stayed away. Not long afterwards, we found out that we had a son! He was born at 11:04, and it turns out that Catie had actually heard his first cry!

About 20 minutes after his birth, several nurses came to introduce him to us.
The most euphoric moment? When the nurse asked his name, and we spoke his name over him for the first time.

"It's Jericho."

Catie took on the role of paparazzi, so we have so many great pictures of our first minutes with him. I will let the pictures tell this part of the story!

Waiting to meet our baby

First moments

So much love!

Sad face

First kangaroo (I'm a pro at this!)

First meal

The scene (also, this picture distorted the nurse … she didn't actually look so deformed)

Awkward hand-off

Daddy heaven

First bath

Clean, styled and swaddled

There you have it! It was such a beautiful whirlwind. We don't have any details about his birth, except that it was vaginal and she did have an epidural (but too late in the game to make much of a difference).

And thus began our love-drunk, sleep-deprived days as parents to two.
I will blog again soon to share more about our early days as adoptive parents, including our adoption procedure, bonding, etc.

Love to you all!

And the Walls Came Tumblin' Down

Welcome to our family, Jericho Jordan Cash!

Born January 3rd at 11:04 PM.
7 lbs, 5 oz.
20 1/4 inches long.

Perfect head of light, reddish tinted hair. Blue eyes. Chicken legs. Long toes. Calm disposition.

We chose the name Jericho over a year ago, while we were working to fund our original home study. Actually, we very much feel that God chose his name.

In approaching adoption, we felt the same way Joshua must have felt standing before the walls of the city of Jericho. Small, unprepared, incapable … but called. And we felt just as foolish in our many months of waiting as Joshua's army must have felt walking around the city waiting for the walls to fall. But fall they did. In the same way that, in their obedience, the Isrealites took Jericho as territory for the Lord, we have taken the soul-ground of this boy for the Kingdom of God. Our dream and prayer is that the walls of his heart will come tumblin' down again, when he makes his own choice to walk with God as an obedient warrior.

And we chose the name Jordan on 12/23, as soon as we found out that Jordan would be the mother of our child. It is our prayer that he emulates the courage, love and selflessness that she modeled in choosing adoption for her child. We are forever indebted to her, and this is just one small way we have chosen to honor her sacrifice.

Enjoy these amazing pictures taken by the infinitely talented Rachel Iliadis (they were taken on the dreariest morning of the year, with absolutely no natural light -- she's a miracle worker!).

We are a family of four -- it is so surreal that our dream has come true!

Thank you for dreaming with us, supporting us, and loving us so well … we can't wait to tell Jericho about how kind God was in orchestrating his entrance into this world and into our family!

He's Here!

Baby boy was born late Friday night, 1/3 (exactly one year after we started officially waiting).

He came straight to our room at Gwinnett Medical, and we've been mesmerized ever since. Seriously … he slept for four hours stretches last night, but I laid awake just staring at him.

I wish that I could fill this post with all his stats, millions of pictures and his name.
But we won't.

For the time being, we are only stewards of this child. His birth mother plans to sign surrenders today, but she still has a full 10 days to change her mind (her window ends Jan. 14th at 5:00 PM).

There is so much that God taught me during Phoenix's treacherous early days that translate so perfectly to our current circumstances. She was fighting for her life, and I couldn't even hold her. There was actually nothing I could do. But God settled my spirit with the truth that she never even belonged to me … she belongs to Him. And I can trust Him implicitly with my children. Even now - after 2.5 years of loving her, making decisions for her, and teaching her - she still doesn't belong to me. She has always been His, and will always be His; He has just been kind enough to entrust her to us. What an deeply important and weighty charge!

And, in the same way, God has entrusted this sweet boy to us. It may be only for 2 days, or 10 days, or his lifetime … for whatever length of time he is with us, we are deeply committed to him in love and prayer.

We are so overwhelmingly thankful for the birthmother's decision to let us steward her child - she is brave and selfless beyond our wildest imaginations. But we also want to honor the time she has to consider her decision, and thus won't divulge any more details until those 10 days pass.

Trust me when I say that holding back is hard on us … we are bursting with parental pride! So, if we make it to Jan.14, expect a serious onslaught of pictures!

The best way that you can support us right now is through prayer.
Pray for powerful bonding.
Pray for Phoenix as she transitions into sisterhood.
Pray for peace as we wait.
Pray for our families (who are losing their minds with excitement to meet him, but have to wait).

But, most of all, pray for Jordan. My momma heart is wildly broken her. Pray the nearness of God and clarity of His will.

We are still at the hospital for now, and don't really need anything (especially because Sean and Cassie Myers have been so generous to watch our firebird for us). We will keep you updated as we head home.

So much love!