Grief and Relief

 It has been a strange couple of days at the Cash house. 

We miss the girls. I specifically miss the way that the littlest would whisper "Hi. Hi. Hi." through her pacifier when I woke her up from her nap (and how she'd likewise greet EVERY PERSON ON THE PLANET). I miss the way she would melt into my body in the rocking chair, holding my arm with the sweetest little death grip. I miss the way the oldest would flutter upstairs to get dressed in the morning (she never did just walk) with her mermaid hair bouncing behind her. I miss her general excitement about everything - outings, food, information, and new people. All of the mothering energy I'd created for them now has no place to land - I can't direct, soothe, encourage or teach them anymore. The first night, I laid awake wondering if they were sleeping okay in their new beds. Phoenix and Jericho have both, more than once, volunteered that they miss the girls. Our life and home were SO FULL and now there is a void: it's less like a cavernous hole, and more like a wispy cloud of lost experience. We don't really know what to do with ourselves.

BUT, the four of us have been breathing much deeper. I can't even explain the general feeling of health that's fallen on our home ... everyone just seems to be functioning from a place of peace for the first time in months. I know it is partially logistics - no toddlers, no diapers, less laundry, less fighting, fewer attitudes, etc. - but there is something more. Previously, being at home was largely about surviving, just making sure everyone was alive, fed, and occasionally bathed. But for the last few days, I've been enjoying my home and my kids. Slow meals, quiet mornings, lots of snuggles, no appointments or visits or paperwork, long bathtimes and lots of eye contact are small graces that compile into huge joy. I think my kids subconsciously shrank to make space for A&A, and I didn't notice it until this week when I've watched their little souls expand again. They are holding longer conversations, living more freely, asking to read more books, finding themselves more frequently on our laps and in our arms. Being a family of four again has been so deliriously sweet. 

I just keep thinking about the significance of my two hands. I'm sure God has a myriad of reasons for creating our bodies in specific ways, and I certainly don't claim to understand those motivations. But, very practically, having two hands means that I can carry more than one thing. So, when it seems contradictory to feel two very opposite emotions at the same time, my hands seem to mirror my soul's ability to stand decidedly in both joy and pain. It's grounding to look at my physical fingers and imagine them grasped around separate experiences, validating my dichotomous experience of losing 'our' girls.

In those same two metaphorical hands, I hold the truths that (1) the girls were a genuine blessing to our lives and (2) the girls were an exhausting drain on our lives. I was feeling guilty about how much I'm enjoying this new season until my counselor kindly reminded me that fostering puts an amazing amount of strain on even the healthiest, most faithful families. Which is why, for the moment, we won't be accepting any new placements. We are going to give our family soil some time to remineralize before we even discuss re-opening our home. 

We are so grateful for all the people that have carried us through the last eight months - we would not have survived this experience without the support and prayers of friends both near and far. And PLEASE PLEASE continue to pray for the girls! Pray for them to powerfully bond with their new parents, to settle easily into new routines/places/therapies/etc, for a case without major hiccups or delays and for them to trust Jesus as the restorative force for their lives. 

Sustenance for the Journey

Illustration by Jago

I am a weary foster momma.
I think some of that weariness is universal to parenthood, and we are caring for four very small kiddos at one time. Having stair-step siblings in this particular age bracket is an insane undertaking.
But adding two foster kids to our team didn't just mean two more small kids ... the slew of fostering logistics is overwhelming.
For example, our fostering schedule this week involves:
- Monday: a potential birthmom visit, which was up in the air until the last minute
- Today: a speech evaluation at the local school
- Wednesday: a home visit from our private agency
- Thursday: a home visit from CPS
- Friday: play therapy and a home visit from the girls' attorney
Throw in visits from CASA, speech therapy, occupational therapy, preschool and all the paperwork, and it becomes a full-time job.
And, not only does fostering dominate our schedule, but it also dominates my thought-life.
"Am I getting them the interventions they need?"
"Where is their mom? Should I start calling hospitals?"
"How much should I push for their best, and how much should I permit their worst?"
"How do I keep them healthy without constant food battles?"
"How can I help heal them when there is so much unknown?"
"Is this four-year-old behavior, or is this trauma behavior?"
"What is our life going to look like in three months?"

To be honest, I feel like I'm drowning -- I was a confident swimmer until I decided to land myself in the middle of a typhoon. And all arenas of my life are sinking too. I'm less available to my forever kiddos, I'm less prepared as a home school mom, I'm less stable as a wife (ha!), I'm less committed in my ministries, I'm less diligent in other responsibilities, I'm less present in my friendships and I have less bandwidth to love/serve outside our home.

I want to quit.
But God won't let me quit.

As much as I want to be frustrated at God for keeping me in a place that feels so hard and thankless and desperate, God keeps being near and kind.

I've been reading The Chronicles of Narnia out loud to Phoenix at night. A month ago, when we were still in 'The Magician's Nephew,' I could barely finish reading because my eyes and voice were brimming with tears. Digory, the main character, is standing before Aslan, the creator and leader of Narnia. A series of unwise mistakes have caused Digory to bring with him a person of great evil into the fledgling world. Aslan is giving Digory a task to help save/protect the land, but Digory is distracted with worry about his mother, who is dying at home.

"'But please, please -- won't you -- can't you give me something that will cure Mother?' Up till then he had been looking at the Lion's great feet and the huge claws upon them; now, in his despair, he looked up at its face. What he saw surprised him as much as anything in his whole life. For the tawny face was bent down near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion's eyes. They were such big, bright tears compared with Digory's own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself."

Aslan doesn't instantly heal Digory's mother, nor does he release him from the task at hand. Digory is expected to carry his own pain forward into obedience. But Aslan is fully present with him in his pain. While our two girlies surely carry the greatest sadness in this season, I have my own legitimate grief. But (wonder of wonders) my roaring lion of a God is bent near to me, shedding tears on my behalf.

Over breakfast, we read a Bible story to our kiddos, and then a page from Thoughts to Make Your Heart Sing. The other morning, I read this (which references the illustration above):

"God's Spirit is called the 'Comforter.' Does it make you think of a nice comfy quilt - all cozy and warm? Oh dear.

In the Bayeux tapestry of 1066, there's a knight on a horse and the caption reads: 'Bishop Odo comforts his troops.'Is Bishop Odo giving them nice fluffy quilts? No. Look! He's prodding them from behind with a stick! NOT comfy.

But Odo is spurring them on, encouraging them, urging them to keep going and not give up. Because comfort in the Bible doesn't mean 'to make comfy.' It means 'to send help.'

When we want to give up, when we are afraid, God sends his spirit - the Comforter - to make us strong, to give us courage, to lift us up."

My latent desires for a predictable, comfortable life are being beaten out of me by the fostering process. God doesn't comfort me with retreat or rest, no matter how much I beg for relief. Instead, God is asking me to lean into the pain, to put aside self-preservation, to trust God with my family and to keep pushing Kingdom lines forward.

I have the wine of divine tears and the bread of divine encouragement as sustenance for the journey. Those traveling mercies are yours too, whether you happen to be on the same road or have your own path of exhausting obedience.

Redefining Motherhood

Up to this point, I've been quiet on this blog about the hardships of foster parenting. Honestly, it's because I believe fostering is good, important work and I don't want to scare anyone away from its particular graces because of its particular pains.
But I've decided that it's important for me to own the emotions of this experience, and to tell the truth about things that felt really dark until I processed them with God.
So here's the brutal truth: I feel almost zero affection for my foster daughters.
There are a lot of articles circulating on the internet about how the extensive paperwork, the regular intrusions, and the sketchy system make fostering difficult. There are plenty of people that tell the truth about how fostering blows up your family, incites difficult sibling relationships, requires endless empathy and wears you to the bone. So I saw all of that coming.
But because so many vocal foster parents proclaim deep love for their kids and how they dread birth parent reunification (even if they support it), I just assumed that I would bond quickly and easily with our girls.
They've been with us for four months, and I still don't feel particularly attached to either of them.
So I've felt guilty. MAJORLY GUILTY. Everyone else on the planet seems to easily figure this out, and I've been over here floundering in my efforts to muster up the feels that come so easily with my other two. I've wanted to quit more than once, just because I feel like the girls deserve more than I seem to be able to offer.
Until recently, I didn't realize how much of my innate definition of mothering was reliant on affection. I thought being a mom meant being crazy about your kids, because that's such a huge part of my relationship with Phoenix and Jericho. I think their antics are endearing, that their sweet toes are adorable, that their sleep-sweaty bodies are a treasure. I could stare at them for hours, and that kind of soul-deep tenderness is incredibly energizing. When they are a hot mess, all the warmth that burns for them in my bones makes it easier (though not easy) to teach and love them in spite of themselves.
I just don't have that with the foster girlies. The first time I clipped our four-year-old's toenails was a major exercise in self-discipline. Their little smells (you know, the kind that mommas drink in deeply?) kind of gross me out. And even though they are generally cool kids, the times that I really enjoy them are few and far between.
But, after a meaningful conversation with Josh this weekend, I'm standing a little taller before God and asking for a new definition of motherhood. Turns out, God never asked me to have warm-fuzzy feelings. Even Karyn Purvis, the guru of attachment parenting, says "It's okay not to feel love for your child right now."

Instead, as a mother (biological, adoptive AND foster), God has asked me to:
EQUIP my kids.
ENCOURAGE my kids.
ENGAGE with my kids.
And, most importantly, to INTRODUCE my kids to Jesus, so they can be loved perfectly (with abundant affection) by the tender God who created them.

Seeing the job description written down leaves me sobered by the gravity of my role.  But because these tasks are God-assigned, they can be Spirit-fueled. Instead of trying to fabricate feeling, I'm asking God to enable choices that serve Kingdom purposes instead of my own misguided notion of what I'm 'supposed' to feel.

I may be the only foster mom struggling with affection, but, just in case I'm not, I hope this post leaves you feeling less lonely. This is hard, holy work, and all of our imperfection and insufficiency just leaves more space for the glory of God.

Poverty of Spirit

[I was commissioned to write a little thought about Christmas for one of our church's social media outlets, which I'm re-posting here. Thanks, Kathi, for forcing my hand to write what God's been teaching me in this season!]

This time of year, we give a lot of mental energy to gifts. We make lists of things to buy for family, drop subtle hints about things we may like to receive, stalk Pinterest for cute teacher gifts, make generous financial gifts to worthy nonprofits, and generally drain our bank accounts trying to make sure everyone in our world feels loved. To be clear, I love the exchange of presents - there is nothing like the perfect gift to make you feel known and treasured, supported and seen.
And, if spirituality is part of your normal life, you probably turn your attention to the precious gift we were given on Christmas. God's very son, wrapped in humility, was given to us. There is no gift quite like it - both universally appealing and perfectly personal. The Incarnation, Divinity gifted into our very human experience, is surely worth extra mediation during this season.
This year, however, a lot of my thoughts and prayers have been centered around the gifts that I bring to the cradle. Every  Christmas Eve, we bake a birthday cake, light a candle and gather in the quiet to sing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus. It is a sweet, small way to celebrate the baby who right-sized the world. I want to honor this newborn King with precious, lavish, beautiful gifts - like the wise men, I want to approach Christ with gifts fit for royalty.
But, if I'm being quite honest, I don't feel like I have much to offer. I can be overwhelmingly selfish, impatient, controlling and distant. And even when my sinfulness relents, the fruit in my life still seems too meager to present to a King.
But my Emmanuel keeps reminding me of this truth:

"For you will not delight in sacrifice, or I would give it;
    you will not be pleased with a burnt offering.
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;
    a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise." Psalm 51

The only gift Christ desires is me ... just as I am. He doesn't want a magnificently orchestrated holiday or a giant donation or perfect patience with my kids. He doesn't want me to muster up holiness or to strive for success - my brokenness and desperation for His presence are the perfect gift. This truth has me crying every time I listen to 'Little Drummer Boy,' because I feel insufficient in the same way, approaching Jesus with only a (metaphorical) drum and not much skill. But, miraculously, my smallness and poverty of spirit are a gift that makes Him smile.

So gift yourself to Jesus afresh today. Set down the piping bag, drive home from the mall, turn off Mariah Carey. Bring your entirety, both sinner and saint, to the cradle. Your empty hands and expectant heart are the greatest gift you can give this Christmas.

Laid Bare

I've been in strange season with God for more weeks than I can number. More months that I can number. Actually, I'm pretty sure we've camped in the same strange space for years.

I've spent this season becoming overwhelmingly aware of my own sinfulness. Obviously, I
understand that this is a vital part of a healthy relationship with God. If I want to be made into the likeness of Christ, then I need to (1) have the Holy Spirit illuminate areas of fault and failure, (2) repent of those ways I've wounded the heart of God and offended the holiness of God and (3) cling to the Holy Spirit to see the fruits of righteousness manifested in my life.

But dang. It feels like my mess is all we ever talk about.

Everyone has at least one friend who wears a particular topic threadbare, hijacking every conversation to discuss their treasured subject. You know, when you are find yourself doing a mental eye roll when Crossfit or lawn care or Trump or essential oils come up in conversation. It's not that you don't care about the person or the topic, but ... really? Again?

My own personal depravity is not a fun subject to constantly revisit with God.

It feels like a never-ending dermatological exam. Me, exposed and vulnerable, laying beneath unforgiving light, clinging to any last shred of dignity. All while God just keeps taking note of every blemish, noting changes in size or depth. Murmuring, "well that's going to have to go" and "here's another one."

A couple weeks ago, during worship, I could feel tears welling up in my eyes as I felt the gaze of God run up and down my soul. Again. And I prayed, "Really, Lord? Is this fun for you? Because I'm exhausted. It takes all my emotional energy (like ALL of it) to be with You, holding back tears. Can I have a break from this so I can breathe?"

And good ole' dermatologist Jesus replied, "I'm keeping you here until you can be here without wanting to cry or run or hide. My grace really is as big as I say it is. I expose your sin to save you, not to shame you. So until you can look me in the eyes, resist the urge to cover up or explain yourself, and you can really just trust my love, here you will remain."

So, of course, my knee-jerk response is to pretend I am so okay with being laid bare, hoping God will buy my act and leave me alone. Which is pure silliness, of course. Pretending to stay present for the sake of running away makes no sense at all. So here I am, a giant mess, fighting to be truly vulnerable and accept that Grace really can cover it all.

I put all this out there just to encourage anyone else who feels the acute eye of Christ - you are not alone. For those willing to endure this kind of relentless examination, I'm believing all the weariness will someday bud and blossom into a display of Glory.

Orlando

When I was pregnant with Phoenix, Josh and I watched all the available seasons of Dexter with amazing speed - to say we binged is really an understatement. One night, after a marathon of episodes from season four (the Trinity season, for fellow fans), I got in the shower feeling really unsettled. I have a high threshold for fictional blood/guts/crime (not really sure what this means about me), but I was deeply shaken by the particular form of evil personified by John Lithgow's character 'Arthur Mitchell.' As water fell from my downcast eyes onto my swollen belly, it occurred to me for the first time that we would be introducing our child to a world wrought with evil and destruction. Why would we bring a child into a world like this? A world where evil seems to have free reign, where one is always at risk of bearing the soul-deep consequences of someone else's depravity? How could we possibly protect a child from such present, subversive, expansive evil?

Obviously, it was a little late to ask such an important question. Like it or not, our growing child already had traction in this world, and the question changed from "Why would we raise a child in this world?" to "How will we raise a child in this world?" 

Sunday, upon hearing the news of what happened in Orlando, I was freshly disturbed by the realities of this world. And this evil was not fictional - it was real in the most profound sense of the word. 

Phoenix, now five, is at such an amazing age -- the whole natural world feels like a gift that I get to help her unwrap. She notices all the variations in the clouds, she instantly internalizes the names and habitats of ocean creatures, she overturns rocks to see what she might discover underneath. But those tangible expressions of Glory that she's constantly encountering are only a small portion of the world she will continue to explore. This week, I weep that giving her the world means she will inevitably be hit over the head with pain and grief and tragedy and unspeakable evil. 

Forty-nine mommas lost their babies this week. I wish more than anything that there’s a way I could ease their suffering, ascribe meaning to their loss, or offer small graces like a hug or a meal. But I can’t. There's nothing that can undo or reverse this horror.

What I can do is keep answering “How will we raise a child in this world?” with a resounding commitment to empathy. I cannot bring back lost lives, but I can fight for character in the lives of the two small people in my home. They are my sphere of influence for this season, and I can affect the trajectory of our world by the way I teach them about loving others. It is no easy or small thing to really understand and internalize the experiences of another human being, to see them with your whole attention and value them despite glaring ideological differences. It is no easy thing to set aside agendas, to find the smallest square of common ground and to contruct a relationship built first on love. It is no small thing to intentionally change words, phrases, behaviors and habits for the sake of honoring someone else’s experience. 

None of this comes naturally to me, so thankfully I have access to the greatest example of empathy in the Incarnation. Christ (quite literally) took on the form of those he meant to serve and love, experiencing the spectrum of our temptations, our hardships, our pain and our joy. Setting aside his glory, Jesus humbly walked among us, getting his hands dirty on the front lines of love. With no concern for social norms and no tolerance for religious spectacles, Jesus locked eyes with the misunderstood, the ostracized and the forgotten.

I am praying that my children are leaders in a generation marked by empathy. I cannot gift them a hate-free world, but I can foster the bravery and kindness that will change the tide. 

To the LGBT community - I weep as you weep. 

To the families and friends who lost someone they love - I weep as you weep.

And to the rest of us - let’s fight first in our own hearts and then in the world for the empathy that can prevent such senseless acts of violence.

Mourning in my Kitchen

Not long after receiving the call that my grandma was in the hospital, I found myself in the kitchen. An unfortunate by-product of having a family is feeding them. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Normally there is a fair amount of drudgery in the dinner experience for me; trying to cook amidst squeals and screams, force-feeding my small people, and then immediately cleaning up the inevitable messes. Not my favorite.

But something was different on that particular evening. 

It was almost an out-of-body experience, my senses both heightened and dulled by the news of potential loss. Peeling carrots, shredding cheese, whisking a roux - small moments of normalcy intoxicated with the immanent.

Since that call, I have found myself acutely aware that we live in the “now and not yet.” The kingdom of God was surely inaugurated in the first coming of Christ, but it has not yet found its fulfillment. Death has no ultimate power over those who know God, for we are promised resurrection bodies and eternity with Christ. But that happy truth is tethered to the inescapable presence of Death among us in this present age. 

To love someone on the brink of eternity is a strange and holy thing. It is a stark and obvious intersection of the temporal and eternal, which brings into focus all the other ways that heaven breaks into our everyday. It gives one fresh eyes to see the sacred in things that have become overly familiar. The last traces of baby smell that linger on Jericho’s skin, the perfect turn of Phoenix’s curls on a humid day, the crisp blue of Josh’s eyes … these things became miracles. 

I was in yoga class on a Monday when a YMCA employee came to tell me that Josh was in the lobby. As I quietly rolled my mat and slipped out of the room, I imagined all possible reasons for this interruption. Our minds are amazingly complex … I knew exactly what he’d come to tell me, but I deceived myself in entertaining other possibilities. 

After a lifetime of faithful service to Christ, my grandma took her last breaths that Sunday night, January 10th.

Mourning her loss means allowing Grief to be my ever-present passenger again for a season.  Having been introduced before, I thought I would know exactly how to navigate our relationship. But, as it turns out, grief is not that consistent. Mourning a particular person in a particular season brings a very particular pain. For me, this time, I started stuck in the mire of numbness and emotional volatility, which admittedly made me a miserable person to be around. 

And, for some reason, the loss seems to strike me afresh when I'm in my kitchen. Not every time I cook - only those times where I find a strange balance between focus and contemplation. Grating ginger, carefully avoiding my fingers while simultaneously basking in the sharp, herbal scent that my grandma loved so much. Watching swirls of sour cream slowly disappear as I mash potatoes, remembering all the Thanksgiving dinners where my grandma would stand at the stove whisking gravy. Sprinkling freshly cut tomatoes with herbs and garlic to roast for spaghetti, thinking about how she relished in beautiful produce (and anything else that grew from the Earth). 

The tediousness of cooking for my young family has been imbued with new meaning for me - largely because I know that my efforts in the kitchen would make my grandma so proud. The ways she loved were not grandiose or extravagant; she loved with meals, with presence, with a listening ear, with understanding, with greenery, with prayer. She wasn't changing the whole world, she just showed up every day to care well for her people. I'm learning the eternal significance of seemingly small acts of love, and Grief is a patient, long-suffering teacher. 

To My Coworkers

I have an eavesdropping problem.

In all fairness, it's almost impossible NOT to eavesdrop in the break room at work.
[For those of you who don't know, I work at the local bookstore a few hours a week. Extra cash + adult conversations + a reason to wear real clothes = sanity.]

On Saturday, I was actively trying NOT to eavesdrop. I had only a thirty minute respite from the chaos of weekend retail work, which included a children's choir loudly performing in the middle of the store, so I wanted to sit in peace and read my book. Two of my coworkers struck up a conversation, though, and I was unfortunately positioned in-between them.

It started as a general conversation about social media - which platforms they use, how often they log on, who they like to keep up with.
And then the conversation turned to the type of Facebook friends that annoy them the most.
It went something like this:
"Ugh, I have so many friend who are religious now. They used to drink and cuss with me, but now their status is always something like, 'Hello Tuesday! I'm so blessed!' or "So thankful for this Monday!'"
"I know. And I'm over here like, 'My life is a shit sandwich!'"
They laughed, and then kept joking about all the things that are inevitably going wrong in their lives.

I didn't say anything.
But here is what I wish I'd have said:

"Y'all ... I can't handle those Facebook friends either. I get where they are coming from - they are working hard to cultivate gratitude, a legitimate discipline. But when all they offer to the world is their mustered-up goodness, it can be offputting. That's "religion" all right ... sickeningly whitewashed.

Let me tell you something. I believe in God, but you know what? Sometimes my life is a shit sandwich too. My cars break down too (ALL. THE. TIME). I get burned by friends and family too. I experience paralyzing loss too. My house falls apart too. My kids can be little hellions too. Customers make me want to simultaneously cry and punch a window too. I feel lonely too. My marriage can be a hot mess too.

Here's the only difference between you and me: while you are fighting to subsist off the shit sandwich that you're often served, I'm over here feasting on the Bread of life.
Turns out, shit isn't satiating or substantial, and I'm thankful for an alternative source of sustenance. Following Christ does not insulate you from painful circumstances - in fact, it often ushers in suffering. It also doesn't make those circumstances perfectly easy to swallow.
But I sit at the Table with Christ. God intimately knows my hardships (large and small), many of which are my own making. God knows not just my circumstances, but the (very) shitty condition of my heart. And through it all, through my suffering and refining, I am deeply loved. I am valued, cared for, fought for, sung over, befriended and wholly known.

If you want to go get a margarita and cuss up a storm, give me a call. I'm your girl. We can talk (and laugh) about all the things that are hard to bear in this life. And I hope you'll give me the chance to tell you how perfectly you are loved."

Grace for the Process

I've been reading through Job this week.

Honestly, this is one of the only times I've read through this book during a season of stability. Normally, I turn to this book as an act of desperation, when my own calamities (admittedly very mild compared to those that plague Job) leave me looking for a word from God. It works for me. Chapters 38-42 are quick to put me in my place, leading me to renewed repentance and trust.

But I'm seeing it with different eyes this time around, perhaps because I don't feel the need to superimpose my own sorrow on the text. I can see Job's story as his own.

Around chapter 10, I was starting to get mildly annoyed with Job. I understand his grief was immense, his suffering was vast. But, at this point, he seems to have cast himself as the protagonist in a Shakespearean tragedy, declaring "my eye will never see good again" (7:7). He is stuck so deep in the mire of his circumstances that he wishes he had been stillborn: "Why did you bring me out from the womb? Would that I had died before any eye had seen me and were though I had not been, carried from the womb to the grave" (10:18-19). Kind of dramatic, eh?

With the sour taste of Job's attitude in my mouth, I then read this verse in James:
"Behold, we consider those blessed who remained steadfast. You have heard of the steadfastness of Job, and you have seen the purpose of the Lord, how the Lord is compassionate and merciful" (5:11, emphasis mine).

Wait ... what?!? The steadfastness of Job? Did James and I read the same book? Job clearly succumbed to the temptation of despair - shouldn't that disqualify him for a descriptor like "steadfast?"

What at first seems problematic opened up to me as a promise. Job despaired, but his life was not characterized by that despair.
My attitude in any one moment does not define my life. The failures of any one season do not comprise my legacy.

God has spent the last few months opening my heart-eyes to a lot of ugliness that exists in me. More than normal, I'm acutely aware of my failures, temptations and apathy. And, if I allow it, this depravity-acknowledgement can be discouraging.

That's why I'm thankful for this spoonful-of-sugar lesson from God. The spirit-refining medicine that God administers is important and ultimately kind, but can be oh-so-difficult to swallow. It was good to be reminded that who I am in this moment is not who I am. The heart snapshot of today is not permanent, and God has great forward-looking grace with me. And I need to have this grace with myself too. I do not excuse myself, but humbly admit I'm a weird, lumpy piece of clay in the hands of a brilliant potter. 

I hope this reminder is a soul-salve for you too. Your anger, your dismissiveness, your lack of self control, your fear, your depravity in its various forms; these do not define you. They are an indication of your humanity, but remember that divinity is at work in you. Have grace and patience for the process!

Creators, Not Consumers

I've been listening to Colony House's CD "When I Was Younger" non-stop since it arrived in the mail on Tuesday.
I was fortunate enough to attend Catalyst (a Christian leadership conference) in Dallas this past week, thanks to a dear friend's connections. Colony House played live at the conference on Friday morning, and I was in awe. I love and appreciate music, but I don't think I've ever been so instantly drawn to a sound like I was when they played. They are a rock band, and somehow they still captivated a room of middle-aged, sleep-deprived pastors early in the morning. That alone speaks to their skill.
Their album is more than music ... it's Art.
I think that's why I'm addicted - because the instruments, the melodies, the lyrics subtly, yet forcefully, appeal to the Creator.

As it turns out, two of the band members are sons of Steven Curtis Chapman.
My brain won't rest thinking about that connection, about the implications of my decisions in the lives of my children.

Those two boys grew up watching their dad create. I'm sure it wasn't always pretty, either - they had a front row seat to the hardship, the self-discipline, the tirelessness involved in pursuing creativity with one's life. And I'm sure there were days that they resented their dad's creative pursuits, when music drew him away from their home. But SCC's creative legacy now extends beyond his own songs. His sons, from intimate contact with a creative soul, knew why and how to pursue creativity in their own lives. And, as witnesses to creative dreams fulfilled, they believed enough in their own creativity to pursue it as a livelihood.

This is one of my great dreams as a parent: that my children would see their dad and I functioning as co-creators with Christ, pursuing (in some capacity) the creative impulses of our souls for the glory of God.
Of course, this much easier said then done. Shopping, watching TV, constantly checking social media and general self-indulgence are all habits that (in excess) suggest a consumer-heart instead of a creative-heart. I'm learning that creativity is indeed an uphlill battle - coasting as a consumer requires a fraction of the effort involved in getting off the couch to contribute something beautiful to the atmosphere of the world.

But I want to fight for that. I'll fight for it because creativity is a gift meant to be returned to God. I'll fight for it because creativity feeds my soul that's desperately famished endless consuming. I'll fight for it because I want a legacy that extends beyond myself, that I may watch my children flourish in their own creative pursuits.

So whether its a meal, music, a piece of furniture, a poem, a beautiful space, a painting, a photograph, a letter, a song, an act of service, or something I can't even envision, fight with me to make a space (however small) for creativity in your life. 

Haven

I've been thinking a lot about this upcoming year - what I want to accomplish, who I want to become, and where I want to allocate my time. I know I'm not alone: the new year seems to push a reset button in our souls, though we're often quick to dismiss or trivialize a fresh start.
I've devoted more attention to this goal-setting inclination than in the past, largely because of the Storyline conference I attended this fall. There was a lot of discussion about dreaming BIG for the Kingdom, and then breaking those dreams down into more tangible month-to-month, day-to-day, and moment-to-moment goals.

My list of 2015 goals is still a work in progress. Actually, that makes me sound much more put-together than I am. I have a jumbled mess of priorities, dreams, timelines and minutia in my head that will hopefully morph into a list at some point.

During small group yesterday, my friend Rachel was telling us how her mother prompted her to choose one word as a goal for 2015.
Rachel didn't overtly prompt us to do the same, but I immediately knew what my overarching word for this year will be.

Haven.

Two of my more tangible dreams for this year (buying a house and getting trained as foster parents) have my thought-life already gravitating towards this word. I want to really craft a home, where people (friends, family, foster children, etc) feel safe, warm, loved, cared for, nurtured and valued. And the more I've thought about this word, the more God seems to suggest that in order to make my home a haven, I need to have a haven-heart. I want my soul, my spirit, my personhood to give that same feeling of safety and value.

So while I've started to notice spaces that feel like a haven, I'm also noticing the haven-hearted people in my world. And I'm going to start taking notes, asking for help, praying desperately for the intervention of the Holy Spirit. More often than I would like, I find my soul-ground to be either very desolate or very tumultuous. I'm praying that changes this year.

So while I have yet to hash-out some of the details of my 2015 goals, I know what direction I'm headed ... towards a haven.

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 

______________________________________________________________________

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.