Seasons

My sweet baby girl starts kindergarten in the morning.  And her mama has been a basket case….  My emotions have been all over the place, but not just in the cliché, my-baby-girl-is-all-grown-up way.  Yes there’s been some of that, and I expected that.  But I didn’t expect the rest. 

Something that feels a little like grief.

I am grieving not just the loss of my biggest girl (I DO have 2 others to savor in the daytime hours still…)  Yes, I will miss her fiercely.  I’ll miss our lazy mornings in pajamas (as lazy as you can be when you are sifting through 47 loads of laundry), the what-do-you-want-to-do-today feeling…  playdates and the library and the zoo and the grocery store.  I’ll miss casually doing life, taking time for granted, even wishing it away at times.  Oy. 

But I’m also missing the end of a season.  The season that is young motherhood.  The season that is pajamas and spit up and unwashed hair.  The season that is snuggles and anxiety and laughter and tantrums.  The season of not knowing what you’re doing, and it’s ok, because you’re not SUPPOSED to know what you’re doing.  You’re allowed to-expected to- sweat the small stuff.  I feel like, 5 years in, I just was getting in the groove.  Figuring out the kind of mom I am, and being ok with it.  And now, the game is changing.  My introverted self secretly loved the expectation of hours at home, relished the difficulty of getting out of the house.  It was a welcome excuse.  Daily drop offs and pick-ups and class sign-up sheets make me feel a little like I can’t breathe. 

I don’t know who I am in this next season.  I know who I am not (room mom, duh!).  But I am waiting for the Lord to show me who I am.   I don’t have any answers, or a tidy bow or tidbit to take with me to drop off in the morning.  I have gratitude for my girl and who she is becoming.  I have a bittersweet joy for the years she patiently taught me how to mother.  I grieve the loss of our young family, our “three under 5,” while I wait expectantly, nervously, for who we will become.   

Gospel

We were hoping our foster story would end with the adoption of a child…specifically our first placement.  I really believed, through all the drama in the 16 months she was with us, that the Lord would “work it out,” that we had to be patient and push through and it would work for us. But nothing about fostering was, or ever will be, about us. 

With broken hearts, we accepted another placement.  This time, we are ALWAYS aware that she is not ours, and assuming she will go home.  It seems safest this way.  Problem is, in our flesh, it is really hard to love well with this detachment.  It’s hard to give unconditional love to a child who isn’t yours, when you won’t get to see the fruits of your labor.  To love in a “we’ll-always-be-here-we will-fight-for-you” kind of way, when truth be told, we might only have her to fight for during a short season.  It feels hard and effortful, all the time. 

When preparing to foster, I understood that you have to show up for these kids, even when they push you away, showing love even when they can’t receive it.  But in reality, when I have a child screaming at me and saying she wants her mommy, I want to wimp out.  I want to throw a fit just like she does.  I feel like we’ve been faithful with the call to foster, but my flesh says it’s enough, and I’m ready for my reward.  It’s too hard, I can’t do it.  Which quickly translates into, I don’t want to do it.

We got into this to love these kids who so desperately need love, and with a genuine desire to show gospel love to these kids.  Love that says, it doesn’t matter what you do or how you act, there is enough grace for it.  You are loved, fought for regardless of your actions.  Relentless love, love that shows up even when we don’t deserve it.  Especially when we don’t deserve it.  And here we are presented with a chance to live that gospel, to love a challenging child, when it doesn’t feel good, to love her despite herself, despite what we have in us.  And I want to throw up my hands and say I can’t do it.  Of course I can’t, that’s the entire point!  The gospel is nothing if we can save ourselves—and these kids—on our own.

I am constantly face to face with my own sinfulness.  I see my impatience.  I see how much my love is contingent on what I get.  I need gospel grace just as much—more—than she does.  Grace despite the fact that my capacity to love is so limited: it’s contingent on her behavior, my circumstances, and how successful and capable I feel.  My heart aches for the end of the story; for a beautiful, broken and redeemed, adoption story.  But right now, I am living out the broken part, and praying for a heart that relishes the chance to learn what gospel love really means.    

Wednesday

Oh Wednesday.  That awkward in-between, the chasm between weekends, knee deep in middle-of-the-week stuff: dishes, laundry, dinners (why do they have to eat EVERY night???), packing lunches, messes.  And the real hum-dinger.  Visit day.  It’s appropriate that it’s on a Wednesday.  Because visit day like no other day presents my awkward reality, my in-between of life, knee deep in the emotional exhaustion and roller coaster of foster care.  I coast along the rest of my week playing happy family of four, figuring out how to manage two ducklings at the grocery store, how to get two kids out the door, smiling at their emerging sibling relationship.  As soon as I get in a rhythm, feeling like I’m firmly in the mom-of-two club, I’ve got this under control, there it is again. WEDNESDAY.  Between visit drop off and pick up I have approximately 6 minutes of interaction with birth mom.  Yet those 6 minutes somehow color the majority of my day.  For the rest of the week, I am Mom.  I am the one to report to others how T is doing, what she needs.   I make choices for her food, monitor her eating and sleeping schedule, take responsibility for her development.  I am the authority on her.  Except in those 6 minutes.  In those 6 minutes, any well-intentioned information I try to share is met with someone else’s authority on T. Someone questioning my choices for her.  Someone who has much more claim to her than I do, and yet is much less present in her life.  This incongruence triggers my own defensiveness, insecurity, and anxiety.  I leave with a mixture of indignance and guilt, seething over the small comments that represent her failures, and yet guilty over how I should show her grace, offer more information, try to engage her more.  But I find myself, in those brief interactions, able to muster up no more than a smile and a nod.  And this in itself is a monumental effort…this in itself is grace.  I pray for the ability to pray for her, and for humility to value her input, to respect her God-given, life-long role in T’s life.  I know there are foster-parents extraordinaire, who manage to come alongside the birth parent and mentor them.  I know this is the goal.  I am trying, seriously.  This is me trying.  I am just not that evolved. 

The gray area is killer.  I could handle repentant, help me, I-want-to-learn-to-do-this-mom.   I could handle absent, dismissive, never-shows-up-for-visits mom.  But this in-between…  I don’t know where she stands, where the case stands, where I should stand.  (Insert trite answer here…  I should stand with T?  I should stand with Christ?  Both true, but…what does that really mean in those 6 minutes??? ) Oh, this is so not about me.  Truth be told, I wish it were.  I leave on Wednesdays watching mom make her way to the bus stop, and I think, no matter how hard this is for me, it’s harder for her.  Just because I don’t see it, or she doesn’t show it, doesn’t mean that either now or at some point in her life, this circumstance will have tremendous impact on her life, her well-being, her soul. 

It’s on Wednesdays more than any other day that I think, I can’t do this.  I don’t want to do this anymore.  I feel trapped.  Already in the thick of it, no easy way out no matter the outcome.  Tremendous loss and years of healing follow any or all involved parties at this point, regardless.  All I can tell myself on these days is: hands and feet.  The big picture is too big for me…Be the hands and feet.  I can focus on T, and keep submitting my heart to the Lord for help with Mom.  Keep loving, doing, and do it again.  Change a diaper, read a story, tickle a belly, pour a cup of milk.  Hands and feet.  Here we are Lord, faithful to our call.  I do wish the call was more glorious or well-defined.  But maybe sometimes the call is just to be the hands and feet of Christ.  Doing the dirty work, on a Wednesday, and hopeful in Christ’s redemption that promises a weekend will follow. 

 

Wait

This is the job: Love on a kid who needs love, incorporate them in your daily routines, feed them well, clothe them well, treat them like family.  This child is functioning like family, and with that comes all the intimacy of family.  She is intimately a part of our lives—I know that touching her ears means she’s tired.   I know how to present her food to get her to eat well, the right distractions to get her to take all 14-16 breaths with her inhaler mask on.  She studies me as I put on makeup, she follows me to the bathroom, she plays in the dirty laundry, and bathes with our daughter.  We see each other at our best and worst.  In only 4 months, we are intimately connected.  We feel fiercely protective of her.  I find assertiveness I did not know I had when pushing to get in at the doctor or convincing the doctor that I know what her symptoms mean. 

And yet, we go to court, and we are not “involved parties,” and so we sit in the lobby and wait.  Wait for objective, detached people to determine this little girl’s outcome, based on information we have given them.  We are not privileged to any information about other family members, custody issues, placement decisions, any details that will determine when and where she goes.  We are in the dark.  We got into this to advocate for these voiceless children, to be their voice.  To get their needs met and ensure they do not slip through the cracks.  And I myself have never felt so voiceless.  We are asked to share the most personal things of our life, and yet remain detached.  To have a reality check every week when I drop her off to Mom, and realize I’ve just been playing house, acting as a babysitter.  My opinion, my way of doing things with her, is good only for today.  All the progress we’ve made with her eating, her development, her ability to attach to an adult and learn her needs can be met…  will any of that matter???  It’s hard to feel empowered and care for her well when it feels like it might all be lost…the things I‘ve fought for might just be dismissed by someone else who doesn’t seem them as important. 

So how do I stay fully engaged in her care, in meeting the day to day needs, without knowing the outcome?  Without knowing if the things I am fighting for now will even matter?  This, too, is the job.  I don’t know how to do life in the gray.  How to carry on day to day, when so many things in our life are up in the air.  When I am scared about our family plan and sibling spacing and how it will all turn out.  Truth be told, I want to sit down and make a plan and take control.  Somehow I need to figure out how to keep living for today not knowing much past tomorrow.  I need to lay down my ability to plan and, when she needs new shoes, just go buy new shoes.  Not because I know how much longer she’ll be with us and so it’s practical because she’ll get a good amount of use out of them.  But because I can make my decisions from what I know today only.  I can love her to the best of my ability for today only. We are in this for little T, and have not a clue what that means.  I tell myself that what we’re doing matters—that we’re planting seeds in her that will stay with her.  We have no certainty, no plan, no answers…we have hope.  

Therefore the Lord waits to be gracious to you, and therefore he exalts himself to show mercy to you.  For the Lord is a God of justice; blessed are all those who wait for him.  Isaiah 30:18

Praying for the Lord’s justice and mercy for sweet little T, and our perseverance in anticipation of his graciousness.  

Broken

In my very limited experience thus far, when we tell people we are foster parents, the responses can typically be categorized into two groups. 

1- “Wow, good for you.” These are the responses that give us great credit for being amazing people, and I try to keep a straight face.  There is nothing amazing about us, save the grace of God.  In fact, at no other time in my life have I been more convinced of my own depravity, brokenness, and ugliness than in this season.  It seems like I felt just barely “good enough” to sneak by in everyday life, but my own devices have truly failed me in these unchartered waters.  Loving someone else’s child, and constantly being reminded that she is not mine, and I am voiceless n the matter…  None of it is by my own strength.  I do this not because I have anything beautiful or good to offer of my own devices.  I am flat on my face and using my own hot mess to live out a tiny piece of the gospel.  And it feels hard and dirty…  I am grateful to be learning more of my need for grace, but let’s not deceive ourselves that it has anything to do with me.

2- “The system is broken.”  These are the responses that reference how ‘”messed up” the kids are, how we are going to get our hearts broken, and how there are always terrible outcomes.  Actually, I’m sure I have used the “the system is broken” phrase myself at one point in time.  I’m finding, though, that no one on the inside uses these words.  It’s a critique at best, an excuse at worst.  A way to keep it all at arms length.  To keep our hands clean.  Trouble is, the gospel is dirty.  Why is it surprising that it’s an imperfect system???  OF COURSE it is.  We are dealing with families, with hearts, with relationships.  These are the most vulnerable, and yet the most important, pieces of our society.  It’s not the system that’s broken, IT’S US.  We are broken, imperfect people.  ALL OF US.  If I am honest with myself, it is only by grace that I am in the role of foster mom and not birth mom.  My flesh wants to keep a distinction, to tell myself that I’m on the other side, that there is something about me that is different or better than “those people.”  But my heart is just as messy as hers.  We have equal need for grace and salvation.  Faced with this, my own depravity, I can’t keep all the messy, difficult parts of life at arms length by discounting them as broken.  The broken places are where we should be, because without Jesus, that is who we are. 

I don’t think it’ a coincidence at all that this week, the week of Easter, we have a really big court date.  In my heart I fear the outcome.  I fear little T going back and what that means for her life.  I see darkness and brokenness.  But no matter which way things go, our God wins.  We know the end of the story.  

Joy

The first night little T came to stay with us, I did not sleep.  I lay in bed awake for hours, my mind spinning.  My heart was so heavy for her Mom, whom I had not yet met.  But I could only imagine her angst and emptiness.  I felt so burdened with it all, the complexity of the situation.  We were excited, but at the expense of someone else.  We were stepping into a situation rife with pain and brokenness.  I finally got up out of bed, and sat on my couch thumbing through my Bible, for what I did not know.  For calm, for direction, for something that would speak to this situation.  I prayed a few psalms of comfort over her Mom.  And then I stumbled on Colossians as though I had never read it before (had I ever REALLY read it?  Sigh.  I *know* these texts, but do I KNOW them?  Oh for the humility to seek the Lord earnestly, without pretense.)

I read this.

We have not ceased to pray for you, asking that you may be filled with the knowledge of his will in all spiritual wisdom and understanding, so as to walk in a manner worthy of the Lord, fully pleasing to him, bearing fruit in every good work and increasing in the knowledge of God.  May you be strengthened with all power, according to his glorious might, for all endurance and patience with joy, giving thanks to the Father, who has qualified you to share in the inheritance of the saints in light.     Colossians 1:9-12

Oh my heart.  It spoke to this journey we were about to embark upon, and I thought, YES.  Fill me with knowledge of your will that I might walk in a manner worthy of the Lord.  Phew, isn't that the prayer?!!  Yes, Lord, Strengthen me with your power for endurance and patience with JOY.  I felt so encouraged, so empowered.

And here, months later, I find myself in a place without joy, already running low on endurance and patience.   I find myself in the trenches, in hard days and wakeful nights.  I find myself doing the hard work; tending to a needy, broken, sick child, up all night with my own three year old in her post-pacifier angst.  And I have bitterness, sadness, weariness.  But no joy.  The Lord has called us to this place, plucked us out of our comfort zone for this new complicated life, for ambivalence—I don’t know what I think, what I feel.  I feel trivial praying to the Lord for my basic needs (SLEEP, Lord, HAVE MERCY).  I feel like this is what we asked for, what He gave us, and we just have to walk it out.

The emotional toll of fostering is immensely more than I dreamed, and I find myself floundering throughout my day.  How can I have joy in a situation where the outcome is unknown, where my heart is dangerously on the line?  Where I see ugly parts of myself daily, and I respond in uglier ways?  I’m learning that I have the Holy Spirit to intercede on those days when I have nothing to offer on my own.  To show me a Bible verse on my phone while I wait in line at the pharmacy to pick up yet another prescription for little T.  To plant a worship song on my mind when I am driving to the ER.  To recruit prayer warriors on my behalf, who unknowingly reach out to me at the perfect times.  These are small things that I miss—but this is where the joy is hiding.  Joy in the fact that I get to see the depths of His grace and mercy, offering comfort when I need it most.  Joy as He meets me in the midst of my failings, even when I am not faithful to seek Him.  Joy in that we do not have to walk this out alone, and He is providing for our every step…even if we do not always feel it.

Lord keep my eyes above the waves, and let me have joy in the small moments of my day.  Help me rejoice in this chance to know you better, and strengthen me with endurance and patience with JOY as we humbly walk out this journey. 

Sanctity in the Details

I often believe the lie that life is all about big moments.  Accomplishments, changes, even tragedy.  These are the moments that we remember, that we commemorate with a picture on the wall, a celebration, or a facebook status or instagram photo.  Other people join us in these moments.  They celebrate with us, they come alongside us, or at the very least they "like" it.  We feel validated.  We reflect on who  we are, what we're doing, and where we're going.  We learn about who God is and His plans and purposes.

Trouble is, I don't know about you, but my life does not often consist of these moments.  I lead myself to believe that everyone else's life actually does, because when I scroll through Highlights of my Life Facebook, everyone else is having their best day ever!  Big accomplishment!  Or at least, something share-worthy has happened.  Not me, hum de dum.  My big accomplishment for today is that my three year old is still wearing clothes at 3:00pm.    

Part of this problem is rooted in a lie (that likely originates in middle school, like all of my other problems) that tells me that I matter less than others, I have less to offer, that I have less that is "share-worthy" or that others care to hear about.  Maybe I am exceptionally boring (could be worse).  But I think the  bigger problem is that I've missed all of the LIVING I am actually doing, by waiting for something bigger and better.  And when that "bigger and better" actually does come, it's often a let down.  It wasn't as big of a deal as all the build up made it out to be.  [Sidenote:  I am SO GLAD that the only pinterest that existed in my wedding planning days was to actually CUT and PASTE magazine pictures into notebooks.  Because I can only imagine that the reality would inevitably pale in contrast to the imagined ideal.  This is truly a tragedy! Pinterest makes it seems like our own lives, the real stuff, is not good enough, or is less than our fantasy. This is the root of all sorts of problems in our society, but this is another post, when I'm feeling more literary and full of social commentary.  (When will that be?  Is there a naptime long enough for that?!!)]  

I think what I'm missing is that, THIS IS IT.  These are the big moments.  Yes now.  When I'm sitting here having a power struggle with my computer, because my I and O keys require an inordinate amount of force, and therefore excessive editing to fill them all back in, due to an unfortunate encounter with my aforementioned naked toddler. These are the life moments, the big moments, the moments when we learn of ourselves and of God.  

I think that God has more to teach us in our day to day, mundane, minutiae than in the big events.   At my accomplishments, I see my success!  My triumph!  My ability to overcome and persevere!  This is worth celebrating.  But when I'm standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes for the 12th time that day and it's only 11 am, t's then that I can see my brokenness, my humanity.  My need for grace to survive YET ANOTHER DIRTY SIPPY CUP.  I see my impatience, my anger, my ugly heart of frustration...  my need for a savior. Didn't Christ meet us in our humanity?!!  Why do we think we need to be super-human to meet HIM?  He is ever present in our smallest, most insignificant, most human moments.

Our family is on a journey, as we are three months in with a foster child.  This is also a post for another day, and phew it's a doozy.  But suffice it to say now that living out the reality of this process is of course different than our preconceived notions.  We were all excited about what the Lord had called us to, and what it might mean for our family. Excited for our chance to partner in the gospel in such a tangible way.  What I'm learning is that, wow, it IS tangible.  In a down and dirty kind of way, full of a lot of small, ugly, hard moments.  We are showing the love of Christ not by grand gestures to the birth family, or instilling great wisdom into this foster child.  But I guess (?this is what I tell myself, Lord, I hope it's true) by feeding her, driving her to a million appointments, rocking her in the middle of the night.  It feels hard, and exhausting, and well beyond my capabilities.  I feel overwhelmed by the tasks of daily life.  By the task of loving unconditionally, regardless of the outcome.  Crazy hard.  But this is where I seek the Father.  Where the holiness, my sanctification, inevitably is happening.  In my daily moments of brokenness, failings, and simple acts of preparing and serving a meal.  And cleaning it up.  Repeat repeat repeat repeat.  

I have to believe that the Lord is with me, and working on me, in me, through me, while I do the daily routine.  Believing this is my only sanity right now.  I have to believe there is Sanctity in the Details.  

[I do not know blog rules.  I have not done any research.  I am sure there is a rule about length.  Oops.  I am wordy.  And I like punctuation, especially parentheses.  I LOVE parentheses.  And run-on sentences.  And sentence fragments.  I like them all equally. Welcome.]