Time. How can something that passes objectively at the same, steady pace be experienced so subjectively? In some seasons time seems to elongate. It stretches and sags in the middle like salt water taffy on a pulling machine. And then in other seasons time seems to barrel toward you like an ominous and gigantic freight train.
I have to admit that as I get older I have more of the latter experiences than the first, but right now I am most definitely finding myself playing chicken with the freight train of time. And, it is sort of freaking me out.
Our family is awaiting some major life changes in the next few months, ones that require a great deal of physical, emotional, and mental preparation. They are exciting changes but, as with any major transitions, they require a lot of work...and if you are a worrying planner like myself, they also consume a great deal of soul-energy.
Homeschooling. Some days I just wonder what I am thinking! School starts sooner than I would like to admit and with everything else that has been going on this summer, I am just now getting the details nailed down. I'm buying curriculum and trying to figure out a good planning method and I can't seem to think clearly with the light of a freight train flooding my eyes! I know that God led us to this decision, for at least this season in our lives, but God's leadings tend to take us straight outside of our comfort zones.
Baby. AHHH! We're having a baby in two and a half months. It still seems sort of surreal, except that we have a crib and I have a little human kung fooing around in my uterus. But, two and a half months? We don't have a name picked out yet! That might not bother some people (ahem, Andrew!), but I like to feel like I have a little cushion of time before deadlines and there isn't one blasted name on our list of potentials that I feel at home with yet. And, it feels like such a very big deal to name a human!! We've got classes to take and stuff to buy and life as we know it to kiss goodbye...in only two and a half months.
Judah. My crazy nut of an only child. It's just two and a half months until our family isn't a family of three but of four! I'm not an overly emotional person but for some reason it's hitting me really hard (we'll blame it on the pregnancy hormones). It's just been the three of us for nearly three years now and it's hard to imagine life where Judah isn't Daddy's only buddy and Mama's only favorite boy. Intellectually you know that it all just works itself out, that somehow God arranges it so you think two (or three, or four, or five, if you are so inclined) little humans are the most amazing people on the face of the earth, but your heart has trouble believing it before it happens. The dreaded and mostly irrational Mom-guilt has started to set in as I know more of my time will be directed away from Judah and I frantically want to somehow slow down the rushing of time to cherish these last months with only him. The two-year anniversary of our forever day with him is coming up and the topic of adoption makes my Mom-guilt all the more acute as we prepare to toss another major life-transition onto a five-year-old who has already seen too many. I trust that this change will bless beyond all of our expectations, but I also know that it will add to the list of things he will have to wrestle through as he processes adoption as part of his story.
If I wasn't already exhausted from growing a little human inside of me 24 hours a day, all the soul-energy I've been expending on these things has left me totally worn out. I've found myself succumbing to a paralyzed fear as I stare down the tracks of time and see the inevitability of change. When I do try to figure out the details a sense of dread sweeps over me, mostly eclipsing the joy that is awaiting us on this journey. It's time to change that because, no matter what awaits us, God is good and He has filled our lives with blessings. (I wouldn't mind if time would ease up a bit though!!)
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Regular Mama
"I have three mamas!" Judah exclaimed. "M. and C. are my foster mama [his two dear previous foster mamas are one to him]. J. is my birth mama. And, you are my regular mama."
It never felt so good to be a "regular mama" as I looked at his sweet and eager face, grateful that God had written these important women into my son's story but that I was blessed to have him forever.
With the anticipation of a new baby in the house this year, conversations like these have tripled in frequency. Birth parents and adoption and skin color and the meaning of family are discussed and mulled over and questioned at somewhat of a dizzying pace these days.
Thinking about the baby, the other day Judah said with a big smile, "We'll see...if the baby is going to be black or white, a boy or a girl!"
I laughed because he was so genuine about his excitement but it hurt me to have to explain again that the baby's skin color would match mine and Andrew's and not his. I could see on his face that he was disappointed as he tried to process. We talked about his birth mama and how he grew inside her tummy and how his skin color matched her's but that God made family to be so much more than matching skin tones.
Adoption is a blessing and joy, but moments like these remind me that there is also deep sorrow and loss involved in adoption. Judah often talks about his birth mama and how he misses her. He tries to process being the only brown boy in our family, and in the last year and a half, in most of our general acquaintances. He mulls over the new name he received at adoption, sometimes with happiness and other times with sadness.
My kid is fiercely loved by so many people and is one of the most genuinely happy and loving kids I've met. He has a spiritual openness and awareness that makes prayer time with him sweet and awe inspiring. We encourage a relationship with his birth mama and are open to relationships with other's from his birth family as God opens the doors. All of these things infuse confidence in him and give him a foundation to stand on, but it is natural for him to struggle to make sense of the losses as well as the blessings and to wrestle with his identity.
As I am soon to add birth mama to my resume, the adoptive mama in me has been struggling with the implications for our family, particularly for my son. I know that as much as I love him and as much as I celebrate his life, I cannot shield him from suffering the loss and confusion that come with adoption. The fierceness of my love can give him a softer place to land when he falters, but it cannot eradicate entirely the sadness and doubt he will encounter. This regular mama's heart breaks when I think about that.
But, I also know that the Lord has fitted our family together perfectly and that His love for my son swallows mine whole. As the days dwindle where I get to be mama to only one amazing child I think with both trepidation and joy what a birth child will add to our family. In the end, for all the changes it will bring, I can come back to the fact that although technically I will be an adoptive mama to one child and a birth mama to another, God orchestrated it so that I'll really just be a regular mama to both.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Lent: The Bitter and Sweet of Suffering
Each year as I follow the rhythms of the Church Year something new and fresh is revealed. I experience the seasons differently every year and with more depth. This year I have found my inner and outer life embodying the themes of key seasons, as if I'm physically walking through the changing seasons, bringing it alive for me.
In Advent I found myself in a season of restlessness and waiting, weary and feeling ministry was a little more laborious and the long-awaited results were still just too far out of reach. I felt the discontent and lament that can be associated with waiting and found that I needed to remind myself of what I believed in and the vision the Lord had set before us. I felt, in my own way, the weariness of a broken world waiting on the hope of Christ.
And now, in Lent, a bittersweet season acknowledging the grace and mercy we receive as a result of the suffering of our Savior, I've found myself walking a journey of my own suffering and in need of God's mercy and grace. In this season I found myself pregnant, which is both terrifying and exciting, and embarking on a journey I had not known would be so emotionally and physically taxing.
The discovery that I was pregnant came alongside a series of symptoms that were difficult and concerning, making us fear the loss of of another pregnancy. With each symptom we worried and called the doctor and went in for tests that reassured us, only to turn around and start the process again. After weeks of the emotional yo-yoing we were exhausted. Some days I didn't know if I could take one more worrisome symptom. I thought, if things are going to go badly, I'd rather it just happen already and end the constant ups and downs. In and around the worry and tears I spent most of the day in bed or throwing up.
Just when we thought we couldn't take another scare, the troubling symptoms subsided and left in their wake only my continued and unrelenting nausea. The morning sickness would wave over me every morning, knocking me off my feet for hours, subside briefly midday, only to regain momentum and crash over me every single night. All the normal anti-nausea medications were not working...one even sending me to the ER with uncontrollable tongue, jaw, and facial spasms. That was fun...and attractive.
I was so thankful for a flexible ministry schedule, as I was rendered useless for several months. I was also thankful for a husband and son who joyfully picked up all of my slack, but it didn't make the physical suffering much easier. Most days I was a zombie and most nights I closed out the day throwing up and crying pitifully in a ball of misery in my bed.
When you're in the middle of suffering, whether physical or emotional, whether life altering or just a long and challenging season, it seems to swallow you whole and it's hard not to let it define your entire being. A dear sister in Christ shared something with me during this season that gave me both hope and perspective. She said that in her own difficult journey she had found that God never wastes our suffering. She wrote it to me in a text message but the profoundness of its truth kept me coming back to that text over and over again during these months.
The question we ask while deep in suffering tends to be why?, which makes it seem like God is far away and spiteful. But this perspective made God seem close and compassionate...which is, of course, the nature of God.
Our world is broken and dying and we suffer the consequences of that daily, sometimes more intensely than others. God doesn't always take away our suffering, but He always intervenes on our behalf. He walks with us through the suffering if we will welcome Him. He looks intimately at us and our circumstances, working and redeeming every moment for His glory and our spiritual benefit, letting no suffering go without purpose if we turn to Him. He cherishes it all, holding it close to Himself, as He did the suffering of His own Son.
It is only because Christ walked the journey of purposeful suffering before us that we can also suffer with purpose, experiencing both the bitter and sweet that comes with suffering. The bitterness in our suffering is easy to pick out, but to find the sweetness we have to look to Jesus, knowing He sees each moment of our suffering, and ask Him to show us where He is working for His glory in us and those around us.
I wish I was better at this approach to suffering. I wish, even in these last months, I had applied these truths more thoroughly, but I do know that each time I have experienced suffering in my life, when I turn to Christ in its midst, even imperfectly, I experience new truths about who He is and in that there is such sweetness.
In Advent I found myself in a season of restlessness and waiting, weary and feeling ministry was a little more laborious and the long-awaited results were still just too far out of reach. I felt the discontent and lament that can be associated with waiting and found that I needed to remind myself of what I believed in and the vision the Lord had set before us. I felt, in my own way, the weariness of a broken world waiting on the hope of Christ.
And now, in Lent, a bittersweet season acknowledging the grace and mercy we receive as a result of the suffering of our Savior, I've found myself walking a journey of my own suffering and in need of God's mercy and grace. In this season I found myself pregnant, which is both terrifying and exciting, and embarking on a journey I had not known would be so emotionally and physically taxing.
The discovery that I was pregnant came alongside a series of symptoms that were difficult and concerning, making us fear the loss of of another pregnancy. With each symptom we worried and called the doctor and went in for tests that reassured us, only to turn around and start the process again. After weeks of the emotional yo-yoing we were exhausted. Some days I didn't know if I could take one more worrisome symptom. I thought, if things are going to go badly, I'd rather it just happen already and end the constant ups and downs. In and around the worry and tears I spent most of the day in bed or throwing up.
Just when we thought we couldn't take another scare, the troubling symptoms subsided and left in their wake only my continued and unrelenting nausea. The morning sickness would wave over me every morning, knocking me off my feet for hours, subside briefly midday, only to regain momentum and crash over me every single night. All the normal anti-nausea medications were not working...one even sending me to the ER with uncontrollable tongue, jaw, and facial spasms. That was fun...and attractive.
I was so thankful for a flexible ministry schedule, as I was rendered useless for several months. I was also thankful for a husband and son who joyfully picked up all of my slack, but it didn't make the physical suffering much easier. Most days I was a zombie and most nights I closed out the day throwing up and crying pitifully in a ball of misery in my bed.
When you're in the middle of suffering, whether physical or emotional, whether life altering or just a long and challenging season, it seems to swallow you whole and it's hard not to let it define your entire being. A dear sister in Christ shared something with me during this season that gave me both hope and perspective. She said that in her own difficult journey she had found that God never wastes our suffering. She wrote it to me in a text message but the profoundness of its truth kept me coming back to that text over and over again during these months.
The question we ask while deep in suffering tends to be why?, which makes it seem like God is far away and spiteful. But this perspective made God seem close and compassionate...which is, of course, the nature of God.
Our world is broken and dying and we suffer the consequences of that daily, sometimes more intensely than others. God doesn't always take away our suffering, but He always intervenes on our behalf. He walks with us through the suffering if we will welcome Him. He looks intimately at us and our circumstances, working and redeeming every moment for His glory and our spiritual benefit, letting no suffering go without purpose if we turn to Him. He cherishes it all, holding it close to Himself, as He did the suffering of His own Son.
It is only because Christ walked the journey of purposeful suffering before us that we can also suffer with purpose, experiencing both the bitter and sweet that comes with suffering. The bitterness in our suffering is easy to pick out, but to find the sweetness we have to look to Jesus, knowing He sees each moment of our suffering, and ask Him to show us where He is working for His glory in us and those around us.
I wish I was better at this approach to suffering. I wish, even in these last months, I had applied these truths more thoroughly, but I do know that each time I have experienced suffering in my life, when I turn to Christ in its midst, even imperfectly, I experience new truths about who He is and in that there is such sweetness.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Waiting and Working Through Advent
No one likes to talk about the ministry that happens behind the front lines. It's not glamorous, it doesn't feel like it's changing lives, and it can seem a whole lot like waiting. We're in one of those seasons of ministry when waiting means working and working means waiting.
Our team is working toward the launch of what we pray will be an urban church planting movement, that we all want to see happen...yesterday. Our Christ the Victor Church-planting plans and resources are being fired and hammered out and re-fired and hammered out and re-fired and there are days when it feels like a process that will never end.
Some days, when I'm drowning in project tasks, my face glued to the computer screen, and when Andrew is running errands for the ministry and serving behind the scenes, it's easy to question the impact we're having. It's easy to get frustrated and antsy and get sick of waiting. Intellectually we know that these resources, if done excellently, will help urban leaders plant churches in an effective and reproducible way in our city and beyond, but it takes big dreams and faith in our calling to wait for it.
As Advent draws to a close I find it not at all coincidental that we find ourselves not just in a figurative season of waiting, but in a season of waiting for our ministry that can be frustrating and exhausting. Our desire to see churches invade the darkest corners of our cities fills us with holy discontent, which is merely an extension of the holy discontent that filled God's people waiting for the kingdom of God to break through the skies and fill the darkest corners of our world with the light of the Son. God's people waited and waited and worked and worked and there seemed to be no point, until one night some shepherds heard the long-awaited good news.
Advent shows us that waiting on the Lord and his kingdom is never done in vain. It gives us hope to work through silence, discouragement, set-backs, confusion and even cross-eyed computer stupors and to claim the victory of the kingdom of God through Jesus Christ even in our waiting.
There was nothing glamorous about the evening the Messiah was born until the Son of God breathed his first breath of air as a baby boy. There is nothing glamorous about what our ministry team is doing until and unless the Lord uses it to break through darkness with his unquenchable light. Our hope is pinned on the proclamation of the angels who spoke of a good news for all people, extending even to the dirtiest and darkest corners of our cities.
Even as our longing finds itself in various forms of peace and impatience this season, we will work and we will wait putting every ounce of our hope, not in ourselves, but in the Lord, who leads us in victory.
Our team is working toward the launch of what we pray will be an urban church planting movement, that we all want to see happen...yesterday. Our Christ the Victor Church-planting plans and resources are being fired and hammered out and re-fired and hammered out and re-fired and there are days when it feels like a process that will never end.
Some days, when I'm drowning in project tasks, my face glued to the computer screen, and when Andrew is running errands for the ministry and serving behind the scenes, it's easy to question the impact we're having. It's easy to get frustrated and antsy and get sick of waiting. Intellectually we know that these resources, if done excellently, will help urban leaders plant churches in an effective and reproducible way in our city and beyond, but it takes big dreams and faith in our calling to wait for it.
As Advent draws to a close I find it not at all coincidental that we find ourselves not just in a figurative season of waiting, but in a season of waiting for our ministry that can be frustrating and exhausting. Our desire to see churches invade the darkest corners of our cities fills us with holy discontent, which is merely an extension of the holy discontent that filled God's people waiting for the kingdom of God to break through the skies and fill the darkest corners of our world with the light of the Son. God's people waited and waited and worked and worked and there seemed to be no point, until one night some shepherds heard the long-awaited good news.
Advent shows us that waiting on the Lord and his kingdom is never done in vain. It gives us hope to work through silence, discouragement, set-backs, confusion and even cross-eyed computer stupors and to claim the victory of the kingdom of God through Jesus Christ even in our waiting.
There was nothing glamorous about the evening the Messiah was born until the Son of God breathed his first breath of air as a baby boy. There is nothing glamorous about what our ministry team is doing until and unless the Lord uses it to break through darkness with his unquenchable light. Our hope is pinned on the proclamation of the angels who spoke of a good news for all people, extending even to the dirtiest and darkest corners of our cities.
Even as our longing finds itself in various forms of peace and impatience this season, we will work and we will wait putting every ounce of our hope, not in ourselves, but in the Lord, who leads us in victory.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Grief is a Funny Thing
My heart was pounding and I told myself not to cry. It wasn't the first time I've spoken publicly, but it certainly was the most personal presentation I've ever given. Recently I shared our testimony at an event for women and couples who have lost children in and outside the womb through miscarriage, abortion or foster care/adoption, SIDS, etc. I spoke about our recent miscarriage and shared the many and confusing emotions that have ensued in the last four months.
I made it halfway through without crying. I hate crying in public but the well of emotion spilled over when I spoke of the pain we've wrestled with in regards to our pregnancy loss: "And, because it is fairly common and because it is a less tangible form of loss it’s something that people stop talking about very quickly, and you’re left to tie up loose ends and sort of just move on with life." I stood silent for a minute before continuing, trying to keep the tears from picking up momentum.
Tying up loose ends and just moving on has never been my strong suit. I like solid and decided closure, wrongs to be made right and pains acknowledged. When life doesn't hand me those things, as it rarely does, I try to stuff the confusion and pain below the surface, avoiding the tumultuous emotions and soldiering on, because, what else is there to do? And, isn't that what people expect of us anyway?
But grief is a funny thing. Sometimes its origin and conclusion are easily identified, but often it stretches its painful fingers through time and space, swallowing a specific loss into a vacuum of all your unresolved losses. This has been true for me recently. Our miscarriage has embodied all of the loss we have experienced in the last few years, complicating the already painful emotions. Were my tears for the loss of our baby or the loss of our beloved city or the isolation we felt as we left? Were they for the years of intense ministry we saw in St. Louis and the distress of seeing so many lost and hurting? Were they tears of decompression as the physically and emotionally intense environment of North City were processed? I still can't tell you.
In the days following the service I have done a lot of thinking and healing, and realizing that I still have so far to go. The service for child loss was a beautiful moment to say out loud what hurts and to look into the eyes of others who understood your pain. It was a time to acknowledge that there is no shame in grieving and, yet, there is hope. There was a sense of closure that accompanied this acknowledgement.
Even in light of this healing experience I am realizing that I still have so far to go. There are many of our recent losses that don't have such poignant closure. Anger, anxiety, guilt, and depression, like concentric circles, can ripple outward from the point of unresolved grief. In the past few weeks I am discovering they have had more impact on my life than I even knew.
As I shared in our testimony, the Lord has been so faithful to our family. He has led us through difficult seasons of life with merciful hands, embodying for us the verses of Lamentations 3:22-24 which say, “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’”
These words are truth and they have been our hope, even in the darkest hours. However, just the other day I realized afresh how I often cling to these words, putting one foot in front of the other, yet don't let them penetrate the deepest places of my heart. During our Sunday service we prayed the words of Psalm 122:7 "[May] peace be within your walls" and I had to admit that there has not been peace within the walls of my heart lately. Processing again the loss of our baby along side our other losses has whipped up the hurricane winds of my mind, spewing random and entangled feelings of sadness and anxiety and guilt anew, and I need the peace of Christ to calm the storm. I find myself frustrated by the one step forward, two steps back, process of healing.
On one hand healing is such a complicated process and yet on the other hand it's not, for in all things the answer is Christ. I don't know if I'll ever be better at handling the loose ends of life, but I can be better at acknowledging my need for and surrender to Christ in all situations. It is he who brings about the healing.
His mercies are new every morning. He is my Hope. He is my Peace. He is my Healer.
I made it halfway through without crying. I hate crying in public but the well of emotion spilled over when I spoke of the pain we've wrestled with in regards to our pregnancy loss: "And, because it is fairly common and because it is a less tangible form of loss it’s something that people stop talking about very quickly, and you’re left to tie up loose ends and sort of just move on with life." I stood silent for a minute before continuing, trying to keep the tears from picking up momentum.
Tying up loose ends and just moving on has never been my strong suit. I like solid and decided closure, wrongs to be made right and pains acknowledged. When life doesn't hand me those things, as it rarely does, I try to stuff the confusion and pain below the surface, avoiding the tumultuous emotions and soldiering on, because, what else is there to do? And, isn't that what people expect of us anyway?
But grief is a funny thing. Sometimes its origin and conclusion are easily identified, but often it stretches its painful fingers through time and space, swallowing a specific loss into a vacuum of all your unresolved losses. This has been true for me recently. Our miscarriage has embodied all of the loss we have experienced in the last few years, complicating the already painful emotions. Were my tears for the loss of our baby or the loss of our beloved city or the isolation we felt as we left? Were they for the years of intense ministry we saw in St. Louis and the distress of seeing so many lost and hurting? Were they tears of decompression as the physically and emotionally intense environment of North City were processed? I still can't tell you.
In the days following the service I have done a lot of thinking and healing, and realizing that I still have so far to go. The service for child loss was a beautiful moment to say out loud what hurts and to look into the eyes of others who understood your pain. It was a time to acknowledge that there is no shame in grieving and, yet, there is hope. There was a sense of closure that accompanied this acknowledgement.
Even in light of this healing experience I am realizing that I still have so far to go. There are many of our recent losses that don't have such poignant closure. Anger, anxiety, guilt, and depression, like concentric circles, can ripple outward from the point of unresolved grief. In the past few weeks I am discovering they have had more impact on my life than I even knew.
As I shared in our testimony, the Lord has been so faithful to our family. He has led us through difficult seasons of life with merciful hands, embodying for us the verses of Lamentations 3:22-24 which say, “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’”
These words are truth and they have been our hope, even in the darkest hours. However, just the other day I realized afresh how I often cling to these words, putting one foot in front of the other, yet don't let them penetrate the deepest places of my heart. During our Sunday service we prayed the words of Psalm 122:7 "[May] peace be within your walls" and I had to admit that there has not been peace within the walls of my heart lately. Processing again the loss of our baby along side our other losses has whipped up the hurricane winds of my mind, spewing random and entangled feelings of sadness and anxiety and guilt anew, and I need the peace of Christ to calm the storm. I find myself frustrated by the one step forward, two steps back, process of healing.
On one hand healing is such a complicated process and yet on the other hand it's not, for in all things the answer is Christ. I don't know if I'll ever be better at handling the loose ends of life, but I can be better at acknowledging my need for and surrender to Christ in all situations. It is he who brings about the healing.
His mercies are new every morning. He is my Hope. He is my Peace. He is my Healer.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Birth Mama
It was the night before the first meeting and I ran around anxiously prepping for the big day. I obsessively trimmed Little Nut's hair; scrubbed his dirty, scuffed shoes; picked out the perfect outfit and then picked out a perfect backup outfit for when the perfect outfit got stained or crumpled during our long drive.
While scrubbing little hands and toes and conditioning hair and skin excessively, I kept thinking about how I would ever measure up as a mom. If the situation were reversed would anyone be good enough to be called my son's Mama? In light of my unspoken answer, that question circled anxiously through my mind. I'm a good mom, but how do you prepare yourself to look into the eyes of the one who gave your son life?
I fell asleep that night reminding myself of the many prayers going before us and asked the Lord one more time for our meeting with J, Little Nut's birth mom, to be grace-filled. The prayer mixed in with random thoughts: What will it be like when we first see each other? How will she interact with our son? What will we talk about? Are we sure this is the right timing for this? What will she think of us? Will our differing skin tones be a tense topic of conversation? And then, Lord, let it be grace-filled. Amen.
Early the next morning we packed the car with all of my anxiously over-prepared excess and started off on a road trip that was like any other and yet not. Little Nut talked the entire time, a little about the upcoming meeting, but mostly about superheroes and cartoon characters and snack foods. I tried to take deep breaths between bouts of excitement and nervousness. We laughed, we got on each others' nerves, we took a few wrong turns. And then, we arrived.
We arrived first and sat waiting, me trying to secretly air out my sweating palms so our first hand shake wouldn't be a moist one, Little Nut asking over and over when J would arrive. After a few moments of anticipating we recognized her face from a recent photo she sent us. Andrew and I turned and I waved so she would see us. I held my breath. She smiled, a bright and genuine smile. Andrew, who rarely feels the awkwardness of moments, embraced her. I followed suit and the moment I had built up in my mind, felt surprisingly normal.
For the next few hours I watched another set of mother's eyes taking in each little laugh, each silly conversation, and each little feature of my son...of our son. J quickly ceased being a stranger to me, because we looked at Little Nut through the same eyes. Both mamas. One as the woman that gave birth to him and longs for him every day, and the other who gets to hug him and teach him things and put him to bed every night. My heart hurt for her loss even as I rejoiced in my gain.
We laughed and talked, had a few nervous moments, and shared openly about the challenges inherent in our situation. We listened to her dreams of a redeemed life and shared the reality of redemption God had already given us all in Little Nut. Strange and normal and awkward and deep feelings came in waves until it was time to go. I felt guilty as we parted, Andrew and I with the beautiful gift of our son, and her with empty hands and memories that would be both joyful and full of pain.
A lady said to Little Nut as we left, "Was that your Mom?" He nodded, and in place of jealousy, I thought, one of them, because he will always have two. She will always be the mama who saw him come into the world, who shares the color of his skin, the contour of his nose, the shape of his lips,and the history of his biological family. And through God's grace, I will always be the mama who teaches him to write his letters, reads stories to him, talks to him daily about God and Batman and is driven crazy by his enthusiastic energy, and for no other reason than we serve a gracious and redeeming God, I also get to be called Mama.
I hardly know what the future holds for our relationship with J, I only know the next step, and the one after that, is grace. Grace for Little Nut as he grows and tries to process it all. Grace for Andrew and I as we navigate living out parenthood after adoption. Grace for J as she hopes for change and lives each day with a piece of her heart set in our hands.
While scrubbing little hands and toes and conditioning hair and skin excessively, I kept thinking about how I would ever measure up as a mom. If the situation were reversed would anyone be good enough to be called my son's Mama? In light of my unspoken answer, that question circled anxiously through my mind. I'm a good mom, but how do you prepare yourself to look into the eyes of the one who gave your son life?
I fell asleep that night reminding myself of the many prayers going before us and asked the Lord one more time for our meeting with J, Little Nut's birth mom, to be grace-filled. The prayer mixed in with random thoughts: What will it be like when we first see each other? How will she interact with our son? What will we talk about? Are we sure this is the right timing for this? What will she think of us? Will our differing skin tones be a tense topic of conversation? And then, Lord, let it be grace-filled. Amen.
Early the next morning we packed the car with all of my anxiously over-prepared excess and started off on a road trip that was like any other and yet not. Little Nut talked the entire time, a little about the upcoming meeting, but mostly about superheroes and cartoon characters and snack foods. I tried to take deep breaths between bouts of excitement and nervousness. We laughed, we got on each others' nerves, we took a few wrong turns. And then, we arrived.
We arrived first and sat waiting, me trying to secretly air out my sweating palms so our first hand shake wouldn't be a moist one, Little Nut asking over and over when J would arrive. After a few moments of anticipating we recognized her face from a recent photo she sent us. Andrew and I turned and I waved so she would see us. I held my breath. She smiled, a bright and genuine smile. Andrew, who rarely feels the awkwardness of moments, embraced her. I followed suit and the moment I had built up in my mind, felt surprisingly normal.
We laughed and talked, had a few nervous moments, and shared openly about the challenges inherent in our situation. We listened to her dreams of a redeemed life and shared the reality of redemption God had already given us all in Little Nut. Strange and normal and awkward and deep feelings came in waves until it was time to go. I felt guilty as we parted, Andrew and I with the beautiful gift of our son, and her with empty hands and memories that would be both joyful and full of pain.
A lady said to Little Nut as we left, "Was that your Mom?" He nodded, and in place of jealousy, I thought, one of them, because he will always have two. She will always be the mama who saw him come into the world, who shares the color of his skin, the contour of his nose, the shape of his lips,and the history of his biological family. And through God's grace, I will always be the mama who teaches him to write his letters, reads stories to him, talks to him daily about God and Batman and is driven crazy by his enthusiastic energy, and for no other reason than we serve a gracious and redeeming God, I also get to be called Mama.
I hardly know what the future holds for our relationship with J, I only know the next step, and the one after that, is grace. Grace for Little Nut as he grows and tries to process it all. Grace for Andrew and I as we navigate living out parenthood after adoption. Grace for J as she hopes for change and lives each day with a piece of her heart set in our hands.
Friday, July 26, 2013
You Give and Take Away
Five and a half years ago Andrew and I chose “Blessed Be Your Name” to be sung at our wedding. We both loved the song and wanted our marriage
to be founded on the principle that in the face of all things we could say “You give and take
away/ [Our] heart[s] will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be Your name.” And, then
came the hardest five and a half years of our lives. Marriage challenges have followed,
as have health issues and serious family problems, we have lost three
grandparents, we have struggled in ministry, experienced violence and traumas
while living in the city, reached complete ministry burn out, lost
relationships we trusted, our willingness to serve and praise the Lord in all
circumstances being continually tested.
This last year has, perhaps, been one of the hardest yet. However, the extreme highs and lows have highlighted for us the constancy of our God. Through great losses and great gains we have determined to commit ourselves, however imperfectly, to serve and bless the Lord whether it be in a season of loss or gain, because those seasons have continued to roll over us unceasingly.
July 20th we celebrated the one-year anniversary of Judah’s adoption. Both sets of our parents joined us for the day to celebrate what a gift he has been to us. It was also a day we spent grieving the loss of our second child. Only the day before we had learned that at eight weeks pregnant I had miscarried. In one weekend we both thanked God for the incredible gift of Judah and grieved the loss of the child God took to be with Him. It is no coincidence that the song replaying constantly in my mind has been “You give and take away/ My heart will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be Your name.”
In the last week we have begun to wrestle with the loss of someone we never got to know, whose face we never got to see, and of whom our only memories are a pregnancy test and a month and a half of all-day “morning sickness.” Miscarrying has proven to be a personal and rather violating experience as a woman, and the feelings of loss for both Andrew and I are confusing to say the least. And yet, by God’s mercy, we have been able to hold Judah close and take joy in the blessing of our son.
While in the throes of grief and joy last weekend I couldn’t help but think about how odd it was that exactly one year ago, on Judah’s adoption day, we were in the same wrestle with loss and gain. The inexplicable, and yet somehow perfect, timing of God has paired the celebration of one of our greatest gifts with some of our toughest losses. Last year, surrounded by family and joyfully welcoming Judah as our forever son, we also grieved the dwindling days we had left in St. Louis, the unexpected loss of our friends and community, the great confusion and lack of support we felt, and the disappointment in relationships we had trusted.
But, in the midst of it all, God has been faithful.
Don’t think in the last year, or even in the last week, we haven’t asked God “why?”, but it hasn’t proved to be a very helpful question. The answers, I assume, lie in the delicate tangle of a fallen, sinful world and a holy, all-knowing God...not something we will ever fully understand. The only thing we can do in the face of life’s pain, disappointments, and joys, is to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, who never changes, never ceases to love us, and whose mercies are new every morning.
We know every gift is from the Lord and every loss is made bearable in light of the loving God we serve. We will choose to bless His name, whether through tears or laughter, and rest in the knowledge that one day He will right every injustice, bring an end to every pain, and unite all His people in unending joy.
This last year has, perhaps, been one of the hardest yet. However, the extreme highs and lows have highlighted for us the constancy of our God. Through great losses and great gains we have determined to commit ourselves, however imperfectly, to serve and bless the Lord whether it be in a season of loss or gain, because those seasons have continued to roll over us unceasingly.
July 20th we celebrated the one-year anniversary of Judah’s adoption. Both sets of our parents joined us for the day to celebrate what a gift he has been to us. It was also a day we spent grieving the loss of our second child. Only the day before we had learned that at eight weeks pregnant I had miscarried. In one weekend we both thanked God for the incredible gift of Judah and grieved the loss of the child God took to be with Him. It is no coincidence that the song replaying constantly in my mind has been “You give and take away/ My heart will choose to say/ Lord, blessed be Your name.”
In the last week we have begun to wrestle with the loss of someone we never got to know, whose face we never got to see, and of whom our only memories are a pregnancy test and a month and a half of all-day “morning sickness.” Miscarrying has proven to be a personal and rather violating experience as a woman, and the feelings of loss for both Andrew and I are confusing to say the least. And yet, by God’s mercy, we have been able to hold Judah close and take joy in the blessing of our son.
While in the throes of grief and joy last weekend I couldn’t help but think about how odd it was that exactly one year ago, on Judah’s adoption day, we were in the same wrestle with loss and gain. The inexplicable, and yet somehow perfect, timing of God has paired the celebration of one of our greatest gifts with some of our toughest losses. Last year, surrounded by family and joyfully welcoming Judah as our forever son, we also grieved the dwindling days we had left in St. Louis, the unexpected loss of our friends and community, the great confusion and lack of support we felt, and the disappointment in relationships we had trusted.
But, in the midst of it all, God has been faithful.
Don’t think in the last year, or even in the last week, we haven’t asked God “why?”, but it hasn’t proved to be a very helpful question. The answers, I assume, lie in the delicate tangle of a fallen, sinful world and a holy, all-knowing God...not something we will ever fully understand. The only thing we can do in the face of life’s pain, disappointments, and joys, is to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, who never changes, never ceases to love us, and whose mercies are new every morning.
We know every gift is from the Lord and every loss is made bearable in light of the loving God we serve. We will choose to bless His name, whether through tears or laughter, and rest in the knowledge that one day He will right every injustice, bring an end to every pain, and unite all His people in unending joy.
Judah Medlen Day 2013
2013 - Psalm 139.13-16
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