Kylee Craggett, Author at The Sparrow Fund

May 13, 2015May 14, 2015

To Understand Forever

*This post was written two years ago, when celebrating three years of having my little sisters HOME. This month we celebrate 5 years, and while we don’t have our ‘forever’ figured out yet, the journey is proving to be so sweet and so worth it*

Today we celebrate three years of baby sisters. I remember that day so clearly, the day we welcomed a 5-year-old and a 2-year-old back into our home and began our journey of forever.

We painted a room pink, bought new soft blankets, and filled a closet with more dresses than any two girls would possibly need.

That day was joyous, so we celebrate it, and rightfully so.

This journey isn’t without pain though. I was reminded last night of the harsh dichotomy that exists within the world of adoption. In order to have the privilege of loving these girls, they had to go through a lot of loss first. In order for me to love them and know them, others who loved them first had to lose them.

Last night, I peered into the little girls room and found a sweet 8-year-old sitting on her bed, looking at pictures of her first mom and her siblings, and crying. Tears in her eyes, and staring at the same pictures over and over again, she expressed in words how she was feeling.

I sat with her and kissed her head of blond hair over and over again. I rubbed her back and I chose my words carefully; I said that missing is okay. I wish I could have promised her that she would see her first mom again, that one day she would feel all better; I wish I could have whispered that she had no reason to cry, as many have told her before. But sister has every reason to cry. She should cry. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s good. I hate that for her. I hate this part of adoption. I hate watching an 8-year-old grieve over such hard things. The reality of that injustice makes me angry.

We get to celebrate her heritage and accept the reality of her past, however messy it may be. We speak with respect and honor towards her first mom, because that lady loves her. We even celebrate that the grief, which was once manifested through compromising behavior, is now morphing into the expression of words. That is huge. (and all the adoptive families said AMEN!)

When it comes down to it, none of us really know how to accurately depict the tragedy and beauty of adoption that has been so confusingly woven together. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out which part is the beauty and which is the tragedy. What do we celebrate and what do we grieve over? It takes a lot of work and time and tears. And sometimes we realize it’s the very thing we’re celebrating, like 3 years of permanence, that actually has so much grief wrapped up in it, too.

We know that we get to celebrate the notion of forever, because God’s plan is for every child to have a family. We don’t really, fully understand what ‘forever’ means, but we use that term anyway. We know that it represents something exciting and that there is permanence in the word, but even still, it is too big for our finite minds to grasp. What I have promised my little sisters is that we’re going to do our best to figure it out together, not through words, but through actions.

Right now, forever means afternoon Wii games, spontaneous trips to sonic, watching first-year ballet classes through the doorway, and blaring One Direction in the car.

Tomorrow it might mean something completely different.

So today we don’t have it figured out, nor to we necessarily intend to figure it out in this life time, but we celebrate 3 years of stability. We celebrate 3 years of baby doll playing, kindergarten graduations, learning how to read, and nighttime prayers. We celebrate 3 years of properly celebrated birthdays, summer afternoons spent by the pool, bike rides, and countless afternoons of painting nails. Today we get to celebrate new relationships, the beginning stages of trust, and the remembrance that through all of the chaos and tears, we are family.

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Kylee recently graduated with a bachelor’s degree in social work and is currently working at a child-placing agency while going back to school to pursue a masters in social work. Her parents jumped into the crazy world of foster care just days before her 8th birthday and cared for numerous infants and toddlers over a ten-year time span; four of those kids later became permanent family members through adoption. Kylee is passionate about learning how to better love her siblings from “hard places” and loves sharing about this journey and passion on her personal blog Learning to Abandon and on her Instagram @kyleemarissa.

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We’re building the nest this month!

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April 1, 2015

In Honor of the Foster Siblings I So Fiercely Loved

“Silence in the face of evil is itself evil: God will not hold us guiltless. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.” – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

I remember the way she stared. Bound tightly in a double leg cast, her eyes begged for freedom. She had only been in this world for three months. She didn’t understand. I held her and winced as her broken ribs popped with each breath. I was only 8-years-old. I didn’t understand.

I remember the way he cried. Born addicted to drugs, his crying never stopped. His body was tense. He went through withdrawals from a substance never designed to be in the body of an infant. The effect this would have on his life was astronomical. I failed to understand.

I remember the way she gorged herself with food. She was left at the scene of a crime. Neglected. It was her first birthday, but her guardian left her. She had the most beautiful smile. She knew that food was comfort. I was 9-years-old. I could never identify with that level of abandonment.

I remember the way he struggled to suck on a bottle. Fresh from the hospital, the drugs had significantly manipulated his reflexes. I watched my mom meticulously and persistently care for him. Each day he swallowed a little bit more. He became strong, and for 11 months he was my brother. I felt pride in his achievements.

I remember the way her skin turned red. Trapped in a spicca cast, it repeatedly rubbed against her once-soft baby skin. The hardest bone to break in a human had been broken in an 8-week-old. Her dad had been mad that day. I was angry.

I remember the way she talked about getting to ride in a police car. Her mom was going to jail, but she learned that day that police are there to help. She loved her mom deeply. Her loyalty was both admirable and heartbreaking. Her loss was too deep for me to understand.

I feel lucky that I called these babies my foster siblings. They were, without a doubt, the most courageous little human beings I ever had the privilege of loving. These kids, plus many more, are a vivid part of my childhood. Their stories are real and their faces appear in my mind often. I wonder about them and sometimes even worry about them. They were astonishingly resilient, but I wish they had never been forced to know the depth of that human resilience.

National Child Abuse Prevention Month. It’s a month where we, as a nation, stand up and say ‘no more’. It’s too easy to remain quiet, to pretend like it doesn’t exist, and to push away the faces and names behind the statistics. But in doing so, we inadvertently are minimizing the hurt of 686,000 children who experienced abuse and neglect in 2012 (source). We’re saying that hurt and that pain and those experiences aren’t big enough to bother us.

On the other hand, I see my generation treating philanthropic work as a fad. Come to my college campus, and you’ll see that short term non-profit volunteering and instagramming photos with at-risk kids is all the rage. These kids deserve to be advocated for, cherished, loved, heard, protected, and wanted. That’s not a fad. That’s life-long pursuit and deeply-rooted intentionality, friends. I want my generation to hear that. There’s a longevity associated with this cause. We need to be in it for the long-haul.

For the past seven months I have been completing an internship at an emergency shelter for foster children. I often times sit in the office reading through endless case files filled with some of the most horrific stories I’ve ever heard. Tears frequently fill my eyes as I further grapple with the reality that children in my own community face. I complete intakes and hear things from 6-year-olds I pray I never will grow accustomed to hearing. God, it’s awful.

Then, I go inside the shelter right as the van pulls up from school, and I am met by kids who choose to be so much more then their horrific pasts. They sit at the table and work on multiplication tables, talk to me about art class, eat chicken fingers, watch movies, and sing along to the latest Katy Perry song.

It’s not that they live care-free lives. Their needs are deep, please hear me say that. The reality of their abuse has devastating repercussions. The calendar is full of psychological appointments and counseling appointments because healing is hard. Their situation, living in an emergency shelter, is not the normative, and it is far from ideal. Even still, many of them choose to be more than what life has given to them. That’s admirable.

I want to be like that.

The image for National Child Abuse Prevention Month is a pinwheel. It is childlike and playful, but represents the many different people and disciplines actively involved in ending a nationwide tragedy. It takes teachers, social workers, nurses, first responders, investigators, health-care professionals, social and family service workers, and educated citizens to get the wheel turning. It truly takes a village, friends.

{I recently attended a community child-care conference where I received a pinwheel. This 6-year-old sister was elated.}

The statistics are deafening, but necessary to understand. (These were taken from the Child Maltreatment 2012 Children’s Bureau Report produced by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services)

In 2012, There were 678,810 unique reported accounts of child abuse and neglect (meaning that each child was only counted once, regardless of the number of times he or she was a victim during the reporting year). The total number of reports of roughly 686,000, broke down into 78.3% neglect, 18.3% physical abuse, and 9.3% sexual abuse.

In 2012, there were 1,593 recorded fatalities due to child maltreatment. What that means is that every day we have upwards of 4 children dying in this country due to abuse or neglect.

Tears fill my eyes just typing that.

I think of my foster siblings and the kids I see every day at my internship. Their lives matter so deeply. They have personalities and passion and value. They matter. We cannot have four kids dying every day. It is unacceptable.

Prevention is hard, we know that. But I have to choose to believe that this number can decrease. Our kids are worth it. It has to decrease. We tell our kids they are important all the time, but I want to show it to them. I have so much to say about this topic, but for now, know this:

Awareness is important. It is so, so vital that we are not only aware of the magnitude of child abuse, but that we are also aware of our surroundings. As citizens, we have a responsibility. All of us come into contact with kids in some form in our daily lives, and that means that if we see something, we are held responsible to report it. If you don’t have your state’s abuse hotline number saved to your phone, do it. A phone call could save a child. Calling a hotline does not mean automatic removal of a child. Please know that. If you report what you see, and leave it to investigators to do the rest, you will never, ever, ever be responsible for “ripping apart” a family. Let that one go. The result of not calling for a sighted abuse case could be devastating.

I plead with you today to educate yourself on the signs of abuse and neglect, and to not grow idyll in protecting the kids that walk through our school halls and play in the neighborhood park, alongside your child.

There is no separation. The hand of abuse is everywhere. This has become your cause, too.

In honor of the foster siblings I so fiercely loved as a child. Because, friends, I whispered in their ears that I loved them, that I wanted to take away their pain. As a child, I held them close to me and cried many, many tears over them. They deserve this. They were lovely. In honor of their courage and fight, and my promise to them, I ask that you understand the importance of this topic.

Stand with me this month, friends. May our words and gained awareness be moved into diligent, life-changing action. May fierce, protective love be our heartbeat this month, and every month.

“They deserve a voice. Not a quiet, meek, timid, and reserved voice, but a resounding and reverberating cry for justice, for unconditional love and the right to live in safety and peace. Granted, that voice may not be their own, but they deserve to have someone embrace their cause and make sure it is heard. They deserve to be valued, to know that value and have it instilled in them. They deserve to internalize the truth that they are worth fighting for.” -Christine Erwin, The Middle Mom

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Kylee is a college student who is passionately pursuing a degree in Social Work while simultaneously learning what it means to be a big sister to kids from “hard places”. Her parents jumped into the crazy world of foster care just days before her 8th birthday for numerous infants and toddlers over a ten year time span; four of those children became permanent family members through adoption. Kylee loves sharing about foster care and adoption and is passionate about advocating on behalf of vulnerable children on her blog Learning to Abandon.

February 23, 2015February 23, 2015

Including Your Children

People often ask if it was hard growing up with foster siblings- if it changed me or stripped my innocence out from under me in ways that left me psychologically scarred.

Of course it was hard; there’s a vulnerable edge to loving again and again, knowing the small person you’ve come to accept as a sibling will be taken away in a matter of days, weeks, or months. There’s a deep uncertainty and anxiety in anticipating a loss with no time frame to draw from, not knowing if a foster sibling will end up adopted in your home, or will never be heard from again. Even before I was able to verbalize the feelings of uncertainty, they were there; when I sat at the top of the stairs and listened as my mom spoke with a caseworker regarding a case, I was acknowledging that I cared deeply and would be torn apart when someone came and took my sibling away.

This is loss. It is something that every single human on earth deals with in both varying degrees and varying circumstances.

The idea of humanity’s reaction to loss is something even the most educated psychologists and counselors are still researching and probably will be until the end of time. It is such an encapsulating topic, but what I find especially fascinating is how we know what pain feels like and take great measures to actively avoid it. Whether it’s simply an embarrassing moment or the mind-numbing grief following the loss of a loved one, the common defense it to search for ways to avoid falling into the same situation a second (or third or fourth) time. Perhaps life experiences leave us seared just enough to look for healing outside the line of fire, or maybe it’s the minds way of protecting the heart. We like safety. I’m finding that it often happens at a subconscious level, but still, when I look for it, I spot walls going up all over my life, barricading me (although often unsuccessfully) from the discomfort of pain.

As a child growing up in a stable family, I didn’t have the life experience of pain to drive me toward that same defense mechanism. When caseworkers surrendered children into my parents’ care, I loved deeply, even knowing it was just for a season. There was no other option. I think that even if I had truly wanted to withhold a piece of love from my foster siblings (knowing, of course, a loss was looming), I wouldn’t have been able to do so. The love for my foster siblings was so real – it crossed a depth of love I have rarely experienced since then. I couldn’t help loving; it was the natural reaction to living with little people who were already fighting situations I never even knew existed.

Of course having a revolving door snatched away a little bit of that naivety and innocence that my parents had so carefully guarded. There were nights of uncontrollable tears and a deep grappling with heavy topics. I questioned physical abuse before I even knew the term abuse.

“Why would a father get so mad he would break his infant’s bones? What are drugs? Why would a mom use them while pregnant, if she knows it’s bad? What is prostitution? How does she not know who the father is?”

There was pain and that pain has had drastic implications on the way I live my life. I don’t know that it’s possible to take your children on this journey without letting them hurt. But maybe if the goal is to protect our kids from pain, we’re cheapening Calvary’s love. The reality of the gospel is the very thing that drives us to the marginalized and oppressed, even to the extent that we devastatingly fall down at the cross with a new load of pain, surrendering it all to Him once again. That utter surrender is the kind of love we’re called to know.

If we seek to teach our kids how to love one another, then is there really any more practical way to do this than in the safety of your home, where you, as a parent, can be the one guiding and facilitating the hard conversations?

It makes sense to me. It doesn’t mean it’s easy or that there will be times placements will have to be turned down, for the safety of those in your home. I know it wasn’t easy for my family and I can guarantee there were days when my parents watched us struggle and questioned their decision. There were repeated times throughout the ten years that my parents temporarily closed our home, giving our family time to rest and recuperate.

Even still, taking their children along on this journey made sense to them, and fourteen years later, I am so thankful they made that decision.

On a bookshelf in my parents’ living room there’s a photo album with pictures of all of the kids who spent time in our home. On the front page, surrounded by each child’s face, Matthew 25:40 is written: “to the extent you did it to one of the least of these, my brothers, you did it unto me.”

To one of the least of these. I believe so firmly that caring for the least of these and understanding the power of the cross go hand in hand. Not that our hearts are able to fully understand the magnitude of the gospel, but that through loving hurting souls who belong to Him, we then know His redemptive power more intimately.

My heart is to share that it’s okay to take your bios along on this journey. That it gets hard and messy, but that this kind of messy love-in-action can be life-forming for all the little souls within the bounds of your home.

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December 4, 2014

What Was It Like?

“What was it like growing up with foster siblings in your home?”

This is the question that I am most frequently asked, whether it is by peers who have heard media-influenced foster care stories, or by families who are seeking to become foster parents while still raising biological children. When people ask me this question, it always catches me off guard, mainly because it is incredibly hard to describe such a major part of a childhood that seemed perfectly normal to me. It is equally hard to think of what my life would have looked like had I not grown up with foster siblings. For me, babies and toddlers came and went on a regular basis. It was hard at times and it was fun at times, but regardless, it was normal to me. We received our first foster placement two weeks before my 8th birthday, and adopted my last two siblings a month after my 18th birthday. Needless to say, foster care has impacted me in profound ways. Foster care made me a big sister to four forever siblings and was my catalyst for becoming a social worker.

As I have sought to answer this question – what it was like-my mind always wanders back to that early October night when I was 7-years-old, watching a caseworker hand our first foster placement over to my parents. I remember looking into the big, brown eyes of a severely abused infant and seeking to understand for the first time the reality of the hurt that is in our world.

Those first few moments with that baby are locked into my memory as tightly and securely as a 7-year-old can remember. As I innocently questioned “why” a parent would hurt his child, I was opened up to a whole new world that involved evil my mind had never known.

Through the next several years, as babies and toddlers passed through our home, there were many censored discussions on drugs, sex, alcohol, and neglect. I appreciate that my parents protected my innocence, while still valuing that I loved my foster siblings with a sincere love and desired to know each one of their stories. As I watched my foster siblings flourish in our home and saw the hurt they endured, there was a deeper level of compassion and understanding that slowly began to resonate inside of me.

I played with the kids and accepted each one as my sibling. I took pride in showing off each baby to my friends. I made silly faces while feeding the infants mushy rice cereal. I learned the art of washing a baby bottle, changing a diaper, and bathing a baby. I browsed the baby aisle with my mom, begging her to buy “just one more cute outfit”. I accompanied my mom in transporting to parent visits and then I sat in my room and sobbed after saying goodbye to foster siblings I had come to love dearly.

So maybe my childhood was different from yours. In fact, it probably was. My family grew and then shrunk again on a regular basis and the family calendar was filled with court dates, parent visits, and caseworker meetings.

However, the uniqueness of my family dynamics did not destroy my innocence or ruin me as a person, as is the common myth. Yes, I saw and understood injustice from a young age and I absolutely struggled to process some of what I saw and experienced. There were hard months, and times when my parents had to protect my sisters and me instead of bring another child into the home. They were wise in their pursuit. I struggled with the grief and grappled with the reality of sin, but viewing evil within the safety of my own home allowed me to develop empathy and compassion that I believe I would not have today, had my parents chosen to keep the doors of our home closed.

My parent’s willingness to open our home changed my life, and gave me skills and passions and a more sensitive heart. For that I am deeply thankful.

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Kylee is a college student who is passionately pursuing a degree in Social Work while simultaneously learning what it means to be a big sister to kids from “hard places”. Her parents jumped into the crazy world of foster care just days before her 8th birthday for numerous infants and toddlers over a ten year time span; four of those children became permanent family members through adoption. Kylee loves sharing about foster care and adoption and is passionate about advocating on behalf of vulnerable children on her blog Learning to Abandon.

November 10, 2014November 10, 2014

Mile Markers

I was eight-years-old when I said goodbye to my first foster sibling. She had lived in our home for only 40 days, but it felt as if she had always been a part of our family walks and read-aloud mornings by the fireplace. She came to us with each leg secured in a cast, working day and night to hold together broken bones and provide stability for cracked ribs. Six weeks later, we were madly in love with a baby, and that baby was being stripped away by the vulnerability associated with love. She left our home with strengthened legs, kicking and flailing like babies should. That part was good. But still, she left.

We drove her to the office where a caseworker was waiting in the parking lot to carry her off to her next new home. I kept bending down, reaching under her car seat straps, to kiss her over and over again. It was my first bitter taste of loss in this life. I now know her story had a happier ending than it did beginning, but still, she was living in our home, riding in our minivan, filling our washing machine with laundry, sucking on bottles in the middle of the night, healing from broken bones, learning to trust humanity again – and then, with what felt like no fair warning, she was gone and never seen again.

That loss (and the subsequent losses of the many foster siblings that followed) was profoundly formative in my heart’s fight for growth.

I find it fascinating that the human heart is only capable of grieving to the extent that the brain has progressed physiologically. It’s as if we have these mile markers that only allow an eight-year-old to grieve with the expression and understanding that is appropriate for that tender, missing teeth, messy hair, molding heart, stage of life. Then, the next mile marker comes into sight and the now twelve-year-old child can revisit the traumatic event with a new, deeper level of understanding. As children, we have these deeply formative life events, that leave us crying and hurting and angry and sad, and yet, our hearts have this ferocious resiliency so that it is only through the appropriate passage of time that we are able to safely grapple with and process the full extent of the tears of our childhood. This is how the heart was made, to grieve carefully and methodically, because if a child starts the race of grief too fast, there may be burn-out, and suddenly, the finish line’s view is obstructed by social delay, behavioral outbursts, and developmental regression.

My saving grace is that during my years of loving and letting go over and over again, I was held by parents who listened to me cry into the deepest pockets of the night, planned a fun outing to distract us immediately after a foster child left, answered questions about drugs and abuse, fed me ice-cream, and allowed me to feel whatever emotion my heart needed to feel.

What happened through all of these moments is that I was safely able to process the circumstances taking place in our home, and my heart was able to find room to expand as it grasped with greater understanding the acts of injustice that are repeatedly inflicted onto those who are the most vulnerable. So that then, when a few of those kids stayed in our home, turning temporary siblings into forever siblings, I was maybe a tiny bit more equipped to empathetically enter into their pain.

Not that I can begin to understand the fires of trauma that my siblings have walked through, but maybe, because my parents allowed me to enter into the care of the many foster children that lived with us, I am better able to stand ahead at each mile marker, armed with an ice-cream date or a spontaneous trip to our favorite bookstore, ready to fight off the attacks that accompany the perils of the grief and healing journey.

They pass these markers with chocolate-stained faces and a few extra “I love yous” tucked safely in their pockets. I watch them keep running. They are passing mile markers, sometimes in a sprint and other times slowing to a walk, championing through their journey with so much courage that it astounds me.

As an eight-year-old, long before I ever knew I would be a big sister, I grieved the loss of a baby who had enough resilience left to trust, even after acts of horror had been inflicted on her. The irony is that as I said goodbye to one who had fought to heal, I had no idea that our hearts are capable of withstanding storms; that the immediate pain we feel can be used to cultivate a level of trust and passion and pursuit, used to contribute a little bit of safety to the hearts around us that are also journeying through grief.

That the cries of our heart and the running- stumbling- across the finish line are achieving an eternal weight of glory that far outweighs even the hardest goodbye.

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September 24, 2014September 24, 2014

The Power of Pursuit

The summer that she turned three, my baby sister very uncharacteristically woke up almost every night to the silence of her new home – our home. She would grab her favorite blanket, and make her way into my room, disgruntled hair and soft, silk-like pajamas dancing shadows on my wall.

I learned to expect the touch of her little hand on my cheek, waking me up, begging for my attention.

We quickly found the sweetest of routines. I would lead her back into her room and climb up next to her on her twin size bed. She would wrap her arm around me as her eyes bounced open and closed, her chubby hand placed securely on my back, as if reminding me to stay close.

Only when I was sure she was sleeping soundly, would I peel her arms off of me and tiptoe out. I always turned back to look at her, noting how she appeared just a little bit more beautiful as each insecurity spilled out of her and was subsequently made visible to me; a deep sign of trust. I marveled at the love a high school senior and a preschool baby shared for each other, that if not for adoption, we would never have even known each other. I think of us walking this earth, leading separate lives, unaware of how we were meant to be sisters. We truly never understand grace until it is staring us boldly in the face.

Stephanie Davis Photography http://www.stephaniesblog.com/

The challenges of adoption are not lost to me. A three-year-old wanting to find the security of snuggles in the dead of night? Hardly a challenge. It’s easy to find the grace there, to see the beauty and recognize the fiercest feelings of love. Truly a grace – a bold grace. We could wrap that moment up in a beautiful pink ribbon and call it adoption.

I fear though, that when we focus solely on the feel- good moments, we miss out on the strongest of graces. I think of the gospel, of my very own story of adoption, and see the power of His pursuit. What makes the gospel story of adoption so magnificent is that even when I was dead – when I was running full speed away from the cross- Jesus found me; He pulled me out of my self and my sin and my insecurities and sufferings and pain and beckoned that I come to Him. He pursued relentlessly; He pursues me today, and tomorrow, when my soul is sucked dry and my flesh is weak, He will pursue me again. That’s grace.

This grace is bigger and deeper than my mind is capable of comprehending today – or ever. I am not always eagerly crawling up onto my Abba Father’s lap – rather, He is drawing me out of the depths and bringing me gently and magnificently to Himself. He is doing the pursuing. This pursuit is powerful, because it changes lives – my life.

I am years away from making sense of the hurt and pain associated with adoption. I have resolved that there are things about my siblings’ stories I will never understand or be able to call okay this side of eternity. I am slowly learning, painstakingly slowly, to find the grace associated with pursuit. If my God can pursue me, even when I am trapped in my deepest sin, then surely I can give an extra minute or an extra thought to the pursuit of walking with my siblings as they work to heal and love and trust again.

The nights that my baby sister climbed up onto my bed were undoubtedly powerful moments. That beauty can be spotted a mile away. I am thankful, though, for the glimpses I get into the pain. I am learning to see a grace manifested when there are moments or seasons, sometimes-long seasons, of tears, rage, hurt, and pushing away; these are the moments that are not so beautiful, and yet, they are filled to the brim with grace. I see it. Through my dimly lit, deeply obscured, self-seeking life, I can still make out this boldest of graces.

This grace is different from the feel-good moments. Yet, it is one so deep and wide and vast I can hardly make sense of it. It is a grace that sometimes has to sit simply in the knowledge of love – of getting to be invested in hurting lives -even in seasons of darkness, when the feel-good feelings are obstructed from my view. I have learned that these moments are powerful and transformative, because they rest in something so much greater than a hug or a laugh or a captured moment for Instagram. These grace moments are the transformative type; they are moments so long and rich that they last from earth all the way until our welcome into heaven. We may not even know the power of these grace moments until we enter into heaven’s gates. These moments are not broken apart by hurtful words or behavioral outbursts. They stand secure, unwavering amidst the hard, painful, seemingly hopeless moments of life.

This is adoption. It is a bold love that is not scared of seeing hurt, touching hurt, or being hurt. There is truly transformative power in the pursuit of loving another hurting soul. I am thankful when that love looks like a baby sister climbing up into bed, quietly pursuing my love; I am equally thankful for the days when I get to do the challenging work of pursuing the heart of a hurting child, because it is in those moments that I more fully understand the passionate love my Savior has for me.

May this life be one filled with pursuit – showing grace and being grace to the hurting children in our lives.

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October 11, 2013October 11, 2013

For a Moment, She Was a Baby

For a moment, she was a baby.

Having just climbed out of the bathtub, she was warm in her pink hooded towel. In a sweet, soft voice she whispered “I want you to cuddle me.” Those few words were all it took for me to stop my world of selfish business and look at this sweet sister of mine who was craving physical touch. I wrapped her tightly in that pink towel, picked her up, and placed her on my lap.

She nestled her head close to my body, and I held her like a baby, rocking gently back-and-forth. Her big, blue eyes locked with mine, much like that of an infant, and for a moment, I forgot I was holding a four-year-old.

I kissed her forehead and rubbed her still-soft babylike skin. The usually rambunctious child sat in silence, giving my mind opportunity to wander.

For a moment, she was a baby.

I thought of her first Christmas, one that was spent with a foster family who got to hold and cuddle her. I thought of the months that followed, the homes that followed, the people that bounced in and out of her life. I thought of her first birthday and her first steps. Who were the people cheering her on, encouraging her, advocating for her?

For a moment, she was a baby.

And I missed it.

And sometimes my heart hurts for those precious moments of my little sisters baby-hood that I will never know.

Selfishly, I wish I had been the one feeding her bottles, rocking her to sleep at night, watching her take her first steps, spending her first Christmas with her, and taking pictures of her smashing into her first cake.

I will never know all that went on for the first 34 months of Sunshine’s life, and the first 5 years of Princess’ life. I grieve for that precious time lost with them, but even more, I grieve for them and the many losses they experienced.

I see it on their minds a lot these days. Princess is asking questions and seeking answers. Just yesterday, while walking hand-in-hand with my mom, she asked “so were the boys adopted too?”

“Yes, they were.”

“So they were in somebody else’s tummy?, she pressed.

“Yes” my mom answered, “Kylee was the last baby in my tummy, but that doesn’t make you any less my daughter.”

“I know”, she confidently replied.

As family traditions are pulled out, relatives come in and out for visits, and memories are talked about and laughed over this holiday season, I am continually reminded that for kids from hard places, this is a challenging time of the year. My little sisters hurts and insecurities seem to be spotlighted this time of the year, and as I watch them hurt, my love and respect for them continues to grow deeper.

As Sunshine sat there on my lap, breathing steadily against my chest, I noticed a sense of peacefulness about her, a peacefulness that comes with security and belonging. Those moments, those precious, precious moments from her babyhood, they are gone. But we have moments like these, moments when she initiates cuddling after bath time, in which I see tremendous amounts of growth in her; growth which reminds me that her heavenly Daddy has journeyed with her through every event of her life and has ordained each moment in a beautiful, perfect way.

For a moment, she was a baby.

She got to be a baby in my arms, allowing herself to be soothed by someone who cares and loves for her more than I might ever be able to express to her.

She was a baby, resting safely in the arms of her big sister.

Safe in my arms.

Fastened tightly by His love.

_______________________

September 12, 2012September 4, 2012

Let’s Not Rescue or Save, Please

Your family is doing such a neat thing–you are literally saving four kids.

I cringe upon every mention of “saving”or “rescuing” orphans and vulnerable children. It depicts this picture in my mind, a picture of a prince and princess galiantly riding in on a big white horse, and swooping up helpless kids from a dark, gloomy orphanage. What that image does is it places the adoptive family up on a high pedestal, and it gives the notion that the kids are forever indebted to the adoptive family for doing some great, high and mighty task.

What a horribly dangerous place to be.

If not careful, that thought process can very quickly turn into “just be glad that you live here and not on the streets.” or “why are you complaining about that food, at least you HAVE food?”

It is said all the time, “adoption brings a family together, but in the process it tears another family apart.” While it is true that “adoption” is not what tears a family apart, the reality is, these kids have experienced pain and hurt beyond what we realize. Whether adoption happened at birth or at the age of 17, there was a loss experienced. I firmly believe that as Christians we have a high calling to “look after orphans and widows in their distress.” I believe that when we approach adoption in a “rescuing” sense, then we are undermining these kids feelings of loss, which deserve to be validated. Not to mention, we are exalting ourselves in a very false way and taking the glory away from the Lord.

Adoption is a gorgeous picture of what our Lord has done for us, when “He predestined us to be adopted as his sons

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Author: Kylee Craggett

To Understand Forever

We’re building the nest this month!

Head right on over HERE to find out more and learn about the 40+ businesses that support adoption and the work of The Sparrow Fund!

In Honor of the Foster Siblings I So Fiercely Loved

Including Your Children

What Was It Like?

Mile Markers

The Power of Pursuit

For a Moment, She Was a Baby

Let’s Not Rescue or Save, Please