Category: Attachment

Attachment

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After the Airport

I’m going to tell you something; a little confession, if you will. Some of you will pull your hair out and smear your faces with ashes and put all my books on eBay and quit believing in God, but I’m willing to take that risk:

I’m really, really glad all my kids are back in school.

There. I said it. The three children that I birthed and nursed and raised from scratch, and the two children we begged and cried and screeched for and fetched from Africa…all five of these kids are in school. And I am happy, so happy, happy, happy, happy, hip-hip-hooray Mary Poppins happy.

For my friends and readers who homeschool, I tip my hat and say to you, “Well done, good and faithful servants.” And believe me, I have a couple of besties who paddle in that stream, and paddle it well. For some kids in some cities in some families in some districts, this is the very right thing. The end. Why people feel the need to make a fuss about how other parents decide to educate their children is beyond me. Let’s live and let live, yall. For the love of Pete.

But I cannot educate my own children, people, unless I am OK with us all becoming homicidal.

Plus, we’re in a nice little Bermuda triangle where our kids feed into fabulous schools with vested teachers that make me want to weep with gratitude. The language resources for my Amharic speakers is over the top, and I have a free pass to attend school each and every day, which I have exercised with zero restraint.

But this is not a post about homeschooling or public schooling. The reason I am happy my kids are in school is not because I lack the organization to educate five kids (which I do), it’s not because I’ve chosen a career with a moderate workload (which I have), and it’s not because I’m a little sloppy on details and my kids would likely graduate with a sixth-grade education (which they would).

It’s because parenting right now is EXHAUSTING and the mental break is keeping me afloat.

On July 22nd, we came down the escalator at the Austin airport with Remy. On August 21st, we came down the same escalator with Ben. These were two of the happiest days of my life.

I am crying with joy. Remy is ready to sprint like FloJo from the screaming white people.

Insert audio of yelling and cheering. GAH, why was she so clingy?

One month later: Here comes my man and my boy. This pic makes me verclempt.

The 7 Hatmakers on the same continent. You’ve been warned, America.

After an arduous adoption journey, our kids were safe in our arms, tucked into their bunk beds their dad built with his own two hands, surrounded by the dearest, most sincere community we have ever known. God delivered them from poverty and abandonment back into a family, no longer alone in this big world; now wanted and loved and welcomed with great fervor.

The end.

Not.

Remy gave us about 12 hours of honeymooning until her terror burst onto the scene. Sometimes her fear is so palpable, it literally takes my breath away. New places: terror. New faces: total insecurity. Transitions: help us, Jesus. She has asked us every single day since July 22nd if she is going back to Ethiopia. Every. Single. Day. When I discovered cashews to be a winning legume for her impossible palate, I told her:

“Yay! Good job! Cashews are good for you and will help you grow big and strong!”
“Big? Ah-Rrrremy? Big? Cashews?”
“Yes!”
She pushes them away and starts crying.
Once again, I am bewildered and befuddled.
“No! No Ah-Rrremy grow big! Me big, then go back to Ethiopia! No! Dis is no!”

When a child fears that cashews will once again leave her abandoned on this earth because she will grow out of the age we might still want to parent her, you are dealing with heartbreaking fragility.

Her fear comes out as 1.) defiance, 2.) terror, and 3.) catatonic disassociation, in that order. We’ve been spit on, kicked, disobeyed, refused, clung to, begged for, adored, ignored, and rejected. Triggers are unpredictable. Yesterday, we entered an hour-long Armageddon because she wouldn’t put her bike up. This turned into defiance and disrespect, deal breakers as we establish safe boundaries. When at long last her angry, dark face relented, and she finally uttered in the smallest voice: “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, Daddy,” the dam broke and she cried for thirty minutes, telling us over and over that we don’t love her and she is going back to Africa.

Meanwhile, Ben sidled up quietly next to me as Brandon held Remy’s flailing legs, and asked in a whisper: “Mom? Forever?”

Is this family forever, even with this hysterical girl? Are you forever, even though she is draining the lifeblood out of you and Dad? Am I forever, once my junk starts coming out that I’m holding in? Are you forever for her? For me? Should I be worried that you’ll only put up with this level of chaos for so long?

God love them.

We are parenting damaged, traumatized children; don’t let the pictures fool you. We’re in the weeds. Every minute is on; there is no off. We’ve arrived late, cancelled altogether, hunkered down in therapy mode, missed appointments, failed to answer hundreds of emails in a timely manner, left voicemails unlistened to, texts unread, we’ve restructured, regrouped, replanned, reorganized, we’ve punted and called audibles, we’ve left the bigs on their own, hoping they are functioning well on auto-pilot after a lifetime of healthy stability, and sometimes, we put “Tangled” on for the eleventh time and cry in the bathroom.

We are exhausted beyond measure.

I know what you’re thinking: You asked for this. Yes we did. And we’d ask for it again, with full disclosure and foreknowledge. We would. We would say yes to adoption, to Ben, to Remy. We would do it all over again. We might do it all over again in the future.

That does not mean we are not exhausted.

I know what else you might be thinking: Are you trying to scare people away from adoption? Because this is pretty good propaganda for turning a blind eye to this mess. No I’m not. While adoption is clearly not the answer for the 170 million orphans on earth, it is one answer, and I’ll go to the grave begging more people to open their homes and minds and hearts to abandoned children who are praying for a Mom and Dad and a God who might still see them.

But Brandon and I decided some time ago to go at this honestly, with truthful words and actual experiences that might encourage the weary heart or battle some of the fluffy, damaging semi-truths about adopting. Because let me tell you something: If you are intrigued by the idea of adoption, with the crescendoing storyine and happy airport pictures and the sigh-inducing family portrait with the different skin colors and the feely-feel good parts of the narrative, please find another way to see God’s kingdom come.

You cannot just be into adoption to adopt; you have to be into parenting.

And it is hard, hard, intentional, laborious work. Children who have been abused, abandoned, neglected, given away, given up, and left alone are shaken so deeply, so intrinsically, they absolutely require parents who are willing to wholly invest in their healing; through the screaming, the fits, the anger, the shame, the entitlement, the bed-wetting, the spitting, the rejection, the bone-chilling fear. Parents who are willing to become the safe place, the Forever these children hope for but are too terrified to believe in just yet.

But “yet” is a powerful word in the context of faith, if we are indeed to believe in the unseen and hope for what has not materialized.

I followed a God into this story who heals and redeems, who restores wasted years and mends broken places. This God specializes in the Destroyed. I’ve seen it. I’ve been a part of it. I have His ancient Word that tells of it. I love a Jesus who made reconciliation his whole mission. My children will not remain broken. They are loved by too good a Savior. I will not remain exhausted and spent. I am loved by too merciful a Father.

So today, I’m writing for you who are somewhere “after the airport.” The big moment is over, and you are living in the aftermath when the collective grief or euphoria has passed. You lost a parent, a sibling, a friend, a child. The experience mobilized every single human being who loves you, and they rallied, gathered, carried you. And now, it’s three months later on a random Tuesday, and the sting has worn off for everyone else, and you are left in your sorrow.

I’m writing for those of you who had the oh-so-wanted baby after the cheers and showers and Facebook fervor, and now you’re struggling with a depression so dark and deep, you are afraid to say it out loud. To you who moved across the country in obedience – you left your family, church, community, your jobs – and now the headline has passed and you are lonely and unanchored. For my friends who’ve brought their adopted children home and the media frenzy has died down, and you are holding a screaming toddler, a fragile kindergartener, an angry teen, trying to catch your breath and make it through the day without bawling while everyone else has gone back to their regularly scheduled programs…I’m with you today.

More importantly, God is with you today. He remains in the chaos long after it has lost its shine. When the delivered meals have stopped and the attention has waned, Jesus remains. He sticks with us long after it is convenient or interesting. If you feel alone today in your new normal, would you please receive this bit of beauty: this simple Scripture recited billions of times throughout the ages, perhaps without the poetry of David or precision of Paul, but with enough truth to sustain the weariest traveler:

“Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your God goes with you; He will never leave you nor forsake you” (Deut. 31:6).

He will never leave.

Never forsake.

Never.

For my readers who love someone living “after the airport,” the big moment – be it a blessed high or a devastating low – is never the completion. The grief and struggle, the work and effort, the healing and restoring comes later. Will you call your friend who lost her mom to cancer five months ago? Will you check in on your friends who adopted this spring? Email your neighbor who took a big risk and moved or changed jobs or quit to stay home. For the love of Moses, do you have a friend who stepped out and started a church last year? Bring him a lasagna and do not be alarmed if he sobs into his french bread.

Trust me when I tell you that although we are all having hilarious moments like this:

And precious moments like this:

…we are still in the thick of hard, exhausting work, so if you ask me if these are the happiest days of my life (which a ton of you have), and my eyes kind of glaze over and I say through a tight-lipped smile like a robot, “Yes. Sure. Of course. This is my dream life”…I am lying. I am lying so you won’t feel uncomfortable when I tell you, “Actually, I haven’t had a shower in three days, I lost my temper with my uncontrollable daughter this morning and had to walk outside, I’m constantly cleaning up pee because uncircumcised tee-tee goes sideways onto walls, and sometimes when my two littles are asleep and we’re downstairs with the original three kids who are so stable and healthy and easy, it creates a nostalgia so intense, I think I might perish. But enough about me. How are you?”

But that would be weird. So I say, “Yes. I am so happy.”

If you are living “after the airport,” how I wish I could transplant my community into your life; friends who have loved us so completely and exhaustively, I could weep just thinking about it. Maybe one of the most brilliant ways God “never leaves us” and “never forsakes us” is through the love of each other. Maybe He knew that receiving love from people with skin on is the most excellent way, so He gave us an entire set of Scriptures founded upon community and sacrificial love for one another. I guess He realized that if we obeyed, if we became more like His Son, then no one would ever want for mercy when their chips were down. No one. Good plan.

Oh let us be a community who loves each other well. Because someone is always struggling through the “after the airport” phase, when the chords of human kindness become a lifeline of salvation. Let us watch for the struggling members of our tribe, faking it through sarcasm or self-deprecation or a cheerfully false report. May we refuse to let someone get swallowed up in isolation, drowning in grief or difficulties that seem too heavy to let anyone else carry. Let’s live this big, beautiful Life together, rescuing each other from the brink and exposing the unending compassion of our Jesus who called us to this high level of community; past the romantic beginnings, through the messy and mundane middles, and all the way to the depths.

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Jennifer Hatmaker

Jen Hatmaker has partnered with her husband Brandon in full-time ministry for 15 years, and they pastor Austin New Church in Texas. After a nauseating stint as an entitled, bored Christian, Jen and her family joined the battle for those on the margins. They pioneered Restore Austin, connecting churches to local and global non-profits for the individual, collective, and social renewal of Austin. Jen is a popular speaker at retreats, conferences, and seminars all around the country. She is the author of nine books and Bible studies, including Interrupted: An Adventure in Relearning the Essentials of Faith

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I Will Fight; Love Will Win

Parenting turns ordinary folk into warriors. My mom will attest that I was a very strong-willed, stubborn child. That stubbornness serves me exceedingly well now as a mother. It feels as though all I do some days is pit my will against the wills of my children

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She Called Me Foreigner

Ferenge.

I will never forget the first time she referred to me as “foreigner.” I laughed it off. Afterall, this is all I was to her at that point.

Once home, she and her sister made ferenge references here and there. They never called us that directly. But, hearing that word stung.

I recently realized something, however. In our girls’ eyes, us initially being foreigners is not the negative thing that it seems. In fact, I honestly think that it has special meaning for them.

I should have seen it when they started playing ferenge with their babies, happily pretending that they were coming to take them away in a makeena [car].

I started to get clued in when I put on a pair of tennis shoes, and our youngest excitedly exclaimed, “Mommy, this ferenge shoes!” They were, indeed, the ones that I wore daily on both of our trips to Ethiopia.

And, I finally fully figured it out when they started affectionately referring to their family photobooks (the ones that we brought to them at the orphanage on our first trip) as their ferenge books.

Because to our daughters, this is simply a part of their story. Two ferenges came for them. Loved them. Brought them home. We weren’t just any ferenges. We were their ferenges. And now, we are parents and daughters. It’s just one of the beautiful ways that God brings families together.

By request today, we read one of the girls’ ferenge books at naptime. And, with a smile, I asked our oldest [as I sometimes do], “Who is ferenge?”

“You ferenge,” she said. “Now you Mommy.”

I sure am, honey. It’s amazing, isn’t it?

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Elya Starek

Elya and her husband, Rob, have been married for 6 years and reside in Cleveland, Ohio. They have recently been blessed with two incredible daughters, ages 3 and 5, who they brought home from Ethiopia this past April. They also have two crazy but lovable dogs. Stop by Elya’s blog to read more about their daughters, their adventures as new parents, and their passion for orphans and the poor.

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When Attachment Takes Time

This is one of my favorite pictures of Evie and me. With each of our children, there are two or three pictures that Rachel has captured which so completely reflect my relationship with each of them and the love I feel for them.

Maybe the reason that seeing her wrapped in my arms means so much is because getting her here has been a journey, one that has taken time and tenacity. Evie has had to learn how to attach to her new parents like all adopted children. From stories we’ve heard from other adoptive parents, sometimes this transition is relatively seamless. Other times, children are fearfully clingy, some act out, still others push their parents away. Through no fault of her own, for Evie, this process of attachment was long and difficult.

Rachel was really the one who, through stubborn, determined love kept working with our precious daughter, patiently demonstrating to her that no matter how much Evie tried to keep her little heart at arm’s length, she would be a deeply loved child.

And slowly but surely, in fits and starts, Evie began reciprocating and trusting us with her own love. Looking back, it is interesting to realize that it happened in cycles. She would attach, then withdraw for awhile, then attach again; neither Evie nor us certain if she was attaching for good or if it was another trial run, where she was experimenting with trusting us just to see what it was like.

During one of those trial runs, we felt confident that she was nearly there. She had been home with us for almost a year; it felt like she had finally reached a secure place. So we opened ourselves to the possibility of growing our family once again, this time through pregnancy. Shortly after we saw those pink lines, we discovered that it had been another trial run on her part. This time, she pushed away harder, longer, and more intensely than she ever had before. Through morning sickness and all, Rachel spent her days loving the heck out of our little girl. Then slowly but surely–so slowly that I can’t even put my finger on when–she was there for good. She’d finally taken down the fierce protective shield she kept around her heart.

I don’t want to make it sound like it was easy–for Evie or for us. Too often, I’ve heard or read adoption stories where the parents are portrayed as patient heroes, making the rest of us mere mortals feel like incompetent failures. There were frustrating and heartbreaking days, with tears and sometimes a great deal of fear, where commitment over feeling is what ultimately carried the day.

Thank you Rachel for the unconditional, unbending, unyielding love you show to all of us… Jude, Indigo, Evangeline, our growing baby and me. And thank you, Evangeline, for finally opening your heart to us.

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Dan and Rachel live in San Antonio, TX and have grown their family through birth and adoption (Ethiopia) and are expecting their 4th child (biological) in October. Dan grew up in Liberia, West Africa where part of his heart still resides. Rachel is a doula and lactation consultant and is originally from Northern, WI. As transplants to South Central Texas, they appreciate the big skies and mild winters; the summers, however, are another story.

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Encore: More Learning Through the Adoption Process

Originally published on her blog on September 25th, 2010 and on We Are Grafted In on February 21, 2011….

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I woke up last night–okay, let me rephrase–Trevor woke me up last night at 2:00 with a bad dream. I quickly got him back to bed, tucked in tight, listening to Christmas music (his choice–good boy!), and went back to bed.

I was still awake at 3:30 when Jay Henry came in after having a nightmare.

I simply could not turn my brain off.

I truly feel like I’m failing Emebet. In every way possible. We make it through each day. But we are not moving forward. Every word, behavior, action, gesture and complaint from her cause me to react poorly. Even if it’s nothing extreme or purposeful, my immediate response and feeling is dislike. I do not like her. I do not like her being here. And I make her know it. This is not always the case, but often.

This has created a huge conflict in me. Why in the world do I act this way? How can my love for my biological kids be real and genuine, if I can treat another child so differently and with contempt? Why, when I am constantly praying and asking God to change our circumstances, do I go right back to these wordly, selfish actions? I know that my actions towards her cause her behaviors. I have no doubt about it. But it seems impossible to change my feelings. And we all know that it is so hard to act one way when you feel the exact opposite. I have always worn my emotions on my sleeve, and Kent can clearly verify that I cannot hide anything.

But last night, as I lay awake, praying for God to change this in me, my thought process changed a little. I turned the tables, and played my own devil’s advocate for our situation. If I were the one in a new home with new people and a family that was already established, and I was treated the way that I treat her, how could I possibly feel loved, cherished, important, or equal?

I absolutely wouldn’t. I would feel sorrow. Pain. Loss. And I, like her, would respond with defiance and anger. She is acting exactly like I am.

We are both experiencing pain. We have both experienced loss. We are both living in the midst of sorrow. And neither one of us is handling it well.

Immediately upon returning home, we were convinced that she needed rules and structure, which we quickly put in place. In doing so, I think we skipped over the part where we needed to love, love, love. Unconditionally and without reserve. No rules. No expectations of her. We seem to still be in that place. Expecting so much (partly because she is so capable). Giving so little.

My thoughts then went beyond that.

Most of you know what a scary beginning we had with Masyn. Almost losing your child creates gratitude that is huge. Deep down, she holds a special place that no one else can, because I know how close we came to not having her. She is my precious, precious girl who causes tears often because I am overwhelmed with love for her. Completely overwhelmed. It is really hard, then, to add in a child who creates the exact opposite feelings.

So after putting myself in Eme’s place last night, I put Masyn in Eme’s place and tried to imagine her losing us, her family. I then imagined the pain, terror, and uncertainty that she would face being relocated to another country where she didn’t speak the language, and never seeing her sweet brothers again.

And then I tried to invision her being placed in a home where she had a new mom who disliked her, and couldn’t see her for the amazing little girl that she is. And where she was yelled at all the time just because she was different than their existing daughter. And where she was not loved on in the midst of her grief and adjustment, but was told to stop crying because it was annoying.

This completely broke my heart. I would be devastated to know that my daughter were in such a place. I would be heartbroken that this little girl, who was so amazingly special to us, was being treated indifferently in what was supposed to be her new “family.”

I spent much of the rest of my “awake” time asking God to forgive me–yet-again–and to help me, every moment, shower Eme with love. I want to create an environment of security for her. I want her to know that she is loved, just like the others. That she is special. That we want her here. I want my behaviors towards her to be so different than what they have been. Mostly, I want my heart to want her here. I don’t want it to be fake. I want it to be genuine.

Today has been good. Her behaviors are still present, but my reaction to them is different. I am calm and loving in my responses. I am hugging and kissing on her any time I get the chance. I am trying to look at her through different eyes.

I know our struggles aren’t magically over by any means. But getting back to that place of surrender is key. God can’t change me when I’m being stubborn and closed-minded, and I have been living in that place. Bitterness has crept in and taken up residence. Last night, lying in my bed while the rest of the house slept, I wrestled with God, and He returned me to the place where He needs and wants me to be. Completely dependent. Completely reliant.

Hopeful.

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Lindy Gregg

Kent and Lindy have been married for 10 years and have three biological children (two sons ages 8 and 6 and a daughter who is four) and our newest addition, Eme, who is 2

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When Love Isn’t There

I was laying in bed this morning thinking about attachment. I am almost positive that our little ones are going to have a hard time attaching to us. What dawned on me, however, is that I may not love them right off the bat. Loving them may not come naturally like it did with Lily. I pondered this and turned to the Bible to see what God’s word says about love.

Of course, the first place to look is 1 Corinthians 13.

Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.

After reading through that list, I realized that there is no mention of feelings. Love is NOT a feeling; it is what we do.

Let all that you do be done in love.
1 Corinthians 16:14

Love is an action, not a feeling.

This is My commandment, that you love one another, just as I have loved you.
John 15:12

Love is a command. God doesn’t ask us to feel love. He commands us to love.

I will not hold on to the hope that the feelings of love will come. My hope is in Christ. Through Him I need to purpose to love my children. Christ is not looking for me to just want feelings of love, He wants me to act in love. All I need to do is follow the list in 1 Corinthians 13. That IS love! When I am patient, kind, and not seeking for myself, then I AM loving my children.

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Liz Grabowski

Liz Grabowski is a daughter of Christ, wife to Jon and mother to five. Two of their children are born to them and three are adopted from Henan, China. Liz and her husband are currently in China adopting a 4-year-old boy and a 2-year-old girl. Their trip has been filled with challenges and joy. Click here to read about their journey so far and what is to come.

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If you haven’t already, go enter the WAGI birthday giveaway at this post.

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How It’s Going, Really

It’s been a very difficult week. I had written a blog post several days ago which I decided not to post. Too raw. Too honest. Too much in the emotion of the moment. And, I was not in the mood to be misunderstood, criticized, or told I hadn’t read the right adoption books. It was the right decision. Several days later, I am feeling better, more hopeful, less exhausted. Always good to “feel better.” Then again, feelings can be rather unreliable.

For a couple of days this week, my house was filled with the screams and cries of a small, angry, 14-month-old Chinese boy. I don’t know if he was sick, tired, grieving, or all three. But, I know I could not make him happy, try as I might. I am not unfamiliar with this frustration, this inability to satisfy my offspring. There was a time in recent years when my older daughter and I struggled and fought daily. She cried and whined. I yelled and punished. We got nowhere. There were days I honestly did not like her, and I was sure the feeling was mutual. Now, more than a year later, our relationship is marked by sweet tenderness and great affection. All that to say, I did not become a parent so I could make my kids happy all the time, though it’s nice when it happens. And to quote my husband, “I did not adopt this boy so I could win any popularity contests.” Presently, our younger daughter is, to say the least, a challenge. She was majorly ticked off that we left her for 2 weeks and then came home with a new baby. She is getting into all sorts of mischief, one episode of which necessitated a call to poison control. I fear she is turning my hair grey. (Sigh.) There are moments I do not like her much. But, we have 2 years of history, not counting the 9 months she grew inside me. We are attached. We are bonded. I am crazy about her, mischief and tantrums and all.

So it’s hard not to feel horrible that a few days of inexplicable screaming from Jiushu sent me to the dark place it did. I want to delight in him. I want to feel love for him. I do not want to feel like I’m babysitting or watching a child in the church nursery.

Last night, our friends came over with their four (biological) children. I shared a bit with the mom about how things are going and later felt the need to apologize for maybe sounding too negative. She responded wisely and beautifully:

No need for sorrys. This is a huge life-changing thing you have done, and it is okay for it to be this way. This relatively short season of getting to know each other, adapt, and grow your love for each other is your womb time. With a biological kid, for moms it is very passive and generally automatic. Yet deep connections are formed. They make the stress of a newborn doable despite it being very hard to assimilate a little life to a whole new world. You just get to do womb time with Jiushu on the outside with two-way opinions and outsiders looking on. But, I have every confidence that a new life will be birthed out of this time. So nourish physically, provide a protective, comforting, and safe environment, and allow time for unseen connections to bind your hearts together. It’s gonna happen…

I read (and reread) a few blog posts this morning which strengthened my resolve to be transparent and honest. Here’s one post in which a mom shares openly about her panic just after being matched with the boy they would eventually adopt…a fantastic testimony. And the comments on her original post encouraged me as much as the actual post! Statements like these:

When you get home you may regret your decision to adopt…you might even feel like you made the biggest mistake! But that this is normal and to be expected.

Don’t try to analyze/evaluate how you are feeling at every given moment. Just go with it and know that bonding takes time – like months and years, not days or weeks.

I think that adoption is a terrifying thing. It is part of the emotion that makes us lean in to God. Begging Him for His strength and clarity. Thanks for being vulnerable in posting this. People need to talk about these feelings more…I think these feelings come to almost everyone at some point in their adoption journey.

Whoa.

So, if I don’t expect Jiushu to fully attach to us in a matter of days or weeks, might it also take a bit longer for us to attach to him in a way that feels warm and genuine?

I want to bring my fear and weakness to the feet of Jesus, letting Him refine me and clothe me in His strength. I am selfish. He gives generously. I get agitated. He is slow to anger. I am confused and clueless. He is perfect wisdom. I make mistakes. His grace covers me. My love is weak. His love is oh-so-strong. And because I am His, I have access to all that He is.

Which means this little family of mine–every one of us–is going to be just fine.

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Jerusha Staggs

Jerusha has been married to Vince for 9 years. A former high school math teacher, she now stays home with and home schools her four children–ages 6, 4, 2, and 1. Their youngest son was adopted from China (Jiangsu province) in May 2011. Jerusha and Vince are worship leaders and are passionate about experiencing the presence of God as an everyday reality–even in the midst of diaper blowouts and chaos management. Read more about how it’s going on Jerusha’s blog.

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