Adoption and Faith Archives - Page 10 of 44

December 15, 2014December 13, 2014

Things no one told me about adopting a child with special needs

Before Afua joined our family, I read many books, I researched the best doctors and hospitals and I spoke (or facebook messaged, texted, skyped…) with moms who had adopted children with similar special needs. But no matter how much I prepared, some things still took me by surprise. Maybe they never came up in conversations or maybe this is the stuff we don’t usually talk about. Adoption is a beautiful way to grow a family (we had adopted before and knew this). Adopting a child with known special needs is a beautiful journey with its unique challenges that stem from loss, trauma and often unmet medical needs.

Learning the child’s diagnosis

I remember sitting at our Neurologist’s office and he patiently reviewed Afua’s MRI results with me. He described the areas of her brain that were affected by the lack of oxygen, that it likely happened during a certain part of the pregnancy and that in the end, the diagnosis given to her in Ghana, cerebral palsy, was correct. Hearing those words took my breath away, made me speechless as if I had no clue and this was a newborn baby with a devastating, unexpected diagnosis. I knew it was coming. This wasn’t a surprise. But in that instant I grieved the diagnosis as if I had not known. Adoptive moms are not superheroes, we grieve our children’s diagnoses as all mothers do. We may know what’s coming when a doctor confirms the test result. But it’s just as real and sad.

Then came a diagnosis I did not expect. The audiologist came to me as Afua was still in surgery.

“Profound hearing loss”
“it is unlikely she hears speech at all”
“deaf”

Tears were streaming down my face as I listened to her explain waves and decibels and hearing levels. It was like a foreign language and all I wanted was to hug my girl. But she was still in surgery so I sat in disbelief.

We are not extra tough as we process new diagnoses that sometimes come unexpectedly. When we say “yes” to adopting a child with special needs, it is not because we are expecting an easy road or we somehow are up for anything. We say yes to a child and we join their journey of medical diagnoses, different abilities and navigating a world that isn’t always as accepting as we want it to be. Because we firmly believe that every child regardless of their differences is deserving of a loving home and a family. And in the midst of our “yes”, we realize how much we needed them too.

When others notice your child is different

I remember the first time we went to a high school football game. Afua was in a stroller and I took her to the concession stand. Two little girls stood in front of us and one kept looking back. Then came the dreaded words: “What’s wrong with HER?” Don’t worry, I handled the situation with adult maturity, kindness and compassion (with a little bit of education thrown in for good measure). But it bothered me. It made me sad that there were children who were not around children with special needs. Children who didn’t know a nice way to ask why a child was in a stroller when they should be walking.

The truth is, as I have parented Afua, the less I think of her disabilities. I see my daughter. I know her smiles and her expressions. We have a language and I know how her body moves. None of it is strange or unusual to me. But other people (strangers usually) will remind me that she is not typically abled. They do it by their looks, their stares and their comments.

Friends may or may not stick around

This journey is hard to understand, right? I’ve had people ask me why we would choose to parent a child with special needs. When you adopt, you get to pick, they say. Some have hinted that we are trying to prove ourselves to be special, faith filled or we just may not have thought this through. They know our time alone as a couple is non existent. They see the way our life is stretched thin. Some choose to continue our friendships (even thought we aren’t always the most consistent company). Others have stopped asking, and that’s ok too.

What I have found is that the friendships that have remained have become so special and authentic. There is no pretending that this is all easy and smooth. They also see the absolute beauty that exists, the way Afua is changing all of us and how she is an equal member among the siblings. Those who take the time to know Afua get why she is in our family. She belongs with us and we belong with her.

You will doubt your abilities and it’s ok

I am not an organized person by nature and it is a vital skill when parenting a medically complex kiddo. I also work part-time which makes things challenging. Afua is one of 5 children and they also have appointments and needs to be met. Honestly, there are days that I wonder how to juggle it all. In the process of figuring it out, I have learned to let go control (so hard!!!) I’ve reached out for help (so humbling!!!) and I have had to find organizational tools that work for me.I am still struggling with this area of parenting but modern technology is helping me keep most of my appointments :)I know I can’t do this by myself and I don’t have to. I have a great husband, wonderful family and friends and also a caregiver that fills in as needed. Our life is richer because we aren’t doing it all alone.

You will find allies in the most unlikely places

Parenting a child with special needs means you spend a lot of time in local children’s hospitals, therapy clinics, surgery waiting rooms and doctor’s offices. There you will meet
other families who are exhausted yet so proud of their children just as you are. We give each other “the nod” and in silence we know that there are others who are walking this path too. And whether we chose this journey or we discovered a diagnosis along the way, there is a mutual acknowledgment of the hard.
You will meet therapists who are innovative, energetic and supportive. They tell you to take a break and get a cup of coffee while they help your child achieve a new skill or make them more comfortable. You meet doctors who devote their lives to children and their families and you are not just a number. They explain things in a way that makes sense and guide you through tough decisions as if they were making them for their own children. Allies are everywhere and it makes things a bit better.

I share these thoughts in hopes that I am not alone. That others may feel the same grief, the same joy and the same purpose in parenting a child with special needs. That maybe your friendships were tested also and the invitations are fewer. That maybe your child wasn’t adopted but you recognize these feelings as universal. And maybe this opens a conversation about special needs, adoption or even prompts someone to reach out to a family raising a child with special needs.

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Jenni is a mother of 5, married for 19 years to her high school sweetheart Eric. Her children range in age from preschool to high school by birth and adoption. Jenni works part-time in a charter school system providing therapy services for children with special needs. Jenni is a advocate for orphaned children with special needs and is passionate about family preservation. When she is not driving her minivan to various activities and appointments, she can be found blogging at Joyful Journey.

December 10, 2014May 16, 2022

When Life Leaves You Flinching

When we first brought her home a few of our normal-to-us family ways made her skittish. Her body stiffened when I hugged her. She sat at the end of the couch when we all piled on for a cuddle. And she retreated behind her eyes at the mention of a “special treat.” A suggested trip to the pool surely meant:it would rain. A surprise right-turn into the ice cream shop and she was already anticipating when the sweetness would be melted and her mouth was empty again.

She braced herself against all that was good, almost as if her insides said, don’t trust this moment. It will turn on you. Every good thing was too good to be true when the sum of her life was just pieced-together circumstance. Seeming happenstance — and often of pain.

“There wasn’t anything I didn’t like!” she replied as I asked her, just days after we met, about her years when dozens of children were the closest thing she had to a family and she lived afraid of the night that had no door to close on the room where she and her peers slept. “Everything was good.”

This little girl was forced to redefine “good” around bleak circumstances, just to survive. It was safe for her to call what was bad, good, and to poke holes in what was truly good. Her orphan-heart made the world small so that her small world could finally be contained, controlled.

Just a few months after she’d been ours, Nate came up behind her and lifted his arms to enfold her and that wee thing — at the site of those arms, slightly raised — she flinched.

His daddy-embrace made her flinch.

That space, safest to any little pixie growing up in a family, wasn’t safe to her. Too good to be true, said that flinch. You can’t trust good or its giver. Because tomorrow it all may die.

~~~

We’ve spent twelve years of our married life sleeping through the night. Now I find myself awake at three a.m. with a corner of the room illuminated by our very first bedroom night light, watching the rise and fall of this bundled babe’s chest … and tempted with my own flinch.

I got on a plane with ten bags packed for ten months-plus and nothing else but a prayer to get my girls from Africa. I fought fear while flying over the ocean’s gap between my daughters and me. I disrupted the birth order, twice, and turned an informed-eye on the statistics. I fought fear over what “they” say is a good and right way to grow a family. I fought fear over what may never be when something like a hundred months passed of that silly little test saying “negative.” Yet, here I am checking that four-week old chest to make sure it’s still rising and falling at three a.m.

I’m not all that different from her, bracing myself against the next big hit, wondering when life’s circumstances might turn on me. I’m not all that different from that orphan who subtly believes that a small, controlled life is where it’s at. I could bring myself to tears just envisioning all the “what if’s” that could be waiting around the corner of my life.

I’m still flinching.

While the fight against fear is good and right, this time around He’s more overtly nudging me from defense to offense: find My love. Because this God-Man that shatters our flesh-formed understandings of love gives us a love of His own that can’t share a room with fear.

They can’t mix.

The logical end of all my thinking is revealed for what it truly is when I fear — when I flinch. This bracing myself that’s become habit — even when the exquisite, holy-other hand of the Father interrupts my flesh-spun world — tells the truth about what I believe. Fear comes when I believe that the best of this life rests in an event or a life-position. Fear comes when the end of all things, to me, is something I could physically touch. Fear comes when the intangibles are small and what’s right in front of me is the best I believe I can get.

Fear grows, wild, where loves does not.

Love — the love of this God-Man — friends, it’s chasing me.

And it’s so much more than what even my short twenty years of pursuing Him has yet revealed it to be.

It’s good. It’s always good. Even the worst outcome has His tender hands cupped around it. If I let Him, I can feel the coarseness of the God-made-man fingerprints against my uncertainty. His love has smiling eyes and a “c’mon little girl, you and I will climb that peak together” expression. It’s fiercely loyal; He doesn’t turn when I do. He has a name for me that no one else knows. When my knees buckle and I weep at what looks to be the world falling down around me, He whispers to me: I am near.

If I peer through this crazy-miraculous blessing of an infant that my broken-body formed and cracked open to birth and see the kind eyes of Father on the other side, who has positioned my whole life as a pursuit of knowing and living out of His love, I won’t fear. I can’t be both near enough to smell His skin and living in fear of the next time life will knock me down.

When I move from knowing about His perfect love to feeling hot-tears on my face as I recount that early morning brush I had with the God-Man who said my name in the dark, I stop flinching when life works right, and I don’t re-learn to flinch when life’s circumstances are “bad.”

Have you felt His skin against yours?

Maybe today is the day to stop fighting back the fear, to close the door to your closet and ask Him to smell the scent of His skin.

(Can you just imagine a Church across the earth who didn’t flinch, but instead — in even the very-worst circumstances — expected His goodness, because they had a behind-closed-doors experiences with Him as good? We might just make an imprint on that world around us that lives ever-flinching.)

Looking for a practical application? Consider the habit of adoration. There’s a group of us over here, daily declaring against our stale-old opinions of Him who He really is, according to His Word. And for more on adoration:

Adoration Explained

Why I Adore

Showing Up

First, third, fourth, sixth and seventh photos compliments of Mandie Joy. Second and fifth photos compliments of Cherish Andrea Photography.

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Sara is a wife to Nate and a mother of five whose arms stretched wide across the ocean to Africa. After almost a decade of Christian life she was introduced to pain and perplexity and, ultimately, intimacy with Jesus. Her book, Every Bitter Thing is Sweet released October 7, 2014 via Zondervan, is an invitation — back to hope, back to healing, back to a place that God is holding for you—a place where the unseen is more real than what the eye can perceive. A place where even the most bitter things become sweet. She writes regularly at EveryBitterThingIsSweet.com.

December 8, 2014December 8, 2014

Adoption is my Jericho

As I sat in church this morning listening to a lesson on Joshua chapters 5 and 6, God grabbed my heart.

We are in the middle of our third adoption. A calling from God, yes. A child chosen for us by Him, absolutely! But even in the midst of this clearly directed path by God, I needed a heart check. Sometimes He needs to step in and remind us that it is ALL about Him. Even when we are doing something He has asked us to do, our flesh can step in and take our focus off of Him.

Travel with me back to Canaan. After 40 years of wandering in the desert God’s people are ready to enter their promised land, but there were obstacles in the way…… big obstacles, physical as well as spiritual. Big walls and armies as well as seeds of doubt and fear.

Joshua was a man of God. He was appointed by God to be the leader of His people. Yet, even as he stepped out in faith to lead his people into battle, God stepped in to check Joshua’s faith and trust in Him and His plan over their plan. Are Joshua and the Israelites truly ready to step out in complete faith, no matter what, even if it seemed a little crazy?

“Now it came about when Joshua was by Jericho, that he lifted up his eyes and looked, and behold, a man was standing opposite him with his sword drawn in his hand, and Joshua went to him and said to him, “Are you for us or for our adversaries?” He said, “No; rather I indeed come now as captain of the host of the Lord.” And Joshua fell on his face to the earth, and bowed down, and said to him, “What has my lord to say to his servant?” The captain of the Lord’s host said to Joshua, “Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place where you are standing is holy.” And Joshua did so. (Joshua 5:13-15, NASB)

When God calls us to step out in faith, it is not always easy and sometimes it doesn’t even make sense, but that is what makes God God and us not! Let’s consider God’s plan for the Israelites to defeat Jericho.

“Then the Lord said to Joshua, ‘See, I have delivered Jericho into your hands, along with its king and its fighting men. March around the city once with all the armed men. Do this for six days. Have seven priests carry trumpets of rams’ horns in front of the ark. On the seventh day, march around the city seven times, with the priests blowing the trumpets. When you hear them sound a long blast on the trumpets, have the whole army give a loud shout; then the wall of the city will collapse and the army will go up, everyone straight in.’’ (Joshua 6:2-5, NIV)

How CRAZY AMAZING was God’s victory plan over Jericho! He asked them to do something from a human military perspective that made absolutely no sense, so that there would be absolutely no question that victory was the Lord’s!

Adoption is my promised land, but initially, there were obstacles in the way. Big obstacles embedded deep in my heart.

I had plans……normal earthly plans. Plans for red headed, freckled children, but God had other plans.

CRAZY AMAZING PLANS! Once I accepted God’s plan I went full steam ahead doing all I could to make it happen, and sometimes getting frustrated when things didn’t happen according to my schedule. How easy it is to forget that this isn’t my plan. It’s God’s PLAN! A plan to bring glory to His name, not mine.

Adoption is also my Jericho. His timing is perfect, and many times throughout our adoption journey, He has done CRAZY AMAZING things that could only be attributed to Him. Sometimes He whispers and sometimes He shouts, “Remember, I am the Lord, Suzanne. You are standing on holy ground.”

So let us shout at the top of our lungs like the Israelites at the Battle of Jericho as we move forward with our adoptions, knowing that our Creator and Savior is leading the charge for us and our children who are more precious to Him than we could ever fathom.

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After struggling with infertility for 5 years, God led Suzanne and her husband Adam to His Plan A for their lives—adoption! Their daughter, Grace Lihua, came into their lives in 2011 from the Fujian Province, China. Their son, Anthony Jianyou, joined their family in January of 2013 from Shanghai, and another little girl will be joining their family in 2015 from the Hunan Province. After a career in politics, Suzanne is thankful for God’s provision in their lives that now allows her to work part time as a Pilates instructor while home schooling their children and working as a part of the WAGI leadership team. You can follow their adoption journey and life on their blog, Surpassing Greatness.

December 1, 2014December 1, 2014

Beautiful and Hard

It has been some time since I last blogged. I have been busy being mommy and not had much time to write about it. But God is working in me through this new chapter of my life and I felt it was time to share it. So here goes…

I anticipated adoption would be hard, but I was unprepared for what has been revealed as my toughest challenge.

My transformation.

Let me be real. Adoption has brought a new level of responsibility that at times overwhelms me.

My response to this calling is often not a reflection of His work in me. As much as I’d like to say its going great and I’m doing fine, if I am honest its much harder than I had imagined, but not in the way you might expect. Lily and Liam are doing so well that I am in awe of how smooth they have assimilated into our family. The splendor is in the effortless love that is developing between these two precious hearts and mine. Each day our connection grows a little more and a little more and a little more. It is moving to watch them enjoy so many firsts, to hear their giggles and to witness their smiles. It is hard to discover their wounded hearts more each day and know I cannot fix it; but seeing them grow to new depths and new heights despite their difficult beginnings makes all the hard work of transformation worth the pain. They are beautiful and happy children and I am falling in love with them more and more each day. Oh they are not perfect, and we have had some bumps in the road, but overall their transition has been incredible to witness. So what’s the problem then?

Me.

I humbled by my weak human flesh.

It is uncomfortable to say. But if I am being real, it is my sin that has been unearthed in this life altering excavation. You see as I try harder and harder each day to endure the pressures of all these changes it feels overwhelming and I go to that place—that place where I think I can control the outcome. When life is out of control, I seek to put it back under control—or so I think I can. Only I can’t. But instead of leaning into the Father’s arms and seeking Him more, I turn away and try to fix it on my own.

Only I’m powerless. Instead I battle whispers of failure in my head. Yes, me who has faith to move mountains for this unlikely adoption, but who cannot live daily with strength to make it through the afternoon. I am a warrior fighting for the hearts of my children. I long for them to seek and love God more than anything. I want them to make right choices, be respectful, kind hearted and obedient. When I do not see immediate results to all my parental efforts—well, let’s just say it isn’t pretty!

Then God reminds me…

“Not by might, not by power, but by my Spirit says the Lord.” Zachariah 4:6

In my helplessness I finally recognize that I am striving to do this alone—in my own strength. And then I recall the epic story. David, barely more than a boy, fearlessly conquered Goliath. How did he do it? Faith. He used what he knew best—a sling and a stone. David’s combat history with wild beasts had prepared him for the confrontation with Goliath. As a shepherd he had experienced encounters with fierce animals that threatened his sheep. If one of his flock was carried off by a lion or a bear, David went after it, striking the beast dead. This time would be no different—David would use his experience to face his enemy while giving credit to God for the victory. So it is no surprise to note that when David saw Goliath moving towards him, instead of shrinking back, he ran forward to attack. With one precise shot, a single stone centered on Goliaths head and the 9-foot giant toppled over—dead. Victory was in the hands of God’s people because of the faith of one young man who understood that this unmatched battle was not his to win. He needed only to move forward and do his part and trust God to make up the difference.

I must admit that there are times when the work of adoption feels like my Goliath. It is a giant that looms over me threatening to take me captive. Yet I am reminded that I need only use my talents and strengths to do my part and God himself will make up the difference. It is ultimately not my battle to win. I may not be a parenting expert, but I am a decorated warrior fighting for the hearts of my children. I am not perfect, but I serve the Almighty who is able to use my small efforts to bring about His plans for these children.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future” – Jeremiah 29:11

Satan wants to use fear of what I lack to cause me to shrink back. He places doubt in my mind—just enough to let fear threaten to become my adversary. But God has planned victory for those who move forward despite the threats that appear to overpower. Nothing can stand against the Almighty. David did not move towards his enemy because he was powerful, rather his faith stood in the power of the Lord who had already delivered him! I love that David faced Goliath with such radical boldness.

As I embrace each day working through the transition of my new life, I recall that God has prepared me for this day. This is not my battle to win. I need only move forward in faith moving towards my enemy (fear)—firmly trusting in God to see us through. As I grow through this season of change, I feel the work of Him pressing me back down into a lump as he labors to refashion me. I sense his gentle hands drawing me into a new shape. I am still the same lump of clay being transformed for a new purpose through this season of change. It is uncomfortable being made into a different vessel and I wish I could say I was not fighting against it—but it hurts—and I resist letting go of my false sense of control. But I have not been called to this adoption because of my perfect self, rather because of Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all that I can ask or imagine.

He is revealing my heart day-by-day, bit-by-bit. He is the potter—I am the clay.

Life as I knew it is no more. Despite my weak flesh, God is in control here, not me. This transformation of them and me, all of us…

It’s beautiful—and hard.

“But those that wait upon the Lord, they will mount up with wings as Eagles, they will run and not be weary, they will walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31

“Do not fear for I am with you; do not be dismayed for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10

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Tiffany is a wife to Kirk and mother of eight including six biological and two newly adopted from China. With a looming financial crisis at the outset of their recent adoption, God took their family on a journey of faith. Having been home just over eight weeks, they are currently working through the transition phase of their new adoption. Tiffany writes an honest account of challenges of adoption and the redemptive work of her savior Jesus Christ at Extravagant Love. Though her faith and limits have been tested, she points that adoption is paving the way for her to grow and experience God’s presence as never before.

November 22, 2014November 22, 2014

Lucy

I can see an airplane from where I am. The tails of cloud widening out behind it. It looks like the flames of the birthday cake candle I saw on the TV in Miss Fu’s office and I can’t help but squint and pinch it with my outstretched fingers. Is it small or big? I have never seen one up close. They are always just dots against the wide, flat sky. And how do they stay up there? God must live in whatever country they come from.

I’ve heard of God and am sure he could make metal fly. At least that’s what Mei Mei says and she knows God. She met him in an ambulance in Beijing when she had her heart surgery. She says he visits our orphanage at night sometimes so I often stay up past lights-out to hear him. Lying on my bed with my eyes closed so Ayi won’t see, I wait. Does he sound like wind? I have heard that he speaks Mandarin and Cantonese and can sing like a bird—at least that’s what Mei Mei says.
I wonder if he knows my mother and father. I have never met them, and Ayi says she is my mother for now, but I know I have parents that love me and will come find me. I must, because Kang Ming’s parents found him. So did Chu Guan’s and Xiao Bo’s. I wonder if I ask God, if he will tell me what they look like. I think my father is tall and thin and solemn, and mother must have beautiful hair like mine. Ayi braids my hair in intricate patterns and I like to think my mom will do the same.

What if God spoke to me and I didn’t understand? Was the sound of the clouds hitting together, him? Or the rain tapping against the roof above me? There have been three rainstorms this month so I hope I haven’t missed it. I tried to listen for a pattern but there was none. I have ruled out the voice booming across the square because it belongs to Mr. Ping and he is very mean. God does not treat people like that.

Because I think God made me and my parents and Ayi. He made us to look like him. To look beautiful. Mei Mei says it says so in the Bible. That’s the book that God wrote that Mei Mei hides under her blankets from Ayi, the one that is black and ripped and smells like old sandals. I want to read it but it’s in a language I have never seen where the letters are all separate and look like little buildings. But Mei Mei tells me that God is our Father. I am not sure what she means by this, but I believe Mei Mei because I always wanted a sister and it makes me happy to know that someone will protect me when the older boys fight and throw rocks and curse at each other. I wish I could meet God though. I wish that if I waved my arm big enough the airplane would see me and come down and take me to meet God. Or at least maybe they could bring me a Bible that is written in Mandarin so I could read it and see if Mei Mei is telling the truth because sometimes she lies about knowing famous people. But the plane is so small now and I can hear the Ayi yelling for mealtime. Her voice is echoing against the yard wall so it sounds like two voices. For a second I thought I heard a pattern, I thought I heard God but Ayi is shouting and I can’t hear past her telling me to stop walking with my eyes closed and come eat. It is mealtime now, but someday I will meet God and my parents. I know that they are there and I will not stop listening.

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My name is Ben. I am a photographer/writer from Phoenixville, PA. My wife, Abbey, and I have been involved with Kelly, Mark and the Sparrow Fund for 3 years and count them among our closest friends. I write to unearth myself, my past, the collective history of my family, from the compression of memory over time. I write for the moment when a bit of dispatched truth pushes out from the din of the everyday and whispers: I made you. Remember me.

November 20, 2014

What I Learned From My Daughter’s Tantrums

I’d never seen a more independent four-year-old. When K came home, she could literally do everything for herself. She dressed and bathed herself, brushed her teeth, got herself a snack. For a while, we were relieved and grateful. These are the things we’ve taught our boys to do for themselves because we want them to be independent and confident. She fit right in. But then it hit us.

She was independent because that’s how she’d survived.

Based on attachment parenting research, we started to re-parent her. We started saying things like, “I know you can brush your teeth, but I would love to take care of you. May I brush your teeth for you tonight?” A little at a time, she started to let her guard down and let go of some control. Later it became, “Can I help with your PJ’s tonight?” to which she would respond, “Because you want to take care of me?” She was getting it.

Now, we are in the trenches of dependence. At this point, we’ve created some dependence on us so she can develop out of it into healthy independence. If we say, “Go brush your teeth,” she often says, “I can’t!” It’s not a particularly fun stage, as we value independence. But we know it’s going to be worth it in the long run.

There’s something we’ve noticed about her since she’s started depending on us: she’s at rest. When we are patient and meet her needs, she is happy and peaceful. Her guard is down. She accepts help consistently now, which means losing the thing she held onto more than anything- control. And she’s happier than ever. It seems counter-intuitive for someone who holds onto it so tightly, but there’s comfort when she lets go of control.

Like many things in life, children show us the way. K has taught me so much already, and this is no different. She had no control over her environment before she was with us, so now she holds onto any sliver of control with white knuckles. I often feel powerless in my circumstances, so I scramble to control something, anything. How much of my life have I complicated by fighting God for control? More than I’d like to admit. Our baby girl literally goes from kicking and screaming to peaceful and calm when she surrenders and lets us meet her needs. And much like a four-year-old, I fight and fight until I finally surrender. Then I rest in the comfort of having God meet my needs. I always wish I’d done it sooner.

She is getting more and more comfortable with releasing control, and she’s starting to realize it feels good to be taken care of. I’m thirty years older than she is, and I just wish I had learned as quickly as she has.

Where do you fight to release control? What would happen if you surrendered?

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Matt and Becca write about marriage, parenting, and life through the lens of a married couple, parenting team, and pastor and professional counselor. They share hope and restoration by giving a glimpse into their lives- the failures, the successes, and the brokenness and beauty of everyday. You can read more of their writing at WhitsonLife.

November 17, 2014November 18, 2014

Boomerang

{“everything is so clean“}

{“there’s air conditioning“}

{“look how cushiony the seats look“}

{“everyone is so white“}

…these are my thoughts as I step onto the American Airlines plane. Everyone is smiling professionally. Their hair is clean. Their demeanors calm. The pilot grins a cockeyed smile to ensure us who are boarding that he’s totally got this flight in the bag. Every light bulb is functioning. It feels like a spaceship from the future to me. And people are relaxed as they step past me, orderly and shushed. I am leaning my head back on the stiff blue pillowed chair, completely upright and squeeze my eyes closed so that I can’t see every single one of them stare at me anymore as they file past my 14th aisle seat, watching my endless, silent tears streaming like a never-ending river down my cheeks. I can’t decide if it draws more attention to wipe them away or just let them stream down my cheeks, my chin, my throat, into my hair and my shirt and onto my lap. Either way, I cannot make the tears stop, even though I am literally tired of crying by now. It has been 4 hours since I kissed her for the final time and they are still running down my cheeks and this is just feeling so ridiculous now I am downright angry with myself. I am angry at all the Haitians boarding with leisure and business on their agendas. I am angry at all the Americans staying here. I am angry that no one else feels a boulder of agony on top of their heads, sitting here feeling crushed by the weight. Just about the moment that a peace settles on my face and my heart feels still and my face relaxes into an expressionless passivity, the captain says we are next in line for takeoff. The plane is racing down the runway. Andrew films out the window beside me, watching for Haiti to become a child-sized toy beneath us, and I feel fresh anguish squeeze around my heart. {“Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me. Jesus, help me….“} on repeat. These are my only thoughts for minutes while I sob.

She is too far away in just seconds. I can’t get to her. She needs me. She is too far away. I will have to wait for people to figure out what happens next, wait for a break in life’s demands, wait for it to make sense, wait for money, wait, wait, wait until I land here again and am within maybe a day’s walk at most from her if it came to that. If there’s another earthquake I can’t run at top speed to her and scoop her up, laws be damned. She is on an island. I can see the water lapping at the edges of her island and I see it from way, way up here now – she is smaller than a particle, small and gone from me somewhere I cannot find or get to on my own, in the middle of a wide blue ocean I know nothing about. Almost evaporated. Before we even land in Ft Lauderdale it feels like it was all just a dream.

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All day I had planted my heels in the chalky dirt, digging my toes against the door, pulling back with both hands and all my strength, hands wrapped around the doorknob, heartache knocking on the other side. I determined not to let her see me crying. These white people crying while the babies were playing would only be confusing and troubling to this baby girl who now wanted to be on my lap, who wanted me to feed her by hand, who would go to no one but me, who smiled mischievously and lovingly, who laid upside down on my legs to have her neck tickled and nuzzled, who walked with arms up stretched to Andrew and I, back and forth, while dancing and giving kisses.

There is no holding the door closed anymore. There is nothing to numb this. There is nothing to dial it down. It steamrolls and flattens me, leaving my bones crushed to powder, my stomach filled with lead, my head thick with cement. Putting one foot in front of the other takes thought.This is sorrow. It is here.

I had leaned her back in my arms and said: “I gotta go bye-bye, baby“, remembering I should never just disappear from a toddler, and I watched a cloud pass in front of her eyes, watched as she furrows her brow, watched as she retreated from me in her eyes, scampered down out of my lap willingly for the first time this day, marched across the room to her beloved nanny whom I am so grateful is here to rescue her from me, watched as she wound her arm around the nanny’s neck, her baby doll still clutched tightly, watched as she looked at me with hurt and distance. I kissed and kissed her cheeks while she sunk into the nanny. She waved and smiled, safe again. She blew final kisses and made the “ok” sign with her hands because she can’t master the “I love you” hand signs we spent all 2 weeks sending her from across a room. 2 weeks. Behind us, we leave 2 weeks.Ahead, there is unknown.

We determined we will not despair – she is far from us but she is not lost to us. We will wait. Jesus is steadying our hearts. We are sorrowful but not destroyed. God is with her. God is with us. He is so, so near, still using our weakness for an opportunity to show up. Andrew is already at work, already a doctor again instead of a One Man Toddler Entertainment Machine. My kids are clamoring for souvenirs and kisses, Rissa already in our bed this morning between us by 2am, ready to reclaim her parents in a way only a 3 year-old can. I hear birds outside but no armed guard, I see sunshine but no school children. I hear cartoons on the TV but no Creole songs. It’s weird. I feel disoriented still. It will take time to gently reclaim our lives but we will not ever feel right again until all 5 of our children area asleep in this house, under the same roof, breathing the same air, 10 arms wrapping around us instead of 8.This is what it feels like to leave your heart behind you and walk away.This is what it felt like when Andrew and I were long-distance dating for 2+ years. This is how your brain starts to take all the messy, sloppy emoting and turn it into action, trying to get steps accomplished to achieve the goal. This is how it feels. It feels like sorrow. It is a boomerang, though and it will not return to us empty. We are sending it all like single-lined texts to God our Father and He will send back answers and whispers smothered in grace enough for that moment. He already is. He will not let this be for nothing. He never does. He brings beauty from destruction. We will see it happen, friends. He will – He must.

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Esty is a wife to Andrew, mama to their 5 growing kids including 3 biological boys, a daughter from Uganda and their youngest daughter, who is not yet home from Haiti. This, their second adoption, has reached the 21-month mark in progress, and they earnestly hope to have their daughter home in 2015. It’s a very long process but they are surrounded by community and find that adoption has led them to deeply hidden treasures like nothing else. A former pediatric nurse, Esty now fill the days chasing her kids while her husband practices medicine in a southern Florida beach town. Their passion to build community among adoptive families birthed OASIS, a retreat offering intimacy and ongoing fellowship to adoptive mamas. This life is held together and flourishing only in Jesus, rooted in His good grace. You can follow their Journey at These Little Lives.

November 5, 2014

Mommy Friends, What Story is Your Life Telling?

So, my mommy friends, what’s the story?
Honestly, this post is really just this one question.

What is the story that my life is telling?

What is the story your life is telling?

Once upon a time, there was a mommy……

I want my life to tell the story of God at work in me and my family.

On the title page it will say,

A Story of Love

By God

Looking back I realize that I used to want (and often try) to write my own story. Well, I suppose I still do, but I am getting increasingly comfortable with letting that go!

I had an idea of what our family would look like. I had a great plan, a godly plan, for each of our birth daughters. Really, you all would have so loved my story!

And when God called us to adopt, this new thread in the story turned out to be an amazing plot twist, and we loved it when God introduced the new “characters” in our story line. What an amazing story-teller He is!

So, of course, I quickly wrote their plot summaries as well. That’s what authors do, right? We mamas know how to make a good story for each of our children!

In reality though, I was telling the story of me–the story of my love for God and of my love for my children.
The story of my good parenting and my wonderful children.

Once upon a time there was a mommy, and she did this, and then she did this, and then this….

That is how the story was progressing in my mind. But over the years I see how many times the True Author has gently taken the pen from my hand and written it differently. How kind He’s been to me.

It’s like He’s said, “Beth, how about we do it this way….”

And sometimes the story becomes so beautiful that it brings tears to my eyes to think that He is letting me be a part of such narrative. How could it be that I get to play this role?! To be a mommy in this story is more glorious and beautiful and good than anything I could have imagined! I LOVE my part in this story!!

And then sometimes I think for sure He must have made a mistake. This isn’t the plot line we agreed upon! It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

But then He gently pulls me aside from the pen and paper, from the telling of the story, and He begins to whisper to me about the particular story line that is so upsetting for me. And I push back and let Him know that I don’t like this part of the story! Please, please can we not change it? Like, maybe NOW?!

But Beth, take a look here. Let me show you some plans I have for this part of our story. For it is OUR STORY being told you know. I’m taking this mistake of yours and that misstep of theirs, and I’m weaving them together to create a plot line that will bring glory to my name and release life to you all. I’m not wasting anything here. Where your choices have taken the story in the wrong direction, I am busy writing up a story line that will be so good that you’ll want to read it aloud to anyone who will listen.

And so, wonderful, Wonder-Full God, I just want to thank You that You are telling a story of life and beauty and power and redemption and hope and faith, and so many good things. I want my life to tell this story Lord God. Sign Your Name to this life, be the author of this story. I LOVE the way you write! Pick up my life like a pen and write something glorious. Amen.

For I know the thoughts and plans that I have for you, says the Lord, thoughts and plans for welfare and peace and not for evil, to give you hope in your final outcome. (Jeremiah 29:11)

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Beth has been married to her husband Stephen for 27 years. They have seven children, ages 18-24. Several years after giving birth to three girls God called their family to the adventure and blessing of adoption. In 2000, they brought home a brother and sister, ages 5 and 10, from Russia. Then they returned to the same orphanage 18 months later and brought home two more brothers, ages 7 and 10. Beth’s heart has been deeply and forever changed as she has watched the love of Father God poured out on her whole family through adoption. She leads Hope at Home, a ministry dedicated to help adoptive and foster parents encounter the Father’s heart for their families, partnering with God to transform orphans into sons and daughters. For more parenting insight and encouragement in the Lord, go to Hope at Home.

October 31, 2014October 31, 2014

My Psalm of Response {after a trip to an orphanage}

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O Lord, Sovereign God, maker of all things, sustainer of life.
You know all things; nothing exists that you do not know.
You don’t stop there. You don’t just know all things; you are engaged with all things.
You are always present, always active, always working.

Lord, it was you who nudged me. It was you who stirred my spirit.
It was you who gently led me and fully provided.
It was you who picked me up and carried me across the world as your ambassador.
It was you who whispered encouragement in my ear and into my heart and upheld me.

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You said, “This is my servant. I am her God. I delight in her,”
proving yourself a faithful and gentle Father
not because of who I am but because of who you are.
Your song over me and your joy in me sustained me when my knees were weak and lifted my spirit when I was weary.

You led me on a path I did not know, a path I thought would bring your light to a dark place.
But, that path led me to you, father to the fatherless, companion to the lonely, the One true friend to the seeking.
You were already there, already at work, already drying tears and healing broken hearts.
You were already closing the gaps on tiny lips and in people’s lives.

You don’t need me to bring you there. You don’t need me to be a savior.
I lay down before you knowing I am unable, aware of my frailty and my own need to be saved.
But, you lift me up and welcome me as your child to be a part my Father’s work.
You invite me to love with my heart, head, and hands despite of myself.

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You are higher than the mountains, louder than the cries of humanity, bigger than the greatest walls man can build.
You show compassion to those without a family and those who grieve not cradling their children.
You guide the hands of even those who do not yet know you to do your work. You give glimpses of you.
How can I not know you more, crave you more, love you more?

O Lord, Sovereign God, maker of all things, sustainer of life.
You know all things; nothing exists that you do not know.
I humbly thank you for calling me, saving me, loving me, using me.
You are the only sovereign Lord, and I am your servant.

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Kelly has a passion for supporting adoptive families, specifically to encourage parents to be intentional and understand their own hearts more clearly as they seek to care for their hearts of their children. Kelly has a Master’s degree in counseling and has been working with adoptive families since she and her husband Mark founded the The Sparrow Fund. Married to Mark since 1998, they have 3 biological children and 1 daughter who was adopted as a toddler from China in 2010. You can learn more about their adoption story, how they’ve been changed by the experience of adoption, and what life for them looks like on Kelly’s personal blog, My Overthinking.

October 27, 2014October 27, 2014

Muddling through the adoption paperwork haze . . .

“So tell me,” a friend asked with some trepidation in her voice, “does adoption paperwork get any easier, I mean, you know, with your third adoption?”

“I wish!” I replied with a sigh.

In fact, I this go around is the hardest yet! Yes, you would think it would all be old hat for me by now, but I find myself more frustrated than the last time. I know what each document needs, I know how long it can take, and all I want is to hold my baby in my arms. My child who is waiting for her forever family, not even knowing that at this very moment I am staring at her picture for the 10th time today with tears in my eyes. This is the reality of the adoption paperwork haze, friends.

So I have been struggling this third go around staying focused on God. He has provided for us at every step of each adoption, and it has always been in His perfect timing, so why do I doubt?

Lately, I had been praying, “God, please help us get these documents together quickly!” And then suddenly this week, I stopped my nonsense long enough to hear that whisper in my heart, “Suzanne, stop. Just stop, be still and listen. Be open to my plan and timing. I love Eva more than you can imagine. I am with her, protecting her, comforting her and preparing her heart. The same goes for you. Be still and know that I am God.”

Wow, what a burden has been lifted. It doesn’t mean that I won’t still struggle but I feel a sense of peace now that surpasses all comprehension.

Praise God for His perfect plan!