Take My Life

Today I turned 34.

Somehow, each year the number seems so old, but I still feel like the same "young" me. Maybe wiser, hopefully gentler, but still me at the core.

Rocky and I were just talking about how old being in your 30s used to seem when we were kids. In fact, I'm sure many of our elementary school teachers were probably in their 20s, and we thought they were old!

I never thought I'd be an "old" mom. Sure, I knew I'd wait longer to have kids than my own mom did (hello, 17!), but I thought I'd get married in my mid-twenties, have a few babies, adopt a few more and call it a day, attending my kids' high school graduations before I turned 50.

Boy, did I have a few things wrong.

Never could I have imagined the path my life has taken. The valleys and mountains, the victories and struggles. Never could I fathom that each new year would be better than the last; that looking back on my life I would see God's grace and goodness more and more as time passes.

For that, and so many other things, I am thankful.

This morning my little one ran downstairs in his underwear to tell me "Happy Birthday" and give me a hug. It was pretty much the best birthday greeting ever. The Avengers underwear didn't hurt. Neither did the sweet cocoa skin and genuine excitement my son had for my special day. My big boy is shy, and heart-felt sentiments embarrass him. He wants to be cuddled until the cows come home, but words, and expressing love verbally, are hard for him. He still managed to mutter a "Happy Birthday" behind bashful eyes before running away. I'll take it.

Thirty-four years of life.

That's more than Jesus lived, you know.

I'm one year older than he was at the time of his death.

And I'm hoping and praying for many more years with the ones I love.

I have so much to learn. So much to grow. So much to see, taste, experience, enjoy.

I also have so much to labor. So much to toil. So much to carry, reconcile, bury and let go.

There are parts (big parts) of me that wishes my life was much like my lunch break today; A spa facial in a quiet, dimly-lit room, surrounded by soothing scents and sounds. I desire to be insulated, cocooned, left alone in peace. Clean sheets and aromatherapy.

But this life I'm living, the one I like to think I've chosen, but one that truthfully has been chosen for me, this life is messy and painful and full of sacrifices and interruptions and inconveniences. It's piles of dishes and laundry, tutoring, cleaning (again), incessant chatter and busyness. Not much external peace.

And yet...

There He is. Offering me peace. And joy. And wholeness.

Offering me a life that is more beautiful, more true, even in its brokenness, than that spa room that beckons every part of my selfish flesh.

He has called me and He has planted me and shown me favor beyond what I deserve.

He has entrusted me with my husband, my children, my job and my calling.

He has equipped me for every good work He has asked me to do.

This year, my 34th year, He has called me to mother my first-born child, for whom I have prayed for a long time. He has called me advocate for my boys, to encourage my husband, to step away from the security I find in my career. And for some reason, maybe it's the time of year or the growing life inside me, but I can't stop thinking about Mary. I can't stop thinking about how she felt every kick, and wiggle and hiccup of her Savior son as he grow in her belly. Every time my son kicks I want to cry thinking about Mary and her baby, Jesus. She must've felt all the things I feel when he moves. She must have prayed over him and the great unknown, because even if your son is destined for greatness, does he not still need your prayers?

This dear, sweet baby of mine. I know God has a plan for him, and I am so honored that God has chosen Rocky and I to steward His life for our King.

I will walk into my 34th year with confident faith that Jesus is good, for my life is a living testimony to his faithfulness.

Free Bird

Tonight we told our children that their father had been released from jail.

These are truly words I never imagined I would say to my children.

Growing up and imagining motherhood you never quite think about all the alternative ways to build a family. You only think in the traditional sense; I'll grow up, get married, have a baby, etc. Even as a child I knew I wanted to adopt, but I didn't really know what that meant.

I've always carried around a burden for orphans like a millstone around my neck.

Tonight we celebrated as a family the release of their father. They had lots of questions, one of the first being "Can we visit him?"

So complicated, these little lives.

Such a delicate situation into which they have been thrust.

We had to explain to them that they could not see their daddy right away. That he had to meet with their caseworker and take care of some business before he would be allowed to see them.

They have not seen their father in 9 months.

Nine long months they have wondered about him. What was jail like? Was he safe? Did he have friends? Was he lonely?

We talk openly and honestly with the kids in an age-appropriate manner, and we never lie. We simply tell them enough. It's not fair that everything else in their life is so secretive and chaotic. They deserve to know the very basics surrounding their family to help them understand why they can't go "home."

Home.

That's another tricky concept that I never thought I'd question. Home is where the heart is. Home is where your family is. It's where you live.

But what if those first two, "Where the heart is, " and "Where your family is," are only half-true? What happens when your heart is split in twos and threes and your family is split up into 7 different homes? Where's your home then?

Sometimes it's hard being their mom and having to share them, and their hearts, with so many others. It's hard to reconcile that even though their little arms are strung around my neck and their heads are nestled in my shoulder that they are thinking about everyone else that they love that they don't get to snuggle with. I wonder if they lay in bed at night, before falling asleep, thinking about their mom and dad and brothers and sisters. People they may very well never share a "home" with again.

I think about carrying that around at 6 and 7 years old. What that must do to them.

It is easy loving my kids.

It is not easy watching them hurt, knowing they're torn, feeling their pain.

I suppose that's true for any parent, regardless of how your children came to be yours.

It's not easy watching the ones you love suffer.

I wish there was an easy answer for my babes. I wish there was a resolution that would make everything ok and allow them to be with all the people they love. I wish they didn't have to discover so young that sometimes, most times, adults make as many mistakes, if not more, than kids do. That even though we're older, we're still trying to figure it all at. That even when we're mommies and daddies, we're still selfish, and broken and imperfect. That we all need Jesus.

More than anything I wish I could comfort them.

My hugs and kisses feel so empty, so void sometimes when compared to the scale of their hurting. I wish I could absorb them into myself so they could feel protected and insulated from the realities of their lives. I wish so many things for them, for their parents, for their siblings, all of which can only be realized through Jesus.

In the meantime, we're going to keep praying. Keep hoping. Keep hugging and kissing and snuggling. We're going to live like tomorrow will be a new day, and anything is possible.

We're going to have peace that surpasses understanding and confident faith that our Savior has only just begun His work in our lives.

We're going to show our children that hope is never lost; That the Redeemer can always make things new.

Blue Christmas

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't set your kid on the right path if he's bound and determined to rebel.

This has been our week.

Every now and then, we notice a "relapse" of sorts in our kids' behaviors. Reverting to old coping mechanisms, regressing into younger versions of themselves, avoiding eye contact, blatantly disobeying and then staring at you with dead shark eyes...Yeah, that happens.

It's been a frustrating week (well, few weeks) of behavior in our household. Some of it has been pretty understated; a timeout here and there. But a lot of it has been straight up annoying, especially when discipline doesn't help cure the behavior.

I know there's something at the root of it. Either he knows what it is and can't (or won't) verbalize it to us, or he's upset and angry and frustrated and has no idea why.

The hard part in being parents to our sons is that we have no idea how to help them. No idea what's going on in their heads. No idea why they're behaving the way they are all of a sudden when it's been butterflies and rainbows for weeks.

Why is our little one all of a sudden drawing on surfaces that should never see marker?

Why is he breaking things and making holes in his bedroom wall?

Why is our oldest flipping over a table at school "just because?"

Why is he putting his hands on his brother in an aggressive way and then staring at us with a blank look in his eyes when we try to talk to him?

Why are they both putting their fingers and other objects in their mouths like infants?

Why are we putting them to bed every night only to have to go back upstairs to their room an hour later because they're out of bed, playing and making a mess?

These are the things that we're dealing with right now.

It's not always.

It's not even often (anymore).

But right now, this is where we're at, and it's damn frustrating.

And disappointing.

And I hate feeling disappointed in my children.

Somehow, being disappointment feels so much worse than being angry.

But then I don't even know if I have the right to feel disappointed. Are my children so hurting, so damaged that I shouldn't expect them to obey, respect adults, tell the truth...? It's hard to say.

On one hand, I think, "They going through so much. Having to process and accept so many things that are unfair and confusing, things they shouldn't have to deal with."

On the other hand, I think, "Yes, that's all true, but we've also been raising them for 14 months, and they know it's not ok to disrespect adults and lie and hit and steal and destroy."

And then I think...isn't some of this normal behavior for "normal" kids?

I don't even know anymore.

I'm tired, and angry, and disappointed, and frustrated, and defeated.

It's my favorite time of year, and this year, I'm just not feeling it. Not the joy, not the hope, not the beauty. I'm trying, God knows. I've got twinkle lights, and candles burning and stockings hung, but the mood in this house emanating from these kids...it's depressing, and sad, and hurt and burdened. It's all overwhelming. Consuming.

I'm praying for patience. For grace and compassion and all the things Jesus came to teach us. I'm praying for a softened heart and open eyes and a humble spirit.

I desperately need help, need Jesus, to walk through this season (and the ones coming up) with these kids.

I know that even when this season of misbehavior wanes, there will always be another in the future, because their lives will never be what they should. They will always be lacking something, or someone they love. There will always be an emptiness, a longing, and maybe even a bitterness for the way things will turn out. My children will always have these burdens, forced upon them, to bear.

And me and Rocky, well, we bear them, too.

God With Us

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and with it the beginning of introspection and gratitude.

A new holiday has been ushered in. One so full of hope and expectation that it's hard to understand how it gets overshadowed by shopping, and Santa, and all that glitters. But, of course, I'm guilty of that, too.

Don't we love shiny things?

Things that sparkle and glow and shimmer?

Pretty things.

Only this year, as I bundle my babes and decorate the tree and sway to Christmas music in the kitchen, my heart is burdened.

Another white police officer not indicted for using force that resulted in an unarmed black man's death.

Another injustice.

Another case of racial inequality.

And then there's my babies, and their broken hearts.

Our big boy became unresponsive during Thanksgiving dinner. I could see he was sad. I know he missed his family. There's no "getting used to" living with people who are not your own.

He breaks my heart.

And the little one...the little one sees his brother being sad, and wants to be heard. Wants to ask questions, and tell stories, and not be forgotten.

He's not mature enough to verbalize his own feelings and confusion. But it's there. Every now and then a random thought will escape his lips and this tiny child will stop me in my tracks with the very big things he has rumbling around his young mind.

These children should not have to contemplate a parent's future release from jail.

Or live with the memories of neglect, abuse, and hunger.

They shouldn't be torn in half, or fourths, trying to figure out who their heart loves most.

They shouldn't have to carry around guilt and betrayal for being happy and loving us back.

But they do, and they will for some time.

This, the season of giving, of hope, of celebration and cheer and glad tidings and the Gospel...This season, this year, needs to be one of reconciliation, redemption, salvation; Not just for me, but for my children, for their family, for this country, for the world.

We are lost and hurting and in need of a savior now more than ever.

And while Santa is fun and Bing Crosby's crooning from Pandora is charming and all that glitters catches my eye and calls me away, that baby in the manger will have my heart and my devotion because He is the only one who knows this burden we all bear, this road we walk, these lives we live.

He lived it, too.

He knows our pain and sees our despair and hears our cries for help.

And He has answered. He has heard. He is Emmanuel.

Weighed Down

Heavy.

That is how I feel today.

Heavy with the weight of the world and with the recent verdict in the Ferguson case.

Heavy with the knowing that once again, an entire demographic has been reduced to no justice, no voice, no hope.

It weighs me down.

And I want to rail and spit and curse and blame and judge.

But I also want to numb, to quiet, to avoid.

I want to hug my sons and cry because I know that racial disparity in the world has not improved at all since the abolition of slavery.

The slavery just looks different now.

There are systems instead of slave masters. Prisons instead of chains.

How can so many be so unaware of the state of the nation? Of the world?

How can we walk the streets with so many people who are hurting, burdened, oppressed, persecuted, hunted....and yet, feel nothing?

Is it the steady stream of noise? The ever-elusive American dream we're chasing? Something shiny in the store window? A hunger pain in our bellies?

What is causing us to ignore the truth and turn away to meet our own selfish, already-well-met needs?

We are all created equal, but that's where the equality ends.

That is the cold, hard truth in America.

You, stay in your ghettos and live like the criminals you are. You, don't try to cross the border into my country and steal my job and raise my taxes.

You aren't welcome here.

You aren't valued here.

You will not survive here.

This racial divide, this economic disparity, this lack of opportunity and generational circumstance - It's been weighing on me heavily as we approach the court date in February when we will find out if the boys' parents' rights will be terminated.

Here's the ugly truth that goes along with this: I am better. We are better. We are the better choice to raise these kids. We are a married couple with two incomes. We own our home, have college degrees, belong to a large, tight-knit community of church, friends and family. We are upstanding citizens in our our right. We have everything to offer the boys.

Except we don't.

We're not their family.

And we're not their culture.

And we cannot possibly understand or replace or manufacture those things to make the sting of their removal from that life any less painful.

We are the better choice because we had the opportunities to become who we are.

And for that, we might be granted these children permanently.

My mommy heart is both hopeful, and heartbroken.

Their mother and father didn't have a chance in the world.

And my only hope, my only prayer, is that because of Jesus, they do have a chance. They can become other people.

Or is that just me, listening to my grumbling belly, avoiding the truth that maybe they can't?

Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

Every time I think about what a gift you are, I remember how afraid I was when I found out you were growing inside me. Afraid to get too excited or hope for too much more, like God was only giving me a glimpse before He quickly removed you from me.

You see, baby, I don't know God at all.

Even after all this time. The few but long years of calling Him my King have not left me much more hopeful that I used to be.

You see, I'm afraid to hope.

Because I'm afraid to lose.

So many times I feel you moving around and I smile and put my hand on my belly and wait for your kick kick kick. I can still hardly believe you're in there.

And you're perfect.

The doctor said so herself.

And I love you so much that it scares me.

Much like I love your little brothers and daddy; with a fierce and consuming love that is incomprehensible.

And a love like that is scary.

So much to hold onto. So much to lose.

It's hard sometimes to reconcile the joy and peace I have when I feel you move with the worry and fear I have about so many "what ifs" and circumstances beyond my control. Being a mom is an amazing, frightening, wonderful job. It's still difficult for me to believe that God has allowed me to be a mother three times now.

But you see, there He is, hearing my prayers, searching my soul, knowing my heart, guiding my steps, even when I'm afraid. Maybe especially when I'm afraid.

And you know what?

He's doing that for you, too.

Already.

Even though you may not know it yet, you have been fearfully and wonderfully made, baby. You were created just for me and Daddy; a special order intended only for us. You are the answer to so many prayers and so much longing. You, baby, were wanted and hoped for.

We can't wait to hold you, little one.

Until then, I will hold on to the joy I feel with each kick, and smile every time you have the hiccups, and rest in knowing that God has a plan for me, and for you.

With Love,
Mommy

You Are the Best Thing

How do you choose the words to describe the three best years of your life? There don't seem to be adequate words in our vocabulary to do so.

And yet today, I'm trying to do just that.

It's been three years since I walked down the aisle to marry my prince.

Three years since I left my singlehood behind, binding myself to my husband, becoming one flesh.

It's been three years since I've experienced the less-than-perfect existence that was my life before I became Mrs. Rocky Stone.

In three years we have:

Rented out one of our homes
Sold another home
Quit 2 jobs
Sold half of our belongings
Moved across country
Rented an apartment
Helped plant a church
Started 2 new jobs
Become foster parents
Bought a fixer-upper
Leased a new car
Become pregnant

And those are just the major milestones.

In 1,095 days we have been through so much; Most of it hasn't been difficult, just challenging, as every new adventure is. We have been a team every step of the way. We have honored our vows and looked to our Creator, our church, our family and friends to walk alongside us, hold us up, encourage us, support us.

It has been the best three years of my life.

I could not imagine my life, this journey, without this specific man as my partner, my friend, my mate.

Dearest Rocky,

Do you remember our first date? I remember being so afraid to go; afraid of being known, afraid it would mess everything up, afraid of being judged. So much fear! 

I remember you walking out to meet me, and you smiled. And I felt instant relief. Like I was grabbing dinner with an old friend.

Only we weren't old friends. Just acquaintances. But something was there, right away, after all that time of passing by. I would never let myself think that. Never even admit it if I thought there was a spark. Only now can I look back and say, "Yes. It was there. My soul could recognize who you were."

That date at El Torito, over chips and salsa and endless conversation, God was already binding us together. Already moving us towards the greatest adventure of our lives. I will never forget that night.

And now, here it is on our third anniversary and it's hard to believe all that we've done, seen, become. It all feels like a dream. A wonderful, satisfying, too-good-to-be-true dream.

Every day I wake up overwhelmed with joy and gratitude that I get to be your wife. 

Every day I give thanks to God for helping me get over my fears and let you love me.

Every day I look at you and wonder how on earth I got so lucky.

Every day I look at our (growing) family with you as the head and I feel peace, knowing that you will steer our ship safely.

Every day I get to spend with you is the happiest day of my life.

You simply are the very best thing.

With Deep Love and Admiration,
Nicole

Baby Love

I never thought I'd be someone who enjoyed being pregnant. I mean, you hear horror stories from women who've gone through it and though they are always on the side of, "It was worth it!," I was pretty scared to grow a little human in my body.

But all the things they say about the miracle of it all are true...that's why they say them. Feeling this baby roll over and kick and stretch is like nothing I could have ever imagined. It truly is amazing.

That God would allow me this great privilege, well, I'm astounded.

Every morning, I wake up, waddle (ever so slightly) to the shower and the whole time I think, "You're pregnant. Pregnant!" I truly never thought I would get to do this. And even though I suffered through a bit of nausea for a few months and some gnarly pregnancy headaches here and there, I am thoroughly enjoying this pregnancy.

And so is Rocky. He gets a good giggle seeing me try to work my way off the couch and he's not complaining about my...ahem...endowments. He got to feel the baby kick for the first time about a week ago. It wasn't as strong to him as I can feel it inside, but it will be soon enough.

I would say that I can't wait for this baby to come so that I can snuggle him or her, but the truth is, this may be the only time I get to do this so I am savoring every moment, even the uncomfortable ones. I'm enjoying having the baby all to myself before the world expects me to share. Sometimes, I even gently poke my belly and whisper, "Wake up, baby."

It's amazing that you can miss someone you've never met.

And when the baby moves, I say, "There you are!" It's such an intimate, holy experience for me. It has filled me with a gratitude I never knew existed.

Thank you, God, for giving me this gift. For allowing my body to do what many women before me have done and what so many women around me long to do. I will be forever grateful for this experience.

And to my little one, kicking around in those increasingly cramped quarters of yours, we love you so much already. You are such a precious gift to me and Daddy. Every day we are praying for you and wondering who you will be, what you will look like. Though I long to hold you and kiss you, I'm content to have you right where you are; growing, learning, resting, before you're welcomed into this big, beautiful world. So keep growing, baby. Stay safe and warm, But when mommy pokes you to play, please humor her and put on a little show.

Sincerely,
Mommy

Roar

Our boys love Katy Perry music, specifically her song Roar. I catch them singing snippets of it all the time.

"Dancin' through the fire....'cause I am a champion..."

Though some of Ms. Perry's lyrics are not kid-appropriate (and they don't get to listen to those songs), some of her stuff is really empowering and confident and full of feel-good self-esteem and positivity. Roar is one of those songs. A song about getting knocked down, but then getting back up and realizing our own strength.

As you 've read, I've been bound by fear for the last couple of months....well, years, if I'm looking back and being honest.

But today, today, I broke free of that fear.

And I got mad.

And I got confident.

And I said NO.

No, I will not let the fear of losing our boys keep me awake at night.

No, I will not make decisions and concessions and compromises that I know are not right because I am afraid to look bad.

No, I will not let bureaucracy and systematic red tape deter me from knowing my rights and standing by them.

I will stand my ground, and graciously, firmly, say no.

I will tell the real enemy NO, I will not let you steal my peace.

NO, I will not let you disturb my dreams and wake me from sleep.

NO, I will not let you color my view of what is right and stain my heart towards what I know is true.

NO, you will not win.

And I will not give up. Roll over. Lay down.

We will get up, keep going, trudging through what feels like waist-deep tar, in order to be advocates for foster parents and advocates for the children in the system.

This is our cause.

This is our time.

And I will not let fear keep me from it.

Tell Me Lies

I recently told Rocky that I find myself saying often, "So this is what you look like pregnant."

I never thought I would get the opportunity to watch my body grow, stretch, swell with a precious baby inside of it. I could never imagine what that would look like. And now that it's here, well, it's amazing.

It's amazing that technology can show my little one, comfy in my belly, moving around on a blurry black screen. It's amazing that a tiny, sensitive microphone can pick up the heartbeat. It's truly a miracle, in every sense of the word. And I don't mean because it was a surprise; It's a miracle because it just is. I am so overwhelmingly thankful that God has allowed this for us. I know how many women are praying for their own miracle, and I'll continue to pray with and for them.

One of the things I love about being pregnant is the mommy brain phenomenon. A funny thing about this pregnancy is how much it has confirmed what I already knew: I love my boys as if they were my own.

In fact, one of the surprising things about being pregnant for the first time while in the midst of this foster care roller coaster is that I actually feel less attached to the baby than I do to the two little boys I've been raising for a year. I thought for sure I would be so overcome with emotion that I was finally (actually!) pregnant, that it would consume me.

It hasn't.

Not at all.

I am, instead, consumed by everyday life and taking care of my family and praying for my boys and their future.

See, I mentioned before that this pregnancy, coupled with our precarious position in this foster situation, has resurrected in me a fear. A fear so palpable that at times it's hard to breathe.

But this fear isn't for my baby.

This fear is for my boys.

It's the fear that I cannot control their destiny. I do not hold the power to determine their course.

Only God, through a judge, can do that.

And this keeps me awake at night.

The fear that they may not be mine forever.

On Saturday night I met with my close community of girlfriends; a community that has walked with me, prayed for me and over me, served me, encouraged me, and lifted me up when I needed a hand. On Saturday I spoke my fear aloud.

What if God gave us this baby because we're going to lose our boys?

And I lost it.

I could not contain my tears.

This is a real fear. A fear that grips my heart, steals my joy and burdens my days.

It is overwhelming and exhausting.

Believe me, I understood the risks of foster care. I knew, and supported, that the point was to reunify kids with their families.

But after a year...with these kids, and this birth family....They belong with us.

Anything else would be a virtual death sentence for them.

They are already having to overcome so much. They're already the wrong gender and skin color for hope in this city. They're already behind their classmates and peers. They're already struggling with labels and diagnoses. They're already damaged.

But they're also on the mend. They're also told they're valuable and worthy and loved and created by God. They're also part of a family that supports and helps and encourages in week areas and blind spots. They're also overcoming delays and coping mechanisms and communication barriers.

They are part of a community of teachers and friends and family and church that loves on them and shows them the face of Jesus.

They're thriving. They're excelling. They're breathing the soft, calm cadence of children who know where they belong.

It is my prayer, the prayer of my very body and soul, that the judge will see that and will make the right decision.

In four months, we will know.

In the meantime, tell me what may be lies. Tell me they're not going anywhere. Tell me the judge will rule in the best interest of the children. Tell me we are their best opportunity. Tell me that everything will be okay.

In Christ Alone

"I am praying to you because I know you will answer, O God.

Bend down and listen as I pray.

Show me your unfailing love in wonderful ways.

By your mighty power you rescue..." (Psalm 17:6-7)

Where do I begin?

I guess at the beginning.

We are 4 short weeks away from our one year anniversary with the boys. For us, this is a joyous occasion, but despite their deep love for us, we know this is not cause for celebration. For in our gain, they have lost.

Nearly a year ago we became instant parents to two precious, scared, too-smart for their ages, little boys. Our hearts were stolen.

Nearly a year ago that phone call meant a commitment of one week, maybe two, while their paternal aunt got her affairs in order so that she could foster the children until they could return home. A few days later it was determined that their placement with us would be indefinite; it was all too much for their well-meaning aunt.

Nearly a year ago we were overwhelmed with doctor's visits, and school enrollment, and attorneys and caseworkers and family visits. Everything was a whirlwind and we were swept up in an endless tornado of hope, frustration, tears, joy and exhaustion. We are still there today.

Nearly a year ago we were learning colors, and numbers and the alphabet; something children their age should have been taught long before they crossed our threshold. We were reading bedtime stories and drinking hot chocolate and snuggling under blankets on the couch while we watched Christmas movies. We still do that.

Nearly a year ago the goal for our boys was to return home. Reunification is the official term. And we were supportive, and prayerful and devoted to loving the kids as long as we had them, while also loving their mom with our actions and words and prayers. It made sense. This is what we signed up for.

Nearly six months ago the goal changed.

Caseworkers and attorneys and therapists made a recommendation to the case judge that the boys' parents' rights should be terminated. That not enough progress had been made. That the kids were thriving and had "attached" to their foster parents.

We were heartbroken when the goal changed. We grieved. I cried.

And then, I dreamed.

I dreamed that the boys would be ours, and that we would maintain contact and visitation with their mother and siblings.

I dreamed that the boys would be given a chance at a life that would not have existed for them before.

I dreamed that we would be a family and somehow, we would make this all work out.

Nearly 2 hours ago the case judge moved forward on the recommendation to terminate parental rights.

And we were relieved.

Still heartbroken, yes, for our boys and their mom. But in the six months that have passed we have seen these boys blossom, shine, grow, invest. They are not the same kids they were nearly a year ago.

They are bright, and inquisitive, and brave, and strong.

They know they are loved and that they are safe and that they will not be abandoned.

They know they will eat, and have shelter, and go to school, and have clothes that fit.

They know that even though they are hers, they are ours, too.

The next four months will be hard. I know I will be overcome with fear and a predisposition to distrust God and His goodness. I know I will doubt that the judge will make the best decision. I know I will fall back on my skepticism and worry.

I will need your prayers to keep me strong.

I will need your words of encouragement and hope poured over me and my family.

I will need the salve of God's promises to heal my old wounds.

Please remind me.

And please keep our family in your prayers.

Losing My Religion

Something dark and anxious has been making its way into my heart and mind. I'm not sure what switch has flipped in the last month that has made me feel less like myself. Pregnancy hormones, maybe. My friend said it's "mother's intuition."

To me it's always the same.

Fear.

This has always been my signature sin. It probably always will be.

Sure, it's transformed over the years.

First, it was fear of abandonment, of not being loved enough.

Then it was fear of failure, of not achieving enough.

Then it was fear of dependence, of needing or relying on someone else.

Now it's fear of the unknown, of the dark abyss that awaits before the second hand moves, when anything can happen.

Why can't I be one of those optimistic, always on the bright side, happy-go-lucky types of people? Why do I wait with dread as opposed to hope and expectation? This is a serious issue in my life and in my faith. I am always prepared for the other shoe to drop, and always taken off guard when something positive and good happens instead. That doesn't mean that I'm a Debbie Downer; In general, I keep my fear and skepticism to myself. That way only I'm the crazy, consumed one.

So what is going on with me lately that I cannot relax? Cannot enjoy this current miracle? Cannot sleep through the night without awaking to anxiety about my boys?

Fostering is hard work.

Not the parenting part...although that is hard.

The sharing part. I've talked about it before here and here.

In the beginning, we knew we were pro-reunification. We still are. We believe in making families whole. We believe that people can be healed, that they can make amends and get second chances and be the parents their kids need them to be. We believe this is possible, and good, and we've prayed these prayers and hoped these impossible things.

And that may still turn out.

But it's more likely that it won't in this case.

And that, that's what has shaken me. That's what has changed my heart.

And I'm not proud.

When things started looking bad, I didn't pray harder; instead I had the urge to pull my boys even closer. To hoard them. To shield them. To make them my own.

The truth is, I love them. I don't want to share them. I don't want them to ask about their mom. I don't want them to miss her.

How sad am I?

I know I'm wrong, trust me. I know this is not good. I know this is not healthy or holy or pure.

I know it by name.

Fear.

I am so damn afraid all the time recently.

Afraid they will always love her more (they might).

Afraid they will always wish they could move back home (they probably will).

Afraid that if it was up to them, they would leave and never look back (one day it will be up to them).

Afraid that every time they see or talk to their mom they will forget about me (ridiculous).

We're at a crucial time in their case. Like pivotal, life-changing-decision time.

And I'm scared.

We're scared.

I'm not sure if I'm scared more of losing them, or losing myself, losing my faith, losing why I wanted to do this in the first place. It wasn't to keep someone else's kids. It wasn't for the goal of adopting. It wasn't to reap the benefits of some else's tragedy.

And yet...

Now that we're here, in this hour, in this time, I'm afraid of what I really want. I'm afraid to look in and examine my heart and see what's there. I'm afraid of what I'll find inside.

I need prayer. We need prayer. Our boys need prayer.

Please pray for us.

This is hard.

The more I've love them, the harder it's become.

I can't imagine how it must be for their mother...

Bitter Sweet Symphony

The boys started school a little over a week ago. They're loving it so far. My big boy comes home everyday, proudly pulling his beat-up paper from his backpack to show us that he had another green day.

Green days are the best.

This boy is a far cry from the timid, antsy,over-stimulated boy we used to know. He's controlled, he's logical, he's responsive, he's helpful, and he is ever so looking for praise and affirmation. He has won our hearts and we are so proud of how far he's come.

Our little one races to me when we pick him up from day care. He still wants to be swooped up into my arms, wrapping his legs around my waist and his arms around my neck.

"I missed you today, mommy," he says. Then, "How you baby?"

It's funny when he asks about "my baby," when for the longest time he was (and in some ways still is) my baby. The baby of our family.

Yesterday was a challenging day, but the boys wouldn't know it. They don't need to.

We had a mediation hearing on their case. It was actually requested by the kids' maternal grandmother (on behalf of their mother) and granted by the case judge. That in and of itself was frustrating enough, but what happened next was icing on the cake. They didn't show. They called off due to a "family emergency."

I would think mediation about these kids was family emergency enough, but I'd be wrong.

But we were all there. The foster parents, the case workers, the attorneys. We demanded that mediation take place because we'd all taken off work, gotten sitters, commuted downtown to be here when it wasn't even us who had requested it. They agreed and made mom participate via speakerphone.

Mediation is a fancy word for "let's all get together and air our grievances so that we can come to an amicable agreement." You see, right now, the case is not going well for the kids' mom. And because of this, she had some concerns and questions about what the future will look like for her being in her kids' lives. She wanted to address us to talk about some things that were upsetting her and ask for assurances that, honestly, we can't give completely.

It was frustrating.

It was also sad.

These are her children, but they're not.

She gave birth to them, but they live with me and call me "mom."

She is afraid about her place in their lives as time goes on, but so am I.

Because it doesn't matter how this ends up. It doesn't matter if a miracle happens or if they become my children permanently. I will never be her.

I will never be their mom.

Sure, I will be there mom, but not their mom.

So, I understand when she shares how she feels about sharing her children. I understand when she expresses fear that she will be cut out, forgotten. I have those fears, too.

But I have to remind myself that our hearts can hold so much love.

My kids can love us both. I love all my parents, after all.

There's room for all of us in their hearts.

My job is to tell them how very much they're loved. How much they're wanted. How safe, and important and smart they are. How no matter what happens, they will be taken care of.

And for me, well, my job is to listen to my Father when he says, "So be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid and do not panic before them. For the Lord your God will personally go ahead of you. He will neither fail your nor abandon you." 

I have to trust him when he says, "Don't be afraid, for I am with you. Don't be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand."

Jesus, give me faith to believe these words. Help me to stand in these truths. We cannot do this without you.

Building a Mystery

Radio silence. 

The blog as been quiet for quite some time. That, of course, was on purpose. I was busy keeping a big secret that the (Facebook) world now knows. 

In March 2015 we will become a family of 5!

I still can't hardly believe it. Yesterday I went to the doctor for my 12-week ultrasound and I just kept saying, "Wow. Oh my gosh. There's really a baby in there." It is completely surreal. Everything they say is true. Cliches are true. I am amazed and in awe and speechless (when I'm not saying, "That's amazing!")

Everyone has asked how the boys are taking it.

I'll admit, we were so worried about their reactions that we waited until 11 weeks to even tell them. Luckily they're young enough to not have noticed mommy's midsection gain. On Saturday night, we sat down at the dinner table, The four of us. Our family (for now). And Rocky said, "Mommy and Daddy have something very exciting to tell you. It's a surprise. Do you want to hear what it is?"

In true form, our 6-year old looked suspicious and our 5-year old could barely contain his glee at the unknown surprise. (For the record, I'm sure he thought it was a food-related surprise. He loves food.)

I said, "Well, I wanted to tell you that you're going to be big brothers again because mommy has a baby in her belly!"

The little one smacks his hands down on the table and said, "What?!" much like Gary Coleman in Diff'rent Strokes. The eldest looks confused and asks, " How did it get in there?" To which I almost spit out my water and then laughed uncomfortably while looking at Rocky for an answer. When he had none, I simply said, "Well, mommy and daddy prayed for a baby for a long time, and God answered our prayers." It was the best I could do for a 6-year old.

Truthfully, we hadn't prayed for a baby in almost a year. 

I remember laying in bed before we got the boys, and Rocky would pray something like this, "God, please protect the children that you have for us that we have not met. Please keep them safe and warm and fed until they come home. And God, please let us have a baby. Please let Nicole become pregnant." See, we always knew we wanted to foster. We also always knew we wanted to adopt. But we had been trying to get pregnant for over a year, and when the doctors told us it would be very unlikely that we could conceive, we continued to pray.

But then we got the boys.

And our lives changed forever.

We were neck deep in parenting. Kissing boo-boos, helping with homework, intercepting fights, going to court hearings, opening our home to social workers and attorneys, going to doctors appointments and just plainly raising them up.

We stopped praying for a baby.

Not because we didn't want one (although, I do believe it's fair to say we didn't want one yet anymore), but more so that we just forgot.

Forgot to pray.

Forgot that it was our hearts' desire to have a baby.

Forgot that God doesn't care what medical tests say.

Forgot that all throughout time he has given babies to barren women and old men.

And still, when I finally remembered to pray, it was not for a baby. It was for a daughter.

I told Rocky (& God), I would like a daughter. 

I think about the relationship I have with my mom....Dear God, a relationship that has been through hell but has now been redeemed, and I think about all the moments we share. The laughs, the inside jokes, the stories, and encouragement, the support. And I know that I can have that with my boys. But I really hoped for a daughter some day. 

In fact, I circled that prayer in my journal. 

God, give me a daughter.

That was a hard prayer for me to write it. I couldn't see it come true.

I still can't, if I'm being honest.

We don't know what this baby is, but it will be loved and cherished for the miracle it is whether it's a boy or a girl. We know that this baby is the answer to a prayer. A prayer that began as an urgent request and was answered as a whisper.

For God knew, even after we forgot, that a baby was planted in our hearts.

We are humbled, and grateful and so overwhelmed that he has heard us.

Fear

I feel like I am stuck in a place of sin, only I don't know if that's what it really is.

But so much fear, so much anxiety has pricked my soul lately. I don't know if it's because I've been steeped in Ferguson, or if it's just hormones, but I feel overwhelmed at times with worry about my boys and their future.

This weekend the boys had a scheduled overnight visit with their paternal aunt. She's a safe family member, and she loves the boys very much. Normally, this weekend would've felt like a welcomed break; a short hiatus from parenting. A time to get things done around the house, relax, and spend some alone time with Rocky.

Instead, I was fraught with anxiety. So much so that my mind wouldn't stop racing and I was on the verge of tears.

You see, this aunt is the sister to my boys' dad. He is in jail. She has been visiting him (as a loving sister would), and she shared with me his desire to fight for his kids in the upcoming status hearing for paternal rights. She said he is in a better frame of mind now, and wants to be a dad.

And I was angry.

And scared.

Mostly scared.

Because you see, I want him to fight for his kids. I want him to want to be a dad. I want him to get his life together so that he has something to offer these boys.

But my heart said, What if? What if he fights and he wins?

Dear God, please forgive me. Shouldn't I want that? Haven't I said before that I want that? That I believe that God's redemptive plan for these boys carries over to their families? Of course I have said that, and I still mean it. I want to see healing, and reconciliation and beauty for ashes.

But these boys.

They run to me when they get home. They climb me like I'm a jungle gym. They tell me they love me so much, that I'm their favorite mom and their best friend.

And I believe the lie that they're mine.

But they're not. They're His. And so are their parents. We all belong to Him, and to each other. And I need help, and courage, and strength to turn this anxiety into righteous prayer and confession. I need the unreserved faith to say, but God, Your will be done.

I need help.

School starts in two weeks, and a month later a judge will make a very important decision that will affect all of our lives forever. And we are desperate to know, and hollow with the sadness that no matter what the answer, hearts will be broken, families will be shattered. There is no comfort in any of it, except for the comfort of knowing. Knowing which direction to walk, even though each road will be paved with tears.

It's all too much to think about, and I don't trust my selfish heart to know what's best.

So God, Your will be done.

Untitled

Exhaustion.

That is the word of the day/week/month/year.

Life is good. Very good. But also exhausting.

We haven't worked on the house, really worked on the house, in a little over a month. The break has been amazing but the long list of what still needs to get done is overwhelming. It feels like a heavy blanket of burden.

But that's ridiculous.

The house is livable. Fine, really.

I haven't mustered the energy or will to unpack the millions of frames and get some stuff on the walls after, oh, I don't know, 4 months already.

The kitchen is an eyesore that I'm just going to have to live with for another year or so. God bless Rocky...He wants to fix the kitchen for me now, but it's just too much. Too much money. Too much effort. Too much dust. I can't deal with that right now. I finally feel like we're breathing semi-clean air.

Summer, what we've had of it, is rapidly coming to a close. The boys start school in a month and everything, and nothing, will change. The day's routine will still be the same, but instead of riding bikes and playing football outside, we'll be doing homework and practicing math. None of us are looking forward to it.

Work is work. The grind is the same. I am desperate for a break, but what does that even look like? Friends suggest a date night, or a small vacation, maybe just the weekend. That's not the kind of break I need. I don't need a recharge. I don't need a spark. I need a rest. Like my-soul-is-weary-and-my-bones-are-aching rest. Where does one get that when they're a full-time working, married, mom to littles? It seems so far away. Something unattainable. Like a mirage in the desert.

What will rest be then?

I don't know the answer. All I know is that I want to crawl into my pajamas and sleep. For like a month.

There really is no such thing as rest when you're a parent; Not when your kids are little, and not when they're older. I've learned that from watching mamas still struggle with worry, and fear, and doubt about their grown children's problems. It never truly ends. And it shouldn't.

But rest.

Rest would be nice.

Wind of Change

Summer always brings about the wanderlust in me. I wish I had the kind of life where I could pick up and go any time the wind blew, beckoning me to another place, much like Vianne in Chocolat. Sometimes, it does feel like I have a gypsy spirit. Restless. Bored. Eager to experience something new.

This summer has not brought about the much-needed relief from winter we expected. Very few of the summer days have been over 80 degrees and sans rain. So much rain! The weatherman announced today another kind of polar vortex blowing in next week and bringing in 60-degree temperatures. In the middle of July.

Seriously.

The boys haven't noticed. They're still running around in the backyard, begging to go to the park. They are enjoying their summer at the Y, learning science and going on field trips and taking swim lessons. I'm grateful their summer will be full of fun, learning and new friendships. Summertime is so much better when you're a kid (or retired!)

Rocky and I have taken a much-needed hiatus from home improvements the last few weeks, save for a quick fix or upgrade here or there. We need to get back to it while the weather's good; at least on the outdoor items. We can save a lot of the indoor stuff for when we're shut-ins this winter.

A few big things are on the horizon for our family in the coming months. We can't share about them yet, but they're there. Waiting to be worked out; preparing to be told. I cannot wait until I no longer have to hide behind vague words and stories. When I can name names and share details. So much of such a great story cannot be told at this time because it's protected, and fragile. Our family feels like a fortress without walls- strong but open. Secure, but vulnerable at the same time.

Back to the wind.

I have one of the only offices in my department that has an operational window. Others might have great views, but I can open my windows! There have been a few occasions where gusts of wind have blown papers off of my desk, and it felt like life rushing all around me. A life I'm missing. I comb the web looking for travel deals. Check flight schedules and prices. Daydream about destinations in which I have never been, but want to go. I check our calendar relentlessly for openings - anywhere! - where Rocky and I might get away. I do this all the time.

But the calendar keeps filling up and the summer is slipping away and there's no money for that anyway, not with the list of house projects we've amassed. And our boys are growing like weeds before our eyes, and wearing out shoes faster than we can buy news ones and asking to go to the park and wanting Daddy to play football.

My gypsy spirit wants to book that vacation, wants to getaway.

But the pull on my mommy spirit, the voice from my Father, whispers, "Stay. Be here. It's going so fast."

And so, I'll delay getting our passports. Stop looking at the travel sights. Store up our suitcases. Ignore the wind rushing through my office.

I'll be here.

I'll be present.

I'll stop looking to a new destination.

I'll gather my roots and my babies and go to the park. I'll wrap them up in hugs and kisses, push them on swings, watch them conquer the monkey bars and make new friends. Like Vianne, I will stay where I've landed. And when the wind blows, I will simply enjoy the breeze and get back to work.

God Bless the USA

May I rant for a minute?

I know it's been like a month since the last post, and you probably aren't in the mood to hear me rant, but I have some hormonal anger coursing through my veins, so let me just get it out of the way.

I am sooooooo tired of "Christians" and their politics. Like you-need-to-be-schooled and do-you-even-know-Jesus frustrated.

Racism

Bigotry.

Greed.

Selfishness.

The hot topic du jour is all these immigrant kids being bussed in from south of the border for safety and a chance at survival. "Christians" (mostly white, let's face facts) are picketing, calling for stronger boarder patrol, blocking the buses, bad-mouthing Obama, toting their guns to protect their land and safety. As if these kids are a threat to either of those things.

There isn't much that I can hold over anyone, and please understand that's not what I'm trying to do,

BUT UNLESS YOU ARE WILLING TO FOSTER, ADOPT, SUPPORT, MENTOR, AND PROVIDE FOR THESE KIDS, ALL KIDS WITHOUT A SAFE HOME, THEN SHUT UP.

Take your $100 bills, shove them in your mouth and sit in your $500,000 home with your Bibles and 2.3 kids and dog and SHUT UP.

Stop with the rhetoric.

Stop with the political garbage.

Stop with the "This land is OUR land" propaganda.

We cannot afford to live in a world with borders, bound by politics, money and fear.

We are CALLED to spread the Good News. To be representatives of Christ's promise to rescue, to heal, to save.

Christians - Please choose the god you worship. Is it the good ol' USA, or Jesus?

Torn

There are no manuals telling us how to do this right.

How to live in the already, but not yet.

I’m not talking about Jesus (although this does involve him). I’m talking about our kids. Our sons.

They are already ours, but not yet.

How do we navigate the muddy water that is reconciliation without reunification? How do we include their mom and birth family in their lives while also trying to establish normalcy and permanency?

Last Tuesday our six-year old graduated from Kindergarten with the biggest smile on his face I have ever seen. After he walked across that stage and picked up his “diploma,” we gathered him up with all of his precious school belongings- memories and treasures from the past year- and waved goodbye to a school he will not be attending next year.

In his backpack was a notebook filled with drawings, and journalings and actual printed photographs of him from the school year. It was such a joyful surprise for us to be able to glimpse his life in the classroom. Pictures with friends, on field trips, doing school work. Pouring over those pages made me tear up at how much our boy has grown, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, intellectually and spiritually. He is a completely different child than he was eight months ago.

Two days later was a visitation day, and our boy was so excited to see his mom and tell her all about graduation. He asked if he could bring the notebook to show her. I knew there was a chance it would not make it back home. I sat him down and I told him that of course he could bring the notebook, but that it was very important for him to bring it back home so that he could show his kids someday when he’s a daddy. The thought of that made him giggle with excitement. He couldn’t wait to show his kids!

Off he went to visitation.

When it came time for pickup it was discovered that he had given the notebook to his mom.

“She asked if she could keep it,” he said.

And I was livid.

Like seeing red livid.

How could she ask him for that, knowing he would not be able to tell her, “no?” How could he let go of that book after I told him specifically that it was to come back home with him? That was his book. Our book. Documented proof of triumphs and victories in a year marred by hurt and fear and pain. Those colored pages and smiling pictures show the boy we know; the one who lives in our home and runs to us for hugs and still asks to be tucked in every night. The boy who loves to draw and ride his skateboard and play catch. This book belongs to him.

I made Rocky get it back from her.

He said she looked hurt.

I didn’t even feel bad. At first.

But that was my pride. That was my “I-told-you-very-clearly-you-had-to-bring-it-back-home-and-do-as-I-ask” pride.

I missed it.

I missed my boy’s heart.

He wanted his mama to see what she’s missed all year.

He wanted her to validate how smart he was, how handsome, how important.

I don’t know if she did that, although I would assume she did. She loves him.

He got in the car sullen because he knew he was in trouble. He gave away something precious after he was told not to, and he was going to have a consequence.

My heart broke.

We told him he was not in trouble. That we know how much he loves his mom and that we understand that he would want to give his notebook to her. We told him that it’s good that he loves her so much and wants to share, and that we know she wanted the book because she loves and misses him so much.

I told him I would make a copy of the notebook to give to his mom.

That made him very happy, because keeping the original would allow him to show his kids someday. (His words)

These babies. They’re ours day-in and day-out. For 24 hours a day, everyday, except for 4 hours a month when they’re not. And those four hours mean so much.

They remind us all that they’re ours, but not really.

She will always be there. She will always be their mom. I will always be waiting in the wings of their hearts for them to come home.

It will always be this way; it will just get different with time. They will always be split in two.

Milestones. Birthdays. Holidays.

We are stuck with the decision every time: do we include their mom, and in what capacity?

Graduation came and went without his mom there. A few days later he asked, “Nicole, how come my mom didn’t come to my graduation?”

With his words my heart fell out of my chest and shattered. As I gathered the pieces back together I told him the truth. His school had only given two tickets to each family to attend. We requested a third ticket multiple times so that we could invite his mom. The school said no. That was the truth.

It didn't soften the blow, even though his six-year old mind understood.

They will always be split in two.

As we near adoption, it is completely up to us whether or not we will continue a relationship with the boys and their birth family (including siblings). We, of course, plan on continuing as if nothing has changed.

But how do you decide how much? How much more of your life to give up, sacrifice, put on the altar so that your kids get as much love and connection as possible? How do you decide if you’ll celebrate the holidays somewhere else, knowing they won’t get to see their mom (and she won’t get to see them)? How do you choose where to have birthdays, and who to invite to important events, and how to integrate them with our families while maintaining their connection to their first family?

We fumble sometimes.

Other times we give it all. We place ourselves last so that they (and she) can be first.

We get it wrong a lot.

But I look at these boys, and I gather my tape and my glue and my needle and thread and I think, they don’t have to be split in two. At least not completely. We can hold them together. We can mend them enough to weather the separation caused by wear and tear and time.

We can live happily in the already, but not yet.

We have Jesus here.

And He is our strength.

And He will carry us on wings like eagles.

Come Thou Fount

(Warning: Long, rambling post ahead)

When we were in the process of selling off possessions to move across the country I was in a bad place.

But not for the reason you'd think.

I wasn't overcome at having to leave the ones I loved.

I wasn't grieving the job I had worked at for 12 years, or the house I had purchased on my own as a single woman.

Those things bothered me, of course.

But they didn't shake me.

Stinging from an unfavorable appraisal that cost us $17,000 in an expected profit on the sale of our house, I became frustrated at God and resentful that we were taking such a radical step of faith and feeling like we were being punished. (If I could go back in time and punch myself, I would. Radical? No. Obedient? Ok, maybe.) Every financial misstep I felt Rocky made resulted in a fight, all of which I instigated. Every time someone got a "good deal" on the things we were unloading, I got a pit in my stomach and a little angry flame in my heart.

You see, I've posted before that I have issues with money. I tie it to security. I think it keeps me afloat. Safe.

I am guilty of praising God for the blessings in the harvest, and cursing Him in the draught.

Now let's get real- I have NEVER been in a draught. Ever.

Not once have I been hungry.

Not once have I been involuntarily unemployed.

Not once have I lacked shelter.

I have received more than a fair share of provision.

The ironic thing about my love of money is that I also love to share it.

It is a great joy to both Rocky and I to give, to bless. It's one of the qualities that attracted me to him the most in the beginning of our relationship. We were both cheerful givers.

But stress changes a person's gifts. It shifts their motives. It invites fear.

The stress of leaving behind a life well-lived to plant a church in a big city with people I didn't know after being married for only eight months broke my generous spirit.

I no longer wanted to share.

I was already giving so much!

How could He ask for more?

I confessed to a Rocky the other night during a devotional on forgiveness that the time I have been most angry at him was an incident related to money.

How silly is that?

How damaging and wicked.

He was surprised. To him, he could think of other things he's done or said that should have upset me more.

But no.

It was about money.

Let me be very clear right now.

Every blessing I have is from the Lord. And every financial blessing I have received in the last three years has come from God , but has been funneled through Rocky.

I have saving tendencies and Rocky has spending tendencies. At one time we were both on extreme opposite ends. Now we've edged in towards the middle as we work as a team to decide when to save and when to spend. When we got together, I had a savings account and no credit card debt; Rocky had the opposite.

And then God blessed Rocky abundantly with financial gifts for educational expenses, military benefits, etc. Rocky was able to pay off his debt, pay off my car a year early and replenish our savings account.

Before we moved, Rocky sold his beloved Barracuda so that we would have enough money in savings to take some time off work when we got to Chicago. When we both got jobs here we agreed to (some) self-sacrifice so that we could continue to put money away for long-term savings.

Then Rocky wanted to start looking for a house, and I fought him on it.

We just built up our savings account!

Why do you want to spend it all now?

Sigh.

What is my deal?

Rocky is no dummy. He knows that real estate is a better investment than our savings account. He also knows I'm afraid to not have cash money in the bank. He knows how much I fear not being able to take care of ourselves. He knows my pride.

And he is so lovingly patient with me.

Firm, but patient.

So we bought a house. And there went our savings account.

And then a funny thing happened.

We got a nice, fat check back at closing that equaled about half of our down payment.

Then we got a check double that amount for past-due GI bill benefits.

Then yesterday we got the surprise of a (financial) lifetime. 

We received a letter from the VA that Rocky's disability rating had been reviewed and increased exponentially. 

We will be receiving a very generous monthly benefit for the rest of Rocky's life.

Not only that, but they credited these new benefits to us dated back to May 2012. That's 25 months, if you're counting.

This morning we woke up to more money in our account than we've ever seen in our lives.

We immediately stopped and thanked the Lord.

We gave praise.

We gave thanks.

We looked at each other with tears in our eyes.

We were astounded by God's love for us.

Especially me, when I'm so petty and scared and greedy.

And all day praise has been on my lips.

Because I know this is the harvest.

And I know that at some point, the draught will come.

And I will be bitter again.

And so this is my prayer:

Ode to grace, how great a debtor

Daily I'm constrained to be

And let Thy goodness like a fetter

Bind my wandering heart to Thee

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it

Prone to leave the God I love

Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it

Seal it for Thy courts above

Take my heart, Lord.

Seal it.

Bind my wandering heart to thee.

Amen.

Show Me Your Glory

Sharing your story is never easy.

Even when you're sharing with trusted friends, sisters of a kind, comrades...it still isn't easy to display your scars and retell the battle.

It always amazes me how all the emotion is still there, but without the hurt, or pain, or anger. Only the beauty remains. Only the truth reverberates.

Healing.

Wholeness.

Reconciliation.

Why do you think that is? When we look back on a story of wrongs and hurts and disappointments, a story aged and weathered and known by heart, how is it that forgiveness has left the emotions, still raw, but not the feelings?

I guess that's what the saying, "Forgive, but don't forget," means.

When I was younger, and bitter over life's unfairness, I would think to myself, "Never forget because it will happen again and you will need to protect yourself."

Oh, how wrong I was.

That's not why we don't forget. Not at all.

We don't forget because it's a beautiful remembrance. It honors our experiences, deepens our love and compassion.

Much like observing Good Friday. We never forget. Forgive? Yes, even Jesus forgave while hanging battered and bruised from the cross. And so we forgive. But forget? Never.

Remember.

We remember to join in with the suffering.

We remember to celebrate the victory that came three long days later.

The moments in our own lives of death and pain and sacrifice, we remember for the same reasons. There is beauty in the suffering where forgiveness has been spoken because we've lived the grace that comes next. We've celebrated the victory when we've joined with Jesus in making all things new.

I love that my tears still fall for old wounds.

I'm thankful God has allowed me to never forget.

I'm grateful He has given me safe places to tell my story.

I'm hopeful that my friends walking the hard road now will see a light at the end of the tunnel, a road to peace and forgiveness and freedom.

I'm praying for their wounds to be bound up and healed by a Savior who rescues and redeems.

I know it's possible.

I have the scars to prove it, and they're beautiful.

I Got You, Babe

Do you ever get that feeling like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop? Like life just seems too good?

I find myself asking God, "Why?" a lot.

"Why did I get this promotion, God?"

"Why did you give us such a better house than we thought to ask for?"

"Why are you so good to us, God?"

It seems silly, I know.

Just count your blessings and shut up, amiright?

Every morning (sometimes evening, if we run out of time), Rocky and I do a couples devotion before the boys wake up. They carry a theme through for a week and at the end of each daily devotion they pose a question that you're both supposed to answer. Questions like, "How will you actively show your spouse grace today?" and "In what way can you use exhortation to encourage your spouse today?" They're basic questions that sometimes leave us rolling our eyes or staring at each other like "dumb pigeons," (as Jen Hatmaker would say.)

The other night, Rocky asked, "Are we just totally in denial about our marriage or is it really as good as we think it is?"

Let me tell you, friends. We tried really hard to think of something, anything! that we could work on, grow in, ask forgiveness for. It isn't often we can think of something. (Disclaimer: We know what our issues, annoyances, struggles are. We're not blind or ignorant. But major stuff? We draw a big, fat blank.)

It got me thinking...Is it really that good? Is our marriage really that charmed? Are we as in love as it feels we are?

I would have to answer with a resounding YES!

I'm no dumb dumb.

Rocky and I had both been in some crummy, hurtful, toxic relationships before we met each other. We both know what it's like to find ourselves in a heap of defeat and despair on the floor due to having our hearts broken. We've also broken hearts.

The reality is that although we're not perfect (Thank you, Jesus, that we don't have to be perfect!), we are so meant for each other. We fit. We go together. We're one flesh.

And just like that all the questions, all the wondering about our potential delusion, all the waiting in expectation for things to get real....it all fades away.

He is my man.

I am his woman.

We are so blissfully, stupidly, crazily in love that sometimes it surprises me. That something can be that good, that right.

And then I think about Jesus.

And I think that Rocky is the closest I will see to Him this side of Heaven.

And that makes the waiting a little bit easier.

Don't Stop Believing

It's hard to believe that today is the last day of May. Where did the month go? Even more, where did Spring go? It seems we've hopped right into summer over here. Gone from 45 degrees to 80 degrees in what seems like the blink of an eye.

It's a welcome change.

Too much winter has been bad for me.

Today marks the two-week countdown until the boys are out of school for the summer. They are beyond excited, although being that this is the first "summer break" for both of them, I'm not sure they know what they're excited about other than no homework.

We've enrolled them both in summer camp at the YMCA, which is really just a glorified day care program during the 3 months off school. We are waiting for the final paperwork to come in from the Department of Child and Family Services so that they can actually attend. If DCFS does not come through, we will have to pay a hefty sum to keep their reservation.

It's tricky having foster children.

For all intensive purposes, you are their parent, making all the decisions a parent would make.

But there's still a "system" with its hands in your life, telling you where the kids can go to daycare, determining their schedule for family visits, invading your home with therapy appointments, home visits and licensing inspections.

So they're our kids, but not really.

It's a hard line to walk.

On Thursday we signed the "Intent to Adopt" papers.

Since the court date on April 24th, the State is now preparing a case to go before a judge to recommend that parental rights be terminated. They are gathering evidence, securing witnesses, filing paperwork, all in an effort to present a complete and compelling case to the judge. This should take place within the next 6 months.

According to the VP of Foster Care at our agency, by this time next year it is highly likely that the boys will be legally ours.

We have been assured that their mom will most likely appeal the termination.

I hope she does.

I hope she fights like hell for these kids.

I hope she makes such drastic, mind-blowing improvement that the judge is not convinced she is a lost cause.

I hope I can tell my kids someday that their mom fought for them.

It's not done until it is.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot (Fire Away)

This foster mommy stuff is not for the faint of heart.

Today was a GREAT day. I mean kids behaved, listened (mostly) to directions, didn't get in trouble at school. Heck, we even went to the park after I got off work and enjoyed some time together outside before we ate dinner as a family and settled in for the night.

And still, I was told by my little one, "You're not my mom. ___________ is my mom." And by the older one, "You're our foster mom, not our real mom."

Payback for saying that to my stepdad all those years when I was angry, I guess.

Even though I know what the point is, and even though I know why I'm doing this and that one day they may understand and appreciate it all, it still hurts when those words escape those innocent lips. It still cuts the deepest.

It takes everything I have not to say hurtful, truthful things.

Things like, "Oh yeah? Well where is your mom? How come you can't live with her? Why isn't she here? Feeding you, doing homework with you, comforting you when you're sad, patching you up when you're hurt?"

It takes everything.

Because the reality is that I don't want to make them sad.

Their mother's failures are not their fault. They are not to blame.

And don't I love my mom? Don't I miss her?

I can't fault them for that.

My only prayer is that one day, they can express themselves more tactfully, less hurtfully.

Then again, I still need help with that at 33.

So there's that.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

Our little one loves to give people high-fives. At the grocery store, at Ikea, from the backyard...Any chance he gets to ask for a high-five, he does.

Yesterday we parked in the driveway to unload our Ikea spoils. As I was pulling the goods from the trunk, a large family of adults was walking by along our backyard fence. Our five-year old popped his head out of the backyard gate, and to perfect strangers shouted, "Gimme high five!" It's one of the cutest, and most frightening things this kid does.

How do you teach your kids to be kind, outgoing and friendly while also teaching them about "stranger danger?"

On the car ride to work this morning we started the conversation. We told him that he can give high-fives to kids, but that he shouldn't ask adults for them unless mommy and daddy are with him. He was so confused. He didn't understand what he did wrong. He couldn't see how something as innocent as a high-five could endanger him. It felt so wrong to tell him to squash his instincts. I could see on his face how perplexed he was. And he kept asking, "Only kids? Not grown-ups?"

I have no desire to raise my kids to be fearful and untrusting.

It is not my wish for them to be leery and unfriendly.

But as parents, how do we protect them in this world of very real danger? How do we keep them safe in a city - no world, that seeks to harm, exploit, and destroy them?

This is the challenge of missional living.

How do I invite my neighbor over for dinner without knowing if their intentions are good?

How do I offer to help someone carry their bags into their house if I'm not sure what, or who, awaits me once inside?

How do I have the childlike faith of my son, while also protecting myself and my family?

This is the question I have to ask everyday.

Our mission is to join God in seeking the lost. This means putting ourselves in messy, and sometimes scary, situations for the sake of the Gospel.

I remember going on a prayer walk a few years ago in downtown Riverside with my old community group, which included children the same age as my kids now. Somewhere along the way those kids, along with their parents, encountered a homeless man smoking crack. And those little girls, in their childlike faith and innocent hearts, asked him what his name was and if they could pray for him. And I remember thinking, how were their parents able to let them approach that man? What if he was dangerous? Or worse - a child predator? I was dumbfounded. When we all reconvened back at the starting point, the girls' parents said, "I was afraid to let my kids talk to this man. I wanted to shield them from him and his crack pipe. I didn't know what he would say or do. But God made my daughters, and the Holy Spirit prompted them to talk to this man and offer their prayers. How could I stand in the way of that?"

I haven't thought about that night in years, until the car ride this morning when we told our son he couldn't give adults high-fives.

And I am so convicted.

The urge to protect is so strong. But I do not want it to be stronger than their Father's voice, who created them, who has called them to His purpose.

I do not want to stand in the way of who God created them to be, and the gifts He has given them to spread His love.

And so I must commit to memory Psalm 121, which says,

"The Lord himself watches over you! 

 The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade. 

The sun will not harm you by day, 

 nor the moon at night. 

The Lord keeps you from all harm 

 and watches over your life. 

The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go, 

 both now and forever."

I know this does not mean that no hardship will ever befall us. I know this is not a talisman.

It is something greater.

It is an assurance; a promise that no matter what, God is with us. 

He is with me worrying about my kids. He is with my husband trying to keep us all safe. He is with my boys trying to meet the neighbors and make friends.

He is with us.