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.

Lost in My Mind

I've always felt like less of a reader because I prefer nonfiction to fiction. It's not that I can't appreciate fiction. It is, after all, how we are usually introduced to reading in the first place. But as I've gotten older, it doesn't hold my attention, captivate my mind, engage my spirit the way a good memoir or real-life account does.

Why does this matter, you ask?

I guess because over time, my reading preferences have aligned with my beliefs and convictions in a way that makes it almost impossible for me to enjoy the frivolity of a fictional story. Don't get me wrong, the characters in fiction, when written well, can appear just as deep, human, tortured as any real-life character. But something about knowing a story is true- that's what gets me. Captures me. Keeps me turning the page.

I just finished reading a witty memoir of sorts, written by Nora Ephron, which was a gift from my kids for Mother's Day. There are several things that struck me while reading it. First, I didn't realize (or maybe I pushed it out of my memory since I love her work so much) that she was an atheist. This makes me sad. I also didn't know she had been married three times. Also sad. Still, her writing, her charm, her self-deprecating humor is what has made her work (largely fictional) so endearing to me. I'd venture to say that her quick sarcasm and cynicism is also what has appealed to me.

And it got me thinking about how I relate to people. Oftentimes I am fairly selective and judgmental in choosing the people I want to get to know. I'm even more so when considering who I will allow to get to know me. And I think of Nora; A writer, director, you-name-it, putting it all out there for everyone to read, and I feel the weight of my small world, my tiny circle of existence shrinking in on me.

A life so short lived so protected is not much of a life.

Now Nora's life, that's not the life for me. I have no desire to rub elbows with the who's who of New York, or eat in fancy restaurant, or be able to retell the latest juicy gossip.

No.

What I want is to expand my world by being the hands and feet of Jesus.

Wait. Back up. I lied.

I do want to eat in fancy restaurants. Sometimes.

But I digress.

I want to meet my neighbors and invite them into my home without fear that they're casing the place. I want my kids to be able to talk to people passing by the backyard fence without my heart catching in my throat that the person is a racist, kidnapper or pedophile. I want to pray for and minister to a city who doesn't know or believe in God. I want to be brave.

And that is why I love nonfiction. The heroes are real. They have lived through adventures or tragedies,  or both and then were brave enough to put it on paper and say, "Here. Here I am. In these pages. This is me."

I want to be like that when I grow up.

The reality is that it's not that the real-life characters didn't experience fear, rejection, hurt, pain. They embraced it. They understood that it's all a part of life, of the journey, to wherever it is we each think we're headed in this life and maybe the next. They got that their stories, though about them, were not about them. Their stories were sounds in a universe, a tapestry of lives lived and lives passed. They're merely contributors to the beauty of creation, the story of time.

So, how can I be that, too? How can my life, my story, be open and vulnerable and brave? How can I put myself out there and say, "Here. Here I am. This is me."

I don't quite know yet. Or better said, I'm working on it. I'm working on using less filters. I'm trying to grab ahold of the things I've convinced myself I don't like or I'm not good it. I'm trying to take another look with a fresh perspective and see if there's something here, in me, that I've squashed that is waiting to be exposed.

Spring is here.

New growth is on the horizon.

"For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? 

I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland."

(Isaiah 43:19)

Money (That's What I Want)

Enough.

Why do things never feel like enough?

I struggle so much with wanting more. More time. More money. More energy. More faith. I am in a constant tug-o-war with my mind, heart and soul about what is important, what isn't, and what that means. Sometimes it feels like I am two people trapped in one body, forced to function as a team. Much like Paul, my flesh is weak and I am almost always in some kind of battle with it. Gluttony. Greed. Pride. Envy. Wrath. Sloth. Lust. Yes, the seven deadly sins. I suffer from all of these, and more.

I want to eat and drink what I want (but never gain weight).

I want to amass and hoard a fortune (and never feel guilty about not sharing).

I want to be right (and I want others to feel bad for being wrong).

I want what my neighbor has (and I think I deserve it more than they do).

I want people to be punished for their wrongs (but I want to receive grace and forgiveness for mine).

I want to quit my job and stay at home (but I still want to collect a paycheck).

I want to conquer (and build my own kingdom, not someone else’s).

If only acting on these sins would result in judgment, I could escape quite a bit. I’m a rule follower by nature. The reality, however, is that the amount of time spent wrestling with these things makes me just as guilty.

At heart, I am lazy. I am tired. If I didn't have such a guilty conscience (read: conviction), I could easily live those temptations out. I want a life of no consequences (for myself). I want a carefree life, free of sacrifice and suffering and hardship. I want the exact opposite of what Jesus had. I want to be the rich ruler in Mark 10 who walks away.

If only….

Rocky always tells me that I should be Catholic for the amount of guilt-motivation I need to pull off this life of faith. The constant internal dialogue is enough to deafen me some days.

I really want to buy that throw pillow! No, how could you spend $24 on that? How could you justify spending that kind of money and a PILLOW knowing what you know about the world? You’re right, I won’t buy it. But it’s so pretty!

<guilty sadness>

I really wish I made more money. I used to make so much more money. I want to start looking for a better job. But this job is so perfect for your lifestyle! For your family! More money isn't everything. Just look at how great your bosses are and how you get to help people for a living. Yeah, but I can’t afford to buy cute shoes or a gratuitous throw pillow. I wish I didn't want that throw pillow! 

<guilty resignation>

And so it goes. 

I am notorious for not buying much for myself. 90% of my shoes (minus a pair gifted to me) are at least 3 years old. The others were bought on clearance. The last piece of clothing I bought was a dress on clearance at Target, and it’s been too cold to even wear yet. Everything I've recently purchased has been for the house. When we get the occasion to travel (which isn't often anymore), we choose a cheap(er) hotel room. We try to eat at home and bring our lunches to work most days.

I am half proud, and half resentful. 

The truth is that I wish I didn't have to care about money. I wish I had an endless supply. I wish it wasn't an issue. I wish I could make a luxury (for me) purchase without second-guessing and getting buyer’s remorse and eventually returning it (ask Rocky). 

The love of money. It’s a thing for me. 

It’s a sin. 

I know it. 

Even though I am not a big earner or big spender, I am consumed with wishing I had more. 

But God has us right in that sweet spot; Giving us a little bit of cushion, but not enough to not have to depend on him. 

Do not misunderstand; We are extremely blessed people. Blessed beyond what we deserve, and I’m not just saying that because it’s the “Christian” thing to say. We have so much.

So why doesn't it feel like enough? 

Why don’t I always feel blessed? 

The only answer I have is sin. 

And I wish I could shake this thorn in my flesh. I wish I could be content in every circumstance without wanting more or wishing for something better. I wish I could go out tomorrow and buy the minivan we will need to purchase here in a few months. I wish everything didn't take so much work. 

I was better at the rat race than I am a lot of times at this faith journey. 

Making your life about Jesus is hard. Going without to be like your Savior is hard. Denying your flesh is hard.  
I know the truth. I know it’s worth it. I know my reward is in Heaven. I know it is much better to be a “good and faithful servant” than a rich ruler. I know that Jesus is good and worth following. 

I just wish the truth was louder than the temptation some days. 

Like Paul, I continue to pray for this thorn in my flesh. 

Like him, I may not be delivered of it in this life. 

And that is precisely why I need Jesus.

I Need a Hero

At 4:07 p.m. yesterday we excited the Juvenile Justice court and my heart was broken.

The judge agreed with the agency’s recommendation to terminate my kids’ mom’s parental rights.

Many have asked us what this means.

It means that the State, instead of working towards reunification will now be building a case against her to show that she is an unfit mother. The foster agency will now be switching their goal-oriented services from fostering a continued relationship with mom to building a foundation for the kids to be with us permanently.

Some people have congratulated us.

I feel sick to my stomach.

There are no winners here. Certainly not their mom. Nor their dad, whom we saw for the first time yesterday. Shackled, head bent low, shuffled into a court room. Do you know what it feels like to look at the face of your boys’ dad and see them in him? In this state? It made it real. It made their memories real. It made their stories true.

And here I am, standing there in this court room with my wonderful husband and my charmed life and I’m looking at these two young, attractive, lost people and I’m asking God why? Why does it have to be me, here, loving and raising their kids? Taking their kids away?

I know what you will say. “You’re not the one taking their kids away.” “It’s best for the kids.” “Maybe this will move them to get their lives together.”

Yes, all those things we’ve been conditioned to say. They’re true in their own way. No, I’m not the one who took their kids away; I’m the one who was there to swoop them up, provide a safe home, love them through their tears. And yes, it is best for the kids in nearly every way. Better home, better school, happily married mom and dad, involvement in church. Yes, in those ways, it’s exponentially better. And yes, this rock bottom, this dark pit of a circumstance, of a sentence, may stir change, hope, resolve to fight for themselves so that one day they may fight for their kids….

But so what?

Do any of those condolences masquerading as truth mean that their hearts are not crushed? That their spirits are not devastated? That their hope is not gone? That my children may never, never, live with their natural family again? Does any of my better make it better?

No.

It does not.

As I sit here, and grieve this heavy loss for people I barely even know, but whose children I now call my own…as I sit here and grieve for them, all I can see is my kids. Their parents were once kids like my own. And there was no one there to help them, nurture them, encourage them, love them, point them to Jesus. I look at them and I see a young girl and a young boy, and the unfair hands they were dealt and the family, born into a cycle, who were unprepared and ill-equipped to raise them into the people my kids would ultimately need them to be. They are victims, too.

They are not the enemy.

I am not better than them.

I had better than them.

And that is part of my why.

Why did my life turn out the way it did? Why did God choose me for this moment in time? Why not them?

As I struggle to grasp the gravity of this decision, of this new life, I recall my Pastor’s words last night when we told him the news.

He said, “Everyone needs rescue.”

Me. My kids. Their parents. You.

We all need rescue.

So come, Jesus. Please come.

The weight of these broken hearts is unbearable.

Please come.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted And saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

God, Be the Solution

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” (Romans 8:28, NIV)

His purpose.

God’s purpose.

Let’s read that again.

“And we know that in all things [all things, even hard things] God works [arranges, orchestrates] for the good [well-being, betterment] of those who love [adore, cherish, trust, follow] him, who have been called [charged, ordered, commanded, chosen] according to his purpose.”

God’s purpose is not…

…to make me comfortable;

…to keep me healthy;

…to make me rich;

…to give me my heart’s desire;

…to see to it that I have a carefree, safe and happy life.

God’s purpose is to…

…redeem;

…to set free;

…to reconcile;

…to make new.

What does this mean for us, for believers? How does this work in our lives? What does this look like in our current circumstances? What does this have to do with me?

If I, a lover of God, am called according to His purpose to redeem, set free, reconcile, make new, then my focus, attention, efforts and prayers better be cemented in this truth.

The boys’ mom has been on my heart since we heard last night that the agency will recommend her parental rights be terminated. I keep asking God how this fits in with His purpose. How will this situation be redeemed? How can this family be made new? How can a mother, without the hope of someday being reunited with her kids, be set free from the bondage she’s in? How will God use this situation, use me, to help reconcile this family to Him?

Hard situations often threaten to overshadow the truth. They whisper lies of hopelessness, impossibility, pain and sadness. They say that this family is irrevocably broken, that there is no rescuer waiting in the wings, no hope to save them. The enemy tries to claim victory and celebrates at a family’s devastation. He knows how easy it will be for despair to set in, take hold, crowd out the light. He is preparing his throne in the darkness.

But the Light of the World, Hope himself, knows something no one else does.

He will use this time, this hardship, this pain. He will use it for good. He has called me, and Rocky, and countless others to His purpose for these children, hundreds of thousands of orphans around the world. He has called us.

And we believe.

And we will follow Him.

We will trust that He is there, He is with us, He is riding in on his white horse called Rescue.

There is hope still.