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.