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.